Hooked Up: Book 2 (2 page)

“In an hour,” I murmured.

“Meet me in the park—no, better still, I’ll pick you up from work and we can walk there together. I repeat, do not send any messages or call him, okay?”

I didn’t reply.

“Okay?” she repeated in a stern voice. “Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“What do you promise?”

“I promise not to send Alexandre any messages, nor call him.”

I could hear her sigh with relief. “Good. See you in a jiffy.”

Just knowing that Daisy’s one-woman rescue team was on its way, I found myself (after a couple more black coffees) getting a ton of work done. I did more in an hour than I had all week. I needed to get a grip. I listened to Julie London croon
Black Coffee
and identified with the lyrics, as if the song were made just for me. I too, was feeling as low as the ground.

If I work really hard perhaps I can get Alexandre’s smile, sex with Alexandre, and Alexandre’s very being—that has bored its way into my very psyche—out of my one-track mind.

I am a successful documentary producer.

I am in control of my life.

I HAD IMAGINED that Daisy would be bringing Amy along as she suggested Central Park, but no, she was alone. I was delighted (selfish me) that I’d have her and her undivided attention all to myself. She was in her tough-love mode.

It was a relief to get away from the sounds of horns and the ebb and flow of traffic, from the hot dog vendors and the bustling streets, and enter Central Park. We sat down on a patch of lawn, and Daisy let out a stream of wise advice, enunciated slowly from her heart-shaped lips. Her red hair was wilder and curlier than usual today, which made her particularly animated—the humidity had gotten to us both—curls for her—for me, hot and bothered between my legs, caused by a too-young Frenchman, who was no longer interested in seeing me.

“Okay,” Daisy began, sounding more British than ever, the ay of the okay drawn out languidly like a yawn. “This is not a foregone conclusion. You still have hope.”

“I do?” I squealed. “Really?” Music was playing in my ears. Operas, symphonies.

“IF you play your cards right. If you don’t, you don’t have a chance.”

“What are my cards?” I asked desperately.

“To do nothing.”

“But Daisy I need to apologize, I need—”

“You have already apologized. Worse, you blurted out to him that you loved him. Twice.”

“One and a half times. The second sentence he cut short. And the first time he didn’t even believe me.”

“He’ll be clocking what you said, trust me. Men are not so far removed from us, you know. They
also
dissect conversations and do post-mortems, even if it’s just privately in their own heads.”

“Not to the extent we do, surely?” I asked.

“They do care. Remember, I’m married. I see their human side.”

“Yes, but you’ve forgotten about the rest of it,” I grumbled, thinking about her sweet, kind husband who adored her—and knowing she could never truly understand.

“Pearl, you have no choice. You have to save your dignity. You cannot go running after him in guise of ‘apologizing’ or ‘discussing’ things. Firstly, men do not like to discuss. What’s done is done. Men are more forgiving than we are too. He’ll forget what you’ve done soon enough and start remembering the good times he had with you.”

“There’s no way, Daisy. He was furious. He hates me now. He thinks I’m scheming and dishonest. And if I don’t tell him that I’m sorry, he’ll think I’m even worse.”

“He’ll think you’re a bore. Let it go. Leave it be. If you do not,
not
contact him, he could call you, he
could
want to see you again. He’ll wonder why you haven’t got in touch—it will pique his curiosity.”

“But he was livid. Really angry—”

“Good, that means he likes you. You touched a nerve,” Daisy expounded.

I said nothing and digested everything she had said. Then I came out with, “Daisy . . . the truth is I’m hooked on him. I want more sex.”

“That’s only because you hadn’t had it for a couple of years so you’re obsessed. Quite normal.”

“No, really. He was like
a god
in bed.”

“Even more reason then you need to listen to me. Even more reason you need to control yourself.”

“What if I dress up really sexily, go somewhere I know he’ll be, say hello so I don’t seem rude, and then ignore him?”

“Pearl, how old are you?”

“That’s what he said to me, that I was acting like a ten year-old.”

“I can see you’re not listening to a word I’m saying, and you’re going to do something really foolish, really humiliating that you’ll regret later. And then don’t come crying to me afterwards.” She was now standing up, brushing down her dress and looking around the park. Irritated by me, her pursed lips said it all.

“Daisy, where are you going?”

“To get an ice cream or something. I’m hot.”

“I
am
listening to you, I swear.” I stood up, too, and breathed in the smell of freshly mown grass. There was a baseball game in the distance, and a dog chasing squirrels.

“Someone could get a ticket,” I observed. “Aren’t dogs meant to be on leashes at this hour?”

“As if you care, Pearl.”

“I care for the owner and the dog. Of
course
dogs should be able to run free, as long as its owner picks up after it. Everything’s gotten so regimented these days, so many rules.” I could feel Daisy was bored by me, so I tried to win back a star. “What you’re saying is really sound advice, Daisy. I’m going to try my hardest to follow it to the letter.”

“Good!”

“I just need to keep busy.”

“Normally, I can’t even get you on the phone at all, Pearl. Your job has been everything to you. The fact that this Alexandre business is taking up all your energy just goes to show how you’ve lost the plot. This is not like you at all.”

“I know.”

“Remember when I went out with that Argentinean? Latin men like a chase. All men like to chase but that lot more than most. I have never dated a Frenchman, but I’m sure if you come over as all keen, he’ll run a mile.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Do you remember that little book that came out that we read when we were in our early twenties? The one with rules for dating? That told you what and what not to do? How to get them to be crazy about you?”

“I’d forgotten about that—it was a bestseller.”

“Do not ask a guy on a date. Do not accept a date at the last minute. Always end the conversation first—”

“Do not say ‘I love you’ until the guy has said it first,” I interrupted. “I broke that one already.”

“Well,” Daisy said hopefully, “it isn’t too late to repair the damage. Don’t call. Do not get in touch. And if he rings you, don’t go all gushy and pathetic. Stay cool, calm and collected. You are a busy woman. You have plans, places to go, people to see, deals to make. You are not some pathetic, whimpering, sex-craved fool.”

“Do you think I can pull it off, Daisy?”

“I
know
you can pull it off.”

A
WHOLE WEEK of agony had passed. Work consumed me—what choice did I have? I called Daisy whenever I was feeling weak, when I needed to be reminded to not humiliate myself, to keep my resolve.

I got my period and I cried. I had a fleeting fantasy that by some fluke the condom was faulty, and I would magically be pregnant carrying Alexandre’s child. That when he met his baby he’d fall in love with me, and we’d live happily ever after.

Dream on, Pearl.

I had a great new contact at the UN who was willing to talk covertly—we even had dinner together with one of his covert contacts, supposedly in the arms industry—things were looking up career-wise. But the second I let my mind wander, I re-lived moments with Alexandre; the image of his body, the sexy things he had done to me, and a mixture of longing, lust and sadness surged through my body. I had a few crying-on-the-bathroom-floor moments, but each day got a little easier.

He didn’t call or even leave a message. I was being strong and had to force myself to resist the temptation to reach out. I even went on a date with an old friend from college, who once had a crush on me. Yawn, yawn. We saw a movie and had dinner, and then I told him I had period pains in order to end the evening early. It was a half-truth. The only pain I had was his pain-in-the-butt-you’re-boring-me pain. Poor guy. I tried to disguise my feelings as well as I could. I smiled sweetly and told him I’d be so busy at work there was no way we could see each other for at least a month.

Today was Friday. Not being at work, I knew it would be hard to keep Alexandre off my mind over the weekend. But I had an idea . . .

WHEN I ARRIVED HOME, I went online. I had to erase him from my brain. Perhaps, I mused, it was a physical need that I’d awoken, and I could cure myself with a simple remedy.

My search online was for “sex toys.” I had never in my life resorted to them, but hey, why not? Couples did it all the time. “A good way to get to know your own body,” everyone said.

I had always thought using them was kind of like cheating. I had had a vague notion all this time—completely unfounded of course—that pleasure had to emanate from another person and anything else would be a sort of “fraud.”
Ridiculous!

I looked at the range before me, the variety of colors and shapes. One was made from stainless steel. Ouch. Although promised to heat up once inside, from your own body temperature. Others were neat things that looked almost like cell phones and others, regular dildo shapes.

I read the reviews of one.
“YES, YES, YES! A great vibrator. Def worth the extra bucks. As soft or powerful as you want it to be.”
Hmm, sounded good . . . I read on . . .
“Not had solo use with it as it is so great with my partner.”
Partner
. Good while it lasted with Alexandre, I thought. Now I was partner-LESS. A dildo was a poor second choice, though. All I wanted was
him,
not some plastic substitute. As Alexandre had said himself, “the biggest sex organ is your brain.” How much of a mental turn-on was a fake penis? I wanted to smell his skin on mine, taste his tongue.

No, Pearl. Stop! Don’t torture yourself anymore.

I put some music on and start dancing to
Sex Machine
by James Brown. It happened to come up on random play. What were the odds of that? Not the most distracting thing to listen to while I was trying to get my mind off Alexandre, but at least I got so into the song, letting myself loose, and forgetting for a while. I was dancing wildly . . . gyrating and grinding my hips.

I heard my landline go. Anthony calling to check up on me? Or the doorman? Maybe the pearl necklace had arrived,
although surely Alexandre would have already sent it by now?
If it was the necklace, I decided, I should really send it back. Let him know, loud and clear, that I was not somebody who is after
things
. There was also a pounding at the back door to the kitchen, where the service elevator was. The trash. Did I forget to put it out? No, I did put the trash out. Why is the superintendent knocking at the back door? I went to answer. Looked through the spy hole.

My heart nearly burst through my chest . . .

It was HIM.

It was Alexandre.

Daisy’s speech rang in my ears: Play it cool.

The million dollar question was . . . should I let him in?

T
HE WEEK DRAGGED ON. I tried to concentrate on work, but everywhere I looked I saw signs of Pearl. I hadn’t returned her gifts, mostly because I couldn’t bear to let go of her memory. I didn’t wash the shirts I’d worn because I could still smell her on the fabric. She was everywhere—even on my bloody iPad—in one of my goddamn lists.

Being a nerd, I write lists, something I have always done to make sure I’m on top of any situation. As I said, multi-tasking has never been my strong point by nature, so all thoughts, all ideas get written down. So being as busy as I was, with so many fingers in pies (and other places), I had to be on the ball.

I read the bullet points I had written about Pearl:

Problems to be solved concerning Pearl: needs to reach orgasm during penetrative sex. (My big challenge).