Hooked Up: Book 2 (10 page)

Not only did I want Pearl to think me the hottest thing since the sauna, but also the coolest thing since Mount Everest.

I was balancing a difficult act.

W
HEN WE GOT BACK I busied myself with getting ready for the party. I took a shower and put on a pair of high-heeled sandals, and a short, slinky dress that was red. Too much? Maybe. I looked in the mirror and dissected myself. My hair was looking pretty good and I’d caught quite a tan that day, 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 saw the reflection of Alexandre standing behind me. He was back to his casual self, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His chest muscles were prominent, even though the T-shirt was quite loose. His hair was wet from the shower. His eyes roved over my body and I immediately felt self-conscious.

“Too much?” I asked. “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 came behind me and cupped my buttocks with his palms. “Great ass.”

“It’s the swimming, I guess.”

He let his hands wander up the small of my back and around to my stomach, then stroked the curves of my bare breasts. “Great tits, too.”

For the first time ever, I pushed his hands away. I should have felt complimented, but a clutch of anxiety took hold as I imagined his ex, Laura, to be so much more than me. She had broken up with him—
she must be something else
. “You said you’d show me photos of Laura,” I said, turning to face him.

“What,
now
?”

“Why not?”

“We should really be leaving.”

“Just a quick glance. I’m curious about her.”

“She’s um . . . an unusual woman.”

“Yes, so you keep saying.”
What is this? Is he trying to make me jealous?

We went downstairs to the living room, where the giant fireplace and all the English books were. Madame Menager had left a tray on the table, with a bottle of chilled champagne and some tasty-looking canapés. He poured me a glass. I sipped the refreshing drink, savoring the bubbly taste, and I nestled onto the sofa while Alexandre got out a photo album.

“This is typical Laura,” he told 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 was holding a large, blue leather-bound book in his hands. My heart was beating with trepidation—why did I want to torture myself?

He put the book on my lap and sat next to me. I started carefully turning the stiff pages. There, before me, was a young woman who couldn’t have been more than thirty, smiling into the camera, jumping in the air. She was tall, blonde, with a body like a swimwear model and a smile that took up her whole face. She was
gorgeous
. On the page next to it was Alexandre looking really young, thinner and more boyish. I turned the page. Another set of pictures: of them sailing at sea, soaked through—it looked like it was a wet day with clouds in the sky. They were 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 understood. She was an all-rounder. Stunningly beautiful, smart (all those books), and sporty. She looked older than Alexandre, perhaps she’d gone off with someone more age appropriate. I turned more pages. A birthday party, Laura blowing out candles, her lips luscious, her eyes as big as saucers. She made me look like Plain Jane.

“She’s beautiful,” was all I could muster.

More of Laura and him. Now they were in India, riding elephants painted with flowers on their wrinkly skin. There were temples in the background. I felt envious—the love between them was so evident. I turned more pages and a jolt of shock arrested me.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at a blonde woman in a wheelchair. It looked like Laura. She must have broken her leg or something.

“It’s Laura,” he confirmed, covering his face with his palms. It seemed as if tears could well in his eyes.

I turned more pages. She was 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 had tears in my eyes as he told 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. 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 it 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 saw Alexandre in a whole new light. He was not the philandering, “woman in every port” type, at all. He was 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 was a kind person who cared about people.

I wanted this man and his baby more than ever.

W
E ROLLED 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 could already spot some movie stars. I felt as if I was in Hollywood at an Oscar party, not a place in the middle of the French countryside.

Alexandre walked over to the passenger side and opened the door for me. I eased myself out, careful not to expose my panties to the world . . .
didn’t want any paparazzi to take an unflattering snap of my crotch.

My insecurities were assuaged when Alexandre introduced me to the host and his friends, saying, “This is my girlfriend, Pearl.”

The house was slicker than Alexandre’s; more luxurious, but that was to be expected of Hollywood royalty. I marveled at the guests.
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 were milling with the bold and the beautiful spilling into the garden. Alexandre held my hand and led me around.

Once in the swing of things, and after a few glasses of champagne, I felt completely at ease. After all, my main job as producer was communication. Chatting with people was easy for me and we’d had a few stars doing narration and voice-over work for us at Haslit Films. I was not intimidated by fame.

After a while we meandered our separate ways. I got chatting to a woman from LA—shop talk, really, and Alexandre got distracted by one of his neighbors—they talked about their vines and lavender production. Before I know it, someone who looked oddly familiar had joined us, and he soon overtook the conversation. Who was he? That’s the problem with actors. You think one is your neighbor or even your old friend, because you feel you’ve known that person all your life but then you realize you’ve seen them on TV or in a movie and you are a total stranger to them! Who
was
this man? Anyway, the woman had slipped out of sight by now, and I found myself discussing Haslit Films with him, and my next, hopeful project. He was smiling away and I was smiling away, too. Finally, he asked my name and I told him.

“And your name is?” I asked. He looked surprised as if I should know, and then said, “Ryan.” He was thirty-something, blond, blue eyes. Handsome in a classic way, although not my type. Funnily enough, he reminded me somewhat of my ex.

We were just beginning a conversation when I felt Alexandre grab my wrist from behind. “We have to leave,” he said briskly.

“What, already? I feel as if we just got here.”

The movie star was looking awkward so I introduced him to Alexandre. Alexandre nodded and murmured in a husky tone, “Pearl, we have to go.”

“Bye,” I said. “Nice meeting you.”

“I was having a good time,” I hissed at Alexandre. “Why are we leaving?” Was he jealous?

As we were walking out the front door, an elegantly dressed woman gave me a look of disgust, like a dagger being thrown into my face. I recognized her but I couldn’t place her. As I passed her, I heard, “fucking cougar,” and wondered if the insult was directed at me.

Alexandre bundled me into the car and screeched out of the driveway. I felt like Batwoman in this vehicle. My boyfriend was no longer in a happy mood, and I feared that I’d upset him by unwittingly flirting with that famous actor, although what he was famous for, I had no idea. Alexandre was silent, staring ahead at the road.

“You were right about your dress,” he said in a cold voice. “It drew too much attention to you. It was too garish.”

“I wasn’t flirting. At least I wasn’t conscious of doing so.”

But he didn’t say a word. Twenty minutes of silence went by and I was aware that he didn’t take a turning I’d noticed earlier, on our way here. Half an hour later and we were still not home. He was driving fast, really fast. I could feel angry vibes emanating from every pore in his body. Jesus, if chatting with another man made him jealous, this relationship of ours was not going to work.

“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.

“I’ll get Madame Menager to send your things on. We aren’t going back to my house.”

Oh my God! I am being dumped! He’s breaking up with me for some harmless flirting. That’s my job! I have to be charming, have meetings, lunches and sometimes, yes, they happen to be with attractive men.
I looked over at him and saw the rage on his face. Uh, oh. I felt scared.
Maybe it’s best to break up with him, anyway, if he’s going to be like this. I don’t want some possessive psycho as my boyfriend.

“Alexandre, what’s going on?”

“I don’t like seeing you treated like that. Fuck, just because you were wearing a short red dress doesn’t give people a license to be so judgmental.”

“That guy Ryan was being perfectly friendly. He wasn’t being lecherous or rude in any way at all.”

“We are not talking about him, for fuck’s sake,” he shouted. He had never spoken to me with that tone before, and it shocked me. “We’re talking about you,” he added ominously.

I could feel myself well up. “I was just being friendly. Discussing my work. I didn’t even find him attractive.”

But he didn’t reply, just mumbled, “fucking bitch,” under his breath.

I wanted to sink through the floor of his car. If this really was the Batmobile I could press a button and be shot out into the sky or something. Tears spilled onto my dress. The dress, I realized that was causing all this turmoil. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it. Too short. Too red. It was screaming out “slut.” I felt humiliated and small. Alexandre was racing around corners like some Formula One driver. He seemed to have control, but the speed and the way his temper was flaring had me crumbling into a wreck. I started sobbing. I had nothing to wipe away my tears with but this vulgar dress. It was smeared with mascara, which was also, no doubt, half way down my panda-eyed face. He looked over at me.

“Are you crying, baby?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.

“Of course I am,” I heaved between sobs.
What the hell does he expect?

He pulled the car over in a dark layby, and turned off the engine.

“Oh, Pearl, I’m so sorry.”

“This goddam dress.”

“Well, I love that dress,” he said, unclipping his seatbelt and mine. He took me in his arms and drew me close. “You think I was angry at
you
?” he asked tenderly.

“You called me a ‘fucking bitch.’ ”

He let out a small laugh. “Oh shit. No, Pearl. Not
you
, chérie. I was talking about my sister.”

“Sophie?”

“She turned up at the party,” he explained.

Duh, I clicked. That woman I’d seen was
Sophie
. Sophie, who’d shot me that look loaded with poison daggers.

“She called me a cougar,” I told him.

“In my book that’s a compliment. Cougars are beautiful, streamline, elegant and intelligent creatures.”

“I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”

“Why,” –he slammed his hand on the dashboard—“can’t she mind her own fucking business?” He stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead, then his mouth pressed gently on my salty cheeks. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. That’s why we’re getting out of here—I’m really not in the mood for a scene. She’ll be staying at my house. You don’t want to be around.”