Roxy’s Story (8 page)

“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 imported 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.”