Pearl (The Pearl Series)

by Arianne Richmonde

  Men. They can be pigs. I know, I’ve heard women complain about them all my life. Besides, there had been no truer hog than my father. On one of his bad days, he was a monster.

  I contemplated Pearl’s past. What man/men had hurt her? (Because, let’s face it, it usually is a man). I studied her quietly all day. While she was climbing, she was brave and very focused. Even though she had never been rock climbing before, she embraced that rock-face with gusto. I got to enjoy great views of her slender legs doing their stuff, her nimble fingers hooking into tiny crevices, her glorious ass in all sorts of uncompromising positions. I heard myself calling her chérie and that’s when I knew that I must have wanted to date her seriously. Chérie? I had never called anyone that before, not even my ex fiancée, Laura.

  “You’ve passed the second test,” I teased on the drive back home. My 1968 Corvette was humming away beautifully, and I didn’t want Pearl to fall asleep. I saw exhaustion in her eyes after such a long, physical day. Her golden legs were stretched out, scratched by the rocks; there were little bloody nicks all over her limbs. I liked that. I may not have fucked her yet, or even kissed her, but I felt I’d made my mark on her. Yes, just like the bulldozer guys, I was guilty. Even on Date One, I wanted others to know that Pearl Robinson was mine.

  She jolted from her sleepy reverie and shifted her weight in the car seat. “Second test? I didn’t know I was being tested!” She laughed. “I’m assuming going climbing was the second test. What was the first test, then?”

  “You have no idea?” I said, thinking it was obvious after our detailed conversation about Rex and Zelda, and dogs in general. Actually, come to think of it, this wasn’t Date One but Date 1.5. We’d been through all the preliminaries in the coffee shop. Had she turned her nose up at the mention of Rex, it would have been an instant deal breaker. I didn’t, and don’t, trust people who are not animal lovers. Must love dogs. No ifs or buts about it. I’d made that mistake once before.

  “Go on, give me a clue,” Pearl pleaded, raising her legs onto my dashboard, her bare feet revealing perfect, slender toes, set off by delicate ankles. I wanted to suck those pretty toes, then move my mouth further northward up her body.

  “Give me a hint,” she said with a pout. That pouting mouth. Very sexy! I had not-so-pure visions of things I wanted to do to that mouth, and things I wanted it to do to me.

  I said nothing, just gave a cocky little smirk. I wanted to intrigue her, make her think about me. Dream about me when she got home that night. Make her want me. I could tell that, so far, it was working. I changed the music…Can’t Get Enough of Your Love Baby by Barry White—a sexy song with a rhythmical drum beat. It set the scene. She jiggled about in her seat and I was curious. I wanted to know if she was moist between her legs. I wanted to know, for sure, if she was feeling as horny as I was.

  I put my hand on her bare thigh and let it rest there, tapping my finger very lightly to the beat of the music. She whimpered. Very, very quietly. Almost imperceptibly but I caught it. I had her. But I still wouldn’t fuck her that night. No, I’d make her wait. Make her wonder. I let my fingers wander higher. I had my eyes on the road, but in my peripheral vision, I noticed she licked her lips and fluttered her eyelashes. So very subtly, I let my fingers creep closer to her panties. I could sense her chest heaving with hot desire. Her nipples were erect—I saw that through her skimpy outfit. Good, I thought. I so wanted to plunge my fingers inside her, but instead, I took my hand away and put it back on the steering wheel. She sighed with frustration. I was getting to her—getting under her skin.

  3

  My cell had been switched off all day; I didn’t want any interruptions. I had ten messages on my voicemail, more than half of which were from various women in my life: three from Sophie, all business calls except the last—she was curious as to where I’d been all day, and wondered who the lucky woman was. It seemed that it was my karma to attract jealous women, even my sister was possessive of me, and that’s one of the reasons Pearl appeared so different; she was vaguely aloof, even though I could tell she liked me.

  The next calls were from Laura, my ex, telling me that she would be coming to my house in Provence. I listened to the messages with half an ear, her Queen’s English more pronounced than ever.

  “Hi Alex, darling. Just to say that my plans have changed a bit. James doesn’t seem to want to come this year, so it’ll just be little old me. Is that okay? Of course it’s okay. But I’ll be really miffed if you’re not there at the same time. I mean, I’ll get bored all alone. Speak later, Alex, darling.”

  Then another:

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot, just to let you know my physiotherapy sessions are going really well. I mean really well. I haven’t been using the wheelchair for six whole months now. I’m a bit wobbly still, but it’s all looking good. I mean, I’m looking good, though I say it myself! Call me, darling, and let me know when you’ll be in France and I’ll make plans.”

  If Laura said she was looking good, I believed her. She had been a model once, before she had a nasty accident with some concrete steps and ended up in a wheelchair. She had been a sailor, too—practically Olympic standard. Why I felt that the accident was somehow my responsibility, I don’t know. But I did. Guilt has a way of grabbing you by the throat. Hence, my unfounded belief that I was responsible for Laura’s happiness, despite her being married to another man.

  The next message was from Indira, the woman I was fucking. I’d be seeing her the following week in Mumbai. Her Indian accent was husky and breathy, laced with desperation and desire.

  “Baby, I can’t wait to see you. I’m going crazy. Crazy, I tell you. I can’t wait to lie with you. I’ve been dreaming of you every night. I need you so badly. See you next week.”

  Lie with you. What a quaint, polite way of saying, ‘fuck.’

  Indira was a movie star. A Bollywood legend, even though she was only thirty-three. She had long, dark, wavy hair and pale gray eyes, set against her caramel-colored skin. Stunning. She was a real beauty, gracing magazine covers and cherry-picking leading roles. She was also a widow. Her husband had died a few years before, leaving her a small fortune, not that she needed it—she was wealthy in her own right. He’d been a film producer, and was a good thirty years older than Indira. She had one grown-up teenager who was also making her name in movies. Women in India were generally treated like second-class citizens, except in two key areas where they really had clout: politics and cinema. Indira was a powerful woman, and used to getting what she wanted.

  And she wanted me. Or rather, she wanted my cock.

  I needed to end it with Indira but it was going to be tricky, because the grease-ball bastard with whom Sophie and I were signing our upcoming deal, was her first cousin. Indira was also investing a large chunk of her own money into HookedUp in India. Something I begged her not to do—I never mix business with pleasure—but she was insistent, and Sophie would have never forgiven me if I’d bungled the deal.

  Meanwhile, I had Pearl Robinson on my mind.

  Hmm…could get complicated. With Pearl Robinson now on the horizon, I wasn’t sure how I’d organize my time. It depended on Pearl, really. Would she want me as a full-time boyfriend? I assumed so. Another thing I’d learned about women over the years: the exclusivity factor. Even Laura, who was married to someone else, wanted exclusivity. Not that I was fucking Laura, but I got the feeling from her flirtatious demeanor, that she was keen for our old candle to be re-lit.

  The last voicemail was from Claudine. An ex from my teenage years. Uh oh. I’d be seeing her the next day. Now, Claudine was so fucked-up, that to not see her could be dangerous. I really didn’t want a suicide on my conscience.

  I listened to the message: “Alex? Mon amour?” She talked into the receiver as if she were speaking to a live person. As if voicemails had only been invented yesterday. “Alex, tu es là?” I heard her TV on, a cackling noise in the background, her heavy breathing, as if she was waiting for me to magically say somet
hing. Then she hung up.

  The last time I’d seen Claudine, she had gotten her hands on a Colt.45 and was threatening to shoot herself if I didn’t fuck her. She told me that no other man could give her an orgasm. Claudine, like Laura, was a model.

  Every man’s fantasy seems to be to date a model, but believe me, models can be psychotic. You’d think that by being so beautiful they’d be brimming with self-confidence, but no. They can be the most neurotic women in the world. No matter how gorgeous they are, they feel they’re too fat, or their forehead isn’t high enough, or their lips are too thin or…whatever—the list goes on.

  Claudine was like that. Very neurotic. Very high-maintenance. In order to get the gun away from her for good, I had to give her a mercy fuck. It wasn’t exactly a punishment for me, but I was trying so hard to limit the complications in my life—e.g. limit the amount of women. Hone it down to just one.

  I didn’t consider myself a ‘multi-tasker’ by nature—not even when it came to women.

  Quality, not quantity, was what I was aiming for.

  But it was proving to be a tough call.

  I was beginning to realize that my mantra of treating women well was backfiring on me.

  You see I have a code:

  • No woman is a ‘slut’. Ever. I do not use that word in my vocabulary. If a woman is sleeping around or being promiscuous it’s because she is searching: for love, for a good time, for a good orgasm, for an escape. Or maybe even for money. For whatever reason it may be, no man (or woman) has a right to judge her.

  • Always call a woman after a date. Even if you never want to see her again. Why? Because it’s polite. Tell her you had a nice time. Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself, especially women.

  • Don’t bullshit a woman. Don’t say, “I’ll call you,” if you don’t mean it. If you just want sex, make that clear from the beginning. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

  • Always walk her home at night, drive her home or call a cab. Pay for the cab yourself. Make sure she has unlocked her door before you drive away.

  • Don’t invite yourself into her house. Like a vampire, let yourself be invited.

  • Don’t fuck another man’s girl, no matter how tempting.

  • The most important rule of all: When you fuck her, let her come first.

  You see, it’s no good just having sex for your own pleasure. Where’s the fun in that? A real man needs to know that a woman needs him. Even if it’s for just one night, you want her remembering you for being a good fuck, not a fuck-up. Your cock is a tool that must be used carefully. As with any tool, you, the artisan, need to deploy it with precision. Trust me, the rewards are worth it.

  Women are experts at faking orgasms and a lot of men are too dumb to tell the difference, or too proud to acknowledge that it has ever happened to them. But in that department, believe me, most women could win an Oscar.

  However, having said all this, I was, at that point in my life, beginning to realize that by not being an asshole and caring too much, I was creating a ‘backlog’ of women: ex-girlfriends, and exes of every kind. It was dawning on me: Women don’t forget. I guess there are so many assholes out there, that by being halfway decent, a man can earn big brownie points.

  I’d earned too many brownie points.

  And it was getting out of control.

  The next day, I got up early and cadged a lift to Paris with Sophie in her jet. I had business there and wanted to drop in on my mother and see Rex. I decided that I wouldn’t pick him up that time around, because of the Mumbai trip coming up, but that I’d make arrangements for him to come and live with me in New York as soon as I could. After all, he was the one I bought my huge apartment for, with its views of Central Park and its rooftop garden. Only the best for Monsieur Rex!

  Sometimes, I try to imagine a world without dogs, and I can’t. Rex has seen me through no end of strife. He helped me set up HookedUp. That’s not a joke, it’s a fact.

  So Sophie and I were on the plane, about to fly to Paris. She was dressed immaculately (as always), stretching out her slim legs as she carefully tucked a tendril of dark hair into her chignon while looking into her powder compact, or whatever it is that women use. She eased herself back into her airplane seat: we were taking off. I could tell she was in ‘personal’ mode, not ‘business’ mode by the look on her face, when she began, “So you actually like the American?”

  I frowned at her. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “How is she?” she added.

  I knew what she meant by that. She wanted me to give her intimate details. I replied, “She’s a very friendly, fun girl.”

  “Watch out.”

  “Why, you think she’s dangerous?” I said with a dry smile.

  “You can’t risk everything by playing about with American gold-diggers.”

  I languidly stretched out my arms. I wasn’t even going to reply to her inane comment, but found myself mumbling, “Get a life, Sophie, and stop meddling with mine.”

  “I’m only looking out for you.”

  “I can look out for myself, thanks.”

  “Well, when I have a moment, I’m going to get her checked out,” she warned.

  “Don’t you dare! I hate all this Googling shit and cyber-spying. I know we can’t talk, with HookedUp and stuff, but I miss the old days when you found out about someone little by little, face to face, not from the Internet. It’s so bloody unromantic.”

  “You see romance on the cards with that woman?”

  That woman. She sounded like Bill Clinton. I closed my eyes. “Shame you turned gay, Sophie. Because you know what? You sound frustrated. You obviously need a good seeing to.”

  “Oh, you think a man’s penis is the answer to everything, do you, you sexist jerk.”

  I smirked. “You’d be surprised.” Touché.

  Sophie had a girlfriend. Fine. But Sophie was also married. Married, and with a stepdaughter, Elodie, who was eighteen. Sophie’s predilection for women was a deep secret. Didn’t want her husband or Elodie finding out. I had no idea whom Sophie was seeing, though. Asking my sister about her sex life didn’t interest me.

  “She is pretty, though—” Sophie continued, “—the American in the coffee shop. Must be in her early thirties, I’d say—a tad younger than me.”

  I could see that my sister was bordering on obsession.

  “Very sexy. Very fuckable,” she said.

  “Drop it, Sophie.”

  “Am I right? Is she good, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ah, so she’s playing hard to get, is she? Clever girl.”

  I put on my headphones and turned on my iPod, glad to let Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together drown out Sophie’s drivel.

  I always stay in the Presidential Suite at the George V when I go to Paris, and this time was no exception. My mother was disappointed, but I preferred to come and go when I pleased, not worry about offending anyone by turning up late to dinner and so forth. The hotel let me bring Rex, too—a bonus for clocking up a large bill and being such a good, repeat customer.

  I was ensconced in my suite. My loyal Labrador-mix lay patiently by my side while I had various meetings with people who were keen to take a slice of the HookedUp pie. A couple of government officials dropped by; embarrassed by the fact that it had been America, not France that propelled HookedUp forward. Too late, now—they’d missed the boat for real investment.

  Then, just as I was winding things up, Claudine called. I’d forgotten about her. Christ.

  “Mon amour,” she began in a sweetie voice.

  “Claudine. Everything okay?” I asked, dreading what was to come.

  “Look, I want to clear the air first,” she said ominously. Fuck, what did that mean? I had a vision of her with a razorblade poised at her doll-like wrist. “I can’t involve myself with you sexually anymore,” she explained.

  “Wow,” was all I could muster. I took a deep breath. Was there a catch? This was to
o good to be true!

  “I have a boyfriend now.”

  Poor bastard, I nearly said, but answered, “That’s wonderful, Claudine.”

  “You’re not jealous?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Why not?” she asked suspiciously. “Have you turned gay?”

  I laughed. “I’ve met someone.” I told her about Pearl, immediately wondering if that was a mistake. I wouldn’t have put it past Claudine to stalk her, Glenn Close style.

  To my surprise, she said. “I’m happy for you, I really am. Truce then? No sex, is that a deal?”

  This was getting better by the second. “No sex,” I agreed.

  “Then I can trust you to accompany me to Delphine Aimée’s vide grenier at her house? You won’t try to seduce me or anything?”

  The ego of some models, I thought, but ignored her little quip. “You’re joking? A vide grenier?” I said. Delphine Aimée resided in one of the oldest and most beautiful mansions of Paris. She had recently died; the papers were full of her obituaries, celebrating her colorful life as one of the great Parisian beauties and fashion setters of her time.

  “Her children are selling some of her furniture and belongings and I have a private invitation. A friend of a friend,” Claudine went on. “You have no idea how much string-pulling I had to do to wangle this. Only a few select people are being invited to see her treasures.”

  “Is the house itself for sale, too?” I’d always had my eye on that mansion. A real gem. Or as the French expression goes: a rare pearl.

  “If it were, it would be fifty million euros, at least.”