Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2) - Page 37

“Anyway, you go to lunch now,” Lance said. “Mr. Whitehouse is waiting for you.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t going only to be fed. I realized I was going to another class.

“See you in the morning,” Lance said. “And expect to be quite charley-horsed,” he called after me, “even with Olga’s great massage.”

He sounded as if he would be happy about it. I heard them both laugh.

Without having realized it, I had enlisted in the army, I thought. Maybe this was a secret special-forces unit using only women, and they pretended it was an escort service. I feel more like a female James Bond than potential arm candy.

Mr. Whitehouse rose from the smaller table when I entered the dining classroom. He was a short, rotund man with very light brown hair and well-trimmed sideburns. He wore a bright blue sports jacket, a dark blue tie, a white shirt, and blue slacks. His eyes were a dull gray and round like two unpolished quarters under his thick, black-framed glasses.

“I’m Nigel Whitehouse,” he said, extending his hand. I took it and felt how soft his palm was. It was like shaking hands with a large makeup pad.

“I’m Roxy.”

“I know who you are, Miss Wilcox. Your proper response should be ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’?”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said dryly. Oh, no, not another stuffed shirt in my life, I thought. He reminded me of my science teacher, Mr. Rumsfield, whom everyone called “Rummy” because he always had a red nose like that of an alcoholic and, in fact, was suspected of drinking alcohol from his coffee thermos between classes.

“No, that’s not good enough, my dear. You have to say it as though you really mean it, whether you do or not. In the line of work you’re hoping to begin, the face you put on, especially at lunches and dinners, is far more important than the face you really have. It’s all a matter of pleasing someone in the end, isn’t it? So let’s try again. This time, give me a smile that tells me you mean it. Convince me. Make me feel good about myself.”

I started to smirk at his lecture but stopped myself. He was still holding my hand. I had the sense that anyone along the way of the training gambit I was to run could give me a failing mark and have Mrs. Brittany send me on my way. All my life, I hated to kowtow to anyone, not just my father. I suppose all the men I had as teachers became my father in my mind in one way or another; even some of the female teachers reminded me too much of him. But I now realized that defiance and tantrums were two things I had to leave outside the door of this mansion the moment I signed Mrs. Brittany’s agreement in her office.

I took a deep breath, smiled with all the warmth and charm I could muster, and hit him with the French version of “pleased to meet you”: “Enchanté.”

Now he smiled, satisfied. “Much, much better. And it wasn’t hard for you to do, was it?”

“No, just different,” I said. “There are so few people I’ve been pleased to meet.”

He didn’t laugh aloud, but I saw the delight in his eyes. Maybe my independent spirit was refreshing to him.

He pulled out a chair for me. “Miss Wilcox.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitehouse,” I said.

“De rien.”

“Does everyone here speak French?” I asked as he went around to take his seat across from me.

“Everyone has a smattering of it, I imagine. As difficult as it is for an Englishman like me to admit, it’s the language of style, eloquence, and culture. You are most fortunate to have mastered it as your second language already at home.”

“You know my mother is French, then? You know all about me?”

“As much as anyone else knows about you, but getting to know each other that completely isn’t why we’re here at the moment,” he said. He said it sharply, but he kept his smile. He looked at the table setting. “Don’t touch your napkin yet. In most of the finer restaurants, the waiter will unfold it for you and place it on your lap. Now, do you know why you have three forks and how you choose which to use?”

“This fork is for dessert?” I said, touching the fork above my plate. “This one on the far left is for salad. We go from left to right with our silverware.”

“Precisely.” He nodded, but I thought he looked disappointed that I knew that much. “Your family held formal dinners?”

“Not very formal,” I said. “But my parents are cultured people and have entertained. Eating well and properly has always been important to my mother, especially.”

“Really? Well, you’re a rare bird, indeed. Many of my students came from homes where they eat with their hands.”

My surprise made him laugh.

“I’m kidding, of course, although we did have a Moroccan girl recently, and that wasn’t far from an exaggeration in her case. But I suspect—I hope—that with you, we’ll have that much less to do,” he said, and looked up as Randy entered. He went right for my napkin and then uncorked the bottle of white wine.

“We’re having poached salmon today,” Mr. Whitehouse said. “A sauvignon blanc goes best with it. We’re having one of my favorites from the Bordeaux region, a Château de Roques.”

Tags: V.C. Andrews The Forbidden Horror
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