Roxy’s Story (34 page)

The chauffeur closed the door.

Mr. Bob spoke with Mrs. Pratt and Mrs. Brittany for a few moments, and then he got
in on the other side. He still wore that little impish smirk as we started away.

“What is so funny?” I asked him.

“I was just thinking of the girl I brought here and the girl I’m leaving with today.”

“And?”

“It feels so damn good to be right,” he said.

I stared at him a moment, and then we both laughed.

The limousine turned out of the driveway. I looked back at the estate. In some ways,
I did feel like someone who had graduated. I even felt a little affection for the
grand place. Of course, most of the reason for that lay with my memories of Sheena,
but in so many ways, it had become my home when I had lost my
home. Mr. Bob once told me that Mrs. Brittany would replace my family. I never believed
that fully in my heart, but for the moment, I had no choice. It was all I had. But
sitting in this limousine, wearing clothes that cost as much as most people spent
on their living needs for a month or two, and heading for an ultra-luxurious apartment
with everything arranged for me, down to a bottle of orange juice, I had trouble feeling
sorry for myself.

Maybe that was the ultimate lesson or power Mrs. Brittany had provided: Never feel
sorry for yourself. That was when you became most vulnerable. And she was right, wasn’t
she? It was a hard, bitter, and highly competitive world out there. It was no place
for weak sisters. I had vowed when I arrived and I was vowing now as I left. I wouldn’t
be a weak sister, ever.

The boutique hotel Mr. Bob brought me to was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan,
a very upscale neighborhood of very expensive apartments in high-security buildings,
with doormen and private garages, expensive classy restaurants and cafés, designer
shops and boutiques, and probably the cleanest streets in the city. The hotel was
called the Beaux-Arts and consisted mainly of luxury apartments. It didn’t have a
big or ostentatious lobby, and one look at the staff told me that discreetness and
privacy were paramount. Mr. Bob had all the keys I needed before we arrived. No one
was introduced to me formally, but I could see that everyone involved knew I was the
new tenant. I wondered what name I was registered under and asked Mr. Bob when we
stepped into the elevator, for which
you had to have a key. My things were being brought up on another elevator.

“No name,” he replied. “Just an apartment number, 3C. No one calling you will be connected
through a hotel switchboard. You have your own private line.”

“Mrs. Brittany doesn’t own this hotel, does she?”

“Let’s just say she has a majority interest. She usually does with anything and everything
she depends on,” he said.

“That’s a careful woman.”

“She wouldn’t be where she is otherwise,” he said.

Where was she?
I wanted to ask him. She was a woman without a real family. She had lost her husband,
her daughter, and now her granddaughter. The family she had was the family she manufactured.
Of course, at the moment, I couldn’t claim to have much more.

We stepped out of the elevator. I could see that there were only three apartments
on the floor. Mine was the one on the right. It had a short marble-floored entry with
a small but expensive-looking teardrop chandelier. There was a coat closet on the
immediate right and a work of art on the opposite wall. It was a picture of a flower
cut out of black velvet with pink cloth petals. There were artificial flowers everywhere.

Fleur du Coeur,
I thought. The room was designed to fit my new image.

The entryway opened to a surprisingly large living room, with elegant leather and
wood furniture. The centerpiece was a softly curved, L-shaped sectional that consisted
of the sofa, corner back, and love seat. Directly
across from it was a swivel accent chair with a round-bottom frame. Accent pillows
were on everything. A matching coffee table and end table filled out the center of
the room. To the right was a large panel window that looked east, and down from it
was another, smaller panel window. A set of four different versions of what looked
like the same flower was hung high on the far wall. The walls were faux-painted white
with swirls of soft red and pink. The wooden floors were covered with a very large
area rug that matched the furniture.

My eyes took in everything quickly—the sculptures, the lamps, and the bouquets of
artificial flowers, and a fresh real plant at the center of the coffee table.

“They look like hearts,” Mr. Bob said.

I laughed. “Don’t you know my signature name?”

“Oh, right. Fleur du Coeur. Mrs. Brittany thinks of everything.”

“I guess so. They’re called
Dicentra
or bleeding heart.”

He looked at me. “Well, aren’t you the impressive one now.”

I shrugged. It did feel good to have knowledge, to be confident about things. Why
didn’t I understand that when I was in school?

I continued to look at my new home. The floors were marble everywhere except in the
living room, and the walls were faux-painted with the same white with pink swirls.

“It’s a beautiful place,” I said.

“Actually, it’s the biggest apartment in the hotel. Mrs. Brittany saw to that.”

“Are there any other Brittany girls here?”

“If there were and she wanted you to know, she would have told you.”

“Right,” I said. “We’re the CIA love machine, on a need-to-know basis only.”

He laughed. “Don’t lose your sense of humor,” he told me.

“Is that what it is?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Roxy, Roxy, Roxy,” he chanted as we went through the hallway to
the living room. He showed me the dining room and the kitchen, where everything important—numbers,
my schedule of doctor and dentist appointments, even my first manicure and pedicure
appointment—was pinned on a board. He glanced around at the very modern, up-to-date
appliances.

“What a waste of machinery,” he said.

“Why?”

“A kitchen is almost a vestigial organ for you,” he quipped.

“Is that so, Mr. Smart-Ass? For your information, I can cook if I want.”

He smiled skeptically.

“Maybe one night, I’ll make you a special dinner.”

“Looking forward to it. I love to be proven wrong when I benefit from that proof.”

We went down another short marble-floored hallway to a double-door bedroom. The centerpiece
was my blazing-red bed shaped like a heart. The walls were papered with depictions
of beautiful gardens. There was a mirror on the ceiling above the bed. The
area rug was a tight-threaded crimson. The wood in the dresser, vanity table, and
nightstands was rich cherry. My en suite bathroom was very large, with a Jacuzzi,
a large shower, and a second bathtub.

“Flowers and hearts,” I said, looking at the bathroom. “Fleur du Coeur. Even here.”

“Mrs. Brittany takes her themes very seriously. Okay, let Laura get you unpacked,”
he said, when my things were brought in followed by a middle-aged, slightly gray-haired
woman in a maid’s uniform. “Laura’s here every day, of course. She’ll make your bed
and change the linens, the towels. We send everything out to be washed, dry-cleaned,
whatever. There’s a hamper in your bathroom. Laura will see to what has to be washed,
and she’ll also see to your basic groceries.”

“So I don’t do anything here?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied with his charming smile. “C’mon, let me show you
around the neighborhood and take you to lunch.”

We left the hotel, crossed the street, and went up a few blocks to a salon, where
I was introduced to the beautician Mrs. Brittany had chosen for me. After that, we
stopped at one of the boutiques to meet the owner, who happened to be a woman from
Lyon, France. We spoke in French for a few minutes, and then Mr. Bob took me to a
delightful little café that happened to have the same name as the last restaurant
Paul Lamont had taken me to, the one in Villefranche-sur-Mer, La Mère Germaine. For
a few moments, memories came rushing back.

The delightful, flirtatious conversations, the passion that quickly had developed
between us, bringing with it those long, demanding kisses, and the soft caresses that
caused the sexual energy in me to turn my heart into a drum—it all seemed like a cruel
joke now. They had nearly convinced me that I could fall in love and have a relationship
in which he and I could grow old together, build a life together, with children and
grandchildren.

When I thought back to all of that now, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had happened
by design, if the entire thing had been another lesson Mrs. Brittany had created to
harden my heart and form the cynicism that would enable me to be the kind of woman
I was about to become. Perhaps she wanted me to be disillusioned, to snuff out the
last vestiges of illusions and romance.

What difference did the truth make? Even if she hadn’t planned it that way, it was
the way it was now. Whatever had remained in me that was still a young girl, with
the dreams and fantasies young girls have and need to remain hopeful, was washed away.
I was Fleur du Coeur in every respect, out for myself. There would be no false illusions,
no disappointments. There would be no trust, no deep affections, and no deeply meaningful
words or embraces.

And I wouldn’t be pitied for that. I would tolerate no sympathy. My eyes would be
dead to the sight of mothers and daughters, fathers and daughters, sisters, and families,
especially on holidays. The only gifts under my Christmas tree, if I had one, would
be gifts I had given myself, and I was determined never to shed a tear over that.

Maybe, in a very ironic and cold way, I had become more like my father and his father
and brother. I would bury my emotions under the mountains of rules and regulations
that now governed my life. I would take orders and fulfill missions. I would keep
my body fine-tuned, my beauty exquisite. I would bring strategy, plans, and discipline
to every assignment, and just as they could send thousands of young men and women
into battle accepting the projected casualties, I would willingly die a little inside
to plant my flag atop the hill of material comfort, luxury, and pleasure.

“You all right?” Mr. Bob asked as we sat at a table near the front window. He saw
how silent I had become.

Outside, the sidewalks were filling with people off to lunch, many in suits and ties,
designer dresses, and fashionable outfits. Some were the wealthy, who lived in the
expensive apartments. Everyone had that look of success and contentment. There were
no homeless in this neighborhood, no lost girls from the roach hotels.

I do belong here,
I thought.
I’ve always belonged here
.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Just for a moment, you looked more like that young girl I saw across the restaurant
that first day, the innocent beauty who looked lost.”

“She died a while back,” I said, and reached for the menu.

“Miss her?”

“No,” I snapped back at him.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Roxy. Don’t ever do that.”

There were tears in my eyes, but I choked them back. When I was in one of my rages,
Mama used to tell me that the worst lies were the lies you told yourself because you
couldn’t hide from them.

“Put on a false face,” she’d said. “Rage, run away, be wild, do whatever to try to
forget, but in the end, you’ll remember. I can’t guarantee anything for you in life,
ma chère
, but I can wish that my children don’t have to lie to themselves.”

What would I ever do now to stop? I wondered.

I lowered my menu and looked at Mr. Bob. “Let’s just eat and stop talking. I’m hungry,”
I said.

He laughed and signaled for the waitress. “You’ll be just fine,” he said, nodding.
“Just fine.”

I looked away.

I would be fine.

That I swore to myself.

And so it was to begin.

My first client was an Asian man who was at least as old as my father. Later, when
enough time had passed and I knew I had successfully established myself in Mrs. Brittany’s
mind, I asked her about my first assignment. I had some suspicions about why she had
chosen him, which she confirmed.

“Because of how bad your relationship was with your father, I wanted to see if you
could handle a man of, shall we say, that vintage.”

Using the word “vintage” to refer to men wasn’t an accident. On a number of occasions,
Mrs. Brittany expressed her theory that men were like wine. They grew better with
age, calmer and more self-assured. Successful men, that is. There were, of course,
men who would always be boys, she told me, and if you were a true Brittany girl, you’d
know which was which and handle each accordingly.

“When do I stop being tested?” I had wondered out loud. “Or have I?”

“Never, if you work for me,” she’d replied, and she lived up to that.

Part of what made her escort service so successful was the follow-up. She didn’t ask
her clients to fill out a questionnaire. No, it was nothing as mundane as that. Instead,
she personally interrogated each client the first chance she had, and based on that
feedback, she decided how much work one of her girls would get.