And then I shout out something cruel. Something I know I’ll regret. Words spill uncontrollably from my mouth:
“I wish you’d stayed in your freaking wheel chair forever!”
The lid is firmly in the coffin now. Not only am I jilted, I am despicable. When Alexandre hears what I have just said, he’ll be shocked and never want anything to do with me again.
It’s official.
I’m a jealous, spiteful, malicious bitch.
Laura slams the door in my face.
I scamper around the block to see if what Laura said about a mews house and garage is true. It is. Only the extremely wealthy could afford to have their garden sandwiched between two stunning houses in one of the most expensive areas in London. The mews is cobbled – in the olden days this is where the stables for horses and carriages were but now, of course, just a mews house alone in this Chelsea neighborhood would set you back millions, let alone adjoining garages. I imagine Laura’s husband, James, beavering away in the City to buy all this for the woman he’s in love with, for whom he sacrificed his life – and now she is about to dump him because he’s no longer rich enough for her. Does Alexandre know who he is dealing with? That Laura is as ruthless as a razor blade? Like most men who are smitten, he probably doesn’t see through her sweetness and light act.
A thought suddenly rushes to my brain. Uh, oh. I just insulted her, said the worst possible thing somebody can say and she’ll be out for revenge. Laura knows about me and Alessandra. All it takes is one phone call to Sophie.
The carving knife…
I call Alessandra again.
She sighs into the phone, exasperated. “What d’you want now, Pearl?”
“Laura knows about us. About…our evening,” I stutter. “Just warning you.”
“Deny, deny, deny. And I suggest you do the same. How the fuck would Laura know that?”
“Alexandre must have told her.”
“Thanks, Pearl, for sharing that with him - now I’ll have him after me with a carving knife, too.”
“No, you won’t – he really didn’t…doesn’t care. I’m history.”
“I didn’t know he was the tattle-tale-tit type.”
“He’s not. He’s usually very discreet; it’s not like him at all.”
“Well thanks for the warning,” she says grumpily. “Bye.”
I amble back to Sloane Street and walk towards Knightsbridge. I have a couple of hours to kill before I need to go back to Hampstead for my suitcase and make my way to Heathrow for my flight. I get my iPod out of my bag and go through the playlist. Got it. The perfect ‘fuck you’ song ever written, Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. The music feels great. Powerful. Encouraging. Hell, I even feel like disco dancing along the street. I punch my arm in the air. Yes, I am strong and I will survive. I refuse to mooch about and feel sorry for myself. Life goes on and we women can be tough. I am tough. I’m a New Yorker for crying out loud! I can do it. I will survive, I sing out loud and I don’t care who hears me, even if I’m out of tune.
Where to head now? Harrods, why not? Probably the most famous department store in the world. I’ll go there and buy a gift for Daisy’s mother to say thank you for my stay. Perhaps some home-made chocolates or some fancy bath salts.
I step through revolving doors, greeted by uniformed doormen and make my way through the vast labyrinth of the store to the Food Hall. There is no place like it; I could be stepping into a museum. My mother brought me to this emporium and I vowed I’d return one day. It’s a work of art. This was the original part of the shop, opened in the first half of the nineteenth century. Now Harrods is comprised of seven floors and spans an incredible four and a half acres. I have never seen such opulence and grandeur where food is sold. It is like a food court at a palace – something worthy of Louis IV or some bygone monarch’s banquet feast.
The black and white marble floors stretch before me like a long yawn and the imposing molding decorating the ceiling reminds you that this building is a majestic legend – a true London landmark. Hall after hall is grandly overflowing with beautifully presented gourmet food delights. My eyes and nose are already feasting. The sheer volume and selection of British and International goods is awe inspiring - artisan chocolates, lavish cuts of meat and seafood - even exotic things like sea urchin. Unusual cheeses, Dim Sum, Beluga caviar, truffle butter, pistachio and rose Turkish delights, gourmet terrines and drool-worthy patisserie - all presented in breathtakingly beautiful displays arranged behind gleaming glass counters. It is like being in the hall of mirrors in Versailles, only with food, reflected twenty-fold by mirrors set in arches, made glorious by mahogany and brass light fixtures – everything twinkling and glittering in gold.
Foolishly, I thought I could whip in and out of here, but I am mesmerized by the beauty of the place, the surreal Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory I-want-it-all attack. Where to begin? What to buy? You could spend a week in the Food Halls alone, not to mention the rest of Harrods. I get some exquisite French truffles for Daisy’s mum, Doris, and meander towards another tempting counter.
I’m staring at cupcakes now. I need some kind of American comfort food after the Laura ‘encounter.’ What to choose? – Banana, Mocha, Strawberry, Rocky Road, Sticky Toffee…or the chocolate torte sprinkled with gold dust? Edible art if ever I saw it.
“Pearl, is zat you?” a voice exclaims behind my shoulders.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I see a familiar reflection in the mirror before me.
It is Sophie.
I spin around in amazement, my sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floor. A nervous guilty churn makes my stomach dip. Sophie with her carving knife…does she know about me and Alessandra?
Obviously not, because she is smiling, and for the first time her happiness seems to be genuine. Or is that just me? Now that I know she doesn’t hate my guts, I can observe her with fresh eyes, devoid of judgment and suspicion.
“What are you doing in London?” she asks, kissing me on both cheeks. I inhale her usual, heady scent of Fracas and notice how pretty she’s looking, her eyes are like pools of dark chocolate and she’s dressed immaculately in a chic, navy blue pantsuit. Hand-tailored, no doubt. I know she and Alexandre get all their suits cut on Savile Row, here in London.
“I came…I…I had some work appointments,” I splutter.
“What a wonderfool surprise. Alexandre never told me you were both here.”
Wonder Fool. Fool being the operative word. So you don’t know we broke up? That he dumped me? That he’s gone back to Laura? “I’m leaving today,” I say simply. “Back to New York.”
“What a shame, we could have hooked up. Isn’t zis place marvelloose? I come here to get my Jelly Belly jelly beans. Cannot get zem anywhere, you know. My little American addiction.” She holds up the bag of candy. Jelly Belly – my favorites, too.
I want to spill it all out and tell Sophie my woes. I want to discuss everything and ask her about Laura; tell her that Laura warned me that she would ‘top me off’ in order to stop me marrying Alexandre in Vegas - but I am dumbstruck, not least by the bizarre coincidence of bumping into Sophie here at Harrods – what are the odds of that?
“Where do you go now? You want a coffee? Or razzer, in England a cup of tea, no?
“I have a plane to catch, I need to get back to Hampstead, then get my case and catch the tube to Heathrow,” I reply uneasily.
“Hampstead? Alexandre usually stays at zee Connaught.”
Sophie doesn’t know?? “I’m visiting a friend,” I say uneasily. “Alexandre isn’t with me.”
“My driver, he can take you to Hampstead and zen airport, okay? Save so much time. I have a friend in Hampstead I’ve been wanting to see forever. We go togezzer.” She links her arm with mine and ushers me through the crowds, and out of Harrods. Her embrace is warm and I wonder…was it me? Was I the one, all along, who has been spiky and defensive? Maybe Alexandre was right. Sophie has been trying to be my friend for months.
But it’s all too late.
Chapter Two
The limousine is waiting for Sophie around the back of Harrods like a panther on the prowl. Or rather, a Jaguar, because that’s what kind of car it is. The uniformed chauffeur opens the door for us as we slide onto the sumptuous, leather seats, and then he drives us off into the London traffic. I try to peel my gaze away from Sophie as she calls her friend, so I fix my eyes on the beautiful shop front window displays along Sloane Street (especially Harvey Nichols) as we glide through the shimmering wet streets - the traffic lights reflecting globes of color in the windows of passing cars and on the road. There is a thin haze of drizzle - bad for depression, good for skin, I think, having noticed the peaches and cream complexions of so many young British girls.
Sophie is now arranging an assortment of shopping bags and feasting on her Jelly Belly beans. She offers me a handful and I chew the mixture of flavors thoughtfully together, too afraid to speak because I really don’t know where to begin. It seems she thinks that Alexandre and I are still together. How can that be?
Finally, she breaks the silence. “I haven’t spoken to Alexandre for days - so you came to London all alone, Pearl?”
I swallow. A mélange of root beer and cinnamon swirl about my mouth. It tastes of America and I feel momentarily soothed. “Yes, I’m alone.” Is she testing me?
“How is your wedding gown coming along? Is it finished yet?”
Oh God, what do I say? “I’m not sure,” I hedge. And then I blurt out, “Do you know Laura?”
“Laura?”
“Alexandre’s—”
“I don’t see her anymore,” Sophie interrupts.
But when I was at Laura’s house Sophie called her and said that she was coming over! “Do you phone her from time to time?” I ask, the conversation fresh in my mind; Laura chit-chatting in perfect French and telling me it was Sophie who’d called.
“No, not for ages.”
Oh. Strange. Someone’s hiding something. Laura? Sophie? Laura, probably.
I ask, “Do you like her?”
“No, but she was in a wheelchair so I had to be nice.”
“I see.”
“She’s been calling my bruzzer again?”
“They are seeing each other…a lot,” I mutter. I want to tell her about Laura, what she said – I want to spill all the beans but stop myself. I suddenly think of Alessandra’s warning once again…that carving knife… If I tittle-tattle on Laura she’ll tell Sophie about me and Alessandra. Actually, she might tell Sophie anyway…I’ll be in trouble, no matter what.
Then Sophie says with her mouth full, “You and me got off on wrong foot, Pearl. I’m sorry. We need to talk.”
My heart begins to race but I reply, “Yes we really do need to talk. I’m sorry, too, if I’ve been…” I trail off – I don’t know how to express myself – how much should I tell her?
“Zee last time I spoke to my bruzzer he tell me you know about me and Stone Trooper.”
Uh, oh, here we go.
“I guess you know why I got involved?” she asks narrowing her eyes (the way her brother sometimes does).
“Not completely,” I say, giving her an opening. I need to see which direction she’s going to take with this conversation.
“Alessandra.”
“Yes.”
This is beginning to sound like some enigmatic scene in a Harold Pinter play. How much longer can I beat around the bush?
“Alessandra is my girlfriend.”
I look down at my sneakers.”Yes, I know.”
“She tried to seduce you?”
I can feel my face burn like glowing coals, although I have been told by people I don’t go red. But I feel like I’m on fire. “Why do you ask?”
“Because it’s her nature…Italian. Flirt. I have a husband, you know – I can’t blame her for a little extracurricular activity.”
The carving knife comes to mind, yet again. “You don’t get jealous?”
“Yes, but I cannot have my cake and eat it too, you know?” Sophie looks at me and throws some more candy into her mouth. “Sorry, very rude, I eat zee whole packet. I get very greedy with this Jelly Belly. So if she flirts I’m not cross – I know you both spent a lot of time togezzer on zee script.”
“Alessandra thinks you’re very jealous,” I venture, my heart still hammering inside my chest.
“She loves drama. She likes zee idea zat I scream and shout, you know?”
“So if she did something with another woman you wouldn’t come after the other woman with a carving knife?” Oops, I didn’t mean to be so blunt. Blunt about something so sharp.
Sophie bursts out laughing. “She tell you zat? No, Pearl. Only one time in my life did I come after someone wiz a carving knife and zat was my fazzer.”
I seize this rare opportunity to find out more – my Sherlock instinct piqued. “What happened to your father?”
“He’s around. He lives in Rio, I sink.”
“He’s alive? I thought he disappeared.”
“Yes, he disappeared - to Rio.” She’s staring out the car window now – I can’t judge the expression on her face.
“How d’you know he went to Rio?”
“A friend of Alexandre say she see him zaire one time.”
Interesting. I change the subject. “So how long are you in London for, Sophie? How come you haven’t spoken to Alexandre? I thought you two spoke every day.”
“Not since I bought him out.”
“He sold you his shares in HookedUp?”
“You didn’t know zat? I buy but I cannot pay for it all in one go. HookedUp is worz so much money, you know? Even I cannot afford to buy in one go.”
We sit there in silence both licking our lips after our Jelly Belly binge. Then I exclaim, “Sophie, I may as well tell you…Alexandre has left me. He’s gone back to Laura. We haven’t seen each other for over two weeks.”
She stops chewing and her jaw drops open. I see a mélange of blues and yellows of the candy stuck on her perfect white teeth. Her usually flawless composure slumps into disbelief. Her eyes widen. She is genuinely shocked – this is not an act.
“I knew zat fucking beach was up to no good.”
It takes a beat for me to realize that ‘beach’ means bitch.
“I went to Laura’s house today. The reason I went was because…because she told me that you caused her accident, Sophie…that you wanted me dead…that you would have me killed… ‘topped off’—”
“Merdre! Poutain! You believe I would do zat?”
I drop my head in shame and a smart of pain shoots through me – I realize, too late, I have nipped my lower lip. Tears start spilling from my eyes, “I’m sorry, Sophie. I thought you hated me. Yes, I believed her – she was very convincing. I was going through a rough patch and well…I was vulnerable.”
Sophie, to my surprise, folds me in her arms and draws me close to her slim frame, hugging me like a long lost friend. Her gesture makes me shake with unbidden emotion.
I made Alexandre sell his share of HookedUp to her, and I caused him, through my nagging and suspicion, to run back to Laura. I dug my own grave. I have nobody to blame but myself.
I spill out my woes and tell Sophie the whole story, omitting only the kinky stuff with Alessandra – I come clean about everything else. She apologizes, too, tells me that she is sorry for having slipped into the Stone Trooper deal without warning me.
Finally she cries out in anger, “Anyway, I don’t believe Laura for a second. Alexandre is crazy about you. Zaire is no way he start fucking zat skinny gold-digger beach again. No, Pearl, he loves you too much – why would he go for hamburger when he has steak at home?”
Alexandre once said that to me. I try to smile but I feel so raw inside. Raw like the steak I’m supposedly meant to be. I tell Sophie, “Laura says
they’re getting married.”
“You know sumsing about that skinny, asparagus beach? She’s a good liar.”
I wipe my face with my coat sleeve. Asparagus must be the French equivalent to bean-pole. Normally I would be laughing but none of this is funny. I reply, “Laura had me fooled, that’s for sure. But she could be telling the truth. Alexandre was there at her house, I saw him – it looks as if he’s moved in with her.”
“You spoke to him?”
“No, I just missed him. And whenever I’ve called his cell, his voicemail always picks up.”
“You leave zis to me, Pearl. Sumzing is not right. He loves you – he is crazy about you. I know my bruzzer, believe me.”
I burst out crying again. Something about having Sophie on my side when I thought she was my arch enemy stirs my deepest sentiments.
She takes her arms away from my shoulders and says, “We have arrived.”
I look up from my blurry-eyed vision and see that we are in the heart of Hampstead Village, crawling along a beautiful tree-lined street where houses are like country mansions. Sophie fishes her cell phone from her purse and calls her friend.
“I get out here, Pearl. My driver, he takes you wherever you want to go and he picks me up later. We speak tomorrow, no?”
“Thank you, Sophie.”
“It’s normal,” she says with a smile as she eases her graceful way out of the limousine. And then she turns and fixes her eyes on my face as if she is studying me. “I’m sorry, Pearl for zee names I called you once.”
“It’s water under the bridge.”
Water under the bridge. It brings a memory to mind - when I was a little girl playing Pooh-Sticks with my brother, John; throwing the stick off the bridge upstream and rushing to the other side to catch the stick bobbing along the foamy water. The memory makes my eyes prickle again. Get a grip, Pearl, stop the waterworks already.
“Bye, Sophie. Thanks so much for lending me your driver.”
“What time is your flight?”
“About ten twenty, I think.”
“Who are you flying wiz?”
“American Airlines.”
Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) Page 2
