Roxy''s Story by V. C. Andrews
With more determination, I worked on my face, brushed out my hair, put on a pair of earrings, and practiced my “older” look. Feeling confident again, I hurried out to go job hunting. The young man at the desk whistled at me and shook his limp hand.
“You’re a looker,” he said.
I didn’t even pause.
“I can make you a lot of money,” he called after me.
Despite my appearance, it took me three tries before I was able to meet with someone doing the hiring in a store. I was brought to a small office at the rear of a clothing store and met with the store manager, a man who looked about my father’s age. He was surprised at my knowledge of some of the styles and designers, especially those doing clothes for younger women. I thought I was doing well and was on my way to getting the job, until I was asked for my identification.
What was I thinking? Why didn’t I anticipate that would be a problem? The moment anyone learned my true age, eyes narrowed, and more detailed questioning started. Why wasn’t I in school? Was this address on my ID my current address? They knew how upscale the East Side neighborhood was. Why would someone from that world be looking for a full-time job? Using the dumpy hotel as an address wasn’t going to work. How would I begin to explain why I was there?
One female manager, who was pretty dumpy and plain for someone running a boutique, in my opinion, actually stopped talking to me for a moment, narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and then simply said, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you? Well?”
I didn’t respond. I just got up and left the office. Ironically, I did run away from her. I was afraid she would get on the phone and call the police or something. She looked like one of those do-gooders who poke their faces into other people’s affairs because their own lives are so mundane and boring.
Maybe retail outlets weren’t the best possibilities, I thought, and started to inquire at restaurants looking for waitresses and waiters. They might be less demanding. Surely my background wouldn’t be as important. Didn’t waiters and waitresses come and go all the time? I always thought I was an expert liar, but when it came to describing past experience at restaurants, I would readily admit myself that I sounded pathetic and dishonest. This wasn’t going to work, either, I realized. My ID was too difficult a problem to solve, and by the end of the day, I was in a deep funk, discouraged and defeated. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to go back home and plead for mercy. What other choice did I have?
I stopped at a restaurant not far from where I was staying. It was the cleanest and nicest one I had eaten at since I had left home. I wasn’t hungry, but I ordered a pasta salad and a mineral water just to have something to do while I sat there considering my desperate and now hopeless situation.
My stash of funds was looking pretty pathetic. I had rushed so much to leave the house after Papa ordered me out that I didn’t take my best clothes or enough of anything, really. If I started buying myself new things, I’d soon be broke. I didn’t even have enough makeup. I certainly didn’t have the right shoes, and I was beginning to get blisters.
Face it, Lady Big Shot, I told myself, your father knew what you would be up against. He probably told your mother they were giving you enough rope to hang yourself, something like that. He was confident you would return, plead for mercy, and get in line. It was the way he was brought up, the way he was forced to compromise and obey until he was old enough to break free. Now that I was out there, I could appreciate what it took for him to be so independent, to defy his father and all that family tradition. He was too tough, too strong. I was a fool to think I could break him before he would break me.
No, I told myself, there was no sense in prolonging the pain. It was time to wave the white flag, surrender, and go crawling back.
I thought about calling Mama first so she could set up a smoke-the-peace-pipe meeting with my father. I rehearsed what I would say, the promises I would make, and the punishments I would accept. Every thought was like swallowing sour milk or being jolted by a surge of hot electricity on my spine. I was so down and depressed that I hated the image of myself I saw reflected in a nearby mirror, which was another reason I was so surprised by what happened next.
2
How anyone could look at me at this point and not be completely turned off by what he saw in my face amazed me. I was depressed, defeated, and soured by all that had happened, but when I raised my head and looked across the restaurant, I saw a man with a dark complexion, handsome and rather distinguished-looking in his dark gray suit and black tie, looking at me with interest and smiling. He had wavy light brown hair and looked to be in his late forties, early fifties. There was a confident, successful-movie-actor glow on his face, the look of someone who was untouched by the things that annoyed, irritated, and aged most people.
His smile wasn’t licentious. I could sense that he wasn’t flirting with me. Rather, he looked a little amused, but still expressed admiration, too. He was more like someone’s nice uncle preparing to toss compliments at me. Of course, I thought, this could all be a façade, too. He might very well be a womanizer, someone who took advantage of young women, especially young women who wore a look of desperation. Despite how much I wanted to think otherwise, I kept myself cautious. I didn’t smile back at him or acknowledge him in any way, but that didn’t appear to discourage him. In fact, I think my indifference only encouraged him.
He rose and crossed the restaurant to my table. I thought he had the most amazingly blue eyes, Caribbean Sea blue, with a softness that radiated kindness.
“Pardonnez-moi,” he said.
Every guy thinks he’s cute imitating a Frenchman, I thought. And then I thought I’d fix him. “Oui. Comment puis-je vous aider?” I asked. I didn’t know if he knew that meant “How can I help you?” but after I spoke, his smile widened.
“I had a suspicion you spoke French,” he said. “That’s why I said pardonnez-moi.”
“Pourquoi?”
“I don’t know. Just your look. Anyway, I was sitting there watching you and thought to myself, what’s a beautiful young woman like her doing here this time of the day by herself?”
“And what did you tell yourself?” I replied. “Or aren’t you in the habit of answering your own questions?”
I thought I saw a slight nod of his head, confirming something he had suspected. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t intimidated by someone his age approaching me. “I didn’t have an answer for myself, but I thought I’d like to know the answer. Do you mind?” He nodded at the chair across from me.
I shrugged, and he sat.
“Are you a tourist?” he asked.
“Do I look like a tourist?”
“Not exactly,” he said. The waitress approached. “Would you like something else? A coffee?”
“A cappuccino with low-fat milk,” I ordered.
“Make that two, Paula,” the gentleman said. The waitress nodded and walked off. “You work around here?”
“Why all this interest in me?” I asked. “Do I remind you of someone?”
“Not exactly that, but I’d have to be a pretty dull boy not to be interested in someone who looked like you.”
“Oh, I see,” I said with a tight smirk.
“No, no. You misunderstand. I guess you can say I’m kind of an agent always on the lookout for new talent.”
I pushed my pasta salad aside and clasped my hands with my elbows on the table, leaning toward him a little. It was what my father would do when he wanted to indicate he’d had it with silly talk and wanted clear, truthful answers. It didn’t surprise me that I had taken on some of his gestures. He never successfully intimidated me, but when I wanted to intimidate any of the guys or girls at my school, I would take on my father’s persona.
“Kind of?” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean. You can make me a movie star or get me on television, Mr. . . . ?”
“Everyone who knows me calls me Mr. Bob.”
“I don’t know you,” I said.
??
“Why?”
“Are you in college in the city?”
“No.”
“Do you live in the city?”
“Yes.”
“In this neighborhood?” he followed, showing skepticism.
“Maybe, why?”
“You don’t look like you belong in this neighborhood.”
“Where do I look like I belong?”
“Somewhere better.”
“Really,” I said dryly. “Well, if this area is so bad, what are you doing here?”
“Scouting,” he said. “You know, like those guys who go around the country looking for great baseball or basketball prospects.”
“I’m not into sports.”
“What are you into, then?”
“Before I answer any more questions, I want to see a lawyer,” I said, sitting back, and he laughed.
“Something told me you weren’t going to be dull.”
“You’re right there. I’ve been accused of lots of things but never of being dull.”
The waitress brought our cappuccinos.
“Thank you, Paula. So who are you?” he asked.
I sipped my cappuccino and looked at him. “Why is it so important for you to know?”
“I told you. I’m in the business of making discoveries.”
“Discoveries? Of what? Not baseball or basketball players. I have a terrible swing, don’t like all the spitting, and hate running up and down any court.”
He laughed and turned to look at the closest other customer to see if he was listening to our conversation. The other man turned away quickly.
“No, I’m not after sports possibilities. I look for beautiful young women who have a certain je ne sais quoi, a mysterious quality about them that makes them extra special. There are many beautiful young women in New York, but not all have that je ne sais quoi. Know what I mean?”
“Maybe. I certainly understand the expression and can understand why you might say that.” I knew that answer surprised him, but I wasn’t down on myself enough to believe that I wasn’t special. Besides, modesty always struck me as a weakness in this world.
He sipped his cappuccino and continued to study me.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said when he remained silent. “What is it you see in me—besides my French heritage, that is?”
“There’s a wisdom about you that one wouldn’t expect of someone your age, yet you don’t look that street-smart, either. In short, you have me intrigued.”
He continued to sip his cappuccino, and I sipped mine, neither of us shifting our eyes from the other. All sorts of suspicions, like sleeping snakes, began to raise their heads in my mind.
“You’re not going to show me some kind of badge any minute, are you?”
That brought real laughter from him. “Hardly,” he said, “although I have a badge to flash if I’m ever in trouble. It was a gift from a high-level government employee. You have nothing to fear about me on that score. In fact, you have nothing whatsoever to fear about talking to me.”
“Right. It’s very common for a man your age, dressed like you, to start a conversation with someone my age because she has a certain je ne sais quoi. I see it happening all over the city every day.”
He held his smile. It seemed that neither my sarcasm nor my indifference could discourage him. I noticed the expensive-looking diamond pinkie ring on his left hand, but I saw no wedding ring. I knew what a Rolex was, and what he was wearing did not look like a cheap imitation. Mama always told me to look at a man’s shoes first when assessing if he was authentic. Well-to-do men always had expensive shoes, and those shoes were always maintained well. His shoes didn’t exactly have the military shine, but they looked well cared for. He was exactly the sort of man I could imagine sitting in the shoe shiner’s chair in some subway station reading the Wall Street Journal.
“You are something else,” he said. “I knew it. Please, tell me about yourself.”
I finished my cappuccino but held the cup as I pondered whether I should stay or simply get up and leave without another word.
“I’m not a tourist. I’m not in college. I don’t work anywhere in the city. This isn’t really my neighborhood, okay? Satisfied? Did I earn my cappuccino?”
“Hardly satisfied,” he said. He tilted his head a bit as he took another long look at me. “Don’t tell me you’re in high school?”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
His eyes brightened and his lips softened. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Not at the moment and not in the immediate future.”
“Now I am intrigued. You either cut school or quit, right? Are you on your own?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“We don’t have to be,” he said.
“Oh.” I put my cup down. I thought I knew what that line meant, what he was leading up to. He had just taken a more circuitous route to get there. “Now I understand. I think it’s time for me to go.”
“No, no, you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not here to pick you up or anything like that.”
“No? You’re just here to buy me a cappuccino because I have an intriguing face and speak French?”
“Maybe. Maybe all I will do is buy you a cappuccino. It’s up to you.”
I was locked in my motion to get up and leave, but I hesitated. What did he mean? What could be up to me? What was he offering?
“So what’s your story?” he asked when I relaxed in my chair again.
I thought a moment and decided to test him with the truth. “My father threw me out of our house the other day. I’ve been excommunicated from my family for committing a series of somewhat unforgivable sins. My father was brought up in a military family, so after just so much KP duty, there was nothing left to do but give me a dishonorable discharge.”
He didn’t laugh or smile. “How serious were the sins?”
“A little pilfering here and there, insubordination in school, unmotivated in my schoolwork, failing some classes, caught smoking some weed in the girls’ room, violating curfews. Things like that. I was working up to first-degree murder when I was kicked off the base.”
He smiled again. “You don’t look like the average dropout,” he said, “and your French is perfect. I spent quite a long time in Paris and return often. And I have visited most of the Riviera. Places like Cannes, Monaco, Èze. Have you been?”
“My mother is French. Her family is there. We’ve visited them in and outside of Paris but not for some time. No, I’ve never been to the Riviera.”
“How is she taking this excommunication?”
“She’s my father’s wife.”
“So?”
“My mother is old-fashioned. She’s the obedient sort,” I said. “I don’t think she’s happy about what’s happened, but I don’t think she’s going to do anything dramatic about it, either.”
“Do you plan on going home soon?”
I looked away and then turned back to him. “I don’t want to, but I don’t seem to have much of a choice in the matter.”
“Maybe you do.”
“What are we back to, an invitation to come home with you?”
“No. Not that I wouldn’t like that. It’s just not what I do.”
“So what do you do, Mr. Bob? I think I’ve been honest with you. How about a little quid pro quo?”
He raised his eyebrows. “ ‘Quid pro quo’? You’re a bad student?”
“I didn’t say bad. I said unmotivated, but I read.”
He nodded. “You might be just the perfect candidate.”
“Candidate? For what? Congress?”
“No,” he said, laughing. Then he leaned over the table to whisper. “How would you like to be really independent? Live in a beautiful place, be able to buy the most expensive clothes . . .”
“And marry a prince?”
“Seriously?”
I tilted my head, looking at him askance. “I try to keep up with the
“I told you. I’m not making a pass at you,” he said, now with his first note of annoyance.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m simply asking you if you want to get into something that will make you not only independent, but also very well off. As I said, I’m just a scout.”
“You’re not a Boy Scout. That’s for sure.”
He smirked. I thought he was finally going to get up and walk away, but he just stared at me.
“All right. I’ll bite again,” I said. “How do I do all this?”
He leaned forward and spoke again in a voice just above a whisper. “You meet someone first, someone who will be much more scrutinizing than I am. She might even bring you to tears before throwing you out, but I haven’t been wrong that often, and I’ve never felt as confident about someone as I do about you. I have good instincts.”
“Meet who?”
“Whom.”
“Yeah, I forgot the difference between objective and subjective. I can see that disturbs you.”
“Not me, but this person I want you to meet, maybe. She looks for very special candidates.”
“Really. So when do I meet this person and where?”
“Tonight. You come with me. It’s on Long Island.”
I smirked. “Don’t you know my mother told me never to talk to strangers, much less go for a ride with one?”
“Tell you what,” he said, and reached into his inside jacket pocket to produce his wallet. He opened it and took out his driver’s license. “Here’s my driver’s license. See?” He turned it toward me. “My picture is on it and my name. Robert Diamant. Leave it with anyone you trust, and tell them this is the man you are going to take a ride with. Tell them to call the police if you’re not back by eleven. Anything happens to you, I’m toast. Go on, keep my license,” he insisted.