The personal ad in the back section of the
New York Review of Books
caught my eye immediately:
Widow seeks personal assistant. Must be well-educated, worldly-wise, well-traveled, have impeccable taste, be totally discreet, loyal, and available 24/7. Excellent salary. On-the-job training as appropriate. Send résumé to Box 7532.
I had risen rapidly through the ranks in the Air Force, reaching the rank of colonel by my early forties. My last posting before I voluntarily retired was to NATO headquarters in Brussels—hardly a hardship post! Officially, I was senior planning office for a three star but my real job was to act as a gofer for visiting dignitaries and their wives: find the best hotels, the fanciest restaurants, the best nightclubs and more if a congressman happened to come unaccompanied by his wife. I confess I enjoyed doing it—I became a regular mister fixit who could arrange almost anything at the last minute while avoiding any hint of impropriety.
Because the Air Force was generous with its leave time, I was able to visit all the major cities of Western Europe including—especially including—Paris. However, I was not really interested in the politicking and ass kissing necessary to move up to brigadier general. Besides, I was divorced which meant I couldn't do the entertaining and socializing expected of a general. I had put in 20 years in the Air Force, which made me eligible for a nice retirement package, and I was restless. More out of boredom than anything else, I mailed a copy of my résumé to the listed box number.
A call came about two weeks later. On the phone, a curt, cultured voice that seemed to belong to an older woman, said "I'll see you at 3:00 P.M.," gave a day and an address, and hung up before I could say anything. "What the hell," I thought, "she must have seen something on my résumé that appealed to her. I'll go."
Fitzgerald's famous line that the rich are different from you and me began to creep up on me as I approached the barred entrance to the address I had been given. "This is James Welch," I spoke into the telephone box by the gate, "I'm here for a three o'clock interview." There was no reply, but the gate swung open, and I drove what must have been about a hundred yards to the entrance of an imposing but not overwhelming tutor mansion.
A maid in a classic maid's uniform answered the door and led me to what I supposed was called the library where the widow was seated. Although I guessed her to be much older than I was, she was stunning. Thick white hair tastefully coiffed and cut in the back just above the neckline of her tailored vest, small, silver earrings that peeked out from her partially covered ears, delicate, ever so slightly fleshy skin, a full, fascinating, mouth with slightly down turned corners that gave a hint of cruelty, long, unpainted nails, and black leather boots that disappeared under her skirt.
I spoke first, "How shall I address you?" "Madame Whitney," she replied, "or simple madam. And let me say straight off," she continued, "I say what's on my mind and I have a keen nose for bullshit, so take this chair beside me and let's see if you can live up to that inflated résumé you sent me." My stint at NATO where I was often required to move diplomatically and easily among my betters, so-to-speak, seemed to impress her.
"Are you in good shape?" she asked out of the blue.
"Yes I am, in very good shape."
"Good, I like men with hard bodies. Do you drink?"
"Only socially, never alone."
"And do you smoke?"
"No madam."
"Good, because I'm the only one who's allowed to smoke around here."
"And can you give a deep massage?"
"Yes, I'm very good at that."
"Now back to your résumé. Je vois que vous avez écrit que vou parler français courramment. C'est vrai?" [I see that you have written that you speak French fluently. Is that so?]
"Madame Whitney, votre accent est impeccable." [Madame Whitney, your accent is impeccable.]
"Et monsieur, votre accent est horrible! You also claim to know Paris quite well. Do you really? Surely you know all the famous hotels on the right bank, but what is the best hotel on the left bank?"
"I would recommend the Lutetia," I said. "The Germans certainly thought so during the occupation."
"And are you familiar with Boulevard Victor Hugo?"
"I know it quite well"
"Then you may have passed by my favorite tobacconist. This is where my late departed husband bought me this lighter"—she handed it to me—"this silver cigarette case, and this elegant holder"
"Your husband had excellent tastes Madame Whitney."
"Yes, and other rather refined tastes as well."
With this, she opened the cigarette case and took out a long Pall Mall.
"That's the same kind of unfiltered cigarette my mother used to smoke," I blurted out.
"And did she smoke it in a holder?"
"As a matter of fact she did."
"Umm," she murmured as she carefully inserted the cigarette into her holder and leaned forward for a light, reaching out to steady my hand. But just before she lowered the tip of her cigarette into the flame she startled me totally.
"Did it arouse you when your mother smoked with a holder?" My hand gave an involuntary tremble that she sensed immediately. She inhaled deeply and laughed, "I must have hit a sensitive nerve. Adolescent boys are such raging bags of hormones. When my own son was a teenager he could hardly hide the bulge in his pants when he watched me smoke and I'm sure that it still turns him on. I'd often tease him about his little soldier standing at attention in my presence and I'll give him a deep, smoky kiss to show that I appreciated his involuntary salute."
I could tell that she was watching my reactions to this unexpected revelation, but suddenly she moved on to other matters.
I was in a daze for the rest of the interview, transfixed by the erotic impact of this singular woman. Contrary to I had always believed, here was a woman 20 years older than I was whose whole demeanor was magnetic. She exuded sensuality, complete self-confidence, and a sense of superiority—a woman born to command, and, as I was to find out, born to be worshipped and served.
As I remember she was intensely interested in my tastes, my background, how I had handled delicate situations and how I would manage her servants--a cook, a maid, a butler, a gardener/handyman, a stable boy, and a night watchman with dog—should I be hired. Her personal assistant was to have access to her financial records and to screen incoming phone calls and letters, even the most personal ones. This assistant would help her shop, accompany her to gallery openings, intimate dinner parties, to weekends at other country houses, and eat with her when she was alone.
"Obviously," she concluded, "my personal assistant will have my full trust and confidence in return for which I demand total loyalty, the utmost discretion, and complete devotion to my lifestyle. And you can be sure that I will pay an extravagant salary for such a person. Tell me, are the man I am looking for?"
"Yes, I think I am."—What else could I say? I was already in the thrall of this woman, this intoxicating witch who seemed to know my mind and my dark desires better than I would admit to myself.
"Good," she said getting up, "the maid will show you to your quarters where I expect you to be fully installed by the weekend. And by the way, you will notice a two-way intercom connecting my bedroom to yours. It's kept on all the time because when I can't sleep I'll expect you to get me hot tea and to talk if I feel so inclined." Truly, I was to be on duty 24/7.
Madame Whitney said that she expected me make myself familiar with the estate, meet her staff, and to breakfast with her on the patio on Tuesday.
By walking the boundary I estimated that the estate comprised about 300 acres, mostly covered with woods and horse trails. Nearer the house were stables, a riding ring, tennis courts, and an outdoor pool—a complement to the heated indoor pool. The mansion itself was much larger than it looked from the outside. There were probably eight bedrooms including mine, a large kitchen, a pool room, a library where Madame W. had interview me, a drawing room, a large dinning room, a sauna, a small gym with some rather unusual looking equipment including a massage table with tie-down straps, a large kitchen, and detached servant quarters. The four-car garage held a black Mercedes sedan, a yellow Ferrari, and a muddy jeep. A riding mower was in the fourth spot.
.At breakfast on Tuesday, Mme W. was wearing, sandals, and a gauzy sun dress that barely hid her remarkably firm breasts and fleshy legs. As soon as the maid brought us a continental breakfast with steaming café au lait, Mme began by going over the day's schedule: first, we shop for an evening dress, then a light lunch and off to look for boots, home for a swim, and a session with a hair stylist at the mansion in preparation for a dinner with friends that evening to which I was to escort her. With the breakfast dishes cleared away, Madame Whitney handed me the same lighter, cigarette case and holder I had seen in my interview.
"One of the first little services I expect you to perform is that when I want a cigarette you are to place it in my holder, hand it to me, and give me a light."
I could tell that she found the whole transaction erotic and amusing, especially, when she inhaled deeply, drawing the lighter's flame into the end of her cigarette, and exhaled directly into my face.
"Did your mother ever do that to you?" she laughed. Without waiting for an answer she said that she had often teased her teenage son that way and, despite his feeble protests, that this gesture always excited him,
It was clear as our conversation went on that she was intensely interested in the relation I had with my mother when I was an adolescent. I told her that my mother and father had divorced when I was 12 and that he had moved out of our house leaving it to my mother, her sick mother, a live-in nurse, and me.
"Let me guess," purred Mme Whitney, "your mother was young and beautiful."
"Yes, I replied, "and neurotic, and flirtatious, and very sexy."
