Roxy's Story Read online

  “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.”

  “Yes, but not as prostitutes. I told you that she’ll explain it to you better than I can, if she wants to go that far with you,” he replied, still a bit peeved. “Look, you’re going to her home to interview and judge her and what she has to offer, as much as she will judge you before she makes any offer. There’s no obligation.”

  “Despite all you have spent on me?”

  “I told you. It was an investment.”

  “Now that I hear more about it, it sounds more like a long-shot gamble.”

  “That’s what any investment is, once you take off the gift wrapping.”

  I glanced out the window as the limousine picked up speed. Darkness was invading the streets. I never really thought about living in New York, the anonymity of it. There were so many people on our block, but less than a handful who knew us. I saw how people walking the sidewalks, crossing streets, and coming out of buildings and stores barely looked at anyone. The blur of the lights, the empty faces, and the endless traffic suddenly made me feel very sad, very alone, and very vulnerable. What was happening to my arrogance and self-confidence? Was I right to think I had the strength and determination to live without the safety net of my family, or was I just fooling myself?

  I turned back to him. What were he and Mrs. Brittany really offering me? If I wasn’t intended to be some high-priced hooker booked out to wealthy businessmen, what was I to be? Was Mr. Bob denying it just to get me to play along, hoping this woman, who was probably nowhere near the woman he claimed she was, could talk me into it?

  I anticipated meeting some over-the-hill, overly made-up prostitute who had enough knowledge of the business, if I could call it that, to provide young women to wealthy men. What had I gotten myself into now? It was just a few steps up from that goofy, ugly grandson of the hotel owner, who was at least upfront about what he wanted from me.

  “I still don’t understand what you’re describing. You say this is not an organization for high-priced prostitutes. What exactly do these women do with these rich and powerful men? Play video games?”

  “Mrs. Brittany likes to say they complete them, make them more presentable. They wear them on their arms the way they wear their expensive clothes or jeweled watches on their wrists when they go to exclusive restaurants or social events. But the most successful of her escorts provide much more than just helping them to look good and feel good about themselves. They entertain them.”

  “Entertain them?” I started to laugh. “Without having sex? What, are they all gay men or eunuchs?”

  “I’m serious. You shouldn’t ridicule this. You’ll be sorry.”

  “Well, I don’t get it. You’re not telling me enough for me to understand.”

  The frustration practically foamed over his lips. He stiffened and looked more determined. “You know what geishas are in Japan?”

  “I think so. Aren’t they prostitutes?”

  “Not really. Not the high-class, authentic ones. There’s a long history of their existence. The first geishas were actually men. The main purpose was always to entertain with their beauty and their talent. Authentic geisha girls today are not sold into indentured service, nor are they forced into sexual relations. A geisha’s sex life is her private affair.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it was Mrs. Brittany’s idea to create a Western form of geisha. There really is no equivalent to them in our society. They are truly a form of Japanese art.”

  “I still don’t fully understand what Mrs. Brittany is looking for or what she does with her girls. She turns them into geishas? They wear those costumes and that makeup? Don’t they do something weird with their feet?”

  “You misunderstand. It’s not exactly that. It’s different. It’s . . .”

  I shook my head. “You’re not making any sense.”

  He sighed with frustration. “I’m sure she’ll do a far better job of explaining it. The point is that if she thinks you qualify, she will spend a lot of money developing you, providing everything you need, from clothes to hairstylists and makeup artists to full medical care. When you’re ready, she’ll turn over a beautiful New York apartment to you, fully furnished and equipped. Of course, her own business manager will handle all your expenses and invest all your money for you. In short, you’ll lack nothing.”

  “Except a family,” I muttered, mostly to myself, but he had heard it.

  “No. Mrs. Brittany and everyone associated with you will become your family.”

  “And who will you be in this new family, my uncle Bob?”

  He finally smiled. “Just Bob, I hope.”

  We were leaving the city and heading for Long Island. I sat back, mulling over some of what he had told me.

  Then I sat forward. “What kind of money are we talking about?” I asked him.

  “Different girls earn different amounts, but Mrs. Brittany’s top girls make a quarter of a million, some maybe more.” He leaned forward to add, “Tax-free.”

  I stared at him. A quarter of a million? Tax-free? Did my father make that much?

  “You’ll vacation anywhere you want to in the world, often on a private jet taking you to stay at the most expensive resorts. You’ll meet the most interesting people. Believe me, you’ll feel like a princess. I often wish I was a girl your age with your looks,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, you do, do you? You’re quite a salesman, Mr. Bob. You ought to sell cars,” I said dryly.

  I think my skepticism and cynicism were beginning to get to him, even to worry him. I had the feeling that his reputation and perhaps his income depended entirely on his success when he brought someone new to this Mrs. Brittany. Maybe he was having second thoughts about me. I certainly had second, even third, thoughts about him and this whole idea.

  I didn’t pay attention to the route we took once we left the Long Island Expressway, but before long, we were turning up less populated streets with much bigger houses on much larger tracts of land.

  “Almost there,” Mr. Bob said when we made another turn and then another.

  Moments later, I could see an enormous mansion with a two-story portico entrance. It seemed to have acres and acres of land around it. The driveway looked as long as an airport runway, and when I looked to the right, I did see a helicopter. The trees that lined the driveway and the landscaping looked picture-perfect. It was as if I had opened some fairy-tale picture book and somehow stepped into it.

  “This is her house?”

  “Exactly.”

  “One woman lives here?” I asked.

  “There are often two or three of her girls either training here or visiting, among other guests from time to time, and the servants, of course. Her personal secretary is Ruth Pratt. She’s been with her since Mrs. Brittany left Europe. Of course, Mrs. Brittany has a villa in Beaulieu-sur-Mer and apartments in many other cities, like London, Paris, Madrid, and even Moscow.”

  “You said girls were here training?”

  “Absolutely. In a real sense, this is a college, a charm school like you’ve never seen or probably could ever imagine.”

  My eyes went everywhere as we approached the house. I saw tennis courts, fountains, and lots of statues that looked as if they had been imp
orted from Greece or Rome. Perhaps he was telling me the truth about this woman.

  “This is an original Georgian mansion,” he continued. “The pastoral surroundings were planned as an integral part of it. Around the turn of the twentieth century, many very wealthy Americans fleeing urban industrial life built these estates. Mrs. Brittany’s was originally owned by John Temple Morris. He was very big in shipping,” Mr. Bob added. “Of course, Mrs. Brittany has modernized much of the inside. There’s an indoor pool, a sauna, a salon with a cosmetician and a hairdresser on call, a dining room that can seat thirty if necessary, and a full gym, among other things you’d expect to find only in hotels.”

  “It looks big enough to be a hotel.”

  “There are estates like this that have been turned into exclusive hotels.”

  The limousine stopped at the front of the mansion. Mr. Bob waited for the chauffeur to get out and open the doors for both of us. When he got out, he waited for me to come around and then held out his arm.

  “M’lady,” he said, and I took his arm. He put his left hand over mine. “Good luck,” he said as we started up the stairs to the front entrance.

  The tall dark oak door opened as if by magic, and a tall, lean dark-haired man in a butler’s tuxedo stood there to greet us. He had long, spidery fingers and a narrow neck with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Hello, Jeffries,” Mr. Bob said.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “This is Roxy Wilcox,” Mr. Bob told him.

  “Welcome, Miss Wilcox,” Jeffries replied without so much as relaxing his lips, much less smiling, and he stepped to the side.

  I felt as if I really were entering a palace. Directly ahead of us was an elegant baronial double staircase. There were large oil paintings on every wall. They looked like paintings you would see only in a museum. The large entryway’s floor was covered with a crimson rug interwoven with black stars. My eyes went everywhere because there was so much to see, so many things that looked like antiques.

  “Is this the way the house came?”

  “There is much that is vintage in it,” Mr. Bob said, “but Mrs. Brittany is something of a collector, too. She has brought paintings, furnishings, accessories from Europe, much of it authentic but refurbished. There are twenty-five rooms in this house, seven of which are bedroom suites.”

  “Mrs. Brittany is expecting you. Everyone is in the sitting room, Mr. Bob,” Jeffries said, as if he was worried we were taking too long. He led the way down the hall and paused in a doorway.

  “Take a deep breath,” Mr. Bob said. “You’re about to go underwater.”

  He escorted me to the sitting-room entrance. The woman who was obviously Mrs. Brittany didn’t look older than in her mid to possibly late forties, but she sat regally in an oversize armchair across from two very beautiful young women, one with absolutely gorgeous layered, shoulder-length, soft ebony hair and the other with short styled amber hair. They sat on a settee and turned to look at us. The one with amber hair had eyes a unique shade of green, and the other had hazel eyes. Although neither was what I would call heavily made-up, they looked as if they had faces painted on a canvas, their complexions smooth, everything about their petite features perfectly balanced.

  “Well, bring her in, Bob,” Mrs. Brittany said. “You’re standing there as if you expect to be announced.”

  He laughed and guided me farther into the room.

  Mrs. Brittany’s hair wasn’t as soft-looking. Actually, I thought she was a bit old-fashioned, wearing her light brown hair in a teased style. She was in a low-cut emerald-green dress with a string of small pearls around her neck and matching pearl earrings.

  “You can let her go now,” she told Mr. Bob. “I expect she can stand on her own.”

  He laughed and unhooked his arm from mine.

  I looked from Mrs. Brittany to the two young women and then back at her.

  She nodded. “Nearly good posture,” she said, and looked at the two young women, who nodded.

  Nearly? I thought. Not even my father complained about my posture.

  She stood up and approached me. I thought she was at least five feet eleven and probably five or six pounds overweight, but she was very attractive with her cerulean-blue eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones. She circled me and then nodded approval at Mr. Bob.

  “Very nice,” she said.

  I didn’t like the way she said it, even though I saw his face brighten. It made me feel as if I was at a slave auction or something. Next, she would ask to see my teeth, I imagined.

  “Girls?”

  “Yes, I agree, Mrs. Brittany,” the one with amber hair said in a very clear, clipped British accent.

  “Absolutely, I agree, Mrs. Brittany,” the other followed. She sounded more like a New Yorker.

  Mrs. Brittany stood directly in front of me. “Introduce yourself,” she ordered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pretend you came into the room by yourself.”

  I glanced at Mr. Bob. He nodded slightly.

  “I’m Roxy Wilcox,” I said. I thought for a moment and then extended my hand. She just looked at it.

  “Tell me again,” she said. “Only this time, let me know what you think of yourself.”

  I started to frown but stopped and looked at the two young women. It was as if they were watching a life-or-death event.

  “I’m Roxy Wilcox,” I said with what my father would call timbre in my voice. “And you are?” I asked with full expectation.

  Mrs. Brittany smiled. She looked at the two young women, who also smiled.

  “This is Camelia,” she said, nodding at the girl with amber hair, “and this is Portia. They’re leaving now to tend to some other matters.”

  The moment she said that, they both stood up. She nodded at them, and they started out, both flashing smiles at me.

  Mrs. Brittany returned to her chair. “You may sit,” she said, nodding toward the settee.

  I glanced at Mr. Bob. I had the sense that every move I made, every sound I uttered, was being scrutinized. Although it made me self-conscious, I didn’t act timid. I sat as gracefully as I could and looked at her.

  “Perfect dress for her, Bob.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Where did you get your hair done?”

  “I didn’t. I did it myself.”

  “Looks it,” she said. “So,” she continued, her arms resting on the arms of the oversize chair, “from what Bob tells me, you’re a reluctant runaway. You were thrown out and didn’t leave home of your own accord. How do I know you won’t tuck your tail between your legs and run home to Mommy and Daddy, begging for forgiveness and another chance?”

  “I don’t know why it’s any of your business, but I have no intention of going home,” I replied, even though I had been on the brink of making just that choice. “I’d rather beg in the streets.”

  Mrs. Brittany smiled and nodded. “Good.” She looked at Mr. Bob. “She’s got fire in her.”

  “I told you.”

  “Don’t congratulate yourself just yet, Bob.” He lost his smile. She turned back to me. “Why are you so certain that your father won’t have the police looking for you?”

  “When my father makes a decision the way he made this one, he usually doesn’t back down, and he knows that even if I were forcibly brought back, I’d surely run away again. We have an understanding. He orders and threatens, and I ignore him. It’s a game we’ve played all my life. He got tired of playing it. Besides, I’m going to be eighteen in a few weeks.”

  She widened her smile. “That’s good, but what about the rest of your family, uncles, aunts? Why didn’t you run to them?”

  “I have little or nothing to do with anyone on my father’s side. They’re military people, and my mother’s family is in France.”

  She continued to smile, as if I had given her the answers she had hoped to hear. “Yes, I understand you speak French fluently.”

  “Tout à fait.”

 
; She nodded. “So you’re on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you fear the most right now?” she asked.

  “You mean while I’m here?”

  “No, of course not. I mean in general. What’s your biggest fear?”

  I didn’t have to think too hard about it. “Being dependent on other people,” I replied.

  She held her gaze on me, but I saw the way her eyes brightened. “Why don’t you go get yourself a drink in the bar, Bob? Roxy and I have a lot to discuss, and your standing there looking like an expectant father is disconcerting.”

  Mr. Bob laughed. “If there is one thing I don’t want to be, it’s an expectant father.”

  He winked at me and left. She waited until he was completely gone and then turned back to me.

  “If you join my organization, you’ll be dependent on only one person,” she said.

  I tightened my lips and nodded. “I guess that’s you,” I said.

  “No, my dear. You’ll be dependent only on yourself.”

  4

  “I don’t understand what that means,” I said. “If I’m working for you, how am I only dependent on myself?”

  She smiled. “If I think you’re right for us, I’ll do my best to get you where you should be to be a success, Roxy, but whether you are or not is up to you. You have to have the ambition, the attitude, and the determination, not me. I’m already a success. What’s the matter?” she asked when I didn’t respond. “Do I sound too much like your teachers?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Let me clue you in. They’re not speaking in platitudes, telling you what they are told to tell you. They’re not giving you advice that’s not useful. What you do with it is your choice. Apparently, you’ve decided to ignore it. No one gets along well in this world without something of value to offer other people—a talent, an education, some skill. What did you expect to find when you left your home? Some sugar daddy to replace your father?”

  “No, and he was far from a sugar daddy.”