Brittany's Travels Ch. 02

But even as the soft darkness embraced her, Brittany felt the first stirrings of bitterness for what had become of her. For two years she'd been forced to keep a stiff upper lip and make the best of the living hell her life had become. Only now that she'd survived, now that she was free to let her guard down, now that she'd fallen into this pampered limbo, could she come face to face with how horrible it had been and how real her loss was. Just what was around the corner now? What did they expect of her? Could life now ever really live up to the promise of the soccer career she'd been so set on? And would she ever shake off the horror of the past two years?

Brittany couldn't hope to find the answers to any of those questions alone in her big brass bed, and as a result she got very little sleep that night. One thing she had learned from her two-year nightmare, though, was to press on and make the best of any situation. So when the first promising signs of dawn finally filtered through the curtains, she was alert and ready for a round at the gym downstairs before breakfast. Finding a pair of spandex shorts and a sports bra amidst the clothing stash, she collected the Civil War book she'd been working on the night before and made her way to the deserted basement.

The dance lessons and the prison's rudimentary weight room had enabled Brittany to keep in something resembling decent shape; but compared to that, the gym she had glimpsed last night was an athlete's dream. Well-kept weight machines, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, an exercise bicycle and more than she could hope to explore in one morning were all laid out before her, and she promptly dove in with the zeal of the professional athlete she had been and still was in her heart. If some of her muscles were a bit out of practice, she welcomed the soreness each round brought on. All that was missing now was a chance to play soccer again! She made a mental note to ask about that.

Brittany was deep into a 10-kilometer bike ride and a chapter on the Battle of Chancellorsville when Ms. Shaw appeared before her, looking as put together as ever in a neat gray suit. "Go get washed up for breakfast, okay?" she requested in a pleasant but firm tone. "You've got a long day today."

"Sure, Angie."

"Enjoying that book, are you?"

"A lot. I remember some of this stuff from high school, but, well, I slept though a lot of it back then. That's one good thing about getting locked in there, I finally fell in love with learning."

"That's wonderful, Brittany. Perfect for us."

"How so?"

"You'll see. See you at breakfast."

Arriving showered and dressed shortly afterward, Brittany found Mr. Farrington waiting for her along with Ms. Shaw and an impressive spread of fresh fruit, yogurt, hot buns and a plate of scrambled eggs. "Good morning, Brittany," he said, shutting the door behind her as she stepped into the room. "I hope you had a good night's sleep?"

"I'm afraid I didn't, Joseph," Brittany said as she sat down. "It's weird, things get better all of a sudden and that's when it hits you how awful they were before!"

"Perfeclty normal, I'm afraid, dear," Ms. Shaw said. "But I think diving into your work will help you move past that. It's helped me, certainly."

"Helped you move past what, Angie?" Brittany was slightly annoyed. "I don't mean to be rude, but you ain't been to prison for anything you didn't do, have you?"

Ms. Shaw responded only with a sad look and a glance at Mr. Farrington, who answered for her: "We've all got our crosses to bear in this life, Brittany. Yours has been worse than most, but others have suffered as well."

"Of course. Sorry."

"Go ahead and eat your eggs before they get cold, dear, and let's get started," Ms. Shaw said. "This is a secure room and we don't normally eat in here, but I'm sure you're as eager to get started as we are.

"Thanks!" Angie eagerly went to town on the eggs, wondering if they'd learned from someone back in Winchester that scrambled were her favorite. It wouldn't surprise her, but at this point she didn't care.

"Right, then," said Mr. Farrington. He clicked on a Powerpoint presentation on the computer across the table from Brittany, and turned on the overhead projector. The screen read, "Welcome aboard, Erika!"

"Who the heck is Erika?" Brittany asked.

"You are," said Mr. Farrington. "But we'll get to that in a minute."

"What?" Brittany set her fork down on the table a lot harder than she meant to.

"Brittany, I recommend you just listen for the moment," said Ms. Shaw, who looked slightly annoyed with her for the first time. "A lot of this is going to be a shock to you, but it's best that we get it all out on the table first."

"I agree," said Mr. Farrington. "Now then," he flipped to the next slide, which featured a series of photographs of men and women Brittany didn't recognize, under a heading that read Mansfield Consulting. "First of all, to answer your question last night, we aren't CIA. Angie used to be, now we're both with an international task force that operates in circles an official organization wouldn't reach. The fewer details you know about all that for now, the better. Suffice to say, you've got plenty of connections when you need them. It's the best of both worlds, really."

"No kidding, I'm James Bond with PMS now, am I?" Brittany asked.

Ms. Shaw burst into laughter, and Brittany felt forgiven for her earlier transgression. "That is indeed a pretty good way to look at it, dear," she said. To Mr. Farrington she added, "I told you she was just the type we needed!"

"And you were right," Mr. Farrington agreed with a grin. "Yes, Brittany, you are going to be something very much like that. You see, we're out to take down an international cartel of drug smugglers that operate under the title 'Mansfield Consulting,' they masquerade as an import-export consulting firm, and this gentleman -" He tapped on one of the images in the top row, of a bearded older man with an olive complexion not unlike Brittany's - "Do you recognize him, Brittany?"

Brittany stared at the photo for a few moments, and finally shook her head in defeat. "Sorry," she said.

"No need to be sorry. You've not seen him since you were seven or eight, as I understand it."

Brittany nearly spat out the chunk of pineapple she had just popped in her mouth. "Oh my God, Joseph! It's my father?!"

"I'm afraid so," he acknowledged.

"He's been...where the hell has he been?!" Brittany's memory was stung with the memory of her father storming out of the house in a drunken rage when she was little; there hadn't been a word from him since.

"All over the world, Brittany," said Ms. Shaw. "He was mixed up with the smugglers even before you were born. Winchester was just a place for him to lie low for a few years when the law began to close in on him, and also a great market for his drugs."

"I know." Brittany had plenty of childhood friends who had gone on the junk, and some of their parents had been there all along. And then all at once a thunderbolt of realization roared through her mind. "Wait a minute! This means I didn't just end up with those drugs in my suitcase by chance, did I?"

"That's right," Mr. Farrington said, clicking through to the next slide. "We think that was the work of this gentleman. Peter Gruber." Brittany saw a grainy photo of a blond, pale skinned gentleman who looked just a few years older than she was. "He and your father have been caught in some sort of power struggle within Mansfield Consulting, and we think your father's gone into hiding and Gruber hoped to smoke him out."

"Needless to say, it didn't work," Ms. Shaw added; Brittany noticed a renewed edge on her voice, though this time it wasn't aimed at her.

"We don't know exactly how Gruber got the cocaine in your suitcase," Mr. Farrington continued. "What we do know is that Mansfield has been active in these cities." He clicked through to a map of the world with well over a dozen cities highlighted. "Angie and I and a few of our contacts are in the process of determining which of these cities is the best place to start. One of them is going to be the gateway we'll need to get you to Gruber or your father. Or both, if you're as good as we think you are."

"And you think I'm good because I've been to prison and I'm tough."

"That, and on the surface you'll appear perfectly refined. They'll never know."

Brittany felt her heart stirring with a wonderful sense of adventure. But she wasn't sold. "Joseph, Angie - look, I'd love to get in on this, but you know, I don't even have a passport!"

"You do now," said Ms. Shaw, and she slid one across the table to Brittany.

Brittany opened the passport and looked at the identification page. "Erika Tsoupas? And you added five years to my age!"

"Twenty-eight is still very much in the prime of life, Erika," Ms. Shaw said with a grin.

"But why the new name?! And the age, too?"

"Because Brittany Kyriazis is in federal prison in Virginia now," Ms. Shaw reminded her. "You'd never be allowed anywhere under your real name. Even if you could get a passport, Peter Gruber and your father would recognize your name the moment you came anywhere near their radar. The age is simply to throw them further off the scent."

"And to lend you further credibility," Mr. Farrington added. "I mean, we know Brittany, age twenty-three is up to the challenge, but other people in our network won't."

"It's best that they don't know your real identity as well," Ms. Shaw added.

"If you're worried about me being recognized, won't Gruber and that asshole know what I look like?"

"Indeed," Mr. Farrington acknowledged. "That's why you're not going to look like Brittany either." On that note he strode to the door, opened it and leaned out. "Winnie? We're ready for you."

"I mentioned Winnie to you last night," Ms. Shaw reminded Brittany. "Here he is."

Brittany looked up to see a well-coiffed young man with a goatee and well-oiled hair in leather pants and a tight sweater stepping into the room. "Brittany!" he purred in the most pretentious urbane accent she could ever recall hearing. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you! You're just as darling as your photographs."

"Well, thank you." Despite the avalanche of bizarre and hurtful news, Brittany found herself giggling - she'd heard a thing or two about guys like Winnie in prison.

"But I'm going to make you look a lot more darling, I assure you," he said, setting down a canvas bag on the table. "I have some sketches here," he told Ms. Shaw.

"No need, Winnie, I trust your judgment," she said. "Just as long as you can make her pass for a few years older."

"Older and a tad more refined, but I won't need to make you any cuter, now will I?" Winnie said. When Brittany responded only with a flattered grin, he added, "Yes! That's the perfect facial expression for our Erika. Now I'll just need to frame it properly with your hair. Also, I could only guess at your dress size, Brittany. Twelve, is it?"

"Oh, I don't know what it is because I never wear dresses!" Brittany felt a touch of discomfort rising. "And I plan to keep it that way!"

"I'm afraid that's not an option, Brittany," Ms. Shaw said. "It's all part of your disguise."

"But I'm not a girly girl!" Brittany protested. "I don't even remember the last time I wore a skirt!"

"Exactly," Mr. Farrington said. "Mansfield Consulting knows about Brittany Kyriazis. They did set you up to go to prison, after all. They know she's a tomboy who loves soccer and hates dressing up. That's why we have to make sure you don't look anything like that."

That brought an even nastier realization to Brittany. "You mean...I can't play soccer anymore."

"Ideally, you shouldn't even watch it on TV," Ms. Shaw said.

At this, Brandy did something she hadn't done since she'd heard a jury foreman say "guilty" two years before. She started crying in the presence of others.

"Oh, Brittany!" Ms. Shaw jumped up and ran around the table, and leaned down and put her arms around Brittany. "I know that's heartbreaking for you. But it's absolutely necessary. I hope you understand."

"I guess I do," Brittany sighed, drying her eyes. "It's just...Angie, you know what kept me going through those two years? I kept thinking sooner or later they'd figure out it was all a mistake, and I could go back to the Flames. Now...well, that's gone, isn't it?"

"I know how you feel," Ms. Shaw said.

"Angie! No you don't!"

Ms. Shaw stood straight up and put on a stern face. "Brittany, listen. I know you don't believe it, but I do understand what it's like to lose your dream. You don't get to be the next Mia Hamm, and I...well, there are things I'd give anything for that I'll never have as well. Understood?"

"No," Brittany grumbled, and she dared look up at Mr. Farrington and Winnie, who were looking uncomfortably at one another. "I don't think you understand just what's been taken away from me just because of who my father happens to be."

"Look!" Ms. Shaw snapped.

"Angie!" Mr. Farrington called out, holding up one hand. "Brittany, if you stick with us, I promise you will understand one day, okay?"

Brittany looked up at Ms. Shaw, to see her glaring down at her. "Okay," she finally said. "Okay, I believe you. And I'm sorry. But I don't get it."

"That's right, you don't," Ms. Shaw said. "But I forgive you. In any event, Brittany, you'll be playing a role here, and your new hairstyle and clothes are going to be a part of that role."

"Brittany can still be a tee-shirt and jeans gal," Winnie said. "Let's just say we're dressing up Erika rather than Brittany, okay?"

Brittany looked at the projection on the wall and its promise of travel and adventure, and she thought of the alternative.

"Brittany, I appreciate that you don't like this," Ms. Shaw said, in her old gentle tone once again. "But do you hate dresses more than orange jumpsuits?"

Brittany closed her eyes and let out a frustrated laugh. "Well said, Angie. Very well said." To Winnie she added, "Can you make me look as chic as she always looks?"

"That is an awfully tall order, darling," Winnie said. "But I'll try."

"Who do you think designed this suit?" Ms. Shaw added, drawing laughs all around.

"Shall we leave them to it?" Mr. Farrington asked her.

"I think that's a great idea," Ms. Shaw said. "Winnie, do you want to take her to your studio now?"

"Nothing like a rough-hewn canvas to begin my creative work on," Winnie declared with a grin.

"Then take it away, Pygmalion." Ms. Shaw went to the door and opened it, adjourning the meeting.

"Pig-what?" Brittany asked.

"And this could be my most rough-hewn canvas yet," Winnie added.

Brittany couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh at him or punch him in the eye, but she got up and followed him out of the conference room.

Winnie's studio was at the far end of the ground floor. It was lined at one end with more racks of women's clothing than Brittany recalled seeing in the stockroom at Filene's when her mother had brought her to work, and featured a hairdresser's chair at the other with more beauty products than she'd ever seen in one place. Though she wasn't looking forward to her makeover, Brittany did appreciate the brightly lit and spacious room. "Nice change from where I've been," she admitted as she took her seat in the hairdresser's chair.

"I can only imagine, you poor thing," Winnie purred. "After all you've been through, I wish this could be all about pampering you to kingdom come."

"I'd feel pampered if you'd let me keep my own style," Brittany grumbled.

"You've got your orders, darling, and I've got mine. Now then." He threw a plastic smock over Brittany and spun the chair around, and set to work washing and conditioning her hair. Having scarcely changed her cut since middle school, Brittany had no idea just what was underway or how long it would take. So she lost all track of time as Winnie hacked off much of her long hair, and as he dyed it black, and as he placed a mask over her eyes and advised her to take a nap while the dye set. She awoke to the sensation of him spritzing what was left of her hair with setting lotion and wrapping it in curlers.

"Just what are you doing?" she finally worked up the nerve to ask.

"It's called a pageboy cut. Quite old fashioned, but that's just what the doctor ordered for you, my darling."

"Didn't they want me looking more feminine?"

"What's in a name?" Winnie retorted. "It will look quite feminine, I assure you, once it dries and we take the curlers out."

"I barely know what those are," Brittany said; she did recall her mother using them occasionally, but she had never touched them herself.

"Erika will come to know them quite well!" Winnie laughed. When he was finished, he placed a blue cap on her head ("No creation of mine is to be viewed while half-finished!") and bade her join him on the other side of the room. "Time for some measurements," he said.

"Feel me the wrong way and I will deck you, you know," Brittany warned him.

"Do I look like the type who goes gaga over breasts?" he replied. "Don't get me wrong, yours are most elegant, but..."

"I hate them," Brittany groused.

"That's a terrible attitude!" He gave them a probing look but didn't touch. "Thirty-eight C?"

"How the fuck did you know that?"

"A skilled artisan always knows how to size up his raw material."

"Yeah, well, that raw material always got in the way playing soccer. Any bigger and I probably wouldn't have been able to play at all. Thank heavens for sports bras, that's all I've got to say."

"I think Erika will see that rather differently than Brittany does, my dear," Winnie said.

Brittany managed to stand still through a round of measurements, some more invasive than others, that confirmed Winnie's earlier estimation that she was a size twelve. "Best to hide your muscular legs as best we can," he said. "They could be your secret weapon." He then vanished into the rows of clothing racks, and returned a moment later with a two-tone blue print dress. "Suitable colors for this time of year, and just the right length," he said.

"Spoken like someone who doesn't know how drafty dresses are!" Brittany replied as she begrudgingly took it from him.

"Excellent point, my dear," Winnie conceded. "Here, this should alleviate that issue." He reached into a cubbyhole next to the changing area curtain and drew out a pair of tights, which he lay on top of the dress.

"I'm no ballerina!" Brittany protested.

"I've seen soccer players wear them in nasty weather," Winnie replied with a grin. "Even male soccer players. I must say they look amazing on a well-formed pair of legs, too."

"Oh, Christ, Winnie!"

"Last but not least..." He returned to the depths of the racks, and returned with a lacy bra. "Try this for the detested girls. You just might find you despise them a little less if you dress them up and support them a bit better."

Brittany held up the lacy, ornate undergarment as if it were an unidentifiable object from another planet and gave Winnie a dirty look. But she said nothing, and went behind the curtain to change. She dropped the new clothes with a plop on the lone chair and set about undressing.

It did beat going back to prison, she reminded herself. The full-length mirror and its brutal reflection of herself clad in only her panties was an unwelcome reminder of what that would be like: no privacy, and a sense of always being invaded no matter what she did. Was wearing clothes she didn't care for really such a terrible price to pay for being free of that?

Maybe not, she conceded as she fastened the new bra and adjusted it. Winnie was right, it was a lot more comfortable and supportive than anything she was used to, even if she still felt it looked ridiculous on her. Next came the tights, and she had to admit that her strong, shapely legs looked fantastic in them. After checking to make sure the curtain was still pulled, she even did a couple of her dance moves before the mirror. Perhaps she could get used to this after all!