Hooked Up: Book 2 (25 page)

Daisy picked up on the first ring.

“Hi Daisy, it’s Pearl, are you busy, am I interrupting anything?”

“Hi gorgeous. Right now, I need to take care of a few calls, but my eleven o’clock has just cancelled on me, so come over then.”

“You have appointments already? That’s fantastic!”

“Joel—he’s my charity case, I don’t charge him a penny,” Daisy told me in her British drawl. “Getting back into the swing of things, you know. But I do have my first paid patient, I mean
client
, coming in next Thursday. Come on over—see my nest-like office. Just got a new couch—it’s a bit squeezed but I look pretty professional in my new surroundings.”

“Can’t wait to check it all out. See you at eleven.”

I grabbed my gym bag, where I kept my swimsuit and decided to go for a workout at the pool. I usually did fifty lengths. Got the lungs working and the blood pumping—it kept me in shape. Although Alexandre had installed a gym at his apartment, working out with him had proven a disaster—I couldn’t concentrate. I’d heard that Barack and Michelle Obama exercised together every morning.
Did
they work out or just leap on each other? Because when I saw Alexandre pumping those biceps, sweat beading on that toned chest of his, his cute, tight buns clenched in action, all I wanted to do was jump his bones. No, I needed a nice peaceful swimming session
alone
to keep my concentration in check.

DAISY HAD DONE WONDERS with her tiny space. It was intimate but it worked. The walls were painted burgundy. I wondered if people would imagine that they were back in their mother’s womb—safe, protected. It certainly made you feel you could tell her any inner thought—although Daisy had that effect on people, at least on me. The burgundy clashed with her natural red hair and, as if on purpose, she was donning an orange dress. Very autumnal. She had two framed certificates of her diplomas on the wall and a photograph on her desk of her daughter Amy and her husband together, in an embrace. There was a small library of books on a shelf behind; Freud, Carl Jung and titles like
Stage Theory of Psychosocial Development
and
Eponymous Influences in Therapy.

“What do you think?” she asked proudly.

“I think you’ll have a line of people clamoring down your door.”

“Really? I feel so insecure, you know, I’ve been out of the picture for ages, but Amy’s just turned five, is at school all day now and I need to get my independence back.”

I leaned back on her couch. “My father once gave me a great piece of advice. He said, ‘Pearl, whatever happens, whatever you do, even if you end up with someone wealthy you always need to have your own ‘fuck-you’ money. Money that’s just yours that you can do what you like with. Women need to have their own fuck-you money at all times. You never know when you’ll need to catch a plane or treat yourself to something special.’ ”

Daisy laughed and threw her curly head back and swiveled in her therapist’s chair. “That’s brilliant and so true. That’s why I’m doing this! I need ‘fuck-you’ money, too. I mean, Johnny’s very generous and earns enough for us all, but if I want to go on a wild underwear splurge at Victoria’s Secret or pig out at the gourmet bakery at Dean & DeLuca, that’s my prerogative, right? I don’t want to feel guilty about it. ‘Fuck-you’ money, I love it! What about your ‘fuck-you’ money, Pearl? Do you feel as if Alexandre is being too controlling, still? A couple of weeks ago it seemed to be really bugging you. Is he still pushing you about getting pregnant ASAP?”

“Yes, but it hasn’t happened so we’ll cross that unlikely bridge if we come to it. The truth is, though, I’m relieved I’m not pregnant right now. It would all be too much going on at once.”

“What about the wedding date?”

“Alexandre’s cooled off a bit about that but just can’t understand why I need a bit more time. And he gave in about the company. As far as money goes, I get a generous director’s salary from HookedUp Enterprises, plus a percentage of any future projects that I orchestrate. It’s all been drawn up legally with lawyers. I refused to be given a stake in the company, much to his irritation. If at a later date my projects go well then I can buy in. I want to know I deserve the money I earn.”

“Wise. What about your apartment? You’re not selling that, are you?”

“No, I’m subletting. It’s a nice, regular income that I can rely on.”

“Fuck-you money.”

I laughed. “Exactly. Just in case I have to take off running,” I joked.

“Good girl. Smart move. You need to keep your autonomy.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “I don’t want hand-outs. I’ve always earned my own living. Anthony thinks I’m nuts, though.”

“Yes, well—he would. I know Anthony’s your brother, but he’s such a wanker. Why are you always so forgiving with him? You’ve got to face it, he really is pretty cruel to you, Pearl.”

“I know. He doesn’t really mean it though.”

Daisy arranged some papers on her desk. “There you go again, always defending him. Do you ever tell him to F off? I wouldn’t stand for such continual negativity.”

“We had a huge fight once and I did, I told him to get out of my life. Well, guess what? I’ve never told anyone this, Daisy, but . . . well, he attempted suicide . . . took a load of pills, so you can imagine how I felt. It wasn’t because of me that he did it, but still.”

“Oh, shit. How long ago was this?”

“About two years after John died. So you know, John died of an overdose, my mom died of cancer, I hardly see my dad so . . . ”

“I see. Guilt and fear. Guilt is powerful.”

“Anthony is incorrigible. He thinks I should ‘snap up Alexandre before he realizes what’s happened’ –those were his very words. Oh, and become a ‘trophy wife.’ Do younger men have trophy wives who are older than they are? Don’t you have to be arm candy to be a trophy wife?”

“You
are
arm candy, Pearl, believe me. Arm candy with intelligence. Age doesn’t stop anyone being beautiful. In fact, I think you look better now than you ever did. And you seem so much more self possessed lately, not so needy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you first met Alexandre you were practically wetting your knickers over him . . . sorry I didn’t mean that,” she burst out into a cascade of giggles. “No, but I mean you were behaving as if you were the lucky one, completely dismissing the fact that he too was getting a great deal.”

I put my hand on hers. “Oh, sweetie, you think I’m a great deal?”

“I think you’re a
bargain
and he should be bloody grateful. Just because he’s loaded and gorgeous and younger than you doesn’t make him more special than you are. And you need to be aware of that. The truth is, Pearl, you were behaving like a teenager. I can tell you now because you seem to be pretty much back to normal, but I was a little worried for a while. I mean, I know you basically hadn’t had any decent sex for twenty years and never thought you’d meet anyone ever again, so I do understand why you went so gaga over him, but still, he really had you under his thumb.”

Little does she know
, I thought, and found myself humming
Under My Thumb
again, remembering what Alexandre did with his magic touch. Was still
doing
with his magic touch.

“Yes, but he wasn’t aware of my Jell-O insides,” I said. “One of the reasons he was attracted to me was that I was ‘mature.’ Luckily, because of your wise advice of acting ‘cool, calm and collected’ he wasn’t party to my insecure, self-doubting internal dialogue or I think he would have dumped me.”

Daisy arched her delicate eyebrows. “You worry about that a lot, don’t you? Desertion. Being dumped . . . left in the lurch?”

I told Daisy about the whole Bruce saga, how I feared for Anthony, and how it had triggered the dread of abandonment and loneliness—memories of Mom’s sudden death. Then I added, “I don’t want to go into this marriage for the wrong reasons. I want Alexandre to really know me and love me for
me
—the good the bad and the ugly.”

To my amazement, Daisy took Anthony’s side on this topic and warned, “Be careful, Pearl, he’s a Latin man at heart. I’m speaking as your friend, you understand—professionally I’d probably urge you to be completely honest, but you’re not my client, you’re my best mate. Latin men can be jealous and possessive—believe me, I know, I dated one. They have that virgin/whore complex going on. I really,
really
would think twice about coming clean about divulging sexual history—there are some things better left unsaid.”

I bit my lip. Maybe she was right. Although, the truth was, I had blanked it all out. I couldn’t even remember anyway.

She went on, “You don’t want him to know about what happened that time. He really doesn’t need to be privy to it all—”

“But I was a different person then.”

“You were cocky and sassy and brimming with self confidence, you were only twenty-two.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, remembering how I then didn’t suffer from insecurities, that at that age I felt I owned the world.

“Still, best to keep it all under wraps, don’t you think? Let sleeping dogs lie,” she advised.

I crossed my legs, almost in self-defense. “It’s a blur, anyway, Daisy. I genuinely can’t remember what happened but it
is
a part of me still, whether I like it or not. I suppose I just feel like really opening up to Alexandre, that’s all. I don’t want us to hold secrets from each other.”

Daisy stroked my cheek and brushed a tendril of hair away from my eye. “You want to talk about it, how it messed everything up with Brad . . . empty your heart and soul, re-open painful wounds? That’s fine, I totally get that, me more than anyone. But talk to
me
about it, or any other close friend, or even another therapist—I could recommend a colleague to you. But your future husband who happens to be a proud Frenchman? I’m thinking, no, bad idea, or you could really screw things up. Look, maybe I’m wrong and totally overreacting; maybe he’d be understanding, adorable, and wouldn’t give a toss. But I’m just speaking from my own personal experience. It’s up to you, Pearl, but my gut feeling is this: he’s crazy about you, he thinks you’re perfect. Why risk jeopardizing that?”

“I guess you could be right,” I mumbled.

There was an awkward silence, then Daisy said enthusiastically, “On a brighter note, tell me about your wedding dress; have you chosen the designer yet? Let me know if you want me to come along and help you pick something out.”

“I forgot to tell you, Daisy, it’s all arranged. Zang Toi is doing my gown.”

“You’re joking? But won’t that cost a fortune? You told me you didn’t want Alexandre paying for your dress, and I know your father doesn’t have a bean. I read somewhere that Zang Toi dresses like . . . Saudi princesses . . . and Bill Gates’s wife—
that’s
when he’s not too busy with the likes of Eva Longoria and Sharon Stone.”

“He does, but Sophie’s paying. It’s her wedding gift to me. She has insisted and won’t take no for an answer. Zang Toi was
her
idea.”

Daisy went white. You. Are. Kidding. Me.”

“No, really, she’s being as sweet as pie at the moment.”

“And you trust that?”

I grimaced. “No, but what am I meant to do? Tell her she’s a scheming bitch and I suspect her of foul play? If she insists on spending sixty-three thousand dollars on me, and it makes Alexandre happy and I’m going to get the most stunning wedding gown in the whole wide world, then who am I to disagree?”

“Sixty-three thousand dollars??
But that’s insane money! I know Sophie and Alexandre are loaded but—”

“Alexandre,” I interrupted, “is rich and powerful but Sophie? Oh my God, that woman has her money invested everywhere: Vegas and half way round the United States and Latin America, and Lord knows where else. She
oozes
wealth. Alexandre spends his money on cars and property, but her? She
invests.
She plays the stock market. Who knows what pies her bony fingers are stuck into, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s involved with Russian mafia or something. I know sixty-three thousand is a fortune for you and me, but for Sophie it’s not even a morning’s work.”

Daisy pressed her thumb up to her lips in thought. “Hmm, I wonder what her plan is. Maybe, knowing she’s going to be your sister-in-law has made her turn over a new leaf and the wedding dress is her peace offering.”

“You think?”

Daisy sniggered. “No, not for a second, I was being sarcastic. I think she could be plotting and scheming something. Watch out.”

“Me too. I mean, I’d love to believe that she genuinely wants to be friends—of course—but my little voice inside tells me not to trust her.”

“If I were you, I’d listen to that little voice.” Daisy narrowed her eyes. “I smell a rat.”

L
UCKILY, INDIRA HAD a screen test to go to at Shepperton Studios, so we parted ways as soon as we landed. As crazy as my sister drove me, I was glad that she’d be able (I hoped) to come up with some sort of solution for Indira and deal with the cousin. Indira’s story was implausible, ridiculous . . .

But a woman spurned is capable of revenge . . . history books told us so.