Roxy’s Story (28 page)

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

“Oh, no. Please,” I said, nodding at a chair. “Would you like some fresh lemonade?”

“Looks good.” He poured himself a glass, sipped some, and smiled. “Perfect.” He stared
at me a moment. “I woke up this morning thinking about you, how delightful and attractive
you are.”

“Oh?”

One of the things Mrs. Brittany had taught me was that most people feel obligated
to return a compliment with a compliment even though they don’t feel or believe it.
“If someone lavishes a compliment on you, accept it gracefully,” she told me, “but
don’t do or say anything that isn’t authentic. Really discerning men and women will
know you were just being polite, but it also makes you look as if you don’t believe
you deserved the compliment they gave you. Be tight and firm with your emotions. Never
lose control, and the easiest way for that to happen is to permit someone to stroke
your ego.”

“I didn’t wake up this morning. I slept until nearly noon, so I had no time to think
of anything or anyone,” I said, hardly acknowledging his lavish flattery.

“Well, that’s understandable, the time change and all, especially how long we kept
you up talking.”

“I’m not complaining about myself,” I said. “I wanted to be lazy. I intend to be as
lazy as I can.”

He laughed.

“Beautiful, bright, and honest. You are indeed unique, especially for the social world
you’ll find here. You might feel out of place.”

“I am what I am,” I said with cold conviction. “I’m not going to change to fit any
setting, anyone.”

“And full of self-confidence, too. I’d love to know how you were brought up.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I muttered.

He laughed nervously. There was a short moment of uncomfortable silence.

“My life isn’t that interesting yet,” I added to soften the pause.

“I like that you added ‘yet.’ ” He looked around. Ian was clipping hedges but occasionally
sneaking a glance at us. Paul nodded at him before turning back to me. “So you had
breakfast late, I take it?”

“
Petit déjeuner
. Fashionably late.”

“Yes, of course. Anyway, I thought you might want to have lunch at the Café de Paris.
Three’s a good time,” he said, glancing at his watch. He tilted his head to the side
and added, “I did check with Norbert first to see if he had other designs on your
time. He thought he would be free, but he’s tied up with business for the Principality.
I mentioned that I’d be glad to step in where you were concerned. He did suggest that
I might be being a little too pushy, and I should let you get acclimated to your new
surroundings. I told him I didn’t think you were so old that you needed the time for
such a thing. Was I wrong?”

“Actually, I am getting hungry. Where is the Café de Paris?”

“The one in Monaco is in Monte Carlo, right near the casino.” He sounded surprised
that I didn’t know.

“Oh, right. Well, let me throw something else on, perhaps.”

“No, you’re fine like that.”

“Then let me run a brush through my hair and put on some lipstick,” I said.

“You’re fine like that,” he repeated. “At least, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Don’t you know that women look good for themselves first and for a man last?”

He laughed. “Not the women I’ve met.”

“Maybe you need to expand your acquaintances.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” he replied with an impish smile.

As I walked out and up the stairs, I laughed to myself. Wasn’t I the little coquette?
Before Mrs. Brittany, whenever I met a boy I was interested in or who was interested
in me, I was crudely honest about my intentions. I was changing, and I liked the change.
When I stood before the mirror and fixed my hair, I paused as a ripple of concern
washed across my mind.

Wasn’t this happening a little too quickly? Norbert brings him along, and then Norbert
steps out of the picture. Mrs. Brittany was testing me for sure. Was she testing to
see how quickly I would socialize? Was she testing to see if I would be careful? Or
was this actually going to be my first foray into the field? Would she get a report
from Norbert and Paul? Should I have been so eager to go with Paul? I had decided
that I would always be a tougher critic of my behavior with men than Mrs. Brittany
would be. Should I have played harder to get, turned him down but suggested
perhaps another time? Was it too late to change my mind? How would that make me look?

How conscious of my every action, every word, I had become. Did that make me careful
or just plain neurotic?
Whatever,
I thought.
If I’ve been tossed into the game, I’ll play it as best I can, and if I fail, I fail.
Maybe it was a good idea to find out if I could do this, be a full-blown Brittany
girl, sooner rather than later, not only for her but for myself. Why should either
of us waste any more time?

He was waiting for me at the base of the short stairway, looking up at me with such
admiration in his eyes he made me feel like Venus descending.

“You still look terrific to me,” he said.

“I didn’t think I’d look worse after brushing out my hair and putting on some lipstick.”

He laughed and held out his hand for mine. This time, I was being gripped with some
interest. I looked back and saw Margery standing in the kitchen doorway staring at
us.

“Shall I prepare dinner tonight, Miss Wilcox?” she asked.

“We’ll call you,” Paul answered for me. He looked to see what I would say or do about
his answering for me so quickly.

“I’ll call you if there is any change in my plans,” I told her, stressing “I’ll.”

He nodded. “Pardon my enthusiasm,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“Enthusiasm isn’t bad, but every woman surrounds herself with her own minefield. Be
careful. First learn the terrain,” I warned with a small smile.

He sucked in his breath and straightened up quickly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He started
to raise his hand toward his forehead.

“Don’t salute me, please, Paul. That’s the kiss of death.”

“Okay,” he said.

We stepped out.

Paul had a gold Lamborghini.

“Oh, you have the Murciélago,” I said.

“You know what this is?” he asked, his voice full of genuine surprise.

“
Mais oui
. Like all Lamborghinis, it’s named after a famous bull.”

“You know cars?”

“A little,” I said. Mrs. Brittany’s advice was to always be modest and always permit
the man you were with to believe he knew more, even if he didn’t.

“The male ego lacks vitamin C,” she’d said, half in jest. “It’s easily bruised.”

The truth was, I did know a lot about cars. One of my requirements with Professor
Marx was to learn about expensive automobiles. I actually knew the ten most expensive
ones and could discuss their engines and their accessories. Most rich and powerful
men loved their expensive toys and appreciated someone who could share their enthusiasm
for them.

Sometimes when Mrs. Brittany was trying to share her male-female wisdom with me, I
would stop and think that a man, any man, was at quite a disadvantage when he was
with one of her girls. There were so many contrivances, manipulations, all done
subtly so that they weren’t aware of how under control they were.

Paul looked at me and nodded.

“What?” I asked.

“You really are an amazing young woman.”

“You mean you didn’t mean it before when you said it?”

“Well, yes, but . . . what are you, nineteen?”

Another Brittany quote came quickly to mind. “It isn’t the time you clock, it’s what
you clock in the time you’ve had,” I told him.

His eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Well said, well said. I think I’ll use that
on my father when he lectures me about something and stresses how young and inexperienced
I am.”

“Be sure to give me credit.”

After I got into the car, which was obviously brand-new, he asked me about the famous
bull for which his car was named. “I mean, I know they do that when they name cars,”
he said, “but I don’t know why one bull is more famous than another.”

I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. Was he testing to see if I really knew
anything? I said, “Murciélago was known for having survived twenty-eight sword strokes
in a bullfight. The crowd called for his life to be spared, and the matador did just
that.”

“Have you been to a bullfight?”

“No, but I’ve read about them, and I read Hemingway’s
Death in the Afternoon.
” It had been one of the books on Professor Marx’s required reading list.

“Really? I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t read it.”

“Well, now, since you own a car named after a bull, maybe you will.”

“I’ll buy it as soon as possible. And then maybe you and I can discuss it.”

“Have you ever discussed a book with a woman?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Hardly.”

“Then it really will be a new experience.”

“Yes.” He started his engine and patted the steering wheel. “Well, thanks to you,
I’m even prouder of my vehicle now.”

“Good, but you don’t have to survive twenty-eight accidents,” I said. He laughed and
drove onto the Basse Corniche, which he explained was the lower highway that would
take us to Monaco.

“There are three main roads here: the Basse Corniche, the Moyenne Corniche, and the
Grande Corniche. I like this route. It’s more scenic.”

It was. The views of the sea were awesome. We went through a short tunnel cut out
of a rock and cruised through the village of Èze-sur-Mer, where I saw fruit and vegetable
kiosks at the side of the highway. It reminded me about how proud Mama was of the
freshness of French food. I didn’t realize how quiet I had become when I thought about
her, but once again, I realized that I was in France, closer to Mama’s family and
where she was born than I had been for a long time.

“You okay?” Paul asked, noting my long period of silence.

“Oh, yes. Fine. I’m just enjoying the scenery.”

“So, woman of mystery, what will you tell me
about yourself? I must have earned some information by now, don’t you think?”

“I’m crazy about dark chocolate,” I said.

“We’ll make sure you get some of the best Belgian chocolates today, then. You’re from
New York?”

“I was born there, but it’s up for grabs where I’m from,” I said.

He shook his head. “This is really going to be a challenge.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

“No,” he said.

“Yes, you would,” I retorted. “Like any man, you want everything to be easy when it
comes to a woman.”

“Oh, I do, do I? Where did you get all this experience, or should I say clock it?”

“How many times do you have to put your finger on a hot stove before you realize you
shouldn’t do it?”

“Is that what you think a man is, a hot stove?”

“No, not all. Some are cold soup.”

“Well, that’s not always so bad. There’s gazpacho.”

I smiled.
Let him win his point
, I could hear Mrs. Brittany whisper.
If you continually frustrate and defeat the man you’re with, he won’t be with you
long.

“
Touché
,” I said.

Despite how vague I was about myself, I could see he was feeling more relaxed with
me. As we drove into Monaco and Monte Carlo, he pointed out various highlights, the
palace and the museums. Once we turned up toward the world-famous casino, I was impressed
with how pristine everything was. I tried
not to be a bug-eyed tourist, but I had not been out of New York and America very
much and only when I was much younger. I couldn’t help but be excited and struggled
to keep from sounding unsophisticated. I didn’t want him to know anything about my
past if I could help it.

Everyone seemed to know him at the Café de Paris. He had what I assumed was his favorite
table, off in a corner. Most of the clientele looked as successful and wealthy as
he was. Everywhere I turned, women and men were in stylish clothes, bedecked with
expensive jewelry, and exhibiting that
joie de vivre
that came with having no real worries. The music in this restaurant was laughter.
Smiles glittered. Everyone was on his or her own stage, asking the rest of us to look
at him or her and be envious.

“You were right,” I said. “Three is a good time for lunch.”

“Oh, it gets crowded when the cruise ships come in, but I knew there was none in today,”
he told me as we were seated. “You like rosé wine?”

“For lunch? Absolutely.”

“Any favorites?”

I looked at the wine list and chose a particular Côtes de Provence rosé I knew. Once
again, he looked impressed. Was everything I did being checked off? I felt as if Nigel
Whitehouse was sitting at the table to our right, watching my every move. Would I
always feel that way, always think that someone from Mrs. Brittany’s world was looking
over my shoulder, evaluating every gesture I made, every word I spoke?

We ordered our food. Because I had mentioned Hemingway’s
Death in the Afternoon
, our conversation centered on books and the theater. Just recently, Professor Marx
had gotten me up to speed on the London theater scene. Paul was unaware of a particular
playwright’s new production and was once again surprised at my knowledge.

“How do you keep up with all this?”

“Like anyone else, newspapers, television. That’s no mystery.”

I turned the conversation to business, his company, cosmetics in general. He was surprised
that I knew his company was on the New York Stock Exchange, but my father had been
touting the stock to his clients for some time. We discussed what affected the rise
and fall of some company stock value. I felt grateful to my father for his constant
lectures about the economy at our dinner table, especially when I considered that
economics was Paul’s major at the Sorbonne. I could almost feel his first good impressions
of me growing stronger with every passing moment. It was like watching the mold of
a beautiful statue harden with its eyes full of you.