Belle Pearl

by Arianne Richmonde

  I kissed Pearl’s knuckles on her ringed hand and said—the diamond glittering in my eyes as I spoke—“Pearl, I know you and I know myself. If we don’t spend the rest of our days together we won’t be truly happy. We’ll go around half dead. Without you, my flame is snuffed out. Without you, I am only half a man. Without you, my life will be running on empty.” Maybe I sounded like a cliché—an actor speaking his lines—but it was unrehearsed and how I truly felt.

  I came clean with Pearl that night. I revealed all to her. My past. My mother. The lot. And then Pearl told me her big secret. The best damn secret known to man.

  She was pregnant with my child.

  13

  I won’t go into detail about all the trials and tribulations that Pearl and I endured over the next month or so because of Laura. Suffice it to say that there was enough madness and intrigue to make a long movie (that would have seemed too far-fetched for most intelligent beings) and a TV spin-off of several seasons, to boot. Laura had us running around in circles, doing cartwheels, backward walkovers, and nosedives, suffering several near coronaries and many sleepless nights. But the difference now, was that Pearl and I weathered the storm together. And knowing that she was pregnant made our family unit stronger, all the more invincible. A tiny voice inside my head assured me that we would pull thorough.

  We had to.

  We had a thousand nutty plans to out-fox Laura. Her latest scheme was to use me as a sperm donor for her brainchild baby-to-be, generously letting Pearl ‘keep’ me for herself, Laura having finally given up on actually marrying me. It was bordering on laughable her plan was so outlandish.

  Our last ‘encounter’ was at Laura’s house in Chelsea. She was threatening my mother again and I found myself on a plane to London to put an end to her blackmail, once and for all. However, in an unexpected twist, Fate and Irony got their first.

  Laura had an accident—another fall, this time tumbling downstairs in her own house, her head cracking open, and her heart—which had erroneously believed it loved me—finally stopped beating.

  Her husband James (emerging like a dormouse from a long winter) had been in rehab for several months—all this I found out during the bizarre scene that followed.

  Pearl had been imagining all that time that Laura had topped him off. James was one of those high-class heroin addicts (able to afford the best) and had spent time at The Priory—a sort of British Betty Ford equivalent—to kick his habit. Although, I didn’t find all this out until we were both embedded in a drama that made us both look like murderers.

  James and I found ourselves in an almost comical situation—murder suspects as we were—as we both observed Laura lying, dead as a smashed mosquito, at the bottom of the staircase in their London house. We arrived at the scene of the ‘crime’ simultaneously.

  She had a serene smile on her lipsticked lips as if the accident really had taken her unawares. I still remember the color red, vivid and dramatic—the pool of blood, the crimson of her silky negligee, her shiny, vermillion-painted lips. Both James and I looked guilty as dogs who had raided the trash—I had just come in through the back, via the garage door (with my own set of keys), and James suddenly emerged from the front door. Which one of us was a victim of circumstance, and which one a murderer? We fixed our gaze, first on Laura, and then one another.

  “She must have careened down the stairs like a sled,” I said to James as we continued to size each other up. We then looked back down at Laura’s corpse, each silently accusing the other. “Her feet must have slipped forward, and her body slanting backwards, bashing her head on the bottom step.” Jesus, it sounds as if I know too much.

  James cast his glance at one dainty-heeled slipper on Laura’s left foot and then looked about to find its pair. It was lying a few feet away. He bent down and touched her pale cheek and I thought, “Fuck it’s him; he did it.” Laura looked all tarted-up; make-up, a sexy, skimpy little outfit—for my benefit? James obviously thought so, and by the look on his face he suspected his wife and I were having an affair. He killed her out of jealousy and rage, I thought.

  I locked my eyes with his.

  “You fucking cunt,” James shrieked at me. “You sneaky fucking bastard.” He laid his palm across his wife’s breast to double-check if she was as dead as she looked. “You bloody well killed my wife!”

  “James, no! What are you saying? That’s crazy. I just got here, at the same time you were coming through the front door. I swear. This is just as much a surprise for me as it is for you.”

  James looked up at me with his odd, angular face, a sneer etched on his thin lips. He raked his bony hand through his blond hair and said in his British, upper-class voice:

  “What I don’t understand, is why. Why, Alexandre? Did you try to kill her last time, too? When she had that supposed ‘accident’ and she ended up in a bloody wheelchair? I mean, it’s obvious she fell down the stairs. One push, that’s all it must have taken. You fucking bastard!” Spittle sprayed as he spoke.

  I knew he wasn’t the type to lay a punch. English aristocratic men are usually pretty cowardly (too polite for their own good), but I flinched all the same, and wiped his spray of angry spittle from my face. My stomach churned with sick dread as I thought of my father’s teeth and hip bits—evidence in that safety deposit box. Laura dead was all I fucking needed.

  I shouted out, “Okay, James…this is just great. You accusing me of murder? How about I accuse you? Where the fuck have you been for the last couple of months? Eh? Suddenly appearing like this. Perhaps you knew that I was coming over. Laura knew. I called her. Maybe it was really bloody convenient for you to bump her off and then blame me.”

  “I’m going to call the police,” James spluttered, his eyes wet with emotion. Real emotion? Fake?

  The word ‘police’ sent a hammer to my heart. I thought of the evidence. Laura’s note stowed with her lawyer revealing everything if she ever had an accident. My mother rotting in a jail somewhere. And I’d be accused of her murder, on top of it all. Fuck!

  James traced his finger along Laura’s once-determined jaw. “Laura wouldn’t just fall down her own stairs in her own house now, would she?”

  “It is possible, she had those heeled slippers on,” I answered.

  “How the fuck did you get in, anyway?”

  “Through the back, from the garden,” I said. “I still have your garage keys.”

  James nodded. “That’s right—your Aston Martin. I’d forgotten about that.”

  Now I looked even guiltier. My Aston Martin excuse wouldn’t wash because it wasn’t fucking there anymore! Suresh, my driver, had moved it to France. I had no reason, whatsoever, for coming through the back door. I quickly added, “Actually, I moved my car a while ago. I knocked on the front door but there was no answer, and Laura didn’t pick up the phone. She was expecting me. So I came through the back.”

  “Nice excuse, Alex. Tell that to Scotland bloody Yard.”

  That particular TV episode was a long and complicated one—the finale to an outrageously elaborate plot, peppered with an element of black humor. I must have had ‘killer’ written all over my face, because I could not deny the onslaught of fatalistic fantasies I’d had in the run-up to Laura’s death. I do think I willed it to happen. I really do. The power of imagination is awesome. And when I say ‘awesome’ I mean it in the true sense of the word.

  In my mind I had killed Laura. Perhaps James had too; who knew the anger that had been building inside him. Here we were, staring at each other open-mouthed, dumbstruck that she really was gone for good—each accusing the other of murder. It was as if the screenwriters in our TV serial spin-off had Agatha Christie in mind, because what ensued, after we had both been arrested on suspicion of murder, was that Laura and James’s housekeeper, Mrs. Blake, came forward.

  As I sat at the local police station, wondering how I would burrow my way out of my Alice-In-Wonderland rabbit hole, Mrs. Blake—my fairy godmother—waved her magic wand: waxy poli
sh on the stairs, coupled with Laura’s kitten-heeled slippers, were both the murder weapons and the murderers rolled into one. It was confirmed by forensics that there was polish all over the soles of Laura’s shoes.

  Finally, Pearl and I were free.

  Or so I thought.

  Because Laura—even from her chaise longue in Hell (she was probably having cocktails and flirting with the Devil himself)—had other plans for our future.

  14

  Our long-awaited wedding was a fairytale. It took place in Lapland—yes, Lapland really does exist—on St. Valentine’s Day itself.

  Pearl had done everything to make it extraordinary, including reindeer with white velvet ribbons tied around their antlers, to pull us with sleds. She had told little Amy that they were on loan from Santa Claus and even I believed her. It really was a dream winter wedding. Pearl was the Ice Queen and I her King. She looked resplendent in a floor-length, ivory-colored gown. It was silk velvet, and caught the light as she glided through the wedding ceremony, the long train trailing behind her. Beads of ‘ice crystal’ blossoms cascaded off one shoulder. Elodie and Amy were her bridesmaids, both dressed in pink. Elodie looked like a movie star, the derriere of her gown low and scooped, caught at the back with pink silk roses, and Amy, taking her role very seriously, was dressed in a pink, baby-doll, organza number with a wreath in her hair.

  The chapel was made of real ice, sculpted from the frozen land. Dozens of artists had arrived from across the globe to carve the ice interiors. Each year, they told us, the designs were completely different and would melt in springtime. Nothing but our memories and photographs would be testament to our magical day.

  I stood there in my tails, nervously waiting for Pearl as she walked quietly down the aisle. Everybody was entranced. Sophie was misty-eyed; both her husband and Alessandra by her side—he still had no idea, and thought Alessandra was just an old friend from Sophie’s ‘acting’ days. My mother stood tall and proud, my stepfather holding her hand. Anthony and Daisy were blatantly blubbing into handkerchiefs. And Pearl’s father winked at me as if to say, She’s yours now, don’t fuck up the way I did.

  No, I wasn’t going to fuck-up. I had fought hard for this prize.

  I locked my eyes with Pearl’s and let out a sigh of relief. She was about to be mine. All mine. I thought back to how she bolted from me at Van Nuys Airport and wondered, just for a split second, if she would run from me now. But her gaze remained steadily on my face, a faint smile on her lips. Concentrated. Determined. She wanted me. All of me. The bad me, the okay me, the me that knew that we would be together as long as we both lived.

  A dysfunctional match made in Heaven.

  No, she wasn’t any more perfect than I was—in fact, she really was a pretty wayward character, but she was perfect for me. She broke out in a huge smile and I beamed at her in return. We giggled nervously like schoolchildren at the excitement of it all. Then I mouthed silently, “Pearl Chevalier,” as she walked slowly towards me, her eyes glistening, twinkling with emotion.

  And then she was by my side as we did our wedding vows. At the end, after we’d exchanged rings, the pastor asked everyone to affirm our matrimony.

  “If you believe that Pearl and Alexandre are made for one another, say yes!” he cried out, and everyone shouted back in unison, “Yes!”

  “Say it louder!” he demanded, and they did. It was an unorthodox touch on his part, no doubt planned ahead, but it took us both by surprise, and something about that big ‘Yes’ made us snap out of the surreal dream of our fairytale wedding, and into a shocking moment. Shocking because this was it. Forever—the Yes giving us strength for our future. They all believed in us, just as much as we believed in us. Words are powerful when spoken by many at one time. Especially with conviction.

  It was comforting to know that our twins were also part of the ceremony, even if only in Pearl’s stomach. The family I had always dreamed of was almost complete.

  Our wedding bands were made of 22 carat gold and each had the other’s name inscribed inside. So not only was P E A R L engraved on my heart, but on my finger, too.

  The celebration continued all night, everybody doing their own thing—sled rides, vodka drinking, feasting, and general jovialities all round. I just wanted to be alone with Pearl.

  I helped her down from the sled onto the powdery, glittery snow, as snowflakes fluttered onto our faces. Reindeer and sled dropped us off at our remote log cabin where a glowing fire awaited us inside. I glanced skyward, soaking up the spectacle. The Aurora Borealis—the Northern Lights—swooped above us. Five fingers of sweeping green light, like a giant’s hand, raised itself towards the Heavens. God’s hand? Pearl thought so. If ever there was a moment when I felt that there was a Higher Power, this was it. I had it all. The woman I loved by my side, pregnant with twins, and a sense of freedom and relief as I had never known before in my life. The old world was behind me and I was starting afresh. We were a mountain together, Pearl and I.

  That night, we fucked for the first time in months, so it really did feel to me as if it was new to us. Okay, we’d had delicious sex in many other ways, but no penetration—doctor’s orders in case Pearl suffered a miscarriage. It had happened to her twice before during her marriage to Saul and we didn’t want to take any risks. So this night really was our wedding night in every sense. She was my virgin bride. I felt reverent towards my new wife, but I also couldn’t wait to enter her. Deep. Profound. I needed that union. It had been far too long. As beautiful as her wedding gown was, I had visions of what lay beneath—and I couldn’t wait.

  I observed Pearl quietly as she lay on the bed before me. Horny as I was, I didn’t want to rush a thing. This was a moment to be savored for the rest of our lives. I could hardly breathe I had so much love overflowing from within me; a pumping surge which took my body by surprise. I could now know for sure that she belonged to me. No more ifs or buts. No more cat and mouse.

  “Pearl Chevalier,” I said, rolling those sweet words on my tongue. “Madame Pearl Chevalier, tu es magnifique.” The golden light of the fire highlighted the curves of her nude body and glowed on her beautiful face. “Je t’aime,” I added with pride. I could feel myself get hard. “Do you realize how I’ve been longing for this moment? Counting down the days, the hours?”

  “Well, that’s how they had to do it in the olden days. The groom had to wait for his wedding night,” she said.

  I remained stationary, drinking in the incomparable image. The image that I wanted imprinted on my brain until the end of my days, so when I was old, gray and doddery I could remember this moment.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” I murmured. She bit her lip and spread her legs a touch. My cock flexed again. I slowly sauntered towards her, my eyes locked with hers. Her blonde hair had grown in the last few months and was spread like silky bands across her shoulders.

  I bent down and kissed her. I inhaled in her sweet scent, and a feral moan rumbled from my throat. She opened her lips and her pink tongue, fresh and eager, darted out to meet mine. She whimpered and I knew how wet she’d be, even though I hadn’t even touched that part of her yet. “Pearl Chevalier,” I said again, and winked at her. “Mrs. Pearl Chevalier. Madame Pearl Chevalier.”

  “Oh don’t be so sure, I might decide to be Mzzzz,” she teased, “or mademoiselle. I might keep my maiden name.”

  “No more games, Pearl,” I said, nipping her pussycat lip, “you’re mine now.”

  “Prove it,” she moaned into my mouth.

  “Oh, I will.”

  Her nipples were tweaked with desire and her tits full and round from the pregnancy. I trailed my tongue over her lips, and my fingers grazed across her taut breasts and I pinched and rolled one nipple lightly. “Oh God,” she groaned, her eyes fluttering.

  I pinned her beneath me, my knees either side of her hips, my cock rock-hard against her curved belly where Louis and Madeleine—we had just come up with the names a couple of hours earlier—were growin
g stronger day by day. I almost felt wicked, knowing I was about to defile their pure mother. But it also made me all the more ravenous for Pearl, knowing that the seed inside her was growing into two special little beings, who would talk and walk and have their own opinions about life. We had created them together. Through love. And lust.

  She traced her fingers over my pecs and ran them slowly down to my abdomen, letting her fingers dip into the ridges, scanning my torso with her guileless, approving eyes. “You’re beautiful, Alexandre,” she told me.

  I leaned down to kiss her again, letting our lips rest quietly together. We were united and about to be joined even closer. I needed that proximity. I needed to be deep inside her. I edged further down until my cock rested on her slick wetness. Desire pooled low in my gut and blood pumped hard and fast into my groin. I was huge and worried that I might hurt her, yet the need to fuck her was stronger than ever. I could feel every nuance of her soft, liquid heat and I slid in just a millimeter. Fuck! It felt out of this world. “Is that okay, baby? I don’t want to damage you.”

  “Help me,” she whimpered.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “Please fuck me, Alexandre. Please.” I pushed in another inch, using my arms to control my weight on her. Her eyes flicked to my biceps and she bit her lip. She bucked her hips up at me to get closer but I carried on controlling myself. “Your muscles are so defined,” she whispered. “You’re so incredible—every part of you.”

  I made small circular movements so she could adjust to my size. I could feel myself throbbing, and the sensation of her tight pussy, like a warm glove, had my sensitive cock ready to plunge into her. Fuck her hard. But I counted to ten and remained steadily, gently thrusting, only a couple of inches in. I had to control myself.