Roxy’s Story (7 page)

I stepped out slowly, and Mr. Bob’s smile widened, his eyes brightening. “How can
I be so right all the time?” he asked the salesgirl.

“Some people have an eye for beautiful jewelry, beautiful art. You have an eye for
beautiful women,” she replied.

“How do you like it?” he asked me.

“Do you know how much all this costs?”

“A safe investment, in my mind. And the purse?” he asked the salesgirl.

“Ah,
oui
.” She went out and brought one back. Its price was $500.

“Perfect,” Mr. Bob said.

I looked at the salesgirl and then at the other customer, who had stopped buying anything
for herself and was now more fascinated by what was going on with us. What was I getting
myself into? How come the restaurant and this salesgirl knew him so well? I tried
to imagine what my father would say if he knew where I was and what I was doing. Mama
would probably start crying.

Mr. Bob looked at his watch. “You might want to
freshen up or something before we start out,” he suggested.

This was my time to back out. I could just go into that changing room, get back into
my own clothes, hand the beautiful dress and shoes to the salesgirl, and walk away.
But I didn’t.

I returned to the changing room and got back into my clothes. The salesgirl took the
dress, shoes, and purse and packaged it all in a pretty bag with the store’s name.
Once again, I heard Mr. Bob say, “Put it on my bill,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“
Très bien
,” she replied. Another customer entered, but the first had remained and was still
watching us as we left the store.

“Okay, that’s done,” Mr. Bob said. “So where do I pick you up in”—he looked at his
watch—“about an hour?”

“I’ll meet you in front of the restaurant we were at,” I said.

“Really?” He studied my face for a moment. He understood and nodded. “Fine. An hour.”

We parted at the corner, and I hurried away. My mind was spinning with the possibilities.
He really was an agent, probably an agent for a modeling firm. He was taking me to
meet the owner of the firm. Other girls dreamed of becoming international models making
tons of money. The idea had flashed through my mind from time to time, but I never
really dwelled on it or on the thought of becoming a movie or television star. I had
a nice voice, but I couldn’t imagine myself going on some television show and winning.
The
truth was, I never had high ambitions for myself. Miss Gene loved to point that out
whenever I was brought into the guidance office for a session.

It was something else I could easily blame on my father, I thought. He criticized
and chastised me so much it was impossible for me to have a good image of myself,
or at least one good enough to build some ambition on it. And my mother didn’t imagine
great things for me, either. Yes, she wanted me to do well in school, but she never
pushed me to do anything. It was as if I would magically fall into something that
would clarify my future and save us all from the deep, disastrous pit lying in wait
for me.

What else could this be but a modeling job? I was determined to do my best to get
it, because I knew I would make enough money to do just what Mr. Bob suggested and
be independent. It was all a great stroke of luck. If I hadn’t been in that restaurant
when he was, none of this would be happening. I should be grateful now that no one
had even thought of hiring me for one of those low-paying jobs.

I sped up. I wanted to work harder on my hair and do the best job on my makeup that
I could with what little I had before returning to meet Mr. Bob. I felt strong and
confident again. When I entered the fleabag hotel, the old man was behind the counter.
He widened his eyes and looked surprised at the smile I had for him.

“You staying another day?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

I laughed and hurried up to my room. I laid the
dress, shoes, and purse on the bed and stared at it all. With taxes, this man had
just spent almost three thousand dollars on me. How did he even know I would show
up and he would ever see me again? Surely he saw something in me that gave him so
much confidence.

It was only when I looked into the smoky, cracked mirror that I thought to myself,
If this turns out to be nothing or something disappointing, Papa will have won.

And it would be a long time before I smiled with the arrogance and confidence with
which I had smiled at the old man downstairs again.

I was in front of the restaurant early. As I stood there, I thought that maybe being
early was a mistake. It showed too much eagerness, and in my experience, when you
showed too much eagerness for anything someone else could do for you or give you,
you were at a big disadvantage. All my life, I believed it was the nature of people
to enjoy the feeling of superiority that your being in debt to them brought them.
Papa and his military family taught me that with their ranks and officers and the
way underlings were often treated. All that bullying was supposed to make the victim
tougher and build character, but to me, it was simply a way for those in charge to
feel more important. Maybe that was why I was so defiant most of the time.

Watching the buses and cars go by, I wondered if Mr. Bob had expected me to have a
proper shawl or jacket to go along with my new dress. I glanced at my image in the
window. I was wearing a beautiful dress with beautiful shoes, but I couldn’t help
feeling awkward and out of place. I was certainly too formally dressed to be standing
on a sidewalk in this
neighborhood. The longer I waited, the more ridiculous I began to feel, despite the
admiring looks and comments I was getting from men of all ages who were passing by
or going in and out of the restaurant.

I had almost turned to flee when a black stretch limousine suddenly pulled up to the
curb. The driver, in full chauffeur uniform, stepped out quickly and opened the rear
door. He turned to me and nodded. I was a bit dumbfounded, but when I looked into
the automobile, I saw Mr. Bob smiling.

“You look great,” he said.

I got in, and the driver closed the door.

“I like what you did with your hair, but you really do need some professional help
with it and with your makeup. You’d be surprised at the difference it will make when
a professional gets to work on you. I’m sure Mrs. Brittany will have something to
say about all that. If anyone can turn a swan into a princess, it’s Mrs. Brittany.”

“Mrs. Brittany? That’s whom we’re going to see?” I stressed “whom.”

“Yes. She has a title, but she never uses it. She’s actually a Belgian countess. She
was born in France but married a man who was a descendant of Robert of Flanders, Count
James Brittany. Don’t smirk. These aristocratic Europeans have real evidence of their
ancestry. They all have books detailing their lineage, with pictures of their ancestors,
their houses, and their art. It’s all quite impressive, but as Mrs. Brittany will
tell you, many of the blue bloods have little to show for it. The truth is, when her
husband died, he left her little
more than the nice apartment they had bought in Paris and some expensive jewelry and
art. However, she was always a very enterprising woman and turned her inheritance
into a multimillion-dollar venture. She had married very young. Her husband was nearly
twenty years older.”

“Twenty years?”

“It’s not that uncommon. You might say it was something of an arranged affair.”

“Did she remarry?”

“No, although she’s been proposed to by some of the wealthiest men in the world. If
you want to know and understand what it means to be an independent woman, you’ll learn
quickly when you get to know her.
If
you get to know her,” he added. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m feeling very confident
about you, but I don’t want to give you the impression that this is a done deal. Although
she has rarely rejected a prospect I’ve brought her, she has on occasion.”

He leaned toward me and patted my hand.

“Just be yourself,” he advised. “You’ll do fine. Anyway, Mrs. Brittany is a very accomplished
woman. She speaks four languages, including Japanese. She’s about as traveled a person
as I have ever met, and she is on a friendly basis with some of the most powerful
and influential people in the world, besides being an elegant beauty herself.”

“Rich, powerful, beautiful, intelligent, royal,” I catalogued. “She doesn’t sound
real.”

“Oh, she’s real enough. You’ll see that. She’s just not someone who suffers fools
gladly, if you know
what I mean. When she makes a decision, it’s final, but if she likes what she sees,
she’s completely invested. I’m confident that she’s going to like what she sees when
she meets you. In fact, I’m so confident, I thought we’d begin with a little toast,
anticipating both your success and mine.”

He reached forward to pluck an opened bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and
handed me a glass that had a strawberry in it.

“You like champagne?” he asked.

“I like real champagne,” I said.

His eyes widened. “Real champagne?”

“My mother is from France,” I reminded him. “I know the difference between ordinary
sparkling wine and champagne. Only the sparkling wine grown and produced in the region
of Champagne in France can be truly called champagne.”

“
Très bien
,” he said. He turned the bottle around to show me the label, Moët & Chandon, and
then spun it again to show me where it had been produced and bottled. “Satisfied?”

I nodded, and he poured me half a glass. “So,” I said after taking a sip, “when are
you going to tell me what it is I’m trying out for? Modeling, I imagine?”

“Oh, absolutely. In a way.”

“In a way? What does that mean?”

“You’ll learn everything a successful runway model knows, and you’ll be treated just
as well, if not better.”

“But I won’t be one?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
“You won’t be on display for just anyone. No runways, no pictures in newspapers and
magazines, nothing like that.”

I sipped some more champagne and sat back. “Please continue,” I said. “I’d like to
know what I’m getting myself into.”

He laughed. “When you glare at me like that, you actually remind me of Mrs. Brittany.
It’s futile to lie to someone like her.”

“So don’t try,” I said. “Well?” I added when he didn’t speak.

“Mrs. Brittany likes to do the explaining.”

“You mean you want to wait until I’m more or less a captive audience?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m just afraid I won’t do the description justice.”

“Take a chance,” I said. “Risk it.”

He looked at me, smiled, and shook his head. “You
are
different. Okay. I’ll get more into it.”

He sat up straighter and took on a more serious demeanor, as if he were on the witness
stand in a courtroom or something.

“Very wealthy and very successful men are often too busy to look after their social
lives, especially when they are out of town, and for many of these men, New York City
is out of town. They fly in for very important meetings and conferences, often on
their private jets. Some own them, and some fly their companies’ planes. They’re generally
very goal-oriented, hardworking executives, who, when they do get a chance to relax,
like to relax with women who meet their expectations.”

“What expectations?”

“Intellect, grace, style, beauty, humor—in short, high-class escorts. When I looked
at you, and especially after I spoke with you, I sensed that you could be a star in
this organization. I like to take pride in my ability to spot someone like you, someone
who already has some of what is required in her and just needs to be placed in Mrs.
Brittany’s capable hands to develop and nurture the rest.”

“You sound like you’re casting me in a movie.”

“In a sense, I am. I really was an entertainment agent once,” he quickly continued.
“That’s a cutthroat business. I was at it night and day. Besides finding work for
my clients, I had to babysit many of them. It got so I didn’t have a personal life
anymore, and then I met Mrs. Brittany through a mutual friend, the head of a movie
studio.

“At the time, her enterprise was already quite successful, but she is always on the
lookout for new employees. She is a very careful woman when it comes to her associates.
Believe me, I went through a far more thorough and tougher vetting than you will.
I’m proud to say I’ve been with her for nearly ten years.”

He finished his champagne and looked at me. I finished mine and handed him the glass
before I sat back again.

“Let me understand this,” I said. “You’re basically an agent for a high-class pimp?”

Even in the low light of the limousine’s interior, I could see him become pale and
then flush
red. “Absolutely not! Don’t you even think such a thing.”

“You said Mrs. Brittany provides escorts for rich and powerful men, and you find her
women to be these escorts.”