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

by Arianne Richmonde

  I can feel myself well up. “I was just being friendly. Discussing my work. I didn’t even find him attractive.”

  But he doesn’t reply, just mumbles, “fucking bitch,” under his breath.

  I want to sink through the floor of his car. If this really was the Batmobile I could press a button and be shot out into the sky or something. Tears are now spilling onto my dress. The dress, I realize that is causing all this turmoil. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it. Too short. Too red. It’s screaming out ‘slut’. I feel humiliated and small. He’s racing around corners now like some Formula One driver. He seems to have control but the speed and the way his temper is flaring has me crumbling into a wreck. I’m sobbing now, I have nothing to wipe away my tears but this vulgar dress. It’s smeared with mascara which is also, no doubt, half way down my panda-eyed face. He looks over at me.

  “Are you crying, baby?” he asks, his voice suddenly soft.

  “Of course I am,” I heave between sobs. What the hell does he expect?

  He pulls the car over in a dark lay-by and turns off the engine.

  “Oh, Pearl, I’m so sorry.”

  “This goddam dress.”

  “Well, I love that dress,” he says, unclipping his seatbelt and mine. He takes me in his arms and draws me close. “You think I was angry at you?” he asks tenderly.

  “You called me a ‘fucking bitch.’ ”

  He let out a small laugh. “Oh shit. No, Pearl. Not you, chérie. I was talking about my sister.

  “Sophie?”

  “She turned up at the party,” he explains.

  Duh, I click. That woman I saw was Sophie. Sophie, who shot me that look loaded with poison daggers.

  “She called me a cougar,” I tell him.

  “In my book, that’s a compliment. Cougars are beautiful, streamline, elegant and intelligent creatures.”

  “I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”

  “Why,” he slams his hand on the dashboard, “can’t she mind her own fucking business.” He strokes my hair and kisses me on the forehead, then his mouth presses gently on my salty cheeks. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. That’s why we’re getting out of here – I’m really not in the mood for a scene. She’ll be staying at my house. You don’t want to be around.”

  “Why does she hate me? What have I ever done to her?”

  “She’s just jealous, that’s all. She feels you’re distracting me from my work.”

  “But you’re still working your ass off, despite seeing me!”

  “I know, but lately, she’s right, my heart and soul are not in it. Since I met you I’ve been reminded that there is more to life than HookedUp. Besides, my work there is done. All the creative bit has finished, it’s only about deals now and making more money. That’s not what I’m about. Yeah, the money’s great. I mean, look at this car, my properties and stuff, but…..” he trails off, deep in thought as if an idea had just struck him.

  “Where are you taking me now?” I ask.

  “I’m taking us to Cap d’Antibes. I thought you should see a little of the French Riviera, the Côte d’Azur. I’ll get our passports and anything important biked over to us tomorrow and then we’ll fly to Paris from Nice the following day.” He’s now putting my seat back so I am reclining, the seat almost making a bed. “Let’s just forget this episode, shall we? I’ll sort things out with Sophie next week. I won’t have her ruining things between you and me.”

  I take a deep breath and am placated, at least for now. No more tears.

  He’s running his eyes along my body and says, “You look amazing in that little red dress. Did you see how you were like a magnet? Everyone was looking at you. The best looking men in the room couldn’t keep their eyes off you.” His hand has moved his way between my legs and he pushes them apart gently. “And you know what turns me on? They want you – but you’re mine. All mine.” The next thing I know, he brings out the feather from his pocket. “It’s had a bit of wear and tear,” he laughs, “but it might make you feel more relaxed. Close your eyes, chérie. Think of lavender and rolling waves and just relax.”

  I lie back and he begins to trace the feather around my ankles and along my calves, and he tweaks my nipples with his fingers, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. I can feel the pulse between my legs and I splay them open. He leans over and kisses me, flicking his tongue on mine and then kissing me hard on the mouth. I moan and start jiggling about in my seat. He traces his finger down my navel, around my belly-button and down to my panties. He presses the palm of his whole hand over my Venus, holding it there, still. I can almost hear the throb of it like a heartbeat.

  “Are you feeling better now,” he asks. “More relaxed?”

  “Yes.”

  He presses my clit ever so lightly through my panties and holds it down for a second. I start pushing up against on his firm hand. But then he takes it away and starts the engine.

  “What are you doing?” I gasp, longing for him to take me right here in the car.

  “I’m hungry. It’s a good hour away, yet, and I want to get us there in time for dinner.”

  “So French,” I moan. “Your belly comes before anything else, even sex.”

  He laughs. “I know how to handle you, Pearl Robinson. I may be greedy for food but you are greedy in other ways. I’m just whetting your appetite – just making sure my chick is still clucking.”

  I’m clucking alright. “You bastard,” I exclaim, pounding his thigh with my fist. “You can’t leave me here like this, moist between the legs, tingling all over.” I see the huge bulge in his jeans and it makes me catch my breath. Why does he insist on this torture?

  He has a knowing smirk on his face as he drives off, the car noisy like a racing car. “You just sleep now, baby, we’ll be there soon. Dream of me, and remember – be prepared, because I’m going to get you to ride me later. See how hard I am? That’s all for you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’ve done it again. I’ve wasted a night sleeping! Last night, after a mouth-watering dinner, which was accompanied by both vintage red and white wines (so delicious, I drained every glass), I conked out on the sofa in our suite. Alexandre carried me, woozily drunk as I was, to bed, and here I am the following morning in the most beautiful place in the world with the most beautiful man in the world, nursing a hangover. What a fool. Except, right now, I appear to be alone in our sumptuous suite, which is decorated with pristine antique furniture.

  I go to one of the two bathrooms, a marble affair, beyond luxurious, and look in the mirror. Uh, oh. My hair is wildly messed up and I have dark makeup around my eyes. Did he wake up to that unsightly mess? Poor guy. I splash water on my face and glug down some mineral water to clear my foggy head. I wander back into the bedroom and living room. Alexandre is definitely not around. I have a memory of last night’s dream, quite Freudian, perhaps, that I was making love to a black horse. Well, not with his actual wiener, but riding his foreleg which was pressed in tightly between my Venus, holding me up. I was worried I was too heavy for his leg as he was supporting all my weight, and I asked him if it hurt (of course, animals speak in dreams). The horse replied, ‘no, it’s fine – keep riding.’ I was meant to ride Alexandre but ended up dreaming about a horse instead! I think I had an orgasm in my sleep. Well, in the dream I did, but does that make it really happen? I have always wondered that – when you come in your sleep are you actually climaxing, or just dreaming you are? For men it’s obvious, they wake up with a sticky mess on the sheets, but for women it is more of a mystery. Sometimes, I still have my hands between my legs, still tingling and hot so I know it happened. But today, I’m not sure.

  Alexandre has awoken my sensibility, my sexuality. To think that less than a month ago, I had resigned myself to a sexless, passionless life, centered around work, and little else. Yet, I am only forty – too young to give up so soon. Forty. Not long ago that seemed a lifetime away for me, and then the number crept up – and here it is. Four O. Fou
r Oh! Like the pearls, I am made of forty shades, a different tone for every year I’ve been alive. Forty. For some that seems old, that I am a preying cougar, that I have no right to be with a man fifteen years younger than me. Yet, for centuries it has been accepted when the roles are reversed. How many people even blink when they see a man fifteen years older than his partner? Princess Diana was only nineteen when she met Prince Charles who was thirteen years her senior, and the whole world thought it marvelously romantic. Yet she was still just a teenager.

  But I am seen as a Cougar with a capital C.

  Cougar – Sophie’s one word, spat at me like venom, is echoing in my ears. I should ignore her spite, but I can’t. I feel I am being judged, and that eyes are upon me, not just Sophie’s, but others, too. Will people be observing me here, thinking, ‘how did she get that young guy?’ Shut up, Pearl! He wants to be with you, just accept It. Be happy, stop doubting yourself all the time.

  But I do doubt myself. I can’t help it.

  I gaze out the window from my balcony at the view, and tears well in my eyes. Tears of happiness, tears of despair. Have I ever witnessed anything so perfect? I look across the century-old grove of pine trees to the sea before me – a blue more profound than I thought possible. Even Hawaii cannot match this. I have heard all my life about the Mediterranean and here I am at the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc on the southern tip of the Cap d’Antibes, the pearl of the Côte d’Azur – no pun intended – where the glamorous and great have been coming for a hundred and forty years.

  Here I am, me, Pearl, in this place that holds such mythical status, standing on my balcony listening to the sound of nature’s summer music – the cicadas chirping in my ears – and breathing in the scent of jasmine, or something delicious, mixed with pine. Perhaps the great playwright, Bernard Shaw, stood right here, or the Hollywood legends, Tyrone Power and Rita Hayworth.

  The turquoise water is shimmering with the morning sun and there is a sailing boat in the distance, its white sails like fairy wings edging on the deep horizon. The deep green of the pine trees compliment the glistening blue – his eyes and mine – green and blue. I think back to when I was a little girl putting my green and blue crayons side by side together – my two favorite colors, so pretty, peaceful, pleasing. Now those colors are part of my soul.

  Only yesterday I was a little girl.

  Today, I am a ‘cougar’.

  I take a shower to freshen up, wash my hair, but once dry, I realize I have nothing to wear but the fated red dress. There is no way I’m strutting about this hotel in that, garnering stares from the glamorous guests. I heard a rumor last night that Madonna is staying here. Eat your heart out, Anthony!

  I call reception and order a blue and white bikini, a tennis skirt and T-shirt from the hotel boutique – something, for now, to make me blend in. Then I ask for breakfast to be brought to the room. It is ten o’clock – where is Alexandre? I don’t want to go looking for him. I have my iPhone but my battery has run out and the charger is back at his house. I open the mini bar and drain a whole bottle of orange juice. Already I feel more alive and am grateful I have had this last hour to myself alone. No more drinking alcohol.

  Famous last words, I know.

  When Alexandre returns, he finds me in my little tennis outfit. He stands at the doorway and gives me a wolf whistle. I laugh.

  “Hi Pearl, love the look. But isn’t it a bit hot to play right now?”

  “I have no intention of playing tennis,” I reply. “All I want to do is get into that crystalline sea. “I had to wear something, so I got this tennis gear, and look,” I say, flashing the bikini underneath. Ready for a swim?”

  He saunters up to me, kisses me on the mouth and lays his hand on my butt. “Absolutely.”

  “Where have you been, by the way?”

  “Making some calls.” By the look on his face I know who he has been speaking to.

  “You talked to your sister?”

  “I needed to get a few things straight with her.”

  “What’s her problem, anyway?”

  “She’s possessive.” He leads me to the sofa and sits me down. He obviously wants to explain things. Explain why his sister is such a tough cookie. Why she dislikes me. “Look, she was the same with Laura. Laura was never good enough for me. Until we split up, of course. Then, suddenly, the sun shone out of Laura’s ass and she could do no wrong.”

  “Even when Laura was already married to the other guy – to James?”

  “Exactly. Once safely ensconced with another man, Laura became the perfect woman for me. They’re great friends now. For some reason, my sister feels that if I am in love with someone, she’ll lose me.”

  I bask in his words. Does that mean he’s in love with me?

  “But Sophie has a step-daughter,” I argue, “and a husband – she has a life outside HookedUp. You’re not a seven year-old boy anymore. She doesn’t need to play mommy to you any longer.”

  He’s shaking his head solemnly. “She can’t let go.”

  “And what about you?” I ask. I’m beginning to see his sister as a major obstacle to our relationship. Like a wicked, jealous mother-in-law with whom you’ll never see eye to eye.

  “She’s had a tough life,” he answers, as if by way of explanation.

  “So have you, but it hasn’t made you aggressive.”

  “Oh, I can be, Pearl. When crossed. Sophie’s the same.”

  “But I haven’t crossed her! I met her once for five minutes.” I put my hand on his knee and soften my voice. “Something you said yesterday has been haunting me. You told me she did a job that wasn’t good for her soul – to help you with tuition fees. What was it?”

  “I really don’t want to go into that.”

  “Was it dealing drugs?”

  “No, she’s never had a drug problem. She’s pretty straight. In fact, she was furious when I was loafing about smoking weed and playing video games when I was a teenager. She was the one who insisted I get my act together.”

  “So what was she doing that was so awful?”

  “Pearl, I don’t want to judge people, least of all my sister. What she did was just her way of trying to make ends meet. It was hard for her at age seventeen when she had to support me. She had to endure stuff she wasn’t happy about. And years later she fell back on a profession that she knew could make money fast.”

  “She worked as a prostitute?” I guess, looking him in the eye.

  He’s tapping his fingers together in agitation. “I don’t like that term. I prefer ‘sex worker.’ It’s still work, whatever anyone says. And it’s not the sex workers who are at fault but their bloody customers. All the perverts of this world who take advantage of someone in a weak, vulnerable position.”

  “I see.”

  “That sounds judgmental, Pearl.”

  “What? I haven’t said anything! All I said was, ‘I see.’ ”

  “Just your tone of voice. Have you any idea how tough it was for Sophie?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I say carefully. “I can try to imagine but I cannot put myself in her shoes.” I nearly say, I have never fallen so low, but instead come up with, “Life has never gotten that bad for me.”

  “Money is important to Sophie. She’s terrified of losing everything we’ve built up. Scared shitless of going back to being poor, or in a compromised situation.”

  “Look, I don’t know much about your finances, Alexandre, but it seems to me that you could both sell up and never work a day again for the rest of your lives – if you ever chose to.”

  “Tell me about it. Not a day goes by when I haven’t considered doing that.”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  “I can’t just abandon her – we’re business partners.”

  “You’d hardly be feeding her to the lions, Alexandre. She’d be set for life. You both would. You said yourself, it’s all about deals now, and the creative process is over. You could start another company; create something new if you wanted. I mean
, if you’re not happy—”

  “I am happy. Please, let’s drop this, Pearl. Let’s go swimming.”

  * * *

  The water is heaven and it washes away that unpleasant conversation. The sea is smooth and refreshing but not cold. Rocks glimmer beneath us and we dip and dive about each other like children. Alexandre is a strong swimmer – thank God. I’m glad I’m not disappointed in that department. Snotty, I know, to care about something like swimming, but I do. A bad swimmer could be a deal breaker. How ridiculous is that?

  Afterwards, we sun ourselves on the rocks like salamanders. He has a dark tan and doesn’t seem to need sun-cream at all.

  “How come you already had swim trunks with you?” I ask.

  “I always keep an emergency overnight bag in my car. Dumb, really. It started in L.A having to be ready in case of a fast getaway after an earthquake. I got caught out once and it shook me. Call me a geek, but I like to be prepared. Next time, I’ll pack for you, too.”

  I smile. ‘Next time’ – I like that. “So what else have you got in your bag of tricks?”

  “A shirt, shorts, jeans, cash and so on.”

  A man prepared for anything. I have a feeling this is less to do with any earthquake than a little boy of seven having to leave home at a moment’s notice, never to return.

  “We can have dinner here later, if you like,” he suggests. “Watch the sunset.”

  “I’d love that.” I start to giggle.

  “What?”

  “Already thinking about dinner, Monsieur Frenchie, and we haven’t even had lunch yet.”

  “Just to prove I’m really French, I carry a corkscrew in my car, too.”

  * * *

  We are back in our luxurious suite drinking chilled champagne (my no-drinking resolve didn’t last a second) – I’m lying naked on the bed, admiring my tan.

  “You can always tell an American girl,” he observes, “by her tan mark.”

  I look up at him.

  “Tits like vanilla,” he explains.