by CJ Roberts
“She’s adorable,” I say, stroking her smooth lines. “So cute. I’ve always dreamed about having a car like this.”
“Would you like to drive her, see how she feels beneath you?”
“You make it all sound so sensual, Alexandre, so naughty.”
“She is naughty. She likes to be driven fast, likes to grip the road around corners. This baby likes to have fun.”
“Speaking of babies,” I say guardedly. “What you did on the plane? It’s a slim chance but….I could get pregnant – a slim chance, as I say, but still possible. This isn’t something you can treat cavalierly like it’s all a game.”
He takes my hand and holds it in his. “Pearl, you make me happy. I’m crazy for you – can’t you see that? I want to be with you, and stay with you. I’m a monogamous type. Once I find someone special I don’t play the field. Look,” he emphasizes, locking his eyes with mine, “if you were twenty-something – which you wouldn’t be because I’m not into young ingénues – but if you were, then you’d be on the pill or something. But we don’t have time.”
“You mean my biological clock?”
“I hate that expression – it sounds like some sort of time bomb, but yes. It’s unfair for women and God was being pretty sexist when he designed that one, but there it is. Let’s just see what happens, shall we?”
“You’re acting as if I have no say in the matter. You’re just assuming I want children. You never asked me. I have a demanding career – maybe I don’t even want a family.”
He looks shocked. “You’re right – I never even brought the subject up with you. I did just assume−”
“But your instincts were spot on. I do want a baby. It’s just….I’d given up. I didn’t imagine I’d meet anyone special enough. You’re the only person I’ve slept with since my divorce.”
“I know. I was lucky to catch you before somebody else snapped you up.”
I take a big intake of breath and ask him the question that has been on the tip of my tongue all day. “Why did you split with Laura? Did you want to have her baby, too?”
“Laura…how can I explain Laura….I’ll show you some photos of her when we get home and some letters she wrote me. When you see the pictures, you’ll understand why she left me.”
“Was she a supermodel, or something?”
“She was beautiful both inside and out. And yes, she did do some modeling.”
I feel a painful stab at my heart. Obviously, I am the rebound and this Laura was some sort of goddess who I’ll never match up to. I need to be more upbeat, not let jealousy consume me. He says he wants me and wants my baby – what more could I ask for? Marriage? I don’t know if I believe in marriage, anyway. One divorce was enough – I couldn’t risk that again. I need to change the conversation. I blurt out in a jolly voice:
“I always think cars have faces, don’t you? This car has excited round eyes and the elongated Porsche badge looks like a funny nose. The way the hood is made looks like she’s smiling.”
He opens the driver door for me. “Slip inside. Doesn’t she smell good?”
I ease myself behind the steering wheel onto the old black seats and breathe in the odor of vintage car. “She smells divine.”
“Start her up.”
Nervously, I do, and back the car out of the garage onto the driveway. It is a stick-shift and although I learned driving one, living in New York City doesn’t give me the chance to practice very often, and I have certainly never been at the wheel of a car like this before. It is low, as he said, I can feel the ground beneath me – the idea of taking on something with so much personality and chutzpah is exciting. He jumps into the passenger seat – he’s wearing a grin, thrilled, no doubt, that I’m taking an interest in his passion for cars.
We meander along country lanes, flanked by stunning views on either side of us. What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong is playing loudly and I think, yes, Alexandre couldn’t have picked a better song – it really is a wonderful world. I mull over our baby conversation. It has been my secret fantasy, kept close to my heart; something I never share with anyone. Pearl, the career woman – the one who supports herself both financially, and in every other way. Pearl, who relies on nobody – that’s what I have told myself for the past two years. There is no such thing as a knight in shining armor, I convinced myself – nobody is going to come along and wave a magic wand.
Then I met Alexandre. Is he waving a magic wand? Or is all this romance he is offering going to turn horribly pear-shaped?
I have been self-reliant and had even considered adoption but realized how tough it would be being a single parent and raising a child in New York City alone. Does Alexandre really mean what he says about starting a family? Or is he just so young he hasn’t thought it through properly?
My thoughts now turn to the moving view – more of his magic, bringing me to this fairytale land. As well as lavender, there are vineyards and stretches of golden wheat everywhere. Now and then, there is a tiny stone building plunked right in the middle of a field – so picturesque, it looks like a postcard.
“Don’t be afraid, Pearl, to really give it to her. She likes to be pushed harder. You don’t need to change gears so soon – keep her in third for longer. I know what she needs.”
“You know a lot about what females need, don’t you?” I tease. “You like to keep me in third for longer, don’t you? And sometimes, when I’m begging you for fourth, or even fifth, you put me back into second. Sometimes even first.”
He laughs joyously, his right arm relaxed against the sill, the wind whipping his hair from the wide open windows. “I love that analogy. Yes, women are like cars – they need to be controlled.”
“You’re so sexist!”
“They like to have their limits pushed – but not too much – and then be brought back on track. They like to be managed but at the same time experience freedom.”
“You are quite something, Alexandre Chevalier. Quite a secret macho control freak, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “Not so secret.”
“And there I was, mistaking you for this humble gentleman!” I rev up and speed along a straighter road, gaining more confidence. I’m in my element driving this car!
“There, you see how happy she is? She likes to show you what she’s capable of,” he shouts above the vroom, vroom of the engine.
“She likes me?”
“She loves you, Pearl.”
“Does that make her gay?” I joke, brushing my hand on his leg as I change gear.
“I think she’s bi,” he says, winking at me. “And if your sexual fantasies during phone sex are anything to go by, you’ll get along together just fine.”
“Shush, that’s a secret.”
I think about what Alexandre said earlier, “Pearl, you make me happy, I’m crazy for you…” and I hum Madonna’s Crazy For You to myself. Does he really mean those words?
Before long, we stop at his nearest village, Ménerbes, which is perched on top of a hill.
“You know, Ménerbes,” Alexandre begins in a serious tour guide voice, “has been inhabited since prehistoric times. Archaeological excavations have uncovered the remains of villas and an ancient cemetery dating back to Roman times. These villages were built on hilltops to protect them from invasion,” he informs me, “particularly during the religious wars. Picasso had a house here and Peter Mayle who wrote, A Year in Provence.”
“So this is where he lived,” I murmur.
We enter through a large arch into the small central square, and potter about the tiny village which, from certain points, offers striking views of lush, rolling hills below, dotted with farmhouses and hamlets making a patchwork of colors like a quilt.
“This place is famous for its truffle market,” Alexandre tells me. “They use dogs mostly, these days, for digging truffles, the pigs got a little greedy. Truffles are so expensive, they can’t afford to lose even one.”
Our next stop is Gordes, marked with a sign as o
ne of the most beautiful villages in France, Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. It, like Ménerbes, is perched on a hill with breathtaking views below. We park the car and wind our way through the narrow cobbled streets where no vehicles are allowed, and look up at tall houses of honey-colored stone, many of them built right into the rock itself. Natural and man-made beauty rolled into one supreme medieval mélange. There is a castle in the middle of the village where we wander about watching tourists pass by, oohing and aahing at the history of the place. We sit in a café and relax our legs. I order an iced tea and Alexandre a Pastis, an aniseed drink that, when mixed with water and ice, turns milky – a drink favored by the people of Provence, he says.
On the way back, he drives. Way faster than I did, I may add. Even though it’s past seven, the sun is creating a magical, golden dusk light and there’s a cooler breeze now.
“So tell me, Pearl Robinson, did you grow up in New York City?”
“I still haven’t grown up,” I quip.
He laughs. “Alright, were you ‘raised’ in New York?”
“Yes, in Brooklyn. We moved to Manhattan when I was twelve because I got a scholarship to a private school on the Upper East Side.”
“You must have been a good student.”
“I worked hard. I was keen to prove myself, get top grades. I had to show them I earned the scholarship. I didn’t want to let anybody down. What about you? Did you do well at school?”
“No, I was a disaster. I experimented with drugs, you know, smoked weed, dropped some acid. I was a bad boy. A high school dropout. But I did have a passion and that was IT – all self-taught, and bit by bit I cleaned up my act. I got into an excellent school in Paris for graphics and communication but only stayed a few weeks – the fees were too high. My sister tried to help, but when I realized the kind of work she was doing, there was no way I could accept, so I left to get a job.”
“Why, what was she doing?”
“Just something that wasn’t good for her soul.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
He’s whetted my curiosity, that’s for sure. What could Sophie have been working at that was so bad for her soul?
When we get back, I busy myself with getting ready for the party. I take a shower and put on a pair of high, platform sandals and a short, slinky dress that’s red. Too much? Maybe. I look in the mirror and dissect myself. My hair is looking pretty good and I caught quite a tan today, just walking around and being in the pool. Those crow’s feet though, they’re a drag. I put on another layer of mascara to open my eyes up wider and I see the reflection of Alexandre standing behind me. He’s back to his casual self, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His chest muscles are prominent, even though the T-shirt is quite loose. His hair is wet from the shower. His eyes rove over my body and I immediately feel self-conscious.
“Too much?” I ask. “The red?”
“No, not too much. Perfect. Sexy. You look stunning.”
“Is it too skimpy, though? Too femme fatale?”
“Well if it is, I love it. You’ve got the body so flaunt it.”
He comes behind me and cups my buttocks with his palms. “Great ass.”
“It’s the swimming, I guess.”
He lets his hands wander up the small of my back and around to my stomach – then strokes the curves of my bare breasts. “Great tits, too.”
For the first time ever, I push his hands away. I should feel complimented but a clutch of anxiety takes hold as I imagine his ex, Laura, to be so much more than me. She broke up with him – she must be something else. “You said you’d show me photos of Laura,” I say, turning to face him.
“What, now?”
“Why not?”
“We should really be leaving.”
“Just a quick glance. I’m curious about her.”
“She’s a special woman.”
“Yes, so you keep saying.” What is this? Is he trying to keep me on my toes by making me jealous?
We go downstairs to the living room where the giant fireplace and all the English books are. Madame Menager has left a tray on the table with a bottle of chilled champagne and some tasty-looking canapés. He pours me a glass. I sip the refreshing drink, savoring the bubbly taste, and I nestle onto the sofa, while Alexandre gets out a photo album.
“This is typical Laura,” he tells me. “I don’t have any printed photos myself – everything is on my computer and iPad but she used to make albums – very English that.” He’s holding a large, blue leather-bound book in his hands. My heart is beating with trepidation – why do I want to torture myself?
He puts the book on my lap and sits next to me. I start carefully turning the stiff pages. There, before me, is a young woman who can’t be more than thirty, smiling into the camera, jumping in the air. She is tall, blonde, with a body like a swimwear model and a smile that takes up her whole face. She is gorgeous. On the page next to it is Alexandre looking really young, thinner and more boyish. I turn the page. Another set of pictures – them sailing at sea, soaked through – it looks like it’s a wet day with clouds in the sky. They are both laughing their heads off.
“That was in Cornwall, the south of England. We called ourselves the Salty Sea Dogs. It was always raining, or so it seemed. We sailed a lot, Laura was practically Olympic level.”
Now I understand. She was an all-rounder. Stunningly beautiful, smart (all those books), and sporty. She looks older than he does, perhaps she went off with someone more age appropriate. I turn more pages. A birthday party, she blowing out candles, her lips luscious, her eyes as big as saucers – she makes me look like Plain Jane.
“She’s beautiful,” is all I can muster.
More of Laura and him. Now they are in India riding elephants painted with flowers on their wrinkly skin. There are temples in the background. I feel envious – the love between them is so evident. I turn more pages and a jolt of shock arrests me.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at a blonde woman in a wheelchair. It looks like Laura. She must have broken her leg or something.
“It’s Laura,” he confirms, covering his face with his palms. He looks as if tears could well in his eyes.
I turn more pages. She’s still in the wheelchair here. “What happened?”
“We lived in a basement flat in London. One night we came home late and the next door neighbor’s child had left one of his toys on the steps. Laura tripped and fell. I couldn’t catch her in time. She tumbled down the concrete steps and landed really badly. It was one of those freak accidents with a terrible consequence.”
“Oh no. Was she really hurt?”
“Paralyzed from the waist down. Luckily, no damage to her head.”
“Oh my God.” I have tears in my eyes as he tells me this. “But she was a sportswoman and so active.”
“I know. Life’s unfair, isn’t it?”
“And now?”
“She’s a lot better now. She’s walking with a cane. Limping, but the doctors had told her, originally, that she would probably be paralyzed for the rest of her life, so what she’s achieved is a miracle. Her husband has been incredible, too. He’s been by her side every step of the way.”
“Husband?”
“The man she left me for. I was broken-hearted. He’d been her childhood boyfriend and had always been in love with her. I felt, at the time, as if she was dismissing me as useless, as if I wouldn’t know how to care for her, or didn’t care enough. But I would never have deserted her. Never. She knew what she wanted, though, and it was him. James. She was right, in hindsight. He’s been fantastic. I couldn’t have been there for her the way he has been.”
“Had you started your business by that point?”
“Just. Of course, when she left me, I threw myself headlong into work to keep my mind off her. I moved back to Paris and did nothing else but get HookedUp off the ground. I didn’t see daylight for weeks, holed up in my dark basement office, coding and working out formulas and ways to make i
t successful. Meanwhile, my sister was having meetings and getting backers.”
“You said your stepfather helped you.”
“He lent us fifteen thousand Euros and some of his friends pitched in, too. They’ve made their money back several thousand percent, I’m glad to say. They took a risk.”
“And you and Laura are still friends?”
“Of course. She and James are coming here in a couple of weeks. I won’t be here, though. I lend them the house every summer. We’d better get a move on, Pearl, or we’ll be late.”
I now see Alexandre in a whole new light. He is not the philandering, ‘woman in every port’ type, at all. He’s loyal and a good friend. He was prepared to stick by Laura even when she was crippled, not out of a sense of duty but for love. He’s a kind person who cares about people.
I want this man and his baby – more than ever.
14
We roll up to the party in the Murciélago, black as night. I would have felt self-conscious in such an outrageously flashy car, were it not matched by vehicles almost – but not quite – as impressive, lining the driveway. I can already spot some movie stars – I feel as if I’m in Hollywood at an Oscar party, not a place in the middle of the French countryside.
Alexandre walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I ease myself out, careful not to expose my panties to the world. Who knows, there might be paparazzi here – they could be interested in Alexandre Chevalier’s love interest. Love interest? What am I painting myself as, an actress in a movie? I am his girlfriend, am I not?
My insecurities are assuaged when he introduces me to the host and his friends, saying, “This is my girlfriend, Pearl.”
The house is slicker than Alexandre’s; more luxurious, but that’s to be expected of Hollywood royalty. Is that Charlize Theron I see over there? Beyond stunning. And is that Susan Sarandon, looking so elegant in a black sequined dress? The candlelit rooms are milling with the bold and the beautiful, spilling into the garden. Alexandre is holding my hand, leading me around.
