Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy)

by Arianne Richmonde

  “You know what? Forget the whole idea. These guys are obviously not up for it. They’re too hard to get hold of. We don’t have time to be messing about with subjects that are not interested in collaborating with us.”

  “Really? You mean that?” I ask, relieved.

  “Really. Get your butt back into gear on one of your other topics, we’ll figure out something else.”

  My lips curve into a subtle smirk. I’m thinking about the tsunamis….Japan, Sumatra, Thailand. The earthquake in Haiti. Maybe she’ll green-light my Aftermath of World Aid project after all.

  “Okay, I’m going to grab a coffee and we can talk,” I suggest. “I have a few ideas in the making.”

  “Oh yeah, I know you do,” she replies, laughing. “But, honey, I’m out the door now. I need to pack and I have a ton of stuff to take care of first. And just to be clear, please don’t disturb me while I’m in Maui, I really need this break.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “You’ll be okay for two weeks without me to guide your skinny ass?” Natalie is being ironic – she knows I can hold my own at work. I hope.

  “Not so skinny,” I joke. “Have a ball, Natalie.”

  Natalie was single until I introduced her to my father – but that’s another story. She has two teenage daughters and, luckily, her sister is coming to stay to look after them while Natalie takes a deserved break in Hawaii. By the time she returns, I’ll have a nice package to offer – I’ll work hard on my presentation and come up with a choice of projects.

  I head across the road for a coffee.

  It’s both a comforting and disconcerting fact that there’s a franchise coffee shop on practically every corner of NYC. You don’t have to go far to feed your addiction. I shuffle through the door, now back in my sneakers – New York City sidewalks do not favor high heels for any period of time. You can tell how long someone has been living in New York by their footwear. Comfort first. Heels are for visitors. Or women from New Jersey.

  I stand in line and ponder over the rich choice I am presented with. A wave of guilt washes over me as I mentally tot up the money I’ve spent on superfluous coffee breaks over the years – money needed by charities, for water wells somewhere, for a child’s education. Stop! Life isn’t fair. Yum, Mocha Cookie Delight…coffee blended with mocha sauce, vanilla syrup, chocolaty chips, milk and ice. Or a Vanilla Cappuccino – coffee flavored with vanilla and blended with milk and ice – and fewer calories.

  A man’s voice interrupts my chocolaty train of thought.

  “So how did you enjoy the conference?” His accent is foreign, his voice deep and melodic.

  I look up, feeling now dwarfed in my flat sneakers, petite against his tall, solid frame. The first thing I notice, at eye level, is the definition of his pec muscles underneath his sun-faded, pale blue T-shirt. He’s tanned; I see he has a name tag just like mine from the InterWorld conference, which reads: Alexandre Chevalier. My gaze rises higher and I observe a pair of penetrating peridot-green eyes rimmed with dark lashes, friendly yet intense, looking down at me. His hair is dark, his face unmistakably European – yes, dare I say it, he even looks French, the profile of his nose strong, the jaw defined. He’s so handsome I feel a frisson shoot up my spine. He’s smiling at me. My stomach flips. I’m speechless with surprise.

  “Your name tag,” he clarifies. “Were you at that conference around the corner?”

  “Yes, I was.” I can’t say any more. I feel like a teenager. My mind is doing acrobatics, trying to figure out why his presence makes no sense at all. This man must have borrowed the tag of the real Alexandre Chevalier. Why?

  He’s at the front of the line, now, talking in French to another woman. She looks familiar. I feel an inexplicable pang of jealousy. Absurd! I don’t even know him. Get a grip! But then realize—

  “I’ll pay for whatever this lady’s having too,” he tells the woman serving behind the counter, and he pulls out a wad of notes. I notice a stash of hundred dollar bills which he is trying to surreptitiously stuff back into his jeans’ pocket, without drawing attention to himself.

  He turns back to me and looks at my name tag. “For Pearl,” he adds, rolling his tongue around the R of Pearl.

  My name suddenly sounds beautiful, not like a pseudonym a hooker might use, which is what I was relentlessly teased for in high school.

  “Pearl,” he says again. “What a beautiful name. I’ve never heard that before. As a name, I mean.”

  “Well, my parents were kind of hippies. Thanks for the compliment, though. I’ll have a….a…um, I’ll have a vanilla cappuccino, please. You really don’t have to do that – buy me my drink, I mean.”

  I fumble about in my ‘handbag’ – although it seems more like an overnight bag – and try to locate my wallet. I’m not used to strangers buying me drinks. My fingers can’t seem to find my wallet, anyway. I often fantasize about inventing an inside handbag light that switches on automatically whenever you open it – I’d make millions – they’d be sold at supermarket checkouts nationwide. My bag is pitch dark inside, I can see nothing.

  “And what’s your name?” I ask, still not believing that this man before me is Alexandre Chevalier, the twenty-four year old nerd in the hoodie, as he appeared in the online photo. This Alexandre is sophisticated – looks way older than that. Even though he’s just in T-shirt and jeans, he’s stylish. Very Alpha Male – yet oozing je ne sais quoi. I could describe him as ‘beautiful’ but he is so much more than that. There is an aura surrounding him of power and sexuality yet blended with an unassuming sort of friendliness as if his good looks are accidental somehow.

  He laughs. His teeth flash white and are almost, but not quite – perfect. An almost perfect, ever so slightly, crooked smile – disconcertingly sexy. “Very funny,” he replies tapping his long fingers on his Alexandre Chevalier name tag. “Oh, this is my sister, Sophie.”

  The Sophie sounds like Soffy. His accent is disarming me. I think of those classic, 1960’s French films – Alain Delon movies – yes, he does have that air about him – a young Alain Delon – mixed with the raw, untamed sex-appeal of Jean Paul Belmondo in his prime – What was that film? Ah yes, À Bout de Souffle – Breathless was its translation. That’s how I feel now…

  Breathless.

  Sophie locks her eyes with mine and smiles at me. She’s smartly dressed, elegant. We move forward to shake hands. My fingers brush across Alexandre’s T-shirt for a second and I feel the hardness of his stomach. I catch my breath. I want to blurt out about our company, Haslit Films, who I am, why I have a name tag for that conference, but I find myself behaving like a character from a T.V sitcom – Rachel from Friends, or Lucy from I Love Lucy – compelled to tell fibs, invent some cover-up. I feel as if my hand has been caught in the cookie jar, and then wonder at my own absurdity. What cookie jar? I haven’t done anything wrong! I can feel my face flush hot and know that if I were the type of person to blush red – these two strangers would be able to detect the embarrassment glowing in my cheeks.

  “What a coincidence,” I say, tossing a coin in my head about whether to explain everything.

  “Really why?” Sophie asks.

  But I go all Rachel again and find nonsense spurting from my lips.

  “Well, just that you were at the conference and so was I.”

  I suddenly think that if I tell them about my film company and why I was at InterWorld, they’ll think I’ve been stalking them. Trailing behind them, pursuing them into the coffee shop like some low-grade paparazzi reporter for a cheap newspaper. The fact that Alexandre Chevalier is no longer a rat-loving geek locked in a dark room programming codes, unnerves me. He looks like a movie star. He’s as rich as one – maybe more so. For some reason I can’t come clean.

  They are chatting away in French to each other. Good, eyes are off me. Damn, why did I take off my heels? I feel so insignificant – so low down. My jittery hand gropes about in my monster bag again, and my fingers feel the sharp points of my
shoes. The fingers wander about some more. Ah, the wallet, phew, I can feel it. But my heart jumps a beat when, for all my fumbling, I can’t locate the keys to my apartment! Why is this man making me so nervous?

  The alarm on my face must be obvious, as he asks, “Is everything alright?”

  “Well, for just a second, I thought I’d lost the keys to my apartment. Ha ha. I mean, that second is still ticking,” I tell him, my voice rising higher. “The keys don’t seem to be there.”

  “One iced vanilla cappuccino, one iced coffee and one black shaken iced tea,” the server announces.

  Before I’ve even lifted my eyes from my bag, Sophie has grabbed her drink-to-go, and says, “Nice to meet you, Pearl. Maybe see you around sometime.” And she adds in French to her brother, “À plus,” and she’s off, out the door and onto the street.

  “I had got the drinks to go but do you want to sit down?” he asks. “Have a better look for your house keys? A man’s life is so much simpler – we carry everything in our pockets.”

  We find a couple of free armchairs and sit down. His cell phone buzzes. I slip on my high pumps, just for good measure – no pun intended.

  He smiles at me. “Excuse me, do you mind? I need to get this call.”

  So polite. I don’t even know him and he’s already bought me a drink and asking me if I mind him taking a call. He looks embarrassed as he speaks in hushed tones into the phone.

  “What’s it like? Is it worth that inflated price?” he murmurs.

  I’m looking through my bag, but curious about his conversation, so keep an ear inquisitively cocked – if I were a dog, my ear would be raised. Ah, here they are, those elusive apartment keys, always giving my heart a run for its money. I swear – that pumping, lost-my-keys-lost-my-phone-lost-my-wallet adrenalin is going to give me a literal heart attack one day.

  “Okay,” I hear Alexandre say, “I’ll buy it. Yes, even at that price – it’s a one-off – I might not get this chance again. Yes, wire the money. Okay, bye Jim. Thanks.”

  I want to ask him what he was talking about, but don’t dare to be so snooping.

  The look on my face, however, must give away my curiosity, as he reveals to me, “A vice of mine. My sister’s sure to disapprove.”

  “Oh? Why?” I ask innocently.

  “She thinks cars are for getting from A to B, and one’s enough.”

  “Buying another car, huh? How many do you already have?”

  He looks almost ashamed. “More than I need.”

  “A collection?”

  “You could say that. But they are all works of art in their own right.”

  “So what’s the latest?” I ask, feeling envious. I don’t own a car. Wish I did but I live in New York City, for goodness sake. The garage alone in my neighborhood would cost practically the same as rent. And if you park it on the street you have to remember to move it all the time for the street cleaners, so it won’t get towed away. Fines. An expensive hassle. Of course, Alexandre Chevalier wouldn’t have that problem.

  “It’s an Austin Healy. I have a weakness for British classics.”

  I know how expensive that must be, but I play dumb. “Do you have an American car?”

  “Of course. When in Rome. I drive a Corvette.” That rolled R again…uum…Cooorr – vette.

  “You live here? I thought you might be just visiting?”

  “Yes, I live on Fifth on the Upper East Side, overlooking Central Park. I’m very fortunate,” he adds.

  I look down and then up at him through my lashes. I haven’t flirted like this for years. “I live on the Upper East Side, too! Seventy-ninth and Third. Lucky you, overlooking Central Park. That’s anybody’s dream.”

  “Not my sister’s. She prefers to live in Paris. She hates New York.”

  I blink at him. “Well. Paris. Yes, well, I guess Paris must be the most beautiful city in the world.”

  He’s biting his lower lip with his gaze set on my face, and it’s sending a jolt of electricity though my body. “You’ve never been?”

  “No, I’m ashamed to say, I haven’t,” I reply. “But I intend to.”

  “Don’t be ashamed. You’re lucky you have something wonderful to look forward to. Like, if there’s a great book you haven’t read – a classic. It’s a happy thought to know something wonderful is in stall for you. Waiting with open arms to welcome you.”

  I smile. “That’s a refreshing way of looking at it. Funny you should like classics. Me, too. I love Russian novels and I adore old movies and re-runs of 50’s and 60’s T.V sitcom shows like, I Love Lucy, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeanie.” I realize how dumb that sounds. “Silly really. I love old songs too, especially from the 70’s. And you’re a lover of classic cars?”

  “They’ve been tried and tested. Loved too. You know what you’re getting. You’re sure to be rewarded with quality.” His green eyes now look flecked with tiger-gold. Is he flirting with me? My stomach is fluttering again – when he said those words, ‘tried and tested’ it churned. Does he think older women are ‘tried and tested’ too?

  “Fifth Avenue and?” I ask, immediately realizing I sound like a stalker.

  “Fifth and Sixty Second. I wanted to have a green view. A view to Central Park – and more importantly – a good place for my dog.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Rex. But he’s still in Paris. He’s at my parents’ house for the moment until I bring him here. My whole life,” he says with a smile, “is designed around Rex. I made sure the apartment here had a spacious roof-terrace, too. It even has trees and a patch of lawn up there. Ready for a life of comfort. Me? I’d be happy with a dark little cave somewhere, but only the best for Monsieur Rex.”

  I laugh. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “A black Labrador. All black, except he wears a smart white cravat on his chest. One of the advantages of France is that you can take your dog anywhere. To restaurants, even. Especially, black Labs. President Mitterrand had a black Labrador and ever since then, they’ve been very respected creatures in my country.”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously? You can even go to smart restaurants with your dog?”

  “I usually call ahead to be polite. I book the table and then add, ‘Oh yes, just one thing, do you mind if I bring my dog along, you know, he’s just a typical Black Labrador—’ They always say yes. But I’ll tell you a secret—”

  He leans forward and, oh so slightly, rests his hand on my knee. It starts to quiver, goose bumps shimmer along my thighs, my arms.

  “What’s the secret?” I ask, my voice sounding like a small child’s.

  “He’s not pure Labrador. I think he’s got a little Pit-Bull in him. He has a wide face and compact thigh muscles that feel as if they’re made of rock. He’s the sweetest dog that ever lived. The sweetest, the gentlest. You know Pit-Bulls were originally bred to be nannies? To be guardians to babies and young children – to watch over them?”

  “No, really? You’re kidding me.”

  “I’m serious. A whole lot of vintage photographs have been discovered from the Victorian age. American Pit-Bull Terriers were used as baby-sitters. Unfair they’ve been given a bad rap and their loving natures abused. In France, they were forced to be sterilized some years back, but my Rex has some Pit-Bull genes in his blood, I’m sure. They were never considered dangerous in the olden days.”

  Don Gaire Oose….dangerous…his accent is so alluring. “That’s fascinating,” I say. “I never knew that. I’m crazy about dogs. I had one as a little girl. She was a Husky.”

  “Huskies are beautiful.”

  “Mine – she was called Zelda, she had one blue eye and one golden eye. She was a real stunner. But she’d run off whenever she could. They’re real escape artists, Huskies. She was okay for the first year, but as soon as she turned thirteen months she started doing her own thing, escaping, getting into mischief. She killed chickens, unfortunately. One day she ran off and didn’t come back. We never knew what happened. It broke my hea
rt. Since then I haven’t had the courage to get another dog.”

  Alexandre brings his palms up to his face and covers his mouth with genuine empathy. “That’s a very sad story. I’m so sorry. You’ll have to meet Rex. I’m organizing his move – should be in the next couple of months.”

  An invitation? Is this for real? “I’d adore to meet Rex – he sounds lovely. So why did you choose to live in New York?” I ask, not wanting this conversation to finish. Ever.

  “France is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Fine wine, great cuisine, incredible landscape – we have a rich culture. But when it comes to opportunity, especially for small businesses, it’s not so easy there.”

  Small businesses? His company is worth millions! No- billions, even.

  My sitcom alter-ego is rearing her naughty, lying head again. “You own a small company? What do you do?”

  He narrows his penetrating eyes. Every time he does that, it sends shivers cursing through my body. “That’s why I was at that conference,” he explains. “I was answering a few questions, giving people some tips, you know, advice from my own personal experience. It’s done nicely my company.”

  Nicely? So modest.

  “What were you doing at the conference?” he asks me. “Sorry, that’s very prying.” He looks down and takes a gulp of his iced-coffee. I observe the cupid bow of his top lip pressing on the cup. Then he takes out an ice cube and starts sucking on it. I catch a glimpse of his pink tongue licking his lips. Butterflies circle my insides again. Control yourself, Pearl, he’s sixteen years younger than you!

  “Your English is so good,” I marvel, steering him away from me and my story. I don’t want to tell him why I was at the conference. “Your vocabulary, words like prying. Where did you learn your English?”

  “I lived in London for a few years. But I started speaking it when I was young – self-taught from video games, mostly. All the best games were in English. There was nothing in French when I was a little boy. All the technical vocabulary for the Internet was also English. I was forced to learn if I wanted to have fun. Not to mention song lyrics. I learned a lot that way, too. My favorite bands were all American or British.”