The Patron Saint
THE PATRON SAINT
MILLICENT/MERCEDES
And if we go to hell, we will turn the devils out of doors and make a heaven of it.
—JOSEPH SMITH, JR.
1970–1975
Millicent had learned from Lucille how to ingratiate herself to those who could help her rise, and using those tactics, sought out a friendship with Patricia Herrington, the girl who sat at the top of the top of the zeros at the Lycée. Patricia had a father worth millions and a mother who protected both their money and their reputation. Knowing that, Millicent weaved a narrative that, while not remotely accurate, gave her a pedigree that even Patricia’s class-conscious mother would envy. Without providing specifics, Millicent implied that her parents had met an untimely demise in a car accident abroad and had left their vast fortune in trust for her and her older sister, Lucille. Strategically omitting the details lest they be factchecked, Millicent focused instead on the role Sir Rodney Goldstone had played, stepping in immediately, first as a close family friend, and then falling in love with her much older sister, and now as her unofficial “uncle” by marriage. Given that Sir Rodney was well into his sixties, referring to him as “uncle” seemed more appropriate than “brother-in-law,” which he would be if Lucille were her sister rather than her mother, which, in truth technically made him her stepfather. But those were just minor details, easily overlooked in the face of his legacy. Rodney Goldstone was not only knighted, but was one of the richest men in Australia, and that was good enough for the Herringtons, who began inviting Millicent for holidays at their summer estate in Bath where she could focus her attention on the monied friends of her monied friend’s parents.
Millicent had learned enough from watching Lucille that patrons were people with more money than time: an older, dissatisfied lot, looking for something or someone new to jumpstart a second act; to level up if not in status then in youth. And since time was not on their side, they would choose partners who, by association, would lend them vigor if not years. And that gave young Millicent, at fifteen, a leg up. Now she just had to figure out how to use it.
Knowing that the secret to attaining patronage had to do with whatever happened behind closed doors, Millicent began opening them, taking advantage of her summer holidays with the Herringtons, and choosing a different local boy every summer to school her. But, by her eighteenth birthday, as her skills improved, there was nary a patron in sight. And that concerned her. Lucille’s stipend would run out in less than a year, and then Millicent would be officially and legally on her own. There was an air of desperation to her search for a patron, and a fear it wasn’t going to be quite as simple as she’d once thought. In the meantime she needed to be frugal, allowing her friends’ families, who were always generous, to foot the bill for many of the bigger-ticket items.
“I could write Uncle Rodney,” she’d always offer, but they’d stop her mid-sentence and tell her not to bother, it was their pleasure, et cetera.
Initially, she’d hoped that Sweet Uncle Rodney, still believing that Millicent was the beloved younger sister and only family member of his wife, would continue to send money separate and apart from Lucille, presuming he didn’t know that there’d been a falling-out between them. But then she learned from Aunt Fifi that Sir Rodney and Lucille were “infanticipating,” and she was advised that she shouldn’t hold out hope for a reconciliation. A legitimate child and an illegitimate lie cannot co-exist, Fifi had written, which was why Millicent paid special attention when Patricia let it slip that her very wealthy and very naughty uncle by marriage—Lord Shay Stapleton, the Earl of Sussex—was going to spend the weekend with them at the Herringtons’ estate in Bath. Stapleton, who had just arrived with his wife and twin boys for Patricia’s father’s fiftieth birthday party, was an absolute sex fiend, according to Patricia.
While tall and thin and balding, Stapleton, Millicent thought, was not at all unappealing. He is lithe , she decided, as she stared at him through the window , and debonair , she thought, with a strong jaw and dimpled chin, reminding her of Prince Philip.
As Millicent watched from afar, Patricia took that moment to relay a particularly salacious rumor surrounding her uncle and a nineteen-year-old girl. Apparently her aunt, Lady Elaine Stapleton, a filthy-rich socialite who found validation if not in her marriage then in what others thought of her marriage, made a great deal of effort to squash those rumors.
“Which is why she keeps him on a short leash,” Patricia told Millicent, confiding that while her aunt dismissed all gossip, Patricia didn’t. “I think he’s a frustrated sexual fanatic,” she said, giggling.
Millicent looked out the window again. Not for long, she thought.
Over the next two days Millicent waited, watched, and when the opportunity presented, she presented back. It was the afternoon after the big birthday party and everyone, except Lord Stapleton, was by the river at a family picnic.
Feigning a headache, Millicent stayed back as well, hoping to casually run into Stapleton. Finally, after a light midday snack, she observed him making his way into the library.
It’s now or never, she told herself, taking a deep breath, walking in, and closing the door behind her. The wood-paneled room with a large mahogany desk in the corner smelled of new polish and old money. Deep green overstuffed chairs flanked the fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling books, some first editions, were arranged categorically and alphabetically. It was impressive by any standards, the kind of room where you could stash your secrets between the prose and the poetry; the kind of room where you felt protected, and coddled, and safe enough for an illicit assignation.
Under the pretense of finding a book, Millicent acted surprised to find that she wasn’t alone, and immediately apologized for intruding.
Stapleton looked up as if seeing her for the first time.
She smiled sweetly, reintroducing herself, knowing that he had little or no recollection of meeting her, though they’d been introduced at breakfast that morning.
“You go to school with Patricia, do you?” he asked, sizing her up. “You seem so much younger.”
“I’m just petite, sir,” she said coyly, adding, “but as my father used to say, ‘Good things come in small packages.’” Again, she smiled.
His interest piqued; he watched as she walked over to the mahogany ladder.
“I’ll be out of your way in a jiff,” she told him, climbing to the highest rung, just below the fourteen-foot ceilings. Though she weighed just over a hundred and ten pounds, she acted a bit wary, tentative even, as if the ladder wouldn’t support her weight, and asked, ever so politely, if he wouldn’t mind holding it steady.
Stapleton, of course, complied, walking over and securing both sides.
Millicent, who was wearing a short pale blue polka-dot mini skirt, with white lace panties underneath, stretched on tippy toes and reached for one book, then another. Her legs were parted—just enough for Stapleton to steal a glance.
He looked away at first, until he realized he wasn’t stealing anything.
Millicent, from the top rung, smiled down at him, then slowly parted her legs further, solidifying in one bold gesture that this was an invitation and not a mistake.
He could see the outline of her labia and a few curly pubic hairs peeking from the sides. His mouth was dry, and his cock was hard as she descended, swaying from side to side, as if she were waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. Finally, at the bottom rung, she slid right up against Stapleton’s bursting loins. He had never wanted anything or anyone quite as much.
They fucked wantonly on the oriental rug at the base of the ladder. It was rushed, passionate, inarguably tawdry, and though or perhaps because she was still a schoolgirl, it fueled his ardor and determination even more. Surprised by both his good fortune and renewed stamina, he locked the door and fucked her again against the desk, vowing if this treasure was only an afternoon’s fantasy, then he would take full advantage. But after their second romp, he was delighted to discover that Millicent was equally as insatiable.
In less than a week, Stapleton found a sudden need to travel to Switzerland, and by Christmas he’d already suggested that Millicent transfer from the Lycée to St. Bartholomew, an exclusive academy in London where he had strong ties with the school administration, and a convenient flat nearby in Chelsea. He promised her a future filled with wild adventure. But Millicent wasn’t looking for adventure; she was looking for security. If Stapleton wanted more, it was going to cost him.
Explaining that Sir Rodney would never approve of a midyear transfer and that her trust was tied up with Goldstone until she was twenty-five, the besotted Earl of Sussex found himself pleading to Millicent to let him help find a solution.
It took her six weeks, but by January of 1970, Millicent Baxter had so deftly handled the negotiation that Stapleton was begging to subsidize her monthly expenses. Which meant that along with the money that Lucille was already depositing, he was going to give her additional funds. And the pièce de résistance: he felt the victor.
Shortly after her transfer to St. Bartholomew, Stapleton and Millicent, who were staying at his townhome in Chelsea, began looking at smaller flats in nearby Mayfair to purchase.
“But why do you need two homes?” she asked.
“I don’t,” he told her, smiling.
A few weeks later Stapleton presented Millicent with an early graduation gift of a large one-bedroom plus study in Mayfair which he promptly put in her name, along with a stipend to decorate it.
For the first time in her life she was absolutely speechless.
“Mine?” she asked, disbelievingly. He nodded, curiously moved by just how moved she was. After all, she came from money, and this was just a small flat in a nice neighborhood. But to Millicent it was a palace; new and modern and most importantly, it was hers. After school and on weekends she set about decorating it with orange, yellow, and white acrylic modular furniture.
No matter what , she thought, I’ve a place of my own now. That, combined with the pre-negotiated settlement of ￡100,000 that Lucille was due to deposit upon graduation, could, if necessary, set her up for life. But only if necessary. Millicent made certain that her future was secure, attending her school by day, and her patron by night.
For his part, Stapleton was both pleased and relieved. He didn’t want to run the risk of his muse and his wife sharing space, even if only from a distance. While Lady Elaine spent most of her time at the estate in Sussex with the boys, she sometimes would spontaneously pop over to London for some shopping or dinner or an event they’d attend with mutual friends. If that were the case, it might require a bit of unnecessary juggling. In a don’t-ask-don’t-tell universe, he preferred to keep his arrangements tidy, and though it cost him ￡65,000, it was little to pay for his peace of mind.
Millicent graduated St. Bartholomew in the spring of 1970 and without ceremony or commemoration, Lucille made the last and final deposit into her account. Secretly, Millicent hoped for some sort of rapprochement—a note, a gesture—but there was nothing. Swallowing any disappointment, she turned her attention to her patron saint, with the singular goal of keeping him, and keeping him happy. When he wasn’t in Sussex visiting the boys, they’d spend most days and evenings going to museums, films, having dinners primarily alone but sometimes socializing with friends of his who also had what Stapleton referred to as “side dishes.” At nineteen, Millicent was the youngest and most consistent “dish.” His friends, on the other hand, liked variety. And, with the constant rotation of partners, Millicent began finding it difficult to keep them straight. Finally she just stopped trying. “Really you should make more of an effort,” he scolded. But she shook her head. It was impossible. Instead she told him that she did a “ Gilligan’s Island on them,” explaining that it was easier for her to group everyone into the characters from her favorite television show.
“Most of the men,” she explained, “are Thurston Howells, with a few Skippers, and maybe one or two Professors, but that’s only if I’m being kind.”
“What’s so special about the Professor?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
“The Professor,” she told him, smiling, “was sexy and smart and sophisticated. Like you,” she added, coyly.
“Oh, so I’m a Professor?” he asked, bemused.
“Without a doubt,” she reassured him.
“What about the women?” he asked.
She thought about that and decided that most of the women were Gingers or Ginger wannabes. “Sexy, stacked, and glittery.” He nodded and smiled as she continued. “I’m guessing that the men are all married to Loveys,” she told him, explaining that Loveys were like well-preserved old ladies who lunch. “Hats, gloves, that kind of thing.”
“So, who are you?” he asked, charmed by his young muse and her musings.
“I’m the only Mary Ann,” she said, puffed up with a pride and confidence that made him smile.
“I take it that’s a good thing,” he said. She nodded emphatically, explaining that Mary Ann was the wholesome gal next door who all the girls wanted to be, and all the men wanted to fuck. He laughed out loud, positively besotted.
“I don’t know if I could love you more,” he said, scooping her into a bear hug. She felt secure in his arms, convinced that she had finally found safe harbor—or at least enough zeros to keep her afloat.
For his forty-seventh birthday, Stapleton, a collector of vintage automobiles, flew himself and Millicent to France where he bought a 1957 Mercedes SL Roadster. “There’s nothing more beautiful than this car,” he told her, “except for my Millicent.” As he said it aloud, he looked at her strangely, making her momentarily self-conscious.
“What?” she asked, wondering if he had suddenly changed his mind about the car, or her, or perhaps them. She panicked, but hid it well. “What?” she asked again, trying to quell her nerves.
“We have to do something about your name,” he said more to himself than to Millicent. They were outside Paris, on their way to the Crillon Hotel, and they had just stopped to get petrol. She nodded, unable to respond because she didn’t quite know how to. Was it just her name? Or was there something else he didn’t like? She felt unsure, nervous inside. But Stapleton, deep in thought, didn’t notice. “You’re exotic,” he told her, “and mysterious, and classic. Much like this car,” he said. Then he turned to her, an idea taking shape. “Mercedes,” he declared. “What do you think of that name, my darling?”
She looked at herself in the dashboard mirror. “Mercedes,” she said, trying it on. She liked it. More than that, she liked the idea of disappearing into a whole new persona. Millicent had been a sad creature who lived in a two-up two-down in the East End. But Mercedes was exotic and mysterious and classic. Mercedes had her own flat in Mayfair and a future yet unwritten. She smiled, hugged him, and Mercedes Baxter was born.
When they got home to London, Stapleton, who had bought a Polaroid, began asking Mercedes to model for him. “You’re my muse,” he’d tell her as she would pose in a variety of wigs, wearing pink-and-orange mini dresses and go-go boots with colored tights. She would paint fake lashes under her eyes like Twiggy, and then cover them with giant Jackie O sunglasses, doing a little peek-a-boo for the camera, puckering her lips, lifting her dress, showing her bum.
“What do you do with all these photographs?” she asked, lying on the bed thumbing through dozens of them. “Do you show them to your friends?”
“For my eyes only,” he said, explaining that when he wasn’t with her, he looked at them.
Turns out he wasn’t the only one looking.
“Do you want to explain these, Shay?” Lady Elaine Stapleton asked as she flipped through the cheesecake Polaroids of Mercedes in a blond wig. They were in their elegant townhome in Chelsea, getting ready to attend a formal function together. Lady Elaine had come to London for the weekend and had found the pictures in Stapleton’s valise.
Ever cool, Stapleton simply smiled, took them back, and shook his head. “They’re Camillo’s, darling,” he told her, reminding her that their friend, the Italian film director Camillo Santorini, had recently used their flat in London while casting a film. “I put them in my valise to return them to him,” he said smoothly, then asked Elaine to help him with his tie.
She clocked his answer but didn’t comment further. To ensure she wouldn’t, Stapleton had Santorini and Mercedes show up coincidentally at a restaurant where he and Elaine were dining a few nights later so she could observe them from afar.
“Shall I call them over?” he asked Elaine, who told him not to. She didn’t care for Camillo and had seen quite enough of the young woman.
Mercedes, for her part, didn’t mind the charade; it was the price she was paying for the life she was living. Besides, she liked Santorini who was, in truth, the only real Professor in Stapleton’s crowd. He reminded her of an older Tom Jones dressed in his Yves Saint Laurent flowered shirt, unbuttoned at the top, revealing black and gray chest hair where two thin gold “S” chains nestled cloyingly.
Also, the farce gave Mercedes a chance to observe the woman who held the title.
But I hold the man, she thought smugly, allowing Santorini to order for her.