“Coffee and something sweet. My mother is French. Petit déjeuner is usually a café au lait and a sweet roll or croissant. My father often has oatmeal or eggs and bacon.” I smiled to myself, remembering his complaining about my mother’s breakfast habits. Her comeback was always, “Who has more obesity, the French or Americans?”
Emmie ate more like he did, which pleased him.
“Yes, well, you’ll get a good nutritional plan here,” Lance said now. “You probably won’t change your breakfast habits after you leave, but at least you’ll supplement them, and you’ll soon see why you need to. So have you done much swimming?”
“Almost none,” I said. “My school had no pool, not that I would have gone into it, and we don’t go to the beach much. Well, I should say, I don’t. My younger sister loves it, and my mother is a good swimmer. When she was younger and living in France, the family would summer in Juan-les-Pins, where an uncle had a beach house. I’ve never been there, but she often talks about it. My father grew up in a military family and was . . .”
I stopped myself. Why was I talking so much about my mother and her family and my father? I felt certain most candidates for Mrs. Brittany’s company were as cut off from their families as I was and certainly didn’t talk about them much, if at all. Lance’s deadpan look confirmed how little interest he had in hearing any of it.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m not much of a swimmer. In fact, I hate putting my face in the water.”
“We’ll change that,” he said casually.
“Why is swimming so important?” I asked, practically moaning. I really wanted to ask if he knew I’d be going swimming with a client or something.
“It’s great exercise. I think you’d like it better than running laps around the property,” he added. “You don’t look like you’ve played team sports.”
“I haven’t, and I was never in the Girl Scouts or the Brownies, either. Like Groucho Marx said, I won’t join any club that would have me as a member.” He didn’t break a line in his face or relax a lip. “You’ve heard of Groucho Marx?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Something tells me I should add some self-defense training to your schedule,” he said.
“I’m not bad in that area,” I said. Despite the trouble I was to get into on playgrounds and in locker rooms, my father had taught me some self-defense when I was younger. It was part of his upbringing in a military family, where it was as important as toilet training. I didn’t tell Lance any of this. The thoughts just flowed quickly through my mind and off into space.
“Okay, we’re set for the pool.” He stood up. “Shall we start? I want to see how you freestyle.”
I looked at the rest of my drink. I didn’t want to say I’d rather go to the pool outside and lounge, but it was sure in my mind. For the moment, I was afraid to complain about anything. I followed him out and across the hall to the indoor pool. As soon as I got in and started, he stopped me. He jumped in beside me and showed me how to hold my head in the water, how to take a breath, and how to be more graceful with my stroke. He had me do it repeatedly until he was satisfied that I had a better technique. Then he watched me struggle to do a full lap and shook his head.
“You don’t smoke, do you?”
“On occasion, some pot, some cigarettes. Once a cigar just to drive some girls nuts.”
“Well, your lack of exercise and that behavior all show. You’ll have to be able to do at least ten laps every day,” he said.
I groaned. “Ten? You’re kidding.”
“Mrs. Brittany is adamant about her girls being in top shape, and under my guidance, they all are,” he said with pride. “They don’t get to work for her until they are,” he added as an incentive. “Let’s go again. You’ll do ten today, no matter how long it takes us.”
By the time I was finished in the pool, I was ready to go up to my suite and collapse, but instead, I was introduced to Olga Swensen, who guaranteed me that she would restore my energy. I was surprised at how strong she was for a woman who was about five feet five and maybe one hundred fifteen pounds, but her fingers were more like my father’s when she went to work on my muscles. She used her own body-oil formula. It brought heat and relaxation to me almost immediately.
“You are blessed with great muscle structure,” she told me. “Is this your first massage? You seem very uptight about it.”
&n
bsp; “Yes.”
“I’m sure you’ll have them once a week after you leave here, and not because anyone orders you to.”
I couldn’t disagree. When she was finished with me, I was no longer feeling crippled. I showered and changed, but when I went to put on my sweatsuit again, I saw that someone had brought down one of the informal dresses I had seen in my closet. It was hung beside the chair, where another bra and fresh panties, socks, and a pair of flats had been left for me to put on. There was even a new hairbrush.
I got dressed and stepped out of the room. Olga was talking to Lance. I had the feeling they were talking about me when they both paused to look at me.
“How do you feel? Hungry?” Lance asked.
“Yes,” I said, surprised myself. “What do I do about my sweatsuit? I left it in there.”
“You don’t do anything about anything, Roxy. Someone will always look after you here.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Pratt,” I said, and they both laughed.