Hooked Up: Book 2

by Richmonde, Arianne

  We meandered along country lanes, flanked by stunning views on either side of us. What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong was playing loudly, and I thought, yes, Alexandre couldn’t have picked a better song—it really is a wonderful world. I mulled over our baby conversation. It had been my secret fantasy, kept close to my heart; something I never shared with anyone. Pearl, the career woman, the one who supports herself both financially, and in every other way. Pearl, who relies on nobody—that’s what I had told myself for the past two years. There is no such thing as a knight in shining armor. Nobody is going to come along and wave a magic wand.

  Then I met Alexandre. Was he waving a magic wand? Or was all this romance he was offering going to turn horribly pear-shaped?

  I had been self-reliant and had even considered adoption, but realized how tough it would be being a single parent and raising a child in New York City, all alone. Did Alexandre really mean what he said about starting a family? Or was he just so young he hadn’t thought it through properly?

  My thoughts now turned to the moving view; more of Alexandre’s magic, bringing me to this fairytale land. As well as lavender, there were vineyards, and stretches of golden wheat everywhere. Now and then there was a tiny stone building plunked right in the middle of a field, so picturesque, it looked like a postcard.

  “Don’t be afraid, Pearl, to really give it to her. She likes to be pushed harder. You don’t need to change gears so soon—keep her in third for longer. I know what she needs.”

  “You know a lot about what females need, don’t you?” I teased. “You like to keep me in third for longer, don’t you? And sometimes, when I’m begging you for fourth, or even fifth, you put me back into second. Sometimes even first.”

  He laughed joyously, his right arm relaxed against the sill, the wind whipping his hair from the wide open windows. “I love that analogy. Yes, women are like cars—they need to be controlled.”

  “You’re so sexist!”

  “They like to have their limits pushed—but not too much—and then be brought back on track. They like to be managed but at the same time experience freedom.”

  “You are quite something, Alexandre Chevalier. Quite a secret macho control freak, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “Not so secret.”

  “And there I was, mistaking you for this humble gentleman!” I revved up and speed along a straighter road, gaining more confidence. I was in my element driving this car!

  “There, you see how happy she is? She likes to show you what she’s capable of,” he shouted above the vroom-vroom of the engine.

  “She likes me?”

  “She loves you, Pearl.”

  “Does that make her gay?” I joked, brushing my hand on his leg as I changed gear.

  “I think she’s bi,” he said, winking at me. “And if your sexual fantasies during phone sex are anything to go by, you’ll get along together just fine.”

  “Shush, that’s a secret.”

  I thought about what Alexandre had said earlier, “Pearl, you make me happy, I’m crazy for you . . . ” and I hummed Madonna’s Crazy For You to myself. Did he really mean those words?

  Before long, we stopped at his nearest village, Ménerbes, perched on top of a hill.

  “You know, Ménerbes,” Alexandre began in a serious tour guide voice, “has been inhabited since prehistoric times. Archaeological excavations have uncovered the remains of villas and an ancient cemetery dating back to Roman times. These villages were built on hilltops to protect them from invasion,” he informed me, “particularly during the religious wars. Picasso had a house here, and Peter Mayle who wrote, A Year in Provence.”

  “So this is where he lived,” I murmured.

  We entered through a large arch, into the small central square, and pottered around the tiny village which, from certain points, offered striking views of lush, rolling hills below, dotted with farmhouses and hamlets making a patchwork of colors like a quilt.

  “This place is famous for its truffle market,” Alexandre told me. “They use dogs mostly, these days, for digging truffles, the pigs got a little greedy. Truffles are so expensive, they can’t afford to lose even one.”

  Our next stop was Gordes, marked with a sign as one of the most beautiful villages in France, Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. It, like Ménerbes, was perched on a hill, with breathtaking views below. We parked the car and wound our way through the narrow cobbled streets where no vehicles were allowed, and looked up at tall houses of honey-colored stone, many of them built right into the rock itself. Natural and man-made beauty rolled into one supreme medieval mélange. There was a castle in the middle of the village, where we wandered about watching tourists pass by, oohing and aahing at the history of the place. We sat in a café and relaxed our legs. I ordered an iced tea, and Alexandre a Pastis, an aniseed drink that, when mixed with water and ice, turns milky—a drink favored by the people of Provence, he said.

  On the way back, he drove. Way faster than I did, I may add. Even though it was past seven-thirty, the sun was creating a magical, golden dusk light and there was a cooler breeze now.

  “So tell me, Pearl Robinson, did you grow up in New York City?”

  “I still haven’t grown up,” I quipped.

  He laughed. “Alright, were you ‘raised’ in New York?”

  “Yes, in Brooklyn. We moved to Manhattan when I was twelve because I got a scholarship to a private school on the Upper East Side.”

  “You must have been a good student.”

  “I worked hard. I was eager to prove myself, get top grades. I had to show them I earned the scholarship. I didn’t want to let anybody down. What about you? Did you do well at school?”

  “No, I was a disaster. I experimented with drugs, you know, smoked weed, dropped some acid. I was a bad boy. A high school dropout. But I did have a passion and that was IT – all self-taught and bit by bit I cleaned up my act. I got into an excellent school in Paris for graphics and communication, but only stayed a few weeks—the fees were too high. My sister tried to help, but when I realized the kind of work she was doing, there was no way I could accept, so I left to get a job.”

  “Why, what was she doing?”

  “Just something that wasn’t good for her soul.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  He’d whetted my curiosity. What could Sophie have been working at that was so bad for her soul?

  ALEXANDRE

  PEARL AND I spent the day by the pool, wandering around my lavender fields, lingering over a long lunch and drinking too much chilled rosé wine, pale as rainwater; the grapes from my own vineyard. I took her to visit my local villages, or rather, she took me. I let her drive my electric blue, 1964 Porsche Coupé, sunroof open, as we soaked up the sun while Nina Simone sang a song that reflected our moods, Feeling Good, as we sped by open lavender fields, and rolling hills of wheat and sunflowers—the summer landscape dotted with farmhouses and hilltop villages.

  I can’t remember the order of things that day, or exactly where and when each conversation took place, but we discussed a few important issues; namely the pregnancy topic. Knowing that Pearl was forty put our relationship on a sort of fast-forward. At least in my mind—there wasn’t time to dither about. I’m a practical man. I’m also impatient for outcomes. I’d met Pearl, I couldn’t stand to be without her, and she was forty. We didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out if we were a hundred percent perfect for each other—we simply had to get on with it.

  She didn’t know that I knew she was forty. I was brought up to never ask a woman her age or discuss it with her. I was told it was bad manners. Pearl, however, berated me for having come inside her when we had sex on the plane. I guess she felt her freedom of choice had been tampered with. I didn’t blame her. Talk about bad manners! The bulldozer had momentarily taken me over—I couldn’t help it. But the upshot of it was (I know . . . upshot . . . does sound crude) that she admitted she did want a family.


  There was another topic I’d been meaning to talk to her about: the Russian.

  While she managed the steering wheel of my Porsche, I steered the conversation in another direction. “So,” I began, “how are things in the documentary department, now that Haslit Films has given up on HookedUp?”

  Pearl’s eyes were on the road. “Fine. Great. Natalie and I want to do a special about child trafficking in the sex trade. What’s going on is really despicable. You’d think it would be getting better with so much publicity and so many arrests, but it’s worse than ever.”

  “I really admire what you do, Pearl. Didn’t you mention something about arms dealers the other day?”

  “I sure did. That’s another thing Natalie and I are focusing on.”

  “Oh yeah? Any leads?”

  “My contact at the UN is pulling a few strings for me.”

  I turned to look at her. To gauge her expression. “What kind of strings?”

  Pearl swerved a little too fast around a hairpin bend. I pressed my foot on an imaginary brake and sucked in a breath.

  “Oh, you know, just organizing a few contacts,” she said, with a nonchalant wave of her hand. Keep your hand on the steering wheel!

  Was it my imagination or was she being cagey? “Anyone in particular?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

  “Oh, you know, just contacts. I prefer not to jinx things. Not discuss them till I have the goods in the bag.”

  The goods in the bag? What bloody goods? “Have you met any of these arms dealers, personally?” I pried.

  She just shrugged her shoulders. By this point, I could feel my pulse pick up; blood pumping hard. I felt aroused by jealousy, which in turn, made me possessive. Possessive, jealous, horny, irritated—all the sort of traits in myself I wanted to keep under control. I can’t remember how I did it, but I veered the conversation toward Laura. I’d mentioned Laura earlier that day. I wanted to let Pearl know that there was an ex in the picture, be honest about it. Just in case Laura called and Pearl picked up the phone or something. But now I decided to toy with the situation; I just wanted to keep Pearl on her toes . . . let her feel that same stab of jealousy that was spiking my Latin veins.

  “I’ll show you some photos of Laura when we get home,” I told Pearl, “and some letters she wrote me. When you see the pictures you’ll understand why she left me for someone else.” I knew what was going through Pearl’s mind, and she fell for the bait.

  “Was Laura a supermodel, or something?”

  “She was beautiful, both inside and out.” Outside, yes. Inside . . . a grand exaggeration on my part. But I continued, blithely, “Yeah, she did do some modeling.”

  At least, I thought Pearl had fallen for the bait, but she coolly, not only changed gear, but changed the conversation back to the subject of my Porsche like she didn’t give a fuck. Couldn’t give a toss about my exes. Yet I was burning up. Why was she insisting on not mentioning that she’d had dinner with Mikhail Prokovich? My pride wouldn’t let me delve any further, so I dropped the subject. But my curiosity had been whetted, and the possessive gene in my DNA got the better of me.

  What was I to do with a cool, independent woman like Pearl Robinson? She was forty. She had her own money, an amazing career, owned her own apartment; men no doubt, were desperate to date her and falling at her feet. She didn’t need a man like me. Was my sister right? Was I just a sort of Boy Toy to her? Was she taking me seriously or just enjoying great sex? Women often confuse great sex with love. Maybe Pearl would wake up and smell the coffee. Find out about my fucked-up past and screwed-up head, not to mention my crazy family.

  Not only did I want Pearl to think me the hottest thing since the sauna, but also the coolest thing since Mount Everest.

  I was balancing a difficult act.

  PEARL

  WHEN WE GOT BACK I busied myself with getting ready for the party. I took a shower and put on a pair of high-heeled sandals, and a short, slinky dress that was red. Too much? Maybe. I looked in the mirror and dissected myself. My hair was looking pretty good and I’d caught quite a tan that day, just walking around and being in the pool. Those crow’s feet though, they’re a drag. I put on another layer of mascara to open my eyes up wider, and I saw the reflection of Alexandre standing behind me. He was back to his casual self, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His chest muscles were prominent, even though the T-shirt was quite loose. His hair was wet from the shower. His eyes roved over my body and I immediately felt self-conscious.

  “Too much?” I asked. “The red?”

  “No, not too much. Perfect. Sexy. You look stunning.”

  “Is it too skimpy, though? Too femme fatale?”

  “Well if it is, I love it. You’ve got the body, so flaunt it.”

  He came behind me and cupped my buttocks with his palms. “Great ass.”

  “It’s the swimming, I guess.”

  He let his hands wander up the small of my back and around to my stomach, then stroked the curves of my bare breasts. “Great tits, too.”

  For the first time ever, I pushed his hands away. I should have felt complimented, but a clutch of anxiety took hold as I imagined his ex, Laura, to be so much more than me. She had broken up with him—she must be something else. “You said you’d show me photos of Laura,” I said, turning to face him.

  “What, now?”

  “Why not?”

  “We should really be leaving.”

  “Just a quick glance. I’m curious about her.”

  “She’s um . . . an unusual woman.”

  “Yes, so you keep saying.” What is this? Is he trying to make me jealous?

  We went downstairs to the living room, where the giant fireplace and all the English books were. Madame Menager had left a tray on the table, with a bottle of chilled champagne and some tasty-looking canapés. He poured me a glass. I sipped the refreshing drink, savoring the bubbly taste, and I nestled onto the sofa while Alexandre got out a photo album.

  “This is typical Laura,” he told me. “I don’t have any printed photos myself—everything is on my computer and iPad, but she used to make albums—very English that.” He was holding a large, blue leather-bound book in his hands. My heart was beating with trepidation—why did I want to torture myself?

  He put the book on my lap and sat next to me. I started carefully turning the stiff pages. There, before me, was a young woman who couldn’t have been more than thirty, smiling into the camera, jumping in the air. She was tall, blonde, with a body like a swimwear model and a smile that took up her whole face. She was gorgeous. On the page next to it was Alexandre looking really young, thinner and more boyish. I turned the page. Another set of pictures: of them sailing at sea, soaked through—it looked like it was a wet day with clouds in the sky. They were both laughing their heads off.

  “That was in Cornwall, the south of England. We called ourselves the Salty Sea Dogs. It was always raining, or so it seemed. We sailed a lot, Laura was practically Olympic level.”

  Now I understood. She was an all-rounder. Stunningly beautiful, smart (all those books), and sporty. She looked older than Alexandre, perhaps she’d gone off with someone more age appropriate. I turned more pages. A birthday party, Laura blowing out candles, her lips luscious, her eyes as big as saucers. She made me look like Plain Jane.

  “She’s beautiful,” was all I could muster.

  More of Laura and him. Now they were in India, riding elephants painted with flowers on their wrinkly skin. There were temples in the background. I felt envious—the love between them was so evident. I turned more pages and a jolt of shock arrested me.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at a blonde woman in a wheelchair. It looked like Laura. She must have broken her leg or something.

  “It’s Laura,” he confirmed, covering his face with his palms. It seemed as if tears could well in his eyes.

  I turned more pages. She was still in the wheelchair here. “What happened?”

  “We lived in a
basement flat in London. One night we came home late and the next door neighbor’s child had left one of his toys on the steps. Laura tripped and fell. I couldn’t catch her in time. She tumbled down the concrete steps and landed really badly. It was one of those freak accidents with a terrible consequence.”

  “Oh no. Was she really hurt?”

  “Paralyzed from the waist down. Luckily, no damage to her head.”

  “Oh my God.” I had tears in my eyes as he told me this. “But she was a sportswoman and so active.”

  “I know. Life’s unfair, isn’t it?”

  “And now?”

  “She’s a lot better now. Walking with a cane. Limping, but the doctors had told her originally that she would probably be paralyzed for the rest of her life, so what she’s achieved is a miracle. Her husband has been incredible, too. He’s been by her side every step of the way.”

  “Husband?”

  “The man she left me for. I was broken-hearted. He’d been her childhood boyfriend and had always been in love with her. I felt at the time as if she was dismissing me as useless, as if I wouldn’t know how to care for her, or didn’t care enough. But I would never have deserted her. Never. She knew what she wanted, though, and it was him. James. She was right, in hindsight. He’s been fantastic. I couldn’t have been there for her the way he has been.”

  “Had you started your business by that point?”

  “Just. Of course, when she left me, I threw myself headlong into work to keep my mind off her. I moved back to Paris and did nothing else but get HookedUp off the ground. I didn’t see daylight for weeks, holed up in my dark basement office, coding and working out formulas and ways to make it successful. Meanwhile, my sister was having meetings and getting backers.”