Roxy’s Story (33 page)

“Oh?”

“I didn’t know it until late today, but we’re going to have fireworks.”

We were served champagne cocktails and some wonderful hors d’oeuvres.

“I understand Mrs. Brittany has some family problems,” he said after a while. “Her
granddaughter is very sick?”

“Yes.”

So Norbert had told him some things, after all, I thought. What else had he explained?

“And you know her well?”

“Very well. At the moment, she’s my closest friend.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. So you want to return to see her?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. He was silent so long that I was convinced he was working himself up for
some very serious proposal, but before he spoke, we were informed that dinner was
ready. The sliding doors of the dining area were wide open to give us the feeling
we were eating on deck. I couldn’t imagine ever having a more wonderful gourmet dinner
with expensive wines and impeccable service. A second waiter appeared to open the
wine and clear the dishes as we ate.

I didn’t know whether Paul talked out of nervousness or simply because he was afraid
that pregnant silences would give birth to sad thoughts, but from the moment we sat
until the moment we had our coffee on the deck, he never stopped. He told me more
about his family company, the projects and plans they had for the coming year, the
places he was going to visit in Europe and Asia, and then some ideas he had to innovate
and expand even more.

I listened attentively and asked good questions as my training as a Brittany escort
kicked in. I could hear the main points of Mrs. Brittany’s lessons.

“Always give the man you’re with the sense that you’re with him, that you are attuned
to everything he says and interested in everything he says.

“Don’t let your mind drift, and never change the subject. He has to be the one directing
word traffic in these tête-à-têtes, Roxy. You’re there to be his audience, an admirer.

“Never bring up anything about yourself. Be polite
when and if he asks questions about you, but always keep your answers general. It’s
part of the tease and the cachet, the mystery. Most of the men you escort will respect
your privacy. Occasionally, you’ll meet one who is more demanding. I’d rather you
disappoint that sort and let him drift away than compromise yourself or our company
in any way. Understand?”

It bothered me that I was putting on my professional persona with Paul tonight, but
his avoidance of anything really warm and personal between us nudged me into it. Was
he really happy with my phony smiles, my nods, my almost inane comments and praise?
Couldn’t he see through it, or didn’t he want to see through it?

Afterward, when the fireworks began, I thought his passion for me was rushing back
in. He had his arm around me. He kissed me and was more like a younger man again,
filled with the same level of excitement I was feeling. The fireworks were elaborate,
building to a crescendo.

As always, when I had a moment to stabilize myself and return to earth, I contrasted
where I had been with where I was. Regardless of what happened between Paul and me,
this was going to be my world now, and I was determined to succeed in it. I’d be nobody’s
poor, mixed-up, lost little girl again. I’d eat caviar and lobster in the most expensive
restaurants in the world. I’d wear furs and jewels that would draw looks of envy.
I’d fly in private jets and ride in limousines, be disdainful of budgets, and titillate
the most powerful and wealthy men with my smiles, my gestures, and my promising kisses.

Paul and I made love in the owner’s suite. With every kiss and caress, he told me
how beautiful and wonderful I was and how much he enjoyed being with me, how grateful
he was that he had met me. I kept waiting for that proverbial second shoe to drop,
that next sentence, that proposal or idea to keep us together in some magical world
of tomorrow, where neither of us would grow old or sick or tired of each other’s company.

It didn’t come.

I fell asleep with tears icing the lids of my eyes. He was up before me in the morning,
and when I appeared, he was out on the deck having his coffee and looking at the sea
like someone in a daze. His staff hurried to get me some breakfast. I had only
petit déjeuner
. Paul waited until I had something to eat and drank my coffee before he told me that
Norbert had called.

“He said Mrs. Brittany wanted you to be at the airport this afternoon.”

“Oh. Did he tell any more? I mean, anything about Mrs. Brittany’s granddaughter?”

“No, nothing. Your things are being packed. I told him I’d drive you to Nice.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to New York,” he said.

I nodded.

“But when and if I do . . .”

“Okay,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to hear any promises. Right now, they
were like flowers thrown on the water and drifting out with the tide.

“I want you to believe that I really care about you, Roxy.”

I gave my best professional smile. Mrs. Brittany had actually taught me what that
was.

“I . . .”

“Paul, please. Let’s just—”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “I didn’t see you this week because this was
the week I got formally engaged. My father actually bought the ring for me.”

I looked away. This would be the first and the very last time I would ever invest
my emotions in a man, I vowed. From this day forward, I’d be the one who broke hearts.
As God is my witness,
I told myself.

“I’ll see you again. I swear,” Paul added.

Sure you will,
I thought.
But it will cost you
.

Sheena went through a horrendous four months of chemo and radiation treatments. I
didn’t think anything I would ever experience would be as painful to watch. Through
it all, she never lost her wonderful
joie de vivre
. She wouldn’t permit me to feel sorry for her or be sad in her presence. On her good
days, she wanted us to do “sisterly” things like shop and go to fun restaurants and
movies. Mrs. Brittany arranged for everything. She didn’t have to come out and say
it. I could see in her face that the prognosis was not good. I knew she was putting
me on hold so I could be with her granddaughter for her final days.

But I wasn’t with her during the final days. Sheena was in and out of consciousness
anyway, but as if she wanted to deny that it was happening herself, Mrs. Brittany
had me remain at the estate, entertaining some of her important guests from Asia,
CEOs of major companies.

“I know how upset you are,” she told me, “but this is a good test of your own abilities.
Pleasing these guests is your first priority.”

I did what she asked. I hated it, but there was no question that the experience, the
pain I had to hide, all of it, hardened me in ways that might otherwise have taken
much longer. My first reaction was to hate her for forcing me to do it, especially
when I thought Sheena needed me the most, but years later, I would find myself thanking
her for showing me how to be stronger.

On the day after Sheena died, a day so heavy with gloom I thought we would all drown
in shadows, I was surprised when Mrs. Brittany wanted to take a walk alone with me
on the estate. Despite the heavy sadness we both carried, the sunshine gave us strength
to talk about Sheena and rejoice in what we were able to share of her beauty and innocence.
I realized that one other thing Sheena had done was to bring Mrs. Brittany and me
closer, if only for a short while. I had the feeling that she was more revealing and
intimate with me than she had been with anyone for some time, even her close companion,
Mrs. Pratt. But she wasn’t one to accept sympathy or pity for very long. She practically
took my head off when I said I felt sorry for her loss.

“Sorry for me. Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for Sheena. She’s the one who endured
the pain and suffering all her life, thanks to my miserable daughter and her good-for-nothing
husband. I’ll survive.”

“I just meant—”

“Never mind what you meant. Look, Roxy,” she said, stopping and turning that familiar
hard, piercing gaze at me the way someone might aim a flashlight,
“this is a very, very hard life for us, no matter how blessed we are with money or
power. Turn everything into a life lesson. What you should understand is that you
should never be ashamed of exploiting anything that will make life easier for you.
I know that sounds bitter and cynical, but that’s what’s happening out there,” she
said, nodding toward the world beyond her property.

“You don’t have to convince me of that anymore,” I told her, her hardness bringing
back my own. “I didn’t exactly have the life of a little princess before I was brought
to you.”

She smiled. “Good. I’m glad you haven’t lost your edge. It will keep you alive.” She
straightened herself, pulling back those firm shoulders and becoming the Mrs. Brittany
I had known and feared as much as respected.

“I hope so,” I said.

“I know so,” she replied. “You have wonderful instincts and qualities, strengths and
insights, Roxy. You’re ready. I’m arranging for your apartment this week. Mr. Bob
is on it all. I thought a great deal about your signature name, but in the end, it
was Sheena who created it for you.”

“Really?”

“She wanted that to be her final gift to you.”

“What is it?”

“Fleur du Coeur, ‘flower of the heart,’ ” she said.

I smiled, remembering that the fern-leaf bleeding heart was her favorite. “I’m proud
to have that name, Mrs. Brittany,” I said.

She nodded, and we walked on in silence. In a few short moments, she had resurrected
the wall she kept tightly around herself. For a while, I had been her granddaughter’s
best and only friend. I was practically her surrogate granddaughter, but that had
died with Sheena.

There was to be no doubt in my mind or hers. I was back to being her employee.

Two days later, Mr. Bob came for me in a limousine similar to the one in which he
had first brought me to Mrs. Brittany. Mrs. Pratt had decided what I would take with
me and what I would leave behind. What I would take was packed and immediately put
into the trunk of the limousine. Both Mrs. Pratt and Mrs. Brittany walked me out to
the car, where Mr. Bob waited.

“We want you to settle in for a while before you go to work,” Mrs. Brittany said.
“Bob will show you around your neighborhood, introduce you to the beautician and salon
we’ve chosen for your coiffure and your manicure and pedicure. He will introduce you
to the boutique I’m currently employing to provide you with wardrobe as it is required.
He’ll also show you the cafés and restaurants to frequent. Your physical trainer will
come to you twice a week. The schedule is already set. Your masseuse will also come
to you, and that is scheduled, too.

“Basic foods have been delivered and will be replenished as they are needed. If you
want something additional, just leave orders for it, and as long as it’s not something
we disapprove of your having, you’ll have it delivered. You can eat in anytime, any
meal
you wish. You just order it. Bob has arranged all that for you, too. The phone numbers
are there.”

“Your scheduled doctor appointments and dentist appointments will be posted in your
kitchen,” Mrs. Pratt continued, “as are all of your important phone numbers. When
you need or want your chauffeured car, you will call down for it.”

She handed me a leather-bound portfolio.

“In there,” Mrs. Brittany followed, “you will find your credit cards, your banking
information, and your passport. There is a wall safe in your apartment. Your place
is ultra-safe, lots of security, but we never trust anyone or anything. I have known
wealthy men who love pilfering, either out of some mental sickness or some sick need
for a souvenir. From your past, we know that you’re familiar enough with thievery
to know how to prevent yourself from being anyone’s victim.”

“Yes,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I won’t worry. You worry,” she snapped back at me.

I pressed my lips together and nodded.

“Finally, let us remind you of your agreement, your responsibility not to involve
anyone in your business unless we arrange for him or her to do that. You cannot invite
anyone you wish to your apartment.”

“Whom would I invite?”

“I expect you will make some acquaintances, Roxy. Be careful,” she warned.

“Okay.”

“We’ll be around to visit in a few days.”

“When will I have my first assignment?”

“When I schedule it,” she said.

She nodded at the chauffeur, who opened the door for me.

“We don’t wish our girls good luck,” Mrs. Brittany said when I started to turn to
get in. I paused. “We don’t believe luck has anything to do with anything. You make
your own good or bad luck.”

“Well, I have to disagree,” I said.

Mrs. Pratt looked shocked. “What?”

“It was my good luck to have Mr. Bob notice me that day, wasn’t it?” I asked, smiling
at Mr. Bob, who smiled back. “At least, I hope it was my good luck,” I added, and
got into the limousine.