Roxy's Story

by V. C. Andrews

  What would I ever do now to stop? I wondered.

  I lowered my menu and looked at Mr. Bob. “Let’s just eat and stop talking. I’m hungry,” I said.

  He laughed and signaled for the waitress. “You’ll be just fine,” he said, nodding. “Just fine.”

  I looked away.

  I would be fine.

  That I swore to myself.

  And so it was to begin.

  18

  My first client was an Asian man who was at least as old as my father. Later, when enough time had passed and I knew I had successfully established myself in Mrs. Brittany’s mind, I asked her about my first assignment. I had some suspicions about why she had chosen him, which she confirmed.

  “Because of how bad your relationship was with your father, I wanted to see if you could handle a man of, shall we say, that vintage.”

  Using the word “vintage” to refer to men wasn’t an accident. On a number of occasions, Mrs. Brittany expressed her theory that men were like wine. They grew better with age, calmer and more self-assured. Successful men, that is. There were, of course, men who would always be boys, she told me, and if you were a true Brittany girl, you’d know which was which and handle each accordingly.

  “When do I stop being tested?” I had wondered out loud. “Or have I?”

  “Never, if you work for me,” she’d replied, and she lived up to that.

  Part of what made her escort service so successful was the follow-up. She didn’t ask her clients to fill out a questionnaire. No, it was nothing as mundane as that. Instead, she personally interrogated each client the first chance she had, and based on that feedback, she decided how much work one of her girls would get.

  Just as she had initially promised the young, wild, undisciplined, and rebellious Roxy (I could think like this because in my mind, I had become a different person), ninety percent or more of my assignments involved flirtation but not intimate sexual relations. I wasn’t lily-pure by any means. There were men who were so charming, handsome, and sexy that it was inevitable I’d have them spend the night at my apartment or go off with them for a weekend on a private jet to some exotic Caribbean island home. Those men lavished more expensive gifts on me and were willing to pay almost any price Mrs. Brittany demanded.

  My bank account and investments began to grow. Years after I had started, I fantasized about my father managing my wealth. It brought a smile but also a sense of loss, because thinking about him inevitably led to thoughts about my mother and Emmie, whom I had long ago nicknamed M.

  However, it wasn’t until nearly two years after I had begun as a full-fledged Brittany girl that I began to spy on my family. Naturally, I wondered if they still lived where we had lived together. I had kept close enough tabs on them to know they were still living in the same place. I would wander through Central Park and make the turns onto the East Side streets that would bring me to the corners where I could look, hopefully unseen, at my family’s town house. I really wanted to see what M looked like now. Did she resemble me at all? Did she look more like our father or our mother? What did they look like? Older? Had the years been kind to them, or had the loss of me taken some toll?

  Sometimes I would stand for nearly an hour and see nothing, no one, but often, because I admitted to myself that I wanted to see them, I would plan the timing better and see M coming home from school or Mama arriving after shopping. I rarely saw my father, but when I did, I saw how slowly he walked. He had lost his perfect army-cadet posture, too, and he had become more gray-haired.

  In fact, they all looked different to me now. It was as if I were watching them on television or in a movie, perhaps because I was observing them unseen. I tried to study the expressions on their faces, wondering if somehow, someway, I could discern any of them thinking about me, wondering about me, and being sad about me. I had no real way of knowing, but I liked imagining that they were doing just that, that it was why my father was so gray and stooped.

  A few times, I saw Mama pause near the front stoop and look behind her. I pulled back to remain unseen, but I was able to peer at her and see the way she studied the street. Could she sense my presence? Was it true that mothers had a sixth sense when it came to their children, a sense they would never lose? When I saw her looking around in front of the house as if she was hoping to see me, I wondered if she often looked for me when she walked or took a taxi.

  Invariably, after I had done one of these spying missions, I berated myself. Was I getting soft, regretful? This would only lead to terrible guilt and affect my work. I was afraid Mrs. Brittany would take one look at me and know. Maybe she always suspected I would do this and had someone following me. All of us Brittany girls were a little paranoid. We knew how closely she kept watch over us, over everything we did on our own. Surely she had some help.

  My paranoia became so intense that I often stopped to look around to see if I could spot someone following me. Sometimes I would deliberately make a wrong turn or go into a store I had no interest in just to see if I could spot someone waiting out there, watching and tracking me. Of course, I expected that every phone call I received and every package delivered was scrutinized by someone at the hotel. It was, I imagine, like living in the world of Big Brother in Orwell’s novel 1984 or some other type of dictatorship in which everyone spied on everyone else. I got so paranoid sometimes that I searched the apartment for hidden microphones and cameras. I never found any, but that didn’t convince me that they weren’t there.

  Because of all this, there were often times, especially in the longer periods between appointments, when I would seriously consider leaving Mrs. Brittany. As if she could sense it, something more lavish would be done for me. I was sent on holiday with one of the other girls. No expense was too great. We had periodic retraining sessions at her Long Island estate, which always culminated with grand parties. I met some of the new girls and saw how they envied and respected me and looked to me for advice and guidance. If this was Mrs. Brittany’s intention, it worked, because it boosted my ego and drove back any thoughts of resigning.

  Where would I go, anyway? What would I do? What else was I trained to do? I didn’t have enough to keep me in my high-living style for life. Everything I made was under the table, so to speak. Mr. Bob described it as being beneath the radar. The result was that I had no history. If I were to write a résumé for some job, it would be full of blank spaces. I began to realize that the effect was to make me invisible. It got so that I wondered if I would see myself reflected in a mirror.

  The one love of my life had married and was on the verge of taking over his father’s business empire. In the beginning, I often thought of Paul and wondered if Norbert had finally told him who and what I was or if he always knew and was indeed working for Mrs. Brittany right from the start. Whenever I asked her, she just smiled and refused to answer. She wasn’t tormenting me. She simply wanted me to believe she was in control of everything that had to do with me.

  Finally, nearly two years later, Paul came to New York specifically to see me. He went through the service, and Mrs. Brittany permitted it. No other assignment made me as nervous and insecure. I was practically trembling all over when he came to my apartment to take me to dinner and a Broadway show.

  When I opened the door, we simply stood there looking at each other for a good ten or fifteen seconds, neither knowing how to start. Finally, he said, “You always surprise me with how much more beautiful you become, Roxy.”

  “You never surprise me with your compliments,” I replied, and we both laughed.

  I thought we would begin with a drink at my bar. He told me he had developed a liking for the Cosmopolitan cocktail. All of us Brittany girls could mix drinks as well as any bartender in the best clubs, hotels, or restaurants. There was one full weekend at the estate for just that training, and we had a great deal of fun getting a little looped in the process.

  Usually, I had a nonalcoholic drink if I had cocktails first at my apartment with a client. Mrs. Bri
ttany’s admonition about getting drunk was frightening, first because of how angry it would make her for any of us to be at a very dangerous disadvantage. To be taken advantage of by a client was like ripping up your future, and for Mrs. Brittany, that was the loss of her investment in you. Besides, it cheapened the whole experience, and if there was one thing Mrs. Brittany guarded, it was the special elegant nature of her enterprise. Second, there was the real danger of embarrassing ourselves in public and therefore drawing more attention to the Brittany escort service. The more secret it was, the more special it was, and the more special it was, the more expensive it would be. More expensive meant it was more special, so it was a circle that rolled on, spinning great profit to feed the Brittany financial machine.

  It was that night, however, when we both had something to drink, that I finally learned the truth. Paul confessed to having known from the start that I was one of Mrs. Brittany’s girls.

  “Of course Norbert told me, but it never made a difference to me. I also knew you were just starting out, a virgin, so to speak.”

  “Hardly that.”

  “No, but a virgin when it came to the Brittany escort service.”

  “Did you do what she wanted, become part of a test she had designed?”

  “Yes and no. At first, Norbert brought me there for just that, but as I got to know you, I hated the idea of doing anything, saying anything, that in any way was a form of betrayal. Besides,” he said, “I did fall in love with you. I’ll always be in love with you.”

  “And how’s your marriage?” I asked sharply.

  He nodded. “I don’t blame you for taking that tone. My marriage is a success as far as my father and our economic empire are concerned. It’s easy to see, however, that it’s a marriage of convenience. Most of the time, we go our separate ways. Lately, we don’t even share coffee in the morning.”

  “Children?”

  “None yet. It’s a little troubling to both families. My father actually thinks I’m controlling my sperm or something. How does he put it? I’m ‘psychologically depressing the little buggers.’ ”

  I laughed. “Maybe you are.”

  He sipped his drink and looked around the apartment. “Very nice place.”

  “It serves its purpose,” I said.

  “And what is that?”

  “To be a successful Brittany escort, what else?”

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  “Comfortable,” I replied.

  “Is it enough?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Is what you have enough?”

  He looked down at his drink.

  “Is it still true that ego and greed are at work for you?” I followed.

  He took a deep breath and looked at me. “I’m not as much like my father as I thought I was. Feared I was,” he added.

  When we looked at each other now, neither of us turned away. He smiled. We drew closer, and when we kissed, it wasn’t like any kiss I would give any client.

  We didn’t go anywhere that night. It was too hard not to reach out sensually, not to kiss, not to touch, and if we went anywhere, we’d be restrained. For a few hours, it was as if no time had passed, as if I had closed my eyes while I was at Mrs. Brittany’s Côte d’Azur villa and then opened them to see him beside me just the way he had been, his handsome face in sweet repose and a feeling of wonderful satisfaction covering my body like a soft silk blanket.

  When we parted in the morning, he promised to see me as many times as he could. I told him not to make promises.

  “Make appointments instead.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

  “Besides, I’d rather that each time be a surprise, something unexpected, rather than something longed for. The ache becomes too painful.”

  “I understand. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

  “It’s part of the job description,” I replied.

  He laughed, but I really believed after a while that I could go on and on like this, employing Mrs. Brittany’s beauty techniques, keeping up with my physical training and nutrition, slipping in and out of the latest fashions, updating myself with my cultural education. I even dreamed of someday becoming Mrs. Brittany, inheriting control of the company and having my own Wilcox girls. Was that pure ambition or pure stupidity?

  Traveling, entertaining, socializing with the richest and most powerful people did insulate me and keep me from thinking about anything I had lost or sacrificed. I was exactly what I had told Paul: comfortable.

  And then, one late afternoon, when my limousine had taken me to pick up a client after his dinner meeting, I looked out when the chauffeur opened the door for him and saw that the client was standing with my father. It was as if I had been shot through the heart with an arrow of ice. The look on his face seemed to shatter the very air between us. I pulled back, but it was too late. The client, a man not much younger than my father, got into the limousine. I didn’t look back when we drove off, but I could feel my father’s eyes on the back of my head. I was numb, speechless, and a terrible late-night date, as I would have been for any other client.

  No matter what my client said or tried, I was unresponsive. Just the fact that he knew my father and had been standing there beside him brought my father into the limousine and into the remainder of the evening with him. When he spoke or looked at me, I could only hear and see my father. Finally, disappointed and disgusted, he cut the evening short. I knew this was my first serious failure, but I could do nothing about it.

  The following morning, Mrs. Brittany came to my apartment. I was still in bed, feeling sick to my stomach and exhausted. I hadn’t managed an hour of sleep. Every time I had closed my eyes, I saw my father’s face, felt his surprise and his pain. I buried my face in my pillow to smother any sobs and instantly dry any tears. I didn’t even hear Mrs. Brittany enter my bedroom. She slammed the door, and I sat up quickly. One look at her face told me she had heard more than an earful from my client.

  “What happened?” she demanded. “Why did you treat that man so poorly? What got into you?”

  “When we stopped to pick him up at the restaurant, he was standing with my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, as it turns out, they’re associates. He was at a dinner meeting.”

  She was quiet a moment, and then, nodding, she said, “I can understand it, but I can’t forgive it. You know I don’t tolerate failure. Ours is a business that depends on clients recommending the service because they’ve had an outstanding experience well worth the cost in their minds. Anything contrary hurts us all.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine it happening again.”

  “It won’t, or if it does, it won’t,” she said, making it clear.

  She calmed down and decided to send me to Dubai on a week’s holiday with Camelia and Portia. I knew she wanted me to see what I would be missing if I failed her again. We were all showered with expensive gifts, deluxe travel arrangements, and luxurious resort accommodations. It was a good antidote to what I had experienced, because the three of us had so much fun teasing and flirting with rich young Arab men who we knew would become new clients. One gave me a diamond bracelet worth fifty thousand dollars. He had it hidden in a bowl of whipped cream at dinner. I had never laughed so much or felt more relaxed and lucky.

  When I returned, I was back to my successful Brittany girl self. I thought that was the end of my regrets and conscience. I had once again locked away my family memories in a keyless safe, stuffed into the deepest corner of my mind.

  And then my mother managed to get a message over the wall of security that Mrs. Brittany had built around me. A relatively new receptionist at the hotel stopped me one morning to ask if I knew a Mrs. Wilcox.

  “I’m not sure this is for you,” he said. “I’m not even sure I’m supposed to ask, but from her description of the woman she wanted to contact, I thought immediately of you.”

  “You’re not supposed to ask,” I
said. I was going to walk away, maybe even report him and get him fired, but I hesitated. Something stronger made me hesitate.

  He held out a slip of paper and shrugged. “This is the message. Whoever it’s for isn’t going to be happy. I felt I should try, at least.”

  I stared at it, fighting the urge to take it from him, but it was too strong. I practically ripped it out of his fingers and opened it.

  The words pounded through my brain and stole away my breath. I felt a weakness in my legs and an emptiness inside that I hadn’t felt for years.

  My father had died.

  His funeral was in two days. The information was there.

  I folded the paper.

  “It isn’t for me,” I told the receptionist, and handed the paper back to him.

  “Oh, that’s good. Sorry to bother you,” he said.

  “It wasn’t any bother, but if I were you, I’d throw that out and forget about it.”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  I gave him a stern glare and walked away. At least, I thought I did. My legs were on their own. I got into the elevator and took a deep breath.

  The general was dead.

  I had expected that when I heard this news later in my life, I would feel nothing but relief. I didn’t expect the cold, sick feeling of grief that crawled up from my stomach and surrounded my heart. I tried to ignore it. I ridiculed it, mumbling that now the beds wouldn’t be made right, the house would go into disarray, and my grandfather’s iconic picture would come down and be stuffed in a carton at the back of some closet. But nothing worked. My heart wouldn’t lighten, and my laughter was more like sobbing.

  Fortunately, I had no assignments the following day or the day after. I was certain I would have been a disappointment, and Mrs. Brittany had left no doubt about what result that would have. I did all I could to forget about my mother’s message, but it wouldn’t let go. I didn’t go to the church service. I had the limousine take me there, and then I sat in it and watched the people go in and then come out. I had the driver follow far behind the funeral procession to the cemetery and park a good distance away. Then I walked to the very edge of the section and watched the burial from a distance, behind a tree, my gaze locked on Mama and Emmie, who both looked so small and lost to me. I thought that attending even from this distance might diminish the anger I felt toward Papa, but his dying made me even more furious. He was still hurting the people he was supposed to love, hurting them by dying.