What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG)

by CJ Roberts

  I let out a heavy sigh. “I find this really hard to comprehend. I thought you said you called yourselves The Three Musketeers.”

  “Sophie and I were The Two Musketeers for ages. My mother couldn’t contact us. We didn’t trust her not to tell him where we were, so we remained invisible. My sister got cash jobs, waitressing and other things, and we had alias names. Sophie pretended to everyone that she was my mother – lied about her age, said she was older.”

  He is staring into space now, locked in this memory. The way he is spilling all this out to me makes me feel as if he hasn’t shared this with anyone for a long time. Maybe never.

  “Later,” he continues, now glancing at me, “Sophie called my mother and met up with her, but kept me hidden just in case. But my mother had learnt her lesson by that point and swore she’d leave him. She did, and never looked back.”

  “How can you forgive your mom for not coming with you in the first place? For not denouncing your father?”

  “You forgave your father, didn’t you? For abandoning you?”

  “Yes, but my brothers and I weren’t in danger.”

  “Brothers? I thought you only had one brother.”

  “Well, no. I had another brother,” I admit. “John – who died of an overdose.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “My life hasn’t been such a picnic, either.”

  Looking at me, Alexandre asks, “What made your brother do that?”

  “He was an alcoholic. I don’t know, he was really messed-up about my father leaving, and was always disturbed as a young boy. He was a sensitive soul who took on too many burdens of the world. Then, one night, just over ten years ago, he had a lethal cocktail of drink, prescription medication and cocaine. He died.”

  Alexandre holds my hand and squeezes it a little. “Shit.”

  “Yeah, it was a shock. I still miss him.”

  “Yeah, I bet. People do strange things. Not a day goes by when my mother doesn’t hate herself for what she did. Your brother, Pearl, was powerless against his addiction.”

  “Was your mother using drugs, too? Or drinking?”

  “He was her drug. He was her poison.”

  I notice he can’t bear to use the word father.

  “Was he your step-father or your real father?” I ask.

  “When you say, ‘real,’ do you mean biological?”

  “Yes.”

  His normally sumptuous mouth sets into a thin line. “Good – because he was never a real father to us. His seed produced us, but he was not our father.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought I had a sob story, but yours – well it must have been awful.”

  “You can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “I could try.”

  “Pearl, what he did to us is beyond anyone’s imagination.”

  “He abused you? Sexually?”

  “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry. They do a great breakfast at The Carlyle.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early?”

  “They know me there, it’ll be fine.”

  I shower and put my Jean Muir dress back on. Alexandre offers to lend me something of Sophie’s to wear but I decline. There’s no way I’d feel comfortable dressed in anything of hers without her permission. Men don’t get that – how women are about their clothing.

  Alexandre puts on a dark gray suit, one of the ice blue silk ties, and shoes polished to a high shine. He looks so different, I’m stunned.

  “You look highly sophisticated,” I marvel, “very handsome indeed.”

  “Thank you, Pearl. I have a lunch meeting with an elderly gentleman, the type who wouldn’t appreciate my usual attire.”

  I feel very ‘morning after the night before’ in my dress and heels, but when we arrive at The Carlyle by cab – I couldn’t walk more than a block in those heels – I don’t feel out of place. Plus, Alexandre looks so dapper in his suit; I’d feel ashamed to stand beside him in something more casual. I realize when we sit down for breakfast that I have left my gifts behind; the kingfisher feather and the pearl choker.

  The hotel’s dining room is elegant like an English country manor house, with plush chintz-covered banquettes, rugs adorning the floor, and mirrored alcoves set off by a towering floral arrangement of lilies in the center of the room. This is a first – doing breakfast. I’m a grabber, a black coffee guzzler, running and eating at the same time. When I tell Alexandre this, he laughs.

  “Food on the go,” he exclaims. “Very American. In France, people are discussing what they’ll be having for lunch while they’re still eating breakfast, and while they’re eating lunch, what they should make for dinner. People want a hot lunch, even in summer. Especially people who live outside big cities – everything closes at noon sharp until two o’clock.”

  “You can’t go shopping during those hours?”

  “No way! Everyone’s having lunch. And on Sundays? Forget it. Sunday is family day. Walking in the park et cetera. You can shop on Sunday mornings for food – the supermarkets will be open – but little else. The afternoons are for relaxation only.”

  We sit down at a table with a white tablecloth and I feel as if I’m on a date, although it can’t be more than seven a.m.

  “What else is different about the French culture?” I want to know, smoothing out my dress.

  “Let me see. Oh yes, your drinking laws. In France, teenagers are expected to try a little wine with their food.”

  “They must go wild.”

  “Not really. Because it’s available, it’s less of a big deal.”

  “What else?” I ask, fascinated.

  “Well, I think I explained to you why Sophie and I have made our business more of a success here in the States than in France. Being an entrepreneur in the U.S is respected – something many people aspire to. Being an entrepreneur in France is what you do if you’re unemployable or cannot get a ‘real’ job. Things are changing, but slowly. People have to stand on their own two feet more than before – ‘jobs for life’ are hard to get these days.”

  “Something you and Sophie had to do – fend for yourselves, stand on your own two feet.”

  “Exactly, we had training.” He laughs – the somber look has been replaced again by his happy-go-lucky demeanor. Thank God. I see touching on his past can cause demons to re-visit. I would have liked to have delved more into who his father was, and what became of him, but the look on Alexandre’s face, back at his apartment earlier, told me to shut right up.

  The waiter comes over to ask for our order. I like to think that he imagines that Alexandre and I are married – a well-dressed couple at breakfast together. The fantasy of wedding this Frenchman is now taking hold of me like a child clutching a lollipop. Pearl, get a grip, I say to myself with wry humor. Clutching onto a dream, a fantasy – not wanting to let go of the lollipop.

  “What would you like, Pearl?” Alexandre asks, putting his hand on mine. I feel all melty and warm. We are together having breakfast. We have spent the night together.

  “I’ll have poached eggs and smoked salmon with Hollandaise, please.”

  “Could you just bring me a big bowl of blueberries?” he asks the waiter. “I don’t see it on the menu but−”

  “Of course, sir, anything else? The waiter sounds deferential. The smart suit is working wonders.

  “Shall we get coffee?” Alexandre turns to me.

  “Sure,” I reply. “And maybe some orange juice?”

  “And some freshly squeezed juice, please,” he says. “Oh yes, and a little yoghurt, perhaps.”

  “That’s all you’re eating?”

  “I’m crazy about blueberries and stuff my face with them whenever I can. You see that? How accommodating the waiter was? Blueberries not on the menu – but no problem. That’s what I love about this country, people want to make you happy and there’s no shame in the service industry – you guys go out of your way to smile. Americans have different values and one of those key values concerns the cust
omer.”

  “Anything you don’t like about us?” I ask.

  Someone is leaving him a message on his cell. It buzzes on the table. He ignores it and also ignores my question.

  “You Americans also value innovation,” he carries on, back to his topic, “and individualism. Standing out is a good thing here, but in France, people can be suspicious if it’s not done in the ‘right’ way. Don’t get me wrong. At school I learned philosophy – and this wasn’t a private school, even. We’re educated very well in France – cheaply too. If you have a big family, the youngest get to go for free, even in a private school. But you aren’t encouraged to think for yourself, nor operate by instinct or gut feeling, nor come up with original ideas – nor think too much ‘outside the box.’ It’s drummed into you to only debate something if you have well, thought out opinions and arguments that can be backed up with a host of proven examples. And certain things are expected from us in society in France. The American dream still exists here. In France, people are discouraged to dream – it’s not practical.”

  I’m in my element listening to him spout forth; his melodic voice spurting off opinions, his defined jaw raised, almost haughtily, with his beliefs. Please, God, if you care about me, let Alexandre take me to Paris, to Provence.

  “And what,” I press on, “about the positive side? The things you really miss about your country?”

  “Well, leisure is a necessity in France, not a luxury,” he says, loosening his tie. “We live to eat not eat to live, and the same goes for relaxation. We spend time with family, have longer, paid vacations – we value our free time and don’t feel guilty about it. In America, if you tell someone they’re a workaholic, they take it as a compliment. In France, a person would be horrified if you said that to them. All these are sweeping generalizations, of course. There are exceptions to the rule in both countries. But this is what I’ve experienced with my limited understanding of this cross-culture.”

  “And what drives you nuts about France?” I ask, noticing his cell buzzing on the table yet again.

  “Zero customer service. People can’t get fired easily so they behave any way they feel like, especially with government paid jobs. The cockiness is something to be believed. In America, a company earns its clientele – in France the customer is not the king, that’s for sure.”

  “Wow, it sounds both fascinating and frustrating.”

  “It is. It is.”

  “What about French women? Do you see a difference there?” This is the question I have been longing to ask from the beginning – translation – are you and I serious? Or will you end up with a French woman because Americans just can’t compete?

  He ponders this. “Not so much the women themselves, but people’s attitudes towards them. In America, youth is worshipped. In France we love women. Girls are for boys. Women are for men. At least, I speak for myself. I am attracted to women, not girls.” He looks hard at me and then smiles.

  I know my days of being a girl are long since gone but I still find it hard to accept that I am ‘mature’ – I still hanker after being mistaken for a girl when I walk down the street. When you are a mature woman, the wolf-whistles from construction workers stop, and that’s a scary thing.

  The cell is vibrating, almost moving across the table of its own volition. Whoever is calling is desperate to speak to him. At seven fifteen in the morning?

  “Excuse me, I obviously need to listen to these messages.” He looks at his cell. “It’s Sophie, it must be urgent.”

  Mess…. Ages, his accent says, as if in warning.

  As he listens to his messages, I study the expression on his face which changes from animated and delighted to concerned, and then visibly upset. He makes a call. Calling Sophie back, no doubt. I watch him in as discreet a way as possible. I don’t want to appear nosey. I pretend to look about the room. I fumble in my clutch bag, while all the time keeping my peripheral vision honed in on him. He is saying, “oui, non, incroyable” and words to that effect. At one point, he looks at me and then away. Has somebody died? He puts his cell on the table, sighs and brings his hand to his face, cupping his chin, half covering his mouth. Something is very, very wrong. His eyes are stony and just his expression is making me want to sink through the floor.

  “Pearl. Oh, Pearl,”

  I say nothing. He gives me a look that I can’t quite fathom. He is not happy.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Pearl?”

  “What?” I ask innocently. I have a horrible feeling I know where this conversation is heading.

  “Who you were?” he asks in a quiet, disbelieving voice.

  Help! He thinks I’m a monster, I can see it now, written all over his face. His lips are tight – the way they were when he talked about his father. I am now in the father category.

  “What do you mean?” I ask like a fool. I should just blurt out, ‘I’m sorry’ but I’m feeling defensive. Really, I am not a bad person!

  “Is this what all this is to you?” he asks with disgust, waving his hand in the air. “This breakfast – spending time with me? Jesus – even making love to me. All this so you can glean information for your bloody documentary? Get me to open up to you, the way I did about my intimate private affairs? You asked me if there was something I didn’t like about Americans – for all the good about your country, you lot would sell your souls, wouldn’t you? Sell your own grandmothers if it meant advancing your careers in some way?”

  A minute ago he loved America and Americans. Now, because of me, we are all slung like soiled underwear into the laundry bag.

  “Alexandre, let me explain, let me−”

  “Explain what? That you basically lied to me? Oh yes, very clever, not lied, exactly, no – just omitted to mention the fact that you were hunting me and my sister down. Why didn’t you just come out with it? We’re not ogres. Who knows? With some persuasion we might have even said, yes. Why weren’t you honest and simply tell us that you wanted to do a documentary about us?”

  “Because I−” I’m all tongue-twisted, I can’t speak, my breathing is shallow and fast, my heart is racing and my eyes are welling up. “Because−”

  “Don’t fucking cry on me now. I’m not falling for that.”

  “I love you, Alexandre.” It plops out of my mouth – I can’t help myself.

  “Yeah, right. That, I really believe.”

  The tears are flowing now – I’m mopping my face with my linen napkin and see the couple at the table next to us staring with curiosity. I don’t care – I blabber on, “When I met you at that coffee shop – it was a mistake – I didn’t even know you were there – I’d given up – I’d missed your talk.” It’s all coming out garbled, my lips stuttering as I swallow air in great gulps – “I don’t care about the documentary. I want to do a film about arms dealing, I don’t care.”

  “That’s clear. You don’t care. Well you know what? I did care. I thought we had something special. I thought you were different, but all along, I see you wanted to get to know me for ulterior reasons! Not because you were having fun with me, not because you felt for me, but because you had a fucking film to make and I, along with my sister, were your targets. Why the hell didn’t you just say that that was what you wanted? Be straightforward – not sneak about like some snake in the grass.” He’s standing now, not even looking at me anymore. He gets out a couple of hundred dollar bills from his suit pocket and slaps them on the table. “I don’t know what the check will be,” he snaps. “Please deal with it, keep any change.”

  Keep the change – what am I, a whore?

  “Please Alexandre – my boss was away – I never even let her know I’d met you. I wasn’t even going to tell her so she’d forget about that silly documentary−”

  “There you go again, Pearl. Not being straight with people. Not telling your boss you met me? Hiding stuff. What are you – ten years old?”

  “I’m sorry, Alexandre. I’m so sorry. I lo−” the rest of the sentence doesn’t even get a
chance to come out.

  “Bye Pearl. I’ll get your necklace delivered to your door. And that other ridiculous gift.”

  “I love that gift,” I mumble pathetically.

  I want to tell him he’s the best thing that ever happened to me, that I’m besotted with him, but he’s leaving now, not looking behind. I see the jacket of his sharp suit swish away as he walks with steely purpose out of the dining room. Mortification does not do justice to how I feel. I brought this upon myself. I dug my own grave. Nobody but my sorry-ass self can be blamed. There I was, fantasizing that I was like Rachel from Friends, a cute-charmer-character lost in a silly little sitcom predicament. But Rachel and I are worlds apart – I can’t laugh over it with a mug of coffee. No. This is real.

  I have blown everything.

  10

  “Don’t you see how childish that sounds, Pearl?”

  Like a real glutton for extra punishment, I have called Anthony. Why, why did I do this? I’m in my bedroom, throwing off the Jean Muir dress, while climbing into something more casual. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for work. Sinead O’ Connor’s Nothing Compares 2U is blaring on my music system, a reminder that Alexandre is irreplaceable. Unique. And I’ve lost him.

  “Pearl? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here, I’m just battling with my dress.”

  “Rachel from Friends? Seriously? You’re likening yourself to a ditzy TV character? I mean, maybe you are that way but you don’t want others to perceive you so. Do you know how lame that sounds? Not to mention dated. So 1990s. It really shows your age, too.”

  “I happen to love Rachel. And you make it sound as if being forty is some sort of disease.”

  “It is when you’re dating someone from kindergarten.”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

  “Don’t hang up…did you mention that to Frenchie – that you are still hung up – excuse the pun – on Rachel from Friends?”

  “His name is Alexandre. No, I did not mention Rachel from Friends to him. Maybe I did tell him I liked I Love Lucy and Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie.”