Roxy’s Story (15 page)

I stopped myself. Why was I talking so much about my mother and her family and my
father? I felt certain most candidates for Mrs. Brittany’s company were as cut off
from their families as I was and certainly didn’t talk about them much, if at all.
Lance’s deadpan look confirmed how little interest he had in hearing any of it.

“No,” I admitted. “I’m not much of a swimmer. In fact, I hate putting my face in the
water.”

“We’ll change that,” he said casually.

“Why is swimming so important?” I asked, practically moaning. I really wanted to ask
if he knew I’d be going swimming with a client or something.

“It’s great exercise. I think you’d like it better than running laps around the property,”
he added. “You don’t look like you’ve played team sports.”

“I haven’t, and I was never in the Girl Scouts or the Brownies, either. Like Groucho
Marx said, I won’t
join any club that would have me as a member.” He didn’t break a line in his face
or relax a lip. “You’ve heard of Groucho Marx?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Something tells me I should add some self-defense training to
your schedule,” he said.

“I’m not bad in that area,” I said. Despite the trouble I was to get into on playgrounds
and in locker rooms, my father had taught me some self-defense when I was younger.
It was part of his upbringing in a military family, where it was as important as toilet
training. I didn’t tell Lance any of this. The thoughts just flowed quickly through
my mind and off into space.

“Okay, we’re set for the pool.” He stood up. “Shall we start? I want to see how you
freestyle.”

I looked at the rest of my drink. I didn’t want to say I’d rather go to the pool outside
and lounge, but it was sure in my mind. For the moment, I was afraid to complain about
anything. I followed him out and across the hall to the indoor pool. As soon as I
got in and started, he stopped me. He jumped in beside me and showed me how to hold
my head in the water, how to take a breath, and how to be more graceful with my stroke.
He had me do it repeatedly until he was satisfied that I had a better technique. Then
he watched me struggle to do a full lap and shook his head.

“You don’t smoke, do you?”

“On occasion, some pot, some cigarettes. Once a cigar just to drive some girls nuts.”

“Well, your lack of exercise and that behavior all show. You’ll have to be able to
do at least ten laps every day,” he said.

I groaned. “Ten? You’re kidding.”

“Mrs. Brittany is adamant about her girls being in top shape, and under my guidance,
they all are,” he said with pride. “They don’t get to work for her until they are,”
he added as an incentive. “Let’s go again. You’ll do ten today, no matter how long
it takes us.”

By the time I was finished in the pool, I was ready to go up to my suite and collapse,
but instead, I was introduced to Olga Swensen, who guaranteed me that she would restore
my energy. I was surprised at how strong she was for a woman who was about five feet
five and maybe one hundred fifteen pounds, but her fingers were more like my father’s
when she went to work on my muscles. She used her own body-oil formula. It brought
heat and relaxation to me almost immediately.

“You are blessed with great muscle structure,” she told me. “Is this your first massage?
You seem very uptight about it.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you’ll have them once a week after you leave here, and not because anyone
orders you to.”

I couldn’t disagree. When she was finished with me, I was no longer feeling crippled.
I showered and changed, but when I went to put on my sweatsuit again, I saw that someone
had brought down one of the informal dresses I had seen in my closet. It was hung
beside the chair, where another bra and fresh
panties, socks, and a pair of flats had been left for me to put on. There was even
a new hairbrush.

I got dressed and stepped out of the room. Olga was talking to Lance. I had the feeling
they were talking about me when they both paused to look at me.

“How do you feel? Hungry?” Lance asked.

“Yes,” I said, surprised myself. “What do I do about my sweatsuit? I left it in there.”

“You don’t do anything about anything, Roxy. Someone will always look after you here.”

“Tell that to Mrs. Pratt,” I said, and they both laughed.

“Anyway, you go to lunch now,” Lance said. “Mr. Whitehouse is waiting for you.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t going only to be fed. I realized I was going to another class.

“See you in the morning,” Lance said. “And expect to be quite charley-horsed,” he
called after me, “even with Olga’s great massage.”

He sounded as if he would be happy about it. I heard them both laugh.

Without having realized it, I had enlisted in the army, I thought. Maybe this was
a secret special-forces unit using only women, and they pretended it was an escort
service. I feel more like a female James Bond than potential arm candy.

Mr. Whitehouse rose from the smaller table when I entered the dining classroom. He
was a short, rotund man with very light brown hair and well-trimmed sideburns. He
wore a bright blue sports jacket, a dark blue tie, a white shirt, and blue slacks.
His eyes were
a dull gray and round like two unpolished quarters under his thick, black-framed glasses.

“I’m Nigel Whitehouse,” he said, extending his hand. I took it and felt how soft his
palm was. It was like shaking hands with a large makeup pad.

“I’m Roxy.”

“I know who you are, Miss Wilcox. Your proper response should be ‘I’m pleased to meet
you.’ ”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said dryly.
Oh, no, not another stuffed shirt in my life,
I thought. He reminded me of my science teacher, Mr. Rumsfield, whom everyone called
“Rummy” because he always had a red nose like that of an alcoholic and, in fact, was
suspected of drinking alcohol from his coffee thermos between classes.

“No, that’s not good enough, my dear. You have to say it as though you really mean
it, whether you do or not. In the line of work you’re hoping to begin, the face you
put on, especially at lunches and dinners, is far more important than the face you
really have. It’s all a matter of pleasing someone in the end, isn’t it? So let’s
try again. This time, give me a smile that tells me you mean it. Convince me. Make
me feel good about myself.”

I started to smirk at his lecture but stopped myself. He was still holding my hand.
I had the sense that anyone along the way of the training gambit I was to run could
give me a failing mark and have Mrs. Brittany send me on my way. All my life, I hated
to kowtow to anyone, not just my father. I suppose all the men I had as teachers became
my
father in my mind in one way or another; even some of the female teachers reminded
me too much of him. But I now realized that defiance and tantrums were two things
I had to leave outside the door of this mansion the moment I signed Mrs. Brittany’s
agreement in her office.

I took a deep breath, smiled with all the warmth and charm I could muster, and hit
him with the French version of “pleased to meet you”: “
Enchanté
.”

Now he smiled, satisfied. “Much, much better. And it wasn’t hard for you to do, was
it?”

“No, just different,” I said. “There are so few people I’ve been pleased to meet.”

He didn’t laugh aloud, but I saw the delight in his eyes. Maybe my independent spirit
was refreshing to him.

He pulled out a chair for me. “Miss Wilcox.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitehouse,” I said.

“
De rien
.”

“Does everyone here speak French?” I asked as he went around to take his seat across
from me.

“Everyone has a smattering of it, I imagine. As difficult as it is for an Englishman
like me to admit, it’s the language of style, eloquence, and culture. You are most
fortunate to have mastered it as your second language already at home.”

“You know my mother is French, then? You know all about me?”

“As much as anyone else knows about you, but getting to know each other that completely
isn’t why we’re here at the moment,” he said. He said it sharply,
but he kept his smile. He looked at the table setting. “Don’t touch your napkin yet.
In most of the finer restaurants, the waiter will unfold it for you and place it on
your lap. Now, do you know why you have three forks and how you choose which to use?”

“This fork is for dessert?” I said, touching the fork above my plate. “This one on
the far left is for salad. We go from left to right with our silverware.”

“Precisely.” He nodded, but I thought he looked disappointed that I knew that much.
“Your family held formal dinners?”

“Not very formal,” I said. “But my parents are cultured people and have entertained.
Eating well and properly has always been important to my mother, especially.”

“Really? Well, you’re a rare bird, indeed. Many of my students came from homes where
they eat with their hands.”

My surprise made him laugh.

“I’m kidding, of course, although we did have a Moroccan girl recently, and that wasn’t
far from an exaggeration in her case. But I suspect—I hope—that with you, we’ll have
that much less to do,” he said, and looked up as Randy entered. He went right for
my napkin and then uncorked the bottle of white wine.

“We’re having poached salmon today,” Mr. Whitehouse said. “A sauvignon blanc goes
best with it. We’re having one of my favorites from the Bordeaux region, a Château
de Roques.”

Randy poured my glass first and stood back.

“Go on, let’s see you taste it,” Mr. Whitehouse said in a challenging tone.

I smiled to myself confidently. If there was one thing we all knew how to do in my
house (even Emmie, as young as she was, had begun and enjoyed doing it to please my
parents), it was how to taste wine.

I held it up and checked its color and clarity, then swirled it in the glass, sniffed
it, and took a sip, rolling it around in my mouth before aspirating through the wine
by pursing my lips as if I were going to whistle (Mama’s directions), drawing in some
air. Finally, I swallowed it. Mr. Whitehouse sat smiling throughout. Randy’s smile
was warmer, his eyes full of pride, as if I were his sister or someone he cherished
passing an important test.

“Well?” Mr. Whitehouse asked.

“May I see the bottle, Randy?”

He moved quickly and turned the label toward me.

“I’ve had this wine,” I said. “The year before this one was a better year for sauvignon
blanc, but this is adequate.”

Randy’s eyes nearly popped.

Mr. Whitehouse sat back. “Adequate? Well,” he said, looking at Randy, “I’m impressed.
Aren’t you, Randy?”

“That I am, sir,” Randy said. He quickly poured Mr. Whitehouse his glass. “But I must
say that the moment I set my eyes on this one, I thought, now, here’s a winner.”

“Let’s have a toast, then,” Mr. Whitehouse said. “To a very promising new Brittany
girl.”

He reached forward to clink his glass against mine, and we both took sips.

“Do you know why we clink glasses with lunch and dinner guests?”

“Yes,” I said.

His eyebrows looked as if they had been attached to invisible wires and hoisted with
his surprise. “Tell me,” he said.

I recalled my mother’s explanation years ago. “People used to drink from the same
bowl passed around a table, with the host drinking last. Sometimes there was a piece
of bread in it, and he would eat that, too. It reinforced trust and loyalty and friendship.
When people began drinking from their own glasses, they toasted, clinking them, to
share good feelings for the occasion.”

“I see. And what if you are too far across from another guest at the table?”

“You just hold your glass up and make eye contact,” I said. “Some clumsy people reach
too far and knock something over,” I recited, just the way my mother had.

He laughed. “Who taught you all this?”

“My mother,” I said.

“She ought to be working here,” he muttered, both in admiration and in disappointment.
I could see there was so much he wanted to be the one to tell me. I imagined that
not too many candidates could give him the answer. Maybe Camelia could have, I thought,
maybe not.

How ironic this was. In a real way, Mama might
have prepared me for the new life I was about to begin. After all, she was a Parisian.
She was always interested in fashion and beauty, stylish clothes, wonderful wines,
and good food. I was sure she never realized how much of an influence she had on me.
It was as if I was always looking at her surreptitiously. I couldn’t explain why I
was so unwilling to admit how much I admired her and how many ways I wanted to be
like her. My best excuse was my resentment of how devoted she was to my father, how
obedient, and how careful she was in not riling him up when she attempted to defend
me or disagree with something he had said. I think that had a lot to do with why I
was so determined to be disrespectful and defiant, even to her.

Whatever, I knew she would not appreciate how I was going to utilize the sense of
style and appreciation of the finer things in life that she had bestowed upon me.
You separate from your mother when you are born. You separate from her again when
you begin an independent life of your own. That’s expected and understood. You still
hold on to each other in so many loving ways, but what I was doing now was leaving
her so completely and clearly that it would be as if I had never been born.

Probably, I would please Papa after all, I thought with a mixture of anger and sadness.

Mr. Whitehouse went on and on about different foods, ways to eat them, how to sit
properly at the table, and, building on what I had said about toasting across the
table, how not to reach for things. He stressed the importance of using my napkin,
keeping
my lips cleared of any food remnants. I was tempted to ask him if it would be all
right to enjoy something or even to digest it, but I kept my mouth shut and listened,
even though I knew a good deal about what he was saying. He made it clear that he
would be at the dinner table tonight precisely to be watching to see what I had absorbed
from this first lesson and what I had not.