Authors: V.C. Andrews
“Yes, everything is fine. I was introduced to the playland of the rich and famous,”
I said, smiling at Paul.
“I’m sorry I’ve been too busy to call. There was a little crisis here. I will call
you again later, and you have my mobile number if you need anything until then.”
“Yes,
merci
, Norbert. Don’t worry,” I said. “I never completely let go of the handlebars.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.
Merci
.”
“Let me have Paul again,
s’il vous plaît
.”
I handed him the phone.
“Yes, Dad?” he joked, and listened. “I understand. I’m on my best behavior.
D’accord
.
À bientôt
,” he said, and closed his mobile.
“I guess you really do have a reputation,” I said.
“It’s hard to say what worries Norbert more, you being upset with me or Mrs. Brittany
being upset with him.”
“Probably one and the same,” I told him.
He looked at me strangely, the impish smile gone. “If she were Italian, I would think
she was the head of some Mafia family or something.”
“She’s not Italian.”
“Yes, I know. How long have you known her?”
“Not long,” I said.
He nodded.
“How long have you known Norbert?” I asked him.
“Oh, well over fifteen years. I think you might have picked up that we don’t exactly
travel in the same circles, however.”
“Some of my best friends are Chinese.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, it’s a joke my father used to use,” I said, and immediately regretted it
because it nudged open one of those doors that I wanted to keep tightly shut.
“Oh? What does he do? I assume he still works?”
“I don’t like talking about my father,” I said, so sharply I could feel the air freeze
between us.
“Oh, sorry, but you just brought him up, and I thought . . .”
“I was trying to make a point about you and Norbert still being friends even though
he’s apparently gay.”
“Ah, yes, yes. I see. He’s actually my best friend,” Paul said. “There’s a lot more
in life to share besides sex.”
“You might get kicked out of your gender for making such an outrageous remark,” I
told him, and he roared.
Moments later, we turned into the villa’s driveway and parked.
“Before we go in, I’d like to settle something between us,” he said.
“What?” I asked, anticipating something about my being so elusive when it came to
answering questions about myself, my family, or Mrs. Brittany. I was prepared to tell
him to stay in the car and not bother anymore. But he surprised me.
“Dinner,” he said. “Margery will be hovering over us, and I’d like to get that in
cement.”
I laughed, but then I wondered if I should call Mrs. Brittany first and tell her what
was happening. Would she think me cautious and wise to check with her before going
too much further, or would she think I was too insecure?
“We’ll go close by. I have a favorite restaurant
in Beaulieu, Les Agaves. You’ll love the food, the ambience.”
My hesitation was confusing him.
“All I want to do is walk a little more before we run,” he added with a smile.
I had to smile, too. “Okay,” I said.
We got out and went in to change into our bathing suits. I had a new bikini Mrs. Brittany
had bought me on one of our shopping sprees. He took the guest room and was waiting
for me below as I descended. I saw the smile on his face blossom even more as he drank
me in with his thirsty eyes.
“You’re a very beautiful woman, Roxy. I mean that.”
“I hope so,” I said, as unimpressed as I could sound. “I hate insincerity, especially
when it involves something concerning me.”
He lost his smile. “You don’t accept compliments too easily. Why so cautious?”
“Compliments was the way Lucifer got to Eve in the Garden of Eden.”
“I’m not Lucifer.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Let’s go swimming. We both have to cool off.”
He took my hand as we walked out. Either Margery or Ian had set up the chaise longues
with towels and placed a bottle of white wine to chill in a bucket beside them. I
looked around but didn’t see either of them. My paranoia began to seep in again. This
felt like some sort of setup. Everything was so convenient, so easy and encouraging.
I went right to the pool and dived in to start my laps. When I had completed four,
I saw that Paul was still standing at the edge of the pool watching me.
“What?”
“You’re the first woman I’ve been with who really meant swimming when we went swimming.”
“Try it,” I said, with a challenge in my voice, and continued my laps.
He got in and swam beside me, but after ten more, he stopped to catch his breath and
hold on to the side of the pool. I did another five before pausing.
“How old are you, really, Roxy?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I want to find an excuse for myself.”
“You’re not that old, Paul. Have you ever read
The Great Gatsby
?”
“Oh, no, another book I missed. Why?”
“There’s this famous quote from it you should know. ‘Let me tell you about the very
rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does
something to them, makes them soft where we are hard,’ ” I recited, recalling how
Sheena and I had discussed the novel.
“Well, I’m not becoming poor just to keep up with you in the pool.”
“I don’t want you to be poor.”
“So you want me to be hard. No problem,” he joked.
I started to get out, and he reached for my hand and pulled me to him. He held me,
dripping wet in his arms. We kissed again.
“I’m glad you agreed to go to dinner with me,” he said softly. “I don’t want this
day to end.”
“Don’t you believe in tomorrow?”
“Not unless you’re in it,” he said.
I smiled, kissed him on the tip of his nose, and went to a chaise to get a towel.
“Some wine?” he asked.
“Sure?”
He poured me a glass. I sipped it and watched him pour his own. Then I sprawled on
the chaise and closed my eyes.
Was this what it was always going to be like from now on, I wondered, escorting one
wealthy man after another, enjoying the best food, going to the most luxurious places,
never having to think or worry about anything but my makeup and my hair?
“Excuse me. I have to make a call,” Paul told me.
“It’s okay. I’m going to drift off on a cloud,” I said.
He leaned over to kiss me softly on the lips and then went to the rear of the patio
to make his call. Before he returned, I was fast asleep. When I woke up, I heard voices
and looked back into the villa to see Paul talking to a young man who was delivering
some fresh clothing for him to wear to dinner. I checked the time, subtracted the
difference between here and New York, and rose to call Mrs. Brittany. I had decided
she wouldn’t be critical of my checking in with her. This was, after all, the first
time I was on my own since I had been with her. Surely she would see it as intelligent
and even loyal.
“It’s getting late,” I told Paul as I passed him. “I want to take a shower, wash my
hair. Can you amuse yourself?”
“No problem. I’ll shower and dress, too, and spend the rest of the time waiting and
thinking of you.”
“Such a romantic. Who are you, Maurice Chevalier?” I kidded, comparing him to the
famous French actor who was so well known for his charm. Again, I knew about something
thanks to my mother.
He laughed and watched me walk up the stairs. I hurried to my suite and closed the
door. I went right to the phone and called. Mrs. Pratt answered.
“Everything all right?” she asked when I asked to speak with Mrs. Brittany.
“Yes. Everything all right with you?”
I heard her blow into the receiver and smiled to myself. Moments later, Mrs. Brittany
was there.
“I have nothing new to report yet, Roxy. It’s far too soon. Besides, I would have
called you if there was something.”
“I’m not calling to find out about that. I know it’s too soon.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Norbert brought a man with him to dinner last night. I went to lunch with him at
the Café de Paris, and he came here to swim with me and asked me to dinner tonight.
His name is Paul Lamont. He’s of the Lamont cosmetics family.”
“I know all about the Lamont cosmetics family. So?”
“I don’t think it’s brain surgery to figure out that he wants to get more involved
with me.”
“I’d be pretty stupid to be surprised about that,” she said dryly. “And very disappointed
to hear otherwise.”
“I wanted to be sure that you thought it was all right.”
“What was all right?”
“For me to be seeing him like this while I’m here,” I said.
“It’s all right if it’s all right with you, if you handle everything correctly and
carefully. Perhaps he’ll fall in love with you, and you won’t have to come back,”
she added. “Would you like that?”
“We’ve only known each other for twenty-four hours, but he probably is in love with
me,” I told her.
She laughed. “One of you is,” she said.
“Yes, but you have no worries. He won’t ask me to marry him. He’s in one of those
arranged relationships.”
“He doesn’t have to offer marriage,” she said.
There was something about the indifference in her voice that sparked suspicion in
my mind.
“This is a test, isn’t it?” I asked. “It’s all prearranged.”
“Everything you will do from now on is a test, Roxy, whether I arrange it or not.
Get used to it. I’ve got to go. Make your own decisions now. We’ll see you in about
ten days. Unless something makes that unnecessary,” she added. “
Au revoir, ma chère
,” she said, and hung up.
I sat there with the dead receiver in my hand, thinking. Was everything pure coincidence,
or wasn’t
it, and if it wasn’t, did that mean Paul was part of it? Would I be disappointed if
that was so? Would I feel manipulated, my emotions tapped and prodded, with everyone
waiting to see what I would do?
“Make your own decisions,” Mrs. Brittany had said.
All right, I will. Right now, I’ll just shower and wash my hair, and then I’ll make
my first decision since we spoke. I’ll decide what to wear. None of this will intimidate
me,
I told myself. I really should have told her that, made it clear. Right from the
beginning, I should have done what she said, assumed everything was a test in one
way or another. I didn’t need her to confirm it. I’d never need her to confirm it.
I wasn’t sure what made me more enthusiastic and excited, my defiance, my growing
affection for Paul, or my desire to learn the truth. What would I do with that truth
if and when I learned it, anyway? Would I pout and then quit, demand my kill fee,
and go off on my own? Would I just swallow it and keep it to myself? Would I laugh
in their faces and claim that I always knew?
“Everything is an experience,” Mrs. Brittany once told me. “Treat it all that way.
Feeling sorry for yourself after a distasteful or disappointing experience only blinds
you to what lessons there are and how you can benefit.”
Now was the time to take her advice, I thought. Maybe I wasn’t just discovering things
about Paul and Mrs. Brittany and everything and everyone else around me. Maybe I was
discovering more about myself. What was I made of, fragile and delicate little
feelings that crackled and popped or feelings covered with thick, strong skin that
helped open my eyes more and trained me to confront any problem courageously?
How many times after I had left home did I stop to feel sorry for myself? Each time
I was tempted to surrender, to go crawling back. If I had done that, what would have
become of me? I could hear the derision in Mrs. Brittany’s voice.
So you think you’re being tested? Poor girl. If you think this is a test, wait until
you’re really out there.
I was so angry at myself the more I thought about it that I nearly stomped out of
my room and ripped off the banister as I descended the stairway.
Paul was out on the patio having some wine. I paused to look at him, unseen. He had
freely admitted that he was committed or was in the process of being committed to
another woman, primarily for business reasons. Would he toss that aside for someone
like me, someone who had nothing but herself to offer? Was it the musings of a romantic
teenage girl even to think of such a thing? If I had learned anything while being
with Mrs. Brittany, it should be that such idyllic romance occurs only in movies.
She was probably right. He would try to keep us both, with me on the side, the famous
mistress French men were expected to possess, and his respectable, wealthy wife on
his arm in public. I liked him. He was good-looking and sexy. I wasn’t going to toss
him off so quickly.
I considered the implication Mrs. Brittany had made that he would want me for a mistress.
Why
should such a possibility bother me, someone who was preparing herself for a life,
at least in her youth, to be just that sort of woman for many wealthy and powerful
men? If it did bother me that much, I certainly wasn’t capable of being a Brittany
girl, was I?
No, if he should ever propose such a relationship, I would smile and say, “Take a
ticket.” The idea brought a ripple of silent laughter across my lips.
Go play the game, Roxy Wilcox,
I whispered to myself.
Take the test, and prove yourself to yourself first and Mrs. Brittany last.
Paul turned and saw me staring at him. He smiled and lifted an empty wineglass.
“Yes, please,” I said, coming out onto the patio.
He poured me a glass and handed it to me. “Well, I didn’t think it was possible,”
he said.
“What was possible?”
“For you to look more beautiful than you did before. The truth is, you look more and
more beautiful each time I see you.”
“Maybe you simply underestimated me,” I said, and sipped my wine.
He laughed. “Compliments bounce off you the way rain bounces off an umbrella.”