by CJ Roberts
“Forty years old going on seven. Honestly. Interesting how all those characters tell fibs. I guess you must identify with them.”
“Well I love them all and I still laugh when I watch re-runs.”
“Honey, you’re not going to get a chance to re-run this little episode, don’t you get that? And I don’t hear you laughing now, sweet pea. Do you know anything about French men? Do you not realize they are the proudest people on the face of this earth? You messed with his pride, girlfriend, you ain’t never gonna get another chance.”
“Stop that ‘girlfriend’ lingo, Anthony.”
I imagine Anthony swanning about San Francisco ‘girlfriending’ everyone and giving high fives, and for some reason it makes my blood boil. I yell, “Anthony, what is all this, ‘French people do this and Americans do that?’ We are human beings, not stereotypes from some 1960’s Berlitz travel guide.”
“Do you remember that Mexican travel guide of Mom’s?” he cackles. “How we’d roar with laughter?”
“Listen, Anthony, I’ll call you later, I’m running late. Thanks for listening to my woes. And being an ass.”
“Laters, baby sis. Take care now, don’t do anything rash, ya hear?”
When I arrive at work, I nearly have a heart attack. Natalie is sitting quietly at her desk.
“Natalie, why are you back so early?” I ask, dumping my monster handbag on the floor. It’s back with full vengeance now – everything is packed inside – just in case. As in suitcase, it’s so heavy.
“Good morning to you, too, Pearl.”
“I’m sorry – just – I thought you were in Hawaii until Monday.”
“I tossed up whether to stay and check into a hotel or come home early. In the end it made sense to get back.”
“Hotel? What happened at Dad’s?”
“Your dad didn’t seem to want me there anymore.”
“What? But he’s crazy about you!”
“Was. Seems he got bored.”
“No, Natalie, you just read him wrong. That’s his style. He’s a loner, a surfer dude – just been used to being independent.”
“Selfish is what he is.”
“Okay, you know what? You are my boss and I love and respect you but I spent my whole life hating my father and finally, finally we became friends. I know he’s selfish, I know he is a terrible husband, boyfriend whatever, but I do not want to know all the details of what an asshole he is. Especially, not right now.”
I find myself in tears again, and Natalie takes me in her arms. I begin to howl like some sort of wolf. The fact that she says, ‘there, there, let it all out,’ makes it worse. I let it all flow freely. I am like a dam suddenly being unblocked. My whole life is being spilled into her bosom. In between sobs I tell her my Alexandre story, minus the mind-blowing sex. That is my precious secret – too beautiful to share with anyone.
“She listens carefully and then says, “Yes, I had his sister, Sophie Dumas, on the line this morning cross-questioning me.”
“What?”
“I mean, it was pot-luck I was at my desk so early. I came here directly from the airport – took the Red-eye. I guess they’re five or six hours ahead of us in France. She was pretty pissed.”
“What did she say?” I ask – my heart on the floor.
“She wanted confirmation of your name. She had the e-mails in front of her, the ones I had sent her asking for a meeting and confirming your presence at the conference. She couldn’t understand why you hadn’t approached her honestly when you met them at that coffee shop after their talk at InterWorld. And, of course, she was aware that you’ve been dating her brother – he must have spoken to her about you.”
Natalie is looking at me in a way that says, ‘Yes Pearl, why didn’t you just do things the way you were meant to? You have let us all down.’ But no words come from her lips – just that look.
“I know. I know, Natalie. I screwed up. She and Alexandre were standing there in line. Very friendly. Very amenable. I just kind of froze with…I don’t know…with what. Fear? Excitement? All I know is the second Alexandre spoke to me I turned to Jell-O. I thought he may think I was a stalker. I wanted to be the beautiful girl he met in a coffee shop, not someone…someone wanting something from him. I’m so sorry, Natalie.”
“You would have still been that beautiful girl at the coffee shop, Pearl, no matter what.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“They wouldn’t have gone for it anyway,” she says in a soothing tone. “At least, not Sophie. She sounded pretty fierce. It’s just a shame it has all gone so horribly wrong with you and Alexandre.”
So horribly wrong. Her words are like clanging cymbals, or nails on a blackboard.
“Were you planning on telling me?” Natalie asks, looking me in the eye.
“Of course. But you asked me not to disturb you on vacation,” I stutter, telling a half-truth.
The day drags on. I can hardly concentrate. I do research, catch up with important calls and e-mails, but I can’t picture anything but the shadow of disappointment on Alexandre’s face. I don’t mention the pearl necklace to Natalie. And hope he doesn’t send it back to me, after all, as he promised. A reminder of what could have been if I wasn’t such a dunce.
I reflect on all the dumb things I’ve said, the way I have behaved like a child when I’m almost a middle-aged woman. I loathe, loathe, loathe that word, ‘middle-aged’ and cannot bear to let it sneak its pushy way into my vocabulary, but as Anthony reminded me – ‘how long, exactly, do you expect to live, Pearl? Of course you are heading into middle-age – you can’t deny it.’
After hours of beating myself up, I start remembering the sex Alexandre and me, and can actually hear low whimpers coming from my very being, the way when you have a fever and groan quietly. I think of his worked-out torso, his strong thighs pressed hard between my legs, how the water gushed down on us, swirling about our pleasured bodies. I think of his tongue meeting mine and how it licked me, pressed me on my sweet spot until I came, my body writhing in spasms of bliss. I think of him inside me – and my belly churns upside down.
I have to call him, or at least send a text – I can bear it no longer. Even if he thinks I’m a despicable human being who lies, surely he can at least have sex with me? I pick up my cell and begin to write him a message:
Dearest Alexandre – no, scrap the ‘dearest,’ that sounds ridiculous.
Alexandre, please forgive me. Can we meet up? Just to talk?
No, that gives him a chance to say no. I erase and start again.
Alexandre – I need to see you – please come over.
I can hear Anthony’s voice, ‘Helloooo, Pearl? Desperate!’
My cell rings and my heart practically pops out of my skin – it gives me such a jump. Alexandre? No, it’s Daisy.
“Hi Daisy.”
“You called me four times, is everything okay?”
“I’ve really screwed up, Daisy.”
I tell her the whole drama in whispers. I don’t want anyone in the office to think I’m a hopeless wreck (which, of course, I am).
“Okay, Pearl, listen to me. DO NOT send him a message or speak to him. Wait for me. How soon can you leave work?”
“In an hour,” I murmur.
“Meet me in the park – no, better still, I’ll pick you up from work and we can walk there together. I repeat, do not send any messages or call him, okay?”
I don’t reply.
“Okay?” she repeats in a stern voice. “Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“What do you promise?”
“I promise not to send Alexandre any messages, nor call him.”
I can hear her sigh with relief. “Good. See you in a jiffy.”
Just knowing that Daisy’s one-woman rescue team is on its way, I find myself (after a couple more black coffees) getting a ton of work done. I do more in an hour than I have all week. I need to get a grip. I listen to Julie London croon Black Coffee and identify with
the lyrics as if the song were made just for me. I too, am feeling as low as the ground.
If I work really hard perhaps I can get Alexandre’s smile, sex with Alexandre, and Alexandre’s very being – which has bored its way into my very psyche – out of my one-track mind.
I am a successful documentary producer, not a teenager. I am a woman, not a girl.
I am in control of my life.
I thought Daisy would be bringing Amy along, as she suggested Central Park, but no, she is alone. I am delighted (selfish me) that I have her and her undivided attention all to myself. She is in her tough-love mode.
It’s a relief to get away from the sounds of horns and the ebb and flow of traffic, from the hot dog vendors and the bustling streets, and enter Central Park. We sit down on a patch of lawn and Daisy lets out a stream of wise advice, enunciated slowly from her heart-shaped lips. Her red hair is wilder and curlier than usual today, which makes her particularly animated – the humidity has gotten to us both – curls for her – for me, hot and bothered between my legs, caused by a too-young Frenchman who is no longer interested in seeing me.
“Okay,” Daisy begins, sounding more British than ever, the aay of the okay drawn out languidly like a yawn. “This is not a foregone conclusion. You still have hope.”
“I do?” I shout out. “Really?” Music is playing in my ears. Operas, symphonies.
“IF you play your cards right. If you don’t, you don’t have a chance.”
“What are my cards?” I ask desperately.
“To do nothing.”
“But Daisy I need to apologize, I need−”
“You have already apologized. Worse, you blurted out to him that you loved him. Twice.”
“One and a half times. The second sentence he cut short. And the first time, he didn’t even believe me.”
“He’ll be clocking what you said, trust me. Men are not so far removed from us, you know. They also dissect conversations and do post-mortems, even if it’s just privately in their own heads.”
“Not to the extent we do, surely?” I ask.
“They do care. Remember, I’m married. I see their human side.”
“Yes, but you’ve forgotten about the rest of it,” I grumble, thinking about her sweet, kind husband who adores her – and knowing she could never truly understand.
“Pearl, you have no choice. You have to save your dignity. You cannot go running after him in guise of ‘apologizing’ or ‘discussing’ things. Firstly, men do not like to discuss. What’s done is done. Men are more forgiving than we are, too. He’ll forget what you’ve done soon enough and start remembering the good times he had with you.”
“There’s no way, Daisy. He was furious. He hates me now. He thinks I’m scheming and dishonest. And if I don’t tell him that I’m sorry, he’ll think I’m even worse.”
“He’ll think you’re a bore. Let it go. Leave it be. If you do not, not, not contact him, he could call you, – he could want to see you again. He’ll wonder why you haven’t got in touch – it will pique his curiosity.”
“But he was livid. Really angry−”
“Good, that means he likes you. You touched a nerve,” Daisy expounds.
I say nothing and digest everything she has said. Then I come out with, “Daisy…the truth is I’m hooked on him. I want more sex.”
“That’s only because you hadn’t had it for a couple of years so you’re obsessed. Quite normal.”
“No, really. He was like a god in bed.”
“Even more reason, then, you need to listen to me. Even more reason you need to control yourself.”
“What if I dress up really sexily, go somewhere I know he’ll be, say hello so I don’t seem rude, and then ignore him?”
“Pearl, how old are you?”
“That’s what he said to me, that I was acting like a ten year-old.”
“I can see you’re not listening to a word I’m saying and you’re going to do something really foolish, really humiliating that you’ll regret later. And then don’t come crying to me afterwards.” She’s standing up now, brushing down her dress and looking about the park. She’s irritated by me, her pursed lips say it all.
“Daisy, where are you going?”
“To get an ice-cream, or something. I’m hot.”
“I am listening to you, I swear.” I stand up, too, and breathe in the smell of freshly mown grass. There’s a baseball game in the distance and a dog chasing squirrels.
“Someone could get a ticket,” I observe. “Aren’t dogs meant to be on leashes at this hour?”
“As if you care, Pearl.”
“I care for the owner and the dog. Of course dogs should be able to run free, as long as its owner picks up after it. Everything’s gotten so regimented these days – so many rules.” I can feel Daisy is bored by me so I try to win back a star. “What you’re saying is really sound advice, Daisy. I’m going to try my hardest to follow it to the letter.”
“Good!”
“I just need to keep busy.”
“Normally, I can’t even get you on the phone at all, Pearl. Your job has been everything to you. The fact that this Alexandre business is taking up all your energy just goes to show how you’ve lost the plot. This is not like you at all.”
“I know.”
“Remember when I went out with that Argentinean? Latin men like a chase. All men like to chase but that lot more than most. I have never dated a Frenchman but I’m sure if you come over as all keen, he’ll run a mile.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Do you remember that little book that came out in the 90’s? The one with rules for dating? That told you what and what not to do? How to get them to be crazy about you?”
“I’d forgotten about that – it was a bestseller.”
“Do not ask a guy on a date. Do not accept a date at the last minute. Always end the conversation first−”
“Do not say ‘I love you’ until the guy has said it first,” I interrupt. “I broke that one already.”
“Well,” Daisy says hopefully, “it isn’t too late to repair the damage. Don’t call. Don’t get in touch. And if he rings you, don’t go all gushy and pathetic. Stay cool, calm and collected. You are a busy woman. You have plans, places to go, people to see, deals to make. You are not some pathetic, whimpering, sex-craving fool.”
“Do you think I can pull it off, Daisy?”
“I know you can pull it off.”
11
A whole week of agony has passed. Work has consumed me – what choice do I have? I call Daisy when I’m feeling weak, when I need to be reminded to not humiliate myself, to keep my resolve.
I got my period and I cried. I had a fleeting fantasy that by some fluke the lambskin condom was faulty and I would magically be pregnant – carrying Alexandre’s child. That when he met his baby, he’d fall in love with me, and we’d live happily ever after.
Dream on, Pearl.
I have a great new contact at the UN who is willing to talk covertly – things are looking up career-wise. But the second I let my mind wander, I re-live moments with Alexandre; the image of his body, the things he did to me – and a mixture of longing, lust and sadness surges through my body. I have had a few crying-on-the-bathroom-floor moments, but each day gets a little easier.
He hasn’t called nor even left a message. I am being strong and have resisted the temptation. I even went out on a date with an old friend from college who used to have a crush on me. Yawn, yawn. We saw a movie and had dinner, and then I told him I had period pains in order to end the evening early. It was a half truth. The only pain I had was his pain-in-the-butt-you’re-boring-me pain. Poor guy. I tried to disguise my feelings as well as I could. I smiled sweetly and told him I’d be so busy at work there was no way we could see each other for at least a month.
It will be hard to keep Alexandre off my mind as today is Friday and I won’t have work to keep me distracted this weekend. But I have an idea….
When I arrive home I go online – I have to erase him from my brain. Perhaps it is a physical need that I’ve awoken and I can cure myself with a simple remedy.
My search online is for ‘sex toys’. I have never in my life resorted to them, but hey, why not? Couples do it all the time. It’s a good way to get to know your own body, apparently.
I had always thought using them was kind of like cheating. I have had a vague notion all this time – completely unfounded of course – that pleasure has to emanate from another person and anything else would be a sort of ‘fraud.’ Ridiculous!
I look at the range before me, the variety of colors and shapes. One is made from stainless steel. Ouch. Although it promises to heat up once inside – from your own body temperature. Others are neat things that look almost like cell phones and others, regular dildo shapes.
I read the reviews of one. ‘YES, YES, YES! A great vibrator. Def worth the extra bucks. As soft or powerful as you want it to be.’ Hmm, sounds good…. I read on…. ‘Not had solo use with it as it is so great with my partner.’ Partner. Good while it lasted with Alexandre, I think. Now I am partner-LESS. A dildo is a poor second choice, though, and could I even go through with it? All I want is him not some plastic substitute. As Alexandre said himself, the biggest sex organ is your brain. How much of a mental turn-on is a fake penis? I want to smell his skin on mine, taste his tongue.
No, Pearl. Stop! Don’t torture yourself anymore.
I put some music on and start dancing to Sex Machine by James Brown. It happens to come up on random play. What are the odds of that? Not the most distracting thing to listen to while I’m trying to get my mind off Alexandre, but at least I get so into the song – I let loose, and forget for a while. I’m dancing wildly… gyrating, grinding my hips.
I hear my landline go. Anthony calling to check up on me? Or the doorman? Maybe the pearl necklace has arrived, although surely Alexandre would have already sent it by now? If it is the necklace, I should really send it back – let him know, loud and clear, that I’m not somebody who is after things. There is also a pounding at the back door to the kitchen where the service elevator is. The trash. Did I forget to put it out? No, I did put the trash out. Why is the superintendent knocking at the back door? I go to answer.
