Hooked Up: Book 2 (16 page)

DAISY HAD LOST weight in the space of one week. Incredible. Less Annie and more Nicole Kidman. I ordered a bagel, lox and cream cheese for my breakfast (uh oh) –and she, a fruit salad and tea.

“Well, you look great for someone who has just had her heart broken,” she observed, glancing me up and down.

“Don’t be fooled by the tan.”

“Look, you had a good innings. Inning? Innings? I never know if that word should be singular or plural.”

“I don’t know either,” I said. “But you’re right, it lasted longer than I expected.”

“Did you get to keep the pearl necklace?” she inquired with raised eyebrows.

“No, I left it at his house and he never gave it back.”

“Oh well. You win some, you lose some.”

“What would you have done?” I asked.

“If I still had the necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Tough call. Pride would make me want to return it, but then . . . well . . . there is such a thing as severance pay.”

I laughed. “Anyway, I don’t have it—so luckily, I’m not in that predicament.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Humiliated. But strangely grateful.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Pearl.”

“Look . . . sex,” I whispered, lowering my voice so only she could hear, “was out of this world with him. I’m now hoping he’s awakened something in me. That I can find another great relationship with someone else. In the future. I’m also more open to younger guys, something I never would have dared to consider before.”

“Watch out, mothers, lock up your sons, here she comes! Just teasing, Pearl, don’t look so horrified.”

“I’m just a little sensitive to the cougar insult that Sophie spat out at me, that’s all.”

“Not every woman can pull a younger guy.”

I squinted my eyes at her.

“Pearl! Where’s your sense of humor?” Daisy took a large mouthful of strawberries and banana. “So, what’s Plan B?” she asked with her mouth full.

“Do you think there’s any way all this was a mistake?”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. Those two are as thick as thieves. He obviously confides in her. Sorry, Pearl, I’m just giving my honest opinion. Bitchy as Sophie has shown herself to be, there must be some truth in what she said, or how would she have that information about you? I’m sure she made it sound worse than it was, but still. She knew stuff about you that she shouldn’t have been party to. Can you imagine telling Anthony intimate stuff about your boyfriend?”

“Eew, gross, no!” I glugged down the rest of my orange juice. “You know what gets me more than anything?”

“What?”

“Not hanging out with his dog, Rex. I had visions of us all together—walks in Central Park, you know, the whole family dream thing.”

“Were you imagining a real family with him too? Babies and everything?”

I hadn’t told Daisy about the condom-less sex. I knew she would disapprove. A faint shiver ran through me, then I took a deep breath.
No, Pearl, that ship
has sailed.

“Well, you know, a girl can have her flights of fancy,” I said.

“It all seemed so on the cards, Pearl. Until this sister crap messed it all up. I’m surprised. No, shocked, actually. I really believed he was into you. He had me fooled.”

“You never met him, Daisy.”

“I didn’t have to. The pearl necklace spoke volumes, the trip to France et cetera. It seemed he went to extremes to make you happy—he didn’t have to do all that, he still could have accomplished his ‘challenge’ without all those extra trimmings. The truth is, the more I think about it, it doesn’t add up. But then . . . he is French, I suppose. Maybe he wanted to do it all with flourish and style.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Hasn’t he called you a million times?”

“I don’t know. My cell’s switched off. Between him, and Anthony obsessing about Madonna, I don’t dare listen to my messages.”

“You’ll need to give Alexandre a chance to at least explain.”

“Explain what? That his only sister is a psycho bitch from hell who once stabbed her father in the groin and who has it in for me? To be honest, maybe it’s better like this—I’m well out of it. Do I really want her on my tail? Sharing my life with her? I mean, she’s his
sister
and they’re business partners. I wouldn’t want to test her temper.”

“Alexandre did say, though, that the father was a monster, didn’t he? Maybe he deserved to be stabbed,” Daisy reasoned.

“Whatever—I don’t want to be on the wrong side of her. Perhaps it’s best I keep well away from Alexandre.”

“Probably. If you see him, you’ll only get tempted again. And this Sophie character sounds like bad news, whichever way you look at it.” Daisy checked her watch. “Crap! I’m really late! We’ll speak this evening, okay, Pearl?”

“I’m late, too. Thanks for listening, Daisy. Thanks for being there for me. And you look great, by the way. Ten pounds slimmer.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Pearl, but thanks.”

We both got up from our seats, paid the check and dashed off our separate ways.

O
N THE FLIGHT back to New York, I nodded off. Perhaps it was the hum of the plane—whatever, something reminded me . . .

I’m entangled in this web of ferocious filth. Fifteen years old and seeing stuff that no person could ever imagine in the span of a whole lifetime. I’m a cog in this wheel of destruction that I brought upon myself. Round and round—there’s no end. The woman is pleading with me, “If the president says no to the peace deal and the French leave, the Rebels will kill us all. The French can’t leave. We owe you our lives.”

She’s on her knees now, trembling, her hands clutching the material of my combat pants.

I look down at her, a specter of a woman, her hair matted with dirt, dried blood on her makeshift dress, as mosquitoes buzz around us in the hazy, dusty heat. She has been witness to horror. Her uncle was chopped up into tiny pieces in front of her, her younger sister decapitated, but she’s grateful to be alive after ten rebels raped her consecutively at gunpoint. I hold her hand. What else can I do? What can I tell her? I can’t assure her that everything will be okay, because it won’t. These little villages are swollen with pain, each on the frontline of terror and war. A country broken and maimed. No matter how many rebels I kill, they double in droves. Like angry, maddened wasps. Fearless. Relentless. Some of them even younger than I am. Just children. Children! Young boys wielding machetes and rifles almost half their bodyweight. It’s them or me. It’s kill or be killed.

But still, some of these “Rebels” are children.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the woman. Behind her I see the smoke and ashes of what was her house, burned to the ground. Yet she is still grateful. Grateful to be alive.

A man who must be in his late twenties, his eyes hollow graves, tells me, “My youngest cries herself to sleep every night. They took my wife from us, dragged her into the street and shot her. Like a wild animal, they shot her in the head. My daughter sees images of blood before she goes to bed at night. Please help us. You have to stop the Rebels. Please don’t abandon us.”

I jerked up in my seat, sweat dripping on my back and brow. The memories had sneaked up on me, unexpected. The shadows of war. The horror that had been buried in some dark corridor of my mind had been unleashed once more, letting in the demons, which were keen to knock at my brain’s back door.

The words tumbled out of my mouth as I rolled them on my tongue, “The Ivory Coast,” I mumbled to myself. It sounded so romantic—just the name conjured up a tableau of elephants, yawning sandy beaches and thick forests. But for me it was one long nightmare, not the glamorous dream I had conjured up. Joining the French Foreign Legion had been a wild impulse. I had lied about my age. I was just a lad of fifteen bursting to explore the world. An idealist. How are boys meant to know that fantasies will crumble to dust right before their very eyes?

I got up, ambled rockily to the airplane toilet and splashed my face and the back of my neck with cold water, trying to shake the cruel pictures from my mind, imbedded there like crimson etchings. I replaced the graphics of blood and gore with fields of lavender, the undulating waves of the Mediterranean—anything to let a sliver of peace ease its way into my assaulted brain. I splashed more water into my eyes, on my chest, my stomach, in the hope that it would help wash away the ghosts intent on sneaking into my soul. Because when you’ve been in war, your soul is seeped in black, however hard you may pretend it isn’t. It’s your secret. A secret you don’t share with your loved ones because the pain, the dark knowledge of the truth, would be too great for them to bear. You have to convince yourself you did the right thing. You can even believe it. But your soul will never lie to you.

The adoration shimmering in Rex’s eyes was tonic to my battered psyche. Dogs are great forgivers. Dogs don’t care who you are, what you’ve done, if you haven’t had a shower (the stinkier the better, right?), or how much money you have. As long as they get fed and watered, walked and loved, they’ll stick by you. Rex was traveling in style but he was oblivious. He was about to live in one of New York’s swankiest districts, with a private roof terrace that boasted a lawn and trees and a view to Central Park. I had even hired a dog walker/nanny for him, Sally, who’d need to stay over sometimes if I was away on business. I didn’t want Rex to be alone. Spoiled much? You bet.

Rex . . . my buddy. The one who could forgive all. Because, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing to forgive in the first place.

I was thrilled to see he was excited by his new home, rushing and sniffing about, exploring the three floors of my apartment as if there was buried treasure somewhere. The staff had even bought him treats and toys. I guess they knew their way into my heart was through my dog.

Everything was almost perfect. I was setting myself up with the ideal family situation. Beautiful home, people to help me run it, money galore, my dog . . . but the most important ingredient of all was missing: Pearl.

She hadn’t responded to a single one of my messages. Text, voice messages, emails. Zilch. She had obviously had enough. I’d have to work really hard to win her back. But I was confident I had a good chance.
Feelings like that don’t count for nothing.
With all the women I’d been with, it
felt
to me as if Pearl was genuinely in love with me, more than any of them. But who knew? She hadn’t said the words, even though I had laid my heart out to her.

It was nine a.m., New York time. I was sitting by my desk at home, listening to
Miss You
by The Rolling Stones, trying to do something other than obsess about Pearl. She’d be at work by now. Rex and I had arrived at my apartment at 3 a.m. I didn’t feel tired, so we walked around Central Park. I practiced some Taekwondo moves—I needed to keep my black belt polished, so to speak.

I still like to do that sort of thing—toy with dangerous situations, walk about in dodgy places, at night, under the cover of darkness. Places where muggers and drug addicts could be hanging out. Keep myself alert. Sharp. When you’ve been in war zones the way I have, you’ve got eyes in the back of your head. Forever. The fear, like an author’s sharpened pencil on a page poised to write, needing to write, never abandons you. You don’t want it to because it’s what you trust, what you rely on, even though it once nearly broke you. Fear is your friend. I’m a man who obviously needs adrenaline. Rock climbing. Surfing. Sex. Taekwondo. Hanging out in Central Park at 4 a.m. These things keep me alive. Keep me sharp as that pencil.

Besides, I had a Pit-Bull cross by my side; Rex’s secret. He could pin a person down at a moment’s notice if I gave the signal. His gentle Labrador side had people fooled.

I must have checked my cell twenty times. Nothing. Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Her name rang in my head so many times, that by the end of the morning, the word “pearl” sounded surreal, as if
my
Pearl was disconnected somehow, as if our relationship had been just a dream.

I wondered what direction I should take to win her back. Then again, she deserved better—
maybe I should just leave her in peace
. My mind was in turmoil, vacillating between the two extremes. I wanted her back. But if I pursued her, I didn’t want to just show up at her work or apartment. I’d played that card.

I was going crazy. Lack of sleep . . . the memories swirling about my brain . . . my dark past telling me to let her go—to allow her get on with her life without me. But my burning heart and the hole in my gut couldn’t bear to even entertain that thought. I needed to convince her to stay with me; not run away anymore. I didn’t want to hound her, but I did want, at the very least, to know how she was doing. I’d needed to talk to her and explain, but right at that moment, I knew she was sick of the sight of me. Sick of Sophie. Pearl would need time to simmer down. I needed to keep the bulldozer at bay.

At least for a while.

First, I had to sort out the tangled web of madness that Sophie had spun us into. No, I wouldn’t turn up at Pearl’s work. I’d write her a letter and have it hand-delivered to her apartment, with the pearl necklace that she’d left behind.

I found the choker in my bedroom, tore off my T-shirt, which I wrapped around it. Only afterwards did I realize that the T-shirt was two days old and must have stunk of my sweat, but I didn’t have time to do everything with decorum. Rex watched my every move, following me around my apartment, as if to make sure I did the right thing. I strode into my office, grabbed a piece of paper from my desk and hastily wrote a note:

Darling, precious Pearl,

You are my pearl, you are my treasure. Don’t deny me this. Don’t deny me the love I have for you.

When you left, my heart broke in two. The Spanish describe their soul mate as ‘
media naranja’
—the other half of the same orange. And that is what you are to me, the other half of me, the perfect half that matches me. I have never felt this way before about anybody. Ever.

You think I betrayed your trust. No, I would never do that. Sophie snooped at my iPad and saw my personal notes. They were written in English so I never imagined she would bother to translate them. Call me a jerk, call me a nerd for making notes concerning you. But here they are. (I have copied and pasted this). This is what she saw: