Roxy’s Story (10 page)

I had often heard that people get to look like their pets, especially their dogs.
Mrs. Pratt was not nearly as attractive as Mrs. Brittany, but she certainly took after
her with her tone and attitude, especially toward me. Maybe mirroring Mrs. Brittany
was the only way anyone could last working for her.

Just a few feet farther, she opened another door on the right and revealed a beautiful
dining room. There were two dark maple tables, one that sat four and one that sat
ten. The room looked about six feet larger than our dining room, with rich paneling
and a hardwood floor. There were beautiful paintings of country scenes and lakes on
the wall at my left and a full wall mirror at my right

“This is the main dining room?” I asked.

She laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “This is a classroom. Nigel Whitehouse, a famous
restaurateur from London, conducts lessons in dining etiquette, appreciation of wines,
and knowledge of some of the world’s most famous restaurants and recipes. When a girl
leaves this room, any man she meets would think she was brought up in one of the finest
royal families in Europe. The girls return periodically for updates and, shall we
say, recertification.”

“My parents taught me dinner etiquette,” I said. “And I probably know as much about
good wine as he does.”

She smiled. “I love it when a girl your age has such arrogance. It’s like watching
a bullfight. Have you ever?”

“No.”

“You’ll learn about them. When a girl like you comes here with your attitude, it truly
is like watching a bullfight. The bull is so strong and confident at the start. Slowly,
the matador frustrates and frustrates it, forcing it to realize its failure and inadequacies
until it practically falls on his sword.”

“That’s the first time I’ve been compared to a bull.”

“Really? No one’s called you bull-headed?”

I had to laugh. Papa had done that often. “I’m afraid someone has.”

“I understand you speak French?”

“Oui. J’ai parlé français toute ma vie. Parlez-vous français?”

“
Bien sûr
. That’s a big plus for you. Learning another language is always the most difficult
thing for a trainee to accomplish, but Mrs. Brittany won’t put a girl into the field
who doesn’t demonstrate sufficient proficiency with at least one other language. Many
of our clients come from Europe, and they love it when an escort can speak their language.”

I looked at the dining room, thought about what I had been shown, and shook my head.
“Learning another language?”

“Enough to fake it,” she replied, “but they continue to get lessons in the field.
In a day or so,” she continued, “you’ll be shown the stables.”

“Stables?”

“Mrs. Brittany has three of the finest Arabian riding horses. Do you ride?”

“A horse?” I started to smile.

“Equestrianism is the art of horse riding. It teaches
you grace and is excellent physical exercise. Many of Mrs. Brittany’s clients have
private stables, and if you should be lucky enough to attract one of them, he could
invite you to ride.”

“But I never . . .”

“Brendon Walsh is in charge of the stables and trains our girls. He was part of the
Irish champion equestrian team.”

“Champion team, Olympic team, famous masseuse. Is anyone here just anybody?”

She laughed. “No, my dear. Everyone here is somebody. Let’s continue,” she said, and
led me farther down the hall to another room, a beautiful library with what looked
like hundreds of books if not more than a thousand, two computers, printers, and a
rack of newspapers. A tall, thin man in a dark brown sports coat and brown slacks
came out of an inner office. He had four books in his hands. He wore a pair of glasses
in round frames and had his charcoal-gray hair pulled back and tied in a short ponytail.

“Ah, Professor Marx,” Mrs. Pratt said. “Roxy Wilcox might be your new student.”

“Excellent,” Professor Marx said, barely giving me a glance. He turned and began to
place the books he carried in the bookcase on his right.

“I didn’t mean to create such excitement,” I muttered when we stepped out of the library.

Mrs. Pratt nearly laughed. She stopped with an extended smile. “Professor Marx is
our resident intellectual. He was a college professor at one of the nation’s most
prestigious universities.”

“What would I do in there?”

“You would be schooled in current events and historical background, along with the
arts, literature, classical music, even pop and jazz. Of course, you need to have
a good working knowledge of business and some math.”

“Math, too?” I groaned.

“Just to make it seem as though you know what the Pythagorean theorem means,” she
said. “I’m kidding. You’ll get a smattering of the subject.”

“What about business?”

“Very important. Most of Mrs. Brittany’s clients are involved in high finance. You
know the difference between a put and a call, shorting a stock, capital gains, things
like that?”

“I know a great deal about that, actually,” I said. “My father is in finance.”

“Oh, that’s good. You’ll learn more about it, of course, have a deeper understanding.
It’s all just information that will help you conduct an intelligent conversation.
Don’t worry. It’s not that intense. Professor Marx is an expert in giving our girls
just enough to convince any man that they’re not airheads.”

“I was lousy in school, but I’m not stupid, even though I’m sure I won’t know most
of what he expects me to know,” I insisted.

“I wouldn’t be showing you around here if Mrs. Brittany thought you were stupid, Roxy.
I assure you of that,” she replied. “You will also go to the library to meet with
Professor Brenner, a retired speech and drama professor, who will give you speaking
lessons.”

“Speaking lessons?”

“Improve your speaking, I should say. Make you more conscious of how you pronounce
words, avoid slurring. You want to sound like someone who deserves to be making the
sort of money you’ll be making, don’t you? It’s all about impressing people, Roxy.
Making good first impressions.”

I looked into the classroom dining room as we passed by it again and digested all
she had told me so far, all that I had to learn and achieve.

“Professor Marx knows about all those subjects you listed?”

“As I said, he’ll make sure you know enough for your needs,” she replied.

“Really, Mrs. Pratt, I’d like to know, how long does this all take?”

“I told you it depends on the trainee, obviously. Some can’t hack it and are given
a kill fee and sent on their way.”

“Kill fee?”

“Some money to leave with,” she said dryly. She looked at her watch.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Training-wise?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Brittany herself will evaluate how you walk and move, whether you have proper
poise, and she will instruct you in that regard.”

“You mean I don’t walk right or sit right?”

She looked at me and nodded. “You have a bit of a slouch. That must go, and when you
walk, you tend
to keep your head down, which makes you look insecure. But don’t worry. If she thinks
you’re worth it, she’ll get you up to snuff. Let’s proceed to Mrs. Brittany’s office.”

She led me back into the main house, and we crossed in front of the stairway and went
down another corridor. I couldn’t imagine how many maids were used to keep the place
in shape. Jeffries stepped out of a room, nodded at us, and continued toward the front
of the mansion. We paused at two beautiful tall light oak doors embossed with Greek
nymphs in trees. Mrs. Pratt knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Mrs. Brittany said, and we entered. Mr. Bob was sitting off to the right on
a beautiful black leather sofa. He had a brandy snifter in his hand.

Mrs. Brittany’s office was as large as, if not larger than, most living rooms, I thought.
It was richly paneled, and behind her were large double windows. It was too dark by
now to see what her view was. She sat behind an oversize dark oak desk with everything
on it very neatly organized. There were framed pictures all over the wall on the left,
many with politicians I recognized, and an oil portrait of her hung on the wall behind
Mr. Bob. In it, she was probably twenty years younger, wearing a beautiful pearl-colored
gown and a diamond tiara. There was no doubt that she had been a remarkably beautiful
young woman.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pratt,” Mrs. Brittany said, obviously dismissing her.

Mrs. Pratt left, closing the door behind her.

“You may sit,” Mrs. Brittany told me, nodding toward the sofa on which Mr. Bob sat.

He smiled and nodded. “Quite a place, isn’t it?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you have any questions now?” Mrs. Brittany asked.

“How many women do you employ?”

“That’s not your concern. Ask me things that concern only you.”

“I guess I would live here while doing what you call training?”

“What do you call it? It’s an education, a refinement, a preparation. You’re bright
enough to understand that much.”

I was silent.

“Yes, of course, you would live here. And you would be evaluated every moment you
were here.”

“And then what?”

“Well, if you meet the test, are ready to go out into the field, I’d place you in
your own apartment. In the beginning I would line up your assignments, but I would
hope that in time, you would become a request. We’d give you your name.”

“My name?”

“How you would be known when gentlemen called our service. I won’t give you that until
I’m convinced that you’re ready.”

“How long does that usually take? I know it depends on the candidate. By the way,
is that a good word for girls like me?” I asked. “ ‘Candidate?’ ”

She smiled. “Yes,
très bien
. Since you speak French, if you were still in question after six months, I would
reconsider.”

“Yes, and give me a kill fee. I was told.”

“Good. What else?”

“I don’t have to have sex with these men?”

She closed her eyes and sighed before opening them again. “No, no, I already explained
that. All of my clients understand that having sexual relations is a decision our
girls make themselves.” She sat forward. “However, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you
that some of my girls hold on to very high-paying clients by granting sexual pleasure,
but that is not a requirement or a service we advertise. Furthermore, if one of my
girls got pregnant, that would be the end of her association with my organization.
I won’t tolerate any such stupidity.”

“I don’t blame you for that,” I said. “Nevertheless,” I insisted, “if one of your
girls is doing it for money, then she’s a prostitute.”

She tightened her lips and looked at me with laserlike intensity. “Even a geisha,
a member of a long-standing traditional and cultural phenomenon in Japan, has sexual
relations if she so desires, and no one would call her a prostitute, but I stress,
and obviously have to repeat, it’s not part of the job description.”

I shrugged. “I’m not saying I have a holier-than-thou attitude. I just wouldn’t like
to think of myself that way.”

“Nor should you.” She leaned forward again, her eyes narrow, intense. “Let me make
something
perfectly clear. None of my successful girls thinks ill of herself. On the contrary,
they enjoy their lives, their pleasures, and their rewards and have a great deal of
pride. They have great self-respect. If you should be lucky enough to reach that level,
you’ll understand.”

I could feel Mr. Bob watching my reactions. Mrs. Brittany sat back, her mouth twisting.
My silence seemed to annoy her. I wasn’t pleading enough for her to keep me.

“You can get up and walk out of here without any problem,” she said. “We’ll deliver
you to whatever hole in the wall you’ve found, no questions asked. You can even keep
that dress and those shoes, right, Bob?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I’m just asking questions. You told me to ask them. I’m not saying I don’t want to
do this,” I said.

“I’d like to hear you say ‘I do,’ ” she replied. “With a convincing tone.”

“Sounds like I’m getting married,” I quipped, looking at Bob for a smile, but he didn’t
even blink. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, with all the firmness I could muster.
“I do.”

“Good. Now we have only one question to answer,” she said.

“Which is?”

“Will you do?”

Mrs. Brittany stared at me a moment. Then she smiled, nodded, and opened a desk drawer
to produce a printed document.

“I want you to read this and sign it. I ask everyone we’re considering to do so. The
document is not legally binding in any court except the court I hold here, but I like
certain things made very clear in black and white so that there are no misunderstandings.”

She pushed the papers across her desk. I rose, picked them up, and began to read them.
It certainly was written like a legal document. In return for the privilege of being
trained to become a member of Mrs. Brittany’s enterprise, I had to agree to a number
of rules and conditions. Nothing guaranteed that I would become a member. That was
clearly stated, as were the conditions.