I laughed but knew he was probably serious. This was not going to be the type of dress to favor a last-minute nip and tuck. “Tell me, Zang, what do you envision for me?” I asked, kissing him on both cheeks. Somehow a handshake seemed too formal for such a friendly person.
“I have planned for you a floor length, ivory, silk velvet cape with dramatic train and ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading down from the shoulder, and matching strapless gown with ice crystal beaded blossoms cascading up the dramatic flared hem.”
“Wow, it sounds beautiful.”
“You will be the perfect ice-princess for your handsome French prince,” he said with a giggle.
We spent the afternoon discussing the design and all the different options for shoes. He had me there like a mannequin, being draped with muslin cloth, pins going here and there; the fabric itself, the silk velvet, would not be touched until later. He loved the idea of a winter wedding in Lapland and asked me a hundred questions about what food and drink would be served, but even I wasn’t sure about that yet; this was all stuff I had to decide with the wedding planner.
Elodie, of course, was going to be my maid of honor—she had yet to come in for her fitting, but slim as a pencil, I was sure Zang would love her . . . no chance of her pigging out before December; she was a little waif. With her long brown hair styled with crystal beads, Zang was confident he could transform her into a character from a fairy tale.
I left late, bubbling with excitement and hope—Zang’s giggly demeanor was catching, and I was in the highest of spirits.
That was until the elevator door to his showroom opened: Sophie standing there with a fixed grin on her face.
My heart sank.
She looked ravishing, impeccable—but then Sophie was always impeccable. Her thick, dark hair loose, the cut chic with Parisian perfection. Her pinstripe pantsuit tailored. I instantly felt straggly and unkempt next to her mature sophisticated demeanor, even though she was five years younger than me.
“Pearl, darling,” she said in her heavy French accent, and air-kissed me on both cheeks.
“Sophie, what a lovely surprise, how long are you in town for?”
“Didn’t Alexandre tell you I was coming?”
“He must have, but I guess I lost track of time,” I lied. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I feared her and that Alexandre was keeping anything from me. No, he had not let me know she was coming to New York.
I smiled sweetly. I felt like the two of us were in that scene from Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest: two women’s saccharine smiles and sweet-talk hiding dagger-like intentions. Although, my only intention was to avoid her as much as possible. What her plans were for me, I still could not begin to guess. Except I was sure they included ousting me from her brother’s life, in whatever way possible.
She said excitedly, “I thought I’d pop by and see what Zang has designed for Elodie.”
“Sophie, I can’t thank you enough for this generous gift. I mean, you’re really pulling out all the stops.”
“Pearl, you’re going to be my sister-in-law. Part of my life. If you make Alexandre happy, zat’s all I care about.” She wrinkled her nose cutely and I wondered, for a second, if she could twitch it like Samantha on Bewitched—something I’d practiced as a child watching endless re-runs on TV, but never mastered. I wouldn’t put it past Sophie to be able to come up with a few sorceress tricks, or to cast some sort of wicked spell on me.
Or was I being unjust? Maybe her intentions were good and I was just a jaded, unforgiving bitch.
Time would tell.
I WENT BACK TO the office to work, and when I got home I found Alexandre on the roof terrace with Rex.
“Hi Pearl, darling,” he said, “come and sit on my knee. I’m just finishing up a couple of things.” He was tapping away distractedly on his tablet, making lists.
I ran my fingers through his thick dark hair and told him, “I bumped into Sophie at Zang’s showroom. You never told me she was coming to New York.”
“Sophie’s here, in Manhattan?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? She said you knew.”
“I can’t remember her telling me, no.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering which one of them was fibbing. Sophie, no doubt.
As if the Devil herself were listening in on our conversation, Alexandre’s cell rang. I could tell it was Sophie by the way he talked. Not just because he was speaking French but the easy expression on his face; the relaxed way you speak to an old friend. My French was getting better every day, namely by hearing him chat on the phone. They were discussing dinner. Great. Just when I was feeling more at ease than ever, our lives perfect, Sophie had to nuzzle in on us. I tensed. Was Alexandre now telling her, that yes, I would make dinner tonight? Please, God, no. He knew cooking was not my forte. He ended the conversation and looked at me, his slightly crooked smile showing a hint of irony.
“Did I hear right?” I asked him. “Did you just tell Sophie that I’d cook supper?”
“She asked especially. She wants to taste typical, homemade, American food.”
“Well, there are a lot of restaurants that do it way better than I do.”
“Nonsense, your cooking is great.”
Little did Alexandre know that it was Dean & DeLuca’s and Zabar’s cooking which was great, or our local delicatessen. Not me.
He brushed a lock of hair from my face. “Make your hamburgers, they’re delicious.”
“Really? You like them?”
“I love them. Or you could do your BLTs—the best this side of New York.”
“But Sophie will be expecting something fancy.”
“No, she won’t. She gets gourmet food in Paris. Give her BLTs.” He pressed his mouth on mine and whispered through his kiss, “You’re my Star-Spangled girl, remember? I don’t care if you don’t cook flashy, haute cuisine. I love you just the way you are. Don’t ever change.”
SOPHIE AND ELODIE arrived at eight o’clock sharp. Needless to say, every second had been spent by me preparing for their dreaded arrival. Patricia helped me lay the table with the best silver and crystal champagne glasses. BLTs, in style, with matchstick French fries and Bollinger Champagne.
Because I was the only native English speaker, the language du jour was soon French. Sophie had ways of looking as if she was the most charming person in the world while quietly stabbing me simultaneously. Alexandre didn’t seem to notice, and Elodie was so busy stuffing her face with the BLTs, that she was blissfully unaware.
“So Pearl,” Sophie began. “How is everything going in zee Enterprise’s department?”
“Great,” I replied sweetly.
“She’s just made a deal with Samuel Myers,” Alexandre interjected proudly. “He’s a tough nut to crack, and Pearl got what she wanted, namely a woman for one of the leads in Stone Trooper.”
Sophie smoothed her manicured hand over her sleek, chignon. “No! You’re kidding me? Very talented actress Alessandra Demarr.”
The way she said that made me wonder if she knew about this already. Although I did remember telling her I wanted women for the lead roles, I didn’t remember anyone mentioning Alessandra Demarr. I wished Alexandre hadn’t let her in on my business, but answered simply, “Yes, I’m very pleased with the way things are going.”
“I’m sure you’ll be even more delighted as sings unravel zemselves to you,” she said ominously—although the ominous vibe could just be my imagination. She was French—the translation may have come out wrong, I thought . . . ‘things unravel themselves’ –what things?
Alexandre put his hand on mine. “Pearl’s going to do some re-writing of the script, aren’t you, darling? She always wanted to be a script writer and now’s her chance.”
Sophie’s hand enveloped both of ours, her eagle talons cupping us, her nails long and sharp. “Let’s have a look at your engagement ring. Beeeootiful,” she cooed, gawking at it, her eyes wide.
“Thank you.”
Alexandre looked pleased. “It belonged to a Russian princess, a lady in waiting, so to speak, to Catherine the Great.”
Sophie cackled. “Cazerine zee Great – isn’t she zee Empress who used to fuck horses?”
Elodie almost choked on her champagne. “Maman!”
“No, seriously, rumor has it zat zay had to lower zee horse on top of her as no man’s penis was big enough nor insatiable enough for her. Zay said she was a ‘beastite’ – I sink zat’s zee correct term. She died, in fact, trying to have sexual intercourse wiz a horse—she got crushed to death in zee act.”
Alexandre burst out laughing. “Nonsense. That was a myth, gossip spread by French aristocracy and her Polish enemies at the time to belittle her.”
“Well, she certainly had a voracious sexual appetite which contributed to her downfall.” Sophie turned to me and stared, her last sentence directed at me, for sure. I thought of the Freudian dream I’d had about a black horse, at the hotel in Cap d’Antibes, after Alexandre had been talking about getting me to “ride” him. Could Sophie read my frigging dreams? She knew that I couldn’t keep my hands off her brother. She knew my sexual appetite had been awakened. I looked down at my empty glass awkwardly. Alexandre didn’t seem to notice what she had said, and Elodie looked hazily at the Tromp l’Oeil of the dining room, settling her gaze onto the painted lake with swans and the fake view beyond that looked so disconcertingly real, obviously choosing not to follow the conversation.
“Well, I love your ring, Pearl,” Sophie continued with a syrupy smile. “But why didn’t you want a new piece of jewelry?”
“Pearl and I didn’t want a blood diamond,” Alexandre broke in.
“A blood diamond?”
“A conflict diamond,” I clarified. “A war diamond. A lot of top-grade diamonds are mined in war zones, particularly Africa. We didn’t want to contribute to that in any way, so Alexandre chose a vintage piece instead, and I’m glad he did.”
Elodie piped up, her pretty eyes wide, her interest piqued. “It’s true, Natalie Portman doesn’t wear real diamonds to Oscars or red carpet—she wears fake knock offs for five bucks, for same reason.”
I was marveling at Elodie’s colloquial English, using words like “knock-offs” and “bucks,” and added, “It used to be a pendant, and Alexandre had it made into a ring.”
Sophie let me know in a soft voice, “Well, I don’t sink wearing someone’s old jewelry is so lucky—bad Feng Shui, you know, could be bad vibe.”
For the first time Alexandre looked angry. His mouth tensed as he said quietly between his teeth, “Actually, Sophie, I had the ring cleansed by a priest. By two different priests in fact. Blessed with holy water. The ring is as pure as snow.”
I looked down at my achingly beautiful ring and wished Sophie hadn’t laid her hands on it. As if her touch could have polluted it in some way.
Swallowing a mouthful and then smiling sweetly she said, “These BLTs are so delicious, Pearl, you must tell me zee recipe.”
Recipe. The recipe is in the title of the sandwich. BLT: bacon, lettuce and tomato. Of course, Sophie’s irony was not lost on me but did seem to go over Alexandre’s head. Men are so clueless when it comes to women’s sharp claws disguised in white kid gloves.
I told Sophie, “The secret is in the bacon itself, Sophie. It’s from a small farm Upstate, where the pigs roam free in fields and lead a happy life.”
Alexandre got up from the table to get another bottle of champagne, and Sophie whispered to me out of his earshot:
“Pearl, make sure you don’t wear zat pearl choker my bruzzer gave you on your wedding day itself. Pearls are unlucky for a bride, you know.” Then she added in a hoarse whisper, “I hope zat doesn’t make you unlucky, having Pearl as your name.”
I COULDN’T EVEN remember how we got there. I guess it was by his car . . . what was his name? Later, I blanked that name out. Later, when it was all too . . . Late.
My friend Julia had somehow slipped out of the equation. I was left with both boys, lascivious, like hungry dogs drooling for their dinner. But I was lapping up the attention, thinking of Brad studying with his new girlfriend—well I too could have some fun: two guys at once. An erotically charged night . . . a threesome. A one-time pleasure adventure—just the once. Isn’t that every girl’s secret fantasy?
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
My breath was short, my back drenched with sweat. My eyes flew open and Alexandre was there beside me in bed. I heaved a sigh of relief.
“You were having a bad dream, Pearl.” He held me close to him and kissed the lids of my wet eyes. “It’s okay, everything’s okay, baby. You can go back to sleep.”
ALEXANDRE
I NOTICED THE change in Pearl after her first nightmare. She was crying out in her sleep, tossing and thrashing in the bed, the small of her back soaked with sweat.
“Get off me. You fuck!” she screamed.
I woke up with a start, thinking Rex had jumped on the bed, landing in a painful bound on her breasts (as dogs and cats tend to do), but her eyes were closed, and Rex wasn’t there; he had his own bed. I held her wrists to try and calm her, but it made her yowl even harder and sent her into a kicking frenzy. Her swim-toned legs were strong, crashing against my calves with all her might. Jesus, what was the nightmare that had caused this?
“Pearl, chérie, wake up!”
Her eyes flew open. She was panting; beads of sweat gathered like raindrops on her brow, under her arms, behind her knees.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What the hell were you dreaming about?” I asked, holding her close. But she shoved me away, a sneer etched on her lips.
“I’m going to take a shower, I’m drenched.” She tried to smile at me but it was obvious I had done something terrible to her in her dream, and she hated me in that instant.
“Baby?” I tried again, taking her hand. But she shooed it away, wrestling herself free from the confines of my embrace.
“Please, Alexandre. I just need a shower, I’ll be fine.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
Her eyes flashed with fury. “Nothing. Really, I can’t even remember. I was being chased by a sort of scaly-fish monster or something. Just a typical bad dream, nothing more.”
Liar.
MEANWHILE, SOPHIE had suddenly decided that Pearl was marvelous. She was almost obsessed with her, wondering why Pearl was spurning her friendship.
“Because,” I said, “you’ve been a bitch to her in the past and she doesn’t trust you an inch.” We were sitting at a bar in a restaurant in SoHo, waiting for our table, listening to Lady Grinning Soul by David Bowie. It reminded me of Pearl.
“But I’m getting her a bloody Zang Toi wedding gown, it’s costing a fortune!”
“If there’s one thing you need to know about Pearl, Sophie, it’s that she doesn’t give a toss about money. She does appreciate the thought, though, but she’s suspicious of your motives, and I don’t blame her.”
“What, just because I called her a cougar?”
“You called her worse, if I remember. And when you came to dinner the other night you were being all bitchy. Pearl noticed, believe me.”
“That was not directed at Pearl but at you, dear brother . . . my jibe about the engagement ring. You could have had our diamond if you wanted it so badly, not buy that second-hand gem that belonged to some Russian royalty who fucked horses.”
I laughed. “You were guarding that silly Indian diamond like a phoenix, Sophie. And the vintage piece I bought for Pearl and had converted into that spectacular, eat-your-heart-out-Liz-Taylor ring, I would hardly describe as ‘second-hand.’ It belongs in a bloody museum.”
“Anyway, Pearl is an enigma. She makes me . . . I don’t know . . . I feel—”
I nearly spluttered my beer all over the bar. “Jesus, you don’t fancy her, do you? Lay off; Pearl’s mine.” This place made great Bloody Marys, but I’d be steering clear of those for a while, so I’d settled for an ice-
cold beer.
Sophie cackled with laughter. “No, but I do have to say I think she really is very beautiful. She has an angelic face. Really, she looks like an angel in a Botticelli painting. There’s an innocent soulfulness about her eyes. There is something special about her. I just wish she wanted to be my friend.”
“Give it time, Sophie. Pearl’s like a cat. You have to let her come to you; not be pushy or she’ll run away.”
“By the way, speaking of felines, Claudine called me,” Sophie told me. “She says she’s left several messages and you haven’t gotten back to her. She’s very upset. I mean, really upset. Hurt feelings. You’d better get in touch.”
Oh no. “What does she want?”
“Well, she split with her boyfriend recently.”
“Oh God.”
“She’s doing well, though. Just been offered a campaign by L’Oréal. You know, the glamorous older model, the over thirty type of thing. She looks amazing for her age. She’s quite a stunner.”
“If you’re into bones that look as if they can snap in two and skin paler than alabaster, yes, she’s a beauty.”
“Anyway, you’d better call her because she’s been really bugging me about seeing you. She says she misses you and wants to hang out. She sounded very depressed, very doomsday about everything despite her modeling success.”
I could feel my insides churn. Would there never be an end to this slew of exes battering at my door?
“I’m getting married, Sophie. I don’t want to see Claudine. Nor Indira, nor Laura. Nor any other beautiful ex that might pop out from under the fancy wood paneling.”
Sophie laughed again and said in English, “When it rains, it pours. I love that expression.”
I felt my lips tighten. Bloody Claudine. I thought I was off the hook. “I’m in love with Pearl,” I enunciated—to myself as much as to my sister. I won’t be roped into a guilt trip noose about my neck again. Claudine needs to sort her own fucking issues out with men. There is no way I’ll partake in any more mercy fucks for Claudine.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 24
