Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2)
“Mrs. Brittany? That’s whom we’re going to see?” I stressed “whom.”
“Yes. She has a title, but she never uses it. She’s actually a Belgian countess. She was born in France but married a man who was a descendant of Robert of Flanders, Count James Brittany. Don’t smirk. These aristocratic Europeans have real evidence of their ancestry. They all have books detailing their lineage, with pictures of their ancestors, their houses, and their art. It’s all quite impressive, but as Mrs. Brittany will tell you, many of the blue bloods have little to show for it. The truth is, when her husband died, he left her little more than the nice apartment they had bought in Paris and some expensive jewelry and art. However, she was always a very enterprising woman and turned her inheritance into a multimillion-dollar venture. She had married very young. Her husband was nearly twenty years older.”
“Twenty years?”
“It’s not that uncommon. You might say it was something of an arranged affair.”
“Did she remarry?”
“No, although she’s been proposed to by some of the wealthiest men in the world. If you want to know and understand what it means to be an independent woman, you’ll learn quickly when you get to know her. If you get to know her,” he added. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m feeling very confident about you, but I don’t want to give you the impression that this is a done deal. Although she has rarely rejected a prospect I’ve brought her, she has on occasion.”
He leaned toward me and patted my hand.
“Just be yourself,” he advised. “You’ll do fine. Anyway, Mrs. Brittany is a very accomplished woman. She speaks four languages, including Japanese. She’s about as traveled a person as I have ever met, and she is on a friendly basis with some of the most powerful and influential people in the world, besides being an elegant beauty herself.”
“Rich, powerful, beautiful, intelligent, royal,” I catalogued. “She doesn’t sound real.”
“Oh, she’s real enough. You’ll see that. She’s just not someone who suffers fools gladly, if you know what I mean. When she makes a decision, it’s final, but if she likes what she sees, she’s completely invested. I’m confident that she’s going to like what she sees when she meets you. In fact, I’m so confident, I thought we’d begin with a little toast, anticipating both your success and mine.”
He reached forward to pluck an opened bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and handed me a glass that had a strawberry in it.
“You like champagne?” he asked.
“I like real champagne,” I said.
His eyes widened. “Real champagne?”
“My mother is from France,” I reminded him. “I know the difference between ordinary sparkling wine and champagne. Only the sparkling wine grown and produced in the region of Champagne in France can be truly called champagne.”
“Très bien,” he said. He turned the bottle around to show me the label, Moët & Chandon, and then spun it again to show me where it had been produced and bottled. “Satisfied?”
I nodded, and he poured me half a glass. “So,” I said after taking a sip, “when are you going to tell me what it is I’m trying out for? Modeling, I imagine?”
“Oh, absolutely. In a way.”
“In a way? What does that mean?”
“You’ll learn everything a successful runway model knows, and you’ll be treated just as well, if not better.”
“But I won’t be one?”
“Not exactly.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “You won’t be on display for j
ust anyone. No runways, no pictures in newspapers and magazines, nothing like that.”
I sipped some more champagne and sat back. “Please continue,” I said. “I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
He laughed. “When you glare at me like that, you actually remind me of Mrs. Brittany. It’s futile to lie to someone like her.”
“So don’t try,” I said. “Well?” I added when he didn’t speak.
“Mrs. Brittany likes to do the explaining.”
“You mean you want to wait until I’m more or less a captive audience?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I’m just afraid I won’t do the description justice.”
“Take a chance,” I said. “Risk it.”