Roxy’s Story (32 page)

And then, at the end of this week, Paul suddenly appeared one afternoon while I was
lounging at the pool. Mrs. Brittany had just called to say she would be coming to
the villa in two days. She said the media interest in my disappearance was waning.

“The magazine article appeared, but as far as I or any of my sources know, there isn’t
much follow-up expected,” she told me. “I think this will soon be completely forgotten.
There are too many young girls like you, anyway, for anyone to remember what you looked
like or even care.”

“Then I won’t be here much longer?”

“No, not much longer,” she said. “Unless you have some reason to stay.”

“No, I have none,” I said quickly.

I wondered if she knew any more about my parents, but I was afraid to ask and show
too much interest. I couldn’t help wondering how Mama had taken the failure of the
media attention to produce any leads or result in my being found and maybe brought
home. I imagined my father had berated himself for caring—or weakening, as he might
think of it. I could just imagine him saying, “Well, that’s that. We tried. She doesn’t
want to return. Don’t bring up her name again.”

Emmie would surely be terribly confused about it all. She had probably been right
beside Mama, hoping the media attention would bring me back. Surely every time she
saw her girlfriends with their older sisters, she thought of me. Young girls often
idolize their older sisters and envy them for their freedom, their little love affairs,
and their clothes. Whenever they can, they secretly put on their older sisters’ things
or use their makeup. They love listening in on their phone conversations or reading
secret notes. I knew that Emmie’s girlfriends who had older sisters surely mentioned
these things and
that she must have felt a great emptiness and envy. She’d had an older sister once,
but that older sister had left without bothering to wake her up to say good-bye, an
older sister who was probably more like a nasty dream.

I spent the morning thinking about all this and was heavily involved in my darker
thoughts when Paul arrived.

“Hi,” I heard, and turned to see him standing there in a white silk jacket and a black
tie, with black slacks, hardly the attire of someone who wanted to spend the day lounging
around a pool.

“Hi. What’s up?”

“I’m on my way to Cannes for a business meeting and wondered if you would like to
go along. It won’t be a long meeting, and we could have dinner on the way back. We
can spend some time there, too. Just walking on the Croiset in Cannes is fun for me,
and I’m sure it will be for you.”

The Croiset in Cannes, I thought, remembering my mother describing it to me. Her father
had taken her family to Cannes for a little summer holiday when she was about my age.
The Croiset, was just a long street that ran parallel to the ocean, but along the
way there was so much to see, such as the shops that featured the major fashion houses
and the art galleries, restaurants, and hotels that formed the backdrop. Many had
been featured in old movies, and some were used in films to this day. My mother described
the people who populated the Croiset in the evening as the “beautiful people,” wealthy
and glamorous people in their haute couture and their expensive cars.

“It was as if I had stepped into a movie myself,” she’d told me. “Someday I’m sure
you will go there and see what I mean.”

Yes,
I had thought.
I will go there, Mama, but when I do, I will be one of the “beautiful people.”

And here I was on the verge of making that happen. I would put on something expensive,
wear the jewelry Mrs. Brittany had bought me, and drive into Cannes in Paul’s $350,000
car.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me get dressed. How much time do we have?”

“Whatever you need. They wait for me, not I for them.”

“It’s a mistake to tell a woman she has whatever time she needs. I might take hours.”

“Something tells me you won’t,” he said.

I laughed and hurried in and up the stairs.

Of course, he was right. I didn’t take hours. I was too excited and wanted to be with
him. Besides, I had already been well schooled in how to look like a million dollars
in a matter of minutes, not hours. It was practically written on a plaque above the
salon at Mrs. Brittany’s estate
: A Brittany girl is never ever at a disadvantage.

On the way to Cannes, he told me how much he had missed me and how much he regretted
not being able to do much about it. He knew that Norbert and Caesar were filling in.
Despite their being gay, he sounded jealous when I described all the fun we had been
having.

“Doesn’t sound like you missed me all that much,” he complained.

“Oh, I did. Occasionally,” I teased.

“Thanks a lot.”

“I like you a lot, Paul,” I said in a very serious tone, “but I won’t suffer because
of any man.”

He looked at me, my hardness surprising him. Any good psychoanalyst would probably
say my attitude stemmed from my poor relationship with my father, but Paul knew nothing
of that.

“I wouldn’t want you to suffer,” he said. “Ever.”

It was all he came up with. I was disappointed but let it go.

While he had his meeting at one of the major hotels, I went shopping in the row of
shops nearby and met him in the lobby afterward. He had my packages put in his car,
and then, holding hands, we went walking along the Croiset. We window-shopped, listened
to a street musician on an accordion, and then had a gelato and sat people watching
for nearly an hour before we started back to Beaulieu, stopping for dinner in Nice
at the famous Negresco Hotel restaurant.

I never asked him anything about his future fiancée or anything about his family the
whole time, but I could feel it all hovering above us like a small but dark and angry
cloud that constantly threatened to empty cold drops of rain on every warm smile,
small laugh, or look of passion.

He mentioned going out on his yacht again. “I just have to clear the schedule,” he
said.

“Well, don’t do anything yet. Mrs. Brittany is coming in two days, and I will have
to wait to see what plans she has for us before agreeing to anything.”

“Yes, of course. How long is she staying?”

“I don’t know.”

He was thoughtful. I knew he was wondering if Mrs. Brittany’s arrival meant that my
stay was coming to a quick end, but he didn’t ask.

This time, when we returned, he spent the night with me. I knew that meant he didn’t
want me in his house while his parents were there. I doubted he had even mentioned
me to them.

He was up early in the morning and gone before breakfast, telling me he had a breakfast
meeting in Monte Carlo with his father to discuss a major European acquisition they
were contemplating.

“Do you think rich people want to get richer out of greed or ego?” I asked him before
he left.

He thought a moment and said, “Probably both. My father says when you’re satisfied,
you’re ready for the long sleep.”

“So he’s always dissatisfied?”

“Let’s say always hungry. Which reminds me. I want to take you to another of my favorite
restaurants tonight, okay?”

“I can be hungry,” I said.

He laughed, but I could see him looking at me a little askance, wondering why I was
putting this new sharpness in my voice.

We had dinner again that night at a restaurant in Villefranche-sur-Mer down by the
water. As it was everywhere else we had dinner, the staff, managers, and owners knew
him and had a certain table reserved for him.

“Don’t you ever eat at home?” I asked.

“When I’m sick,” he replied. “How could I not want to take you out, Roxy? You make
me look good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re accepting a compliment? No wisecracks?”

“Just this once,” I joked. “Because this time, I’m sure it’s true.”

He laughed so hard everyone at the restaurant turned to look at us. I could fall in
love with him, I admitted to myself. I wondered if he was considering any long-term
relationship between us now as our time together was winding down quickly. Was I a
naive fool to think that marriage wasn’t impossible? I decided to test the water.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here,” I said, knowing what he probably had
suspected. “It might be a matter of a few days.”

“Oh?”

“Mrs. Brittany is coming tomorrow. I might go back with her.”

“I see.”

He was pensive a moment, and then someone he knew waved, and the moment seemed to
float off like a balloon caught in the wind. He didn’t voice any regrets or predict
any terrible heartbreak if I should leave as quickly as I suggested. I didn’t want
to believe he wouldn’t feel that. I concluded instead that it was too painful for
him to talk about it.

The following morning, I woke up realizing that this was the day Mrs. Brittany was
to arrive. No one had called to let me know when she would be here.
I hurried down to breakfast and was just sipping my first cup of coffee when the phone
rang. Margery brought it to the table.

“It’s Mrs. Brittany,” she said.

“Oh? Thank you,” I said, taking the receiver quickly, thinking she might be calling
me from the plane.

“Hello, Mrs. Brittany. Are you close?”

“I’m not able to come over there just now, Roxy,” she said. There was something in
her tone of voice that was unusual. She sounded weak, her voice wobbly.

“Why not?”

“It’s Sheena,” she said after a short pause.

“What about her? Was she in an accident?”

“She’s had a setback. I took her for her six-month examination, and the results of
her tests . . .”

“What?”

“The cancer has returned. It’s more aggressive than we had expected.”

“Oh, no. Will she be all right?”

“I’m flying her to a new doctor and a new clinic tomorrow.”

“I’d like to come back to be with her.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I’ll call you in a day or so.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yes. I know. Watch yourself,” she added, and hung up, leaving me feeling as if I
was dangling in space. I imagined she had called Norbert, too, and then I thought,
actually hoped, he had called Paul to let him know I was back to being free. It wasn’t
much more than an hour later when Paul called.

“I understand Mrs. Brittany has been delayed,” he said, without mentioning why. Had
Norbert told him the reason or just told him she was delayed?

“Yes.”

“I’d like to take you onto the yacht for dinner tonight. I have my father’s chef at
our disposal. Will you come?”

I was depressed about Sheena, but since there was nothing I could do, I thought anything
that would distract me from thinking about her and her situation would be good. Besides,
perhaps this was going to be the night I dreamed of. Perhaps he was planning to propose
to me, and what more romantic spot than on the deck of his yacht, sipping champagne
and looking out at Monte Carlo all lit up?

What would I do and say if he did propose? Would I feel any sense of guilt? Surely
something like this was always a danger for Mrs. Brittany with any of her beautiful
and sophisticated women. Why wasn’t it possible for a wealthy man to fall in love
with one and woo her away? Had that happened in the past? She would never discuss
any of her other girls in any detail. Anyway, we had risks. Why shouldn’t she? Obviously,
nothing like this had put her out of business, I thought.

“Okay,” I said. “I have yet to be on the sea.”

“Well, this might be more than just being on the sea. Maybe pack a little bag for
an overnight.”

“Just a little bag?” I teased.

“Pack a trunk if you want,” he said. What did that mean?

I informed Margery that I wouldn’t be home for dinner and maybe not breakfast, either.
Less than an hour later, Paul arrived. I had only an overnight bag when I appeared.

“You look disappointed with my overnight bag,” I said.

He laughed. “My mother’s idea of an overnight bag is five suitcases and one bag just
for shoes. It’s not that she needs it all. It’s that she likes to have the same sorts
of choices she has at home.”

“I didn’t think we would need that much clothing on your yacht,” I said, and he laughed.

“I gave the ship’s crew the night off,” he told me when we pulled up to the dock,
“but we have some staff to help with our dinner.”

There were so many yachts anchored, and I didn’t know which one was his family’s.
He took my bag, and we started down the dock, passing one yacht after another, all
luxurious and big to me, but when he stopped, I was shocked at the size of his.

“How big is this?”

“Only one hundred twenty feet,” he said. “Sleeps ten, with a crew of five.”

We boarded, and he showed me the luxurious living quarters with a big-screen television
and the dining area with a table that could seat ten. There were two settings at the
moment. Then we entered the galley, where his father’s chef was preparing Lobster
Fra Diavolo for our dinner. He introduced us and then showed me the owner’s cabin.
It was as big as the suite I had back at Mrs. Brittany’s estate on Long Island.

I didn’t want to sound like some country bumpkin, so I didn’t tell him how surprised
I was to discover that rooms on a yacht could be as big as some apartments, if not
bigger than many.

“Do you want to change for dinner?” he asked.

“No. I’m okay. You?”

“I always go casual on the yacht. My parents like to dress as if we were on the
Queen Mary
at the captain’s dinner.”

“Sounds like sometimes you’re barely tolerated in your family.”

“Sometimes. Maybe more than sometimes,” he said, laughing. “C’mon. We’ll have cocktails
on deck.”

A waiter was there already, fixing our drinks. We sat looking up at the city, the
lights just starting to go on. From where we were sitting, it looked like a show put
on just for us.

“There’s a special event tonight,” Paul said.