Hooked Up: Book 2 (43 page)

“Well actually, someone just cancelled. Lost his nerve.”

“Could I take his place?”

“Sure. Have you ever done this before?”

“Only in my dreams.”

She laughed. “Well, now you can know what it’s like to fly for real. You wanna try?”

“I sure do.”

I whipped out my credit card, paid and signed a waiver agreeing to take full responsibility for my own risk.

She instructed me, “Okay, you’ll need to tie up your hair in a ponytail. And have you got anything other than jeans to wear? Something more comfortable that gives you room to move better?”

“I have some yoga pants in my bag.”

“Perfect. You can put them on behind here.” She led me around to the side, where there was a makeshift changing room.

This was crazy. Here I was in the middle of some existential crisis and I was about to risk my life on a trapeze. A wild exaggeration; there was a safety net to catch my fall, but I guessed anything could happen or they wouldn’t have asked me to sign that waiver. I’d be upside down, hooked onto the bar with my knees, swinging back and forth until the “catcher” could grab me, our hands linking. It would take a few goes but, I thought,
let’s see if I can be as good as that child up there.

When it came to my turn I climbed the ladder in my harness and stood on the platform about twenty-three feet up. I felt vertigo but was determined to go ahead with it. I looked out over the dark blue ocean and the streaky sky. It was cooler up here, a light breeze caught me, and the nervous heat I was feeling inside was momentarily at bay. My heart was thumping—I felt so high up!

A topless man wearing what look like white pajama bottoms hooked the trapeze with a pole and brought it toward me. He connected another rope to my front.
Uh, oh, here we go.
I launched out into the air pushing my legs forward horizontally with great momentum and then hooked them above my head, under and around the bar. This was scary. I had the choice to stay doubled up, or let go. Would my legs be strong enough to hold me? After a few seconds, I did let go and felt my arms and torso drop like a big lead weight. I was completely upside down. I hadn’t done this sort of thing since fourth grade! The woman below me was screaming instructions, “forward, backwards, forward, backwards,” and I swung my legs like a pendulum. Then I dropped myself into the net. End of Go One.

I waited my next turn, adrenaline pumping, and wished Alexandre were here to share this experience with me. It reminded me of our first date together when we went rock-climbing. He’d be proud of me now. My cell was in my purse in the trapeze school’s office. I couldn’t call him now.
Should I later? Or just leave it? I need him to know I’m serious about Sophie. I must remain strong, or the next forty years of marriage or as long as we all live, will be one frustrating-as-hell compromise.

After a few more turns on the trapeze, taking my turn between the eight year-old girl, a couple of surfer dudes, and another woman around my age, I managed to do the swinging circus “catch.” Hooray!

This whole experience gave me a sense of strength.

I walked back to my car. The sun had set for the evening leaving the sky a deep cobalt blue. A lone star was flickering on the horizon and I made a wish.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight” . . .
I wish that Sophie would get the hell out of our lives for good.

An overriding feeling of emotion hit me and I started crying again.

Alexandre said he was on his way to get me. But the only man I could bear spending time with right now was my father.

I needed my dad. I made a snap decision.

Kauai here I come.

A
S AWFUL AS the conversation was with Pearl, one good thing had come of it; finally she was being honest with me. Her strange behavior over the last few weeks now made sense. The floodgates had opened. It all came out. The gang rape at college. The spiked drink (well, Laura taught me about the infallibility of that one). How Pearl felt she’d asked for it because she was wearing a miniskirt. The guilt. The sense of culpability, shame, and then the blackout, which morphed into a blank-out—memories better left buried.

Oh Pearl,
I wanted to say,
I’ve been there too.
But I didn’t get a chance. I managed to assure her how it wasn’t her fault, how we’d get through it together, but she was so upset she couldn’t hear me. She started ranting on about Sophie again, then hung up. I called back but she’d put her cell on voicemail. I left several messages anyway, telling her to meet me at Van Nuys airport where we would catch a private jet to Vegas. Although, somehow, I knew things weren’t going to be quite so simple.

I’d have to be the bulldozer guy. I had no choice. Whether Pearl liked it or not, I was coming to get her. She was falling off a cliff with her broken wing and I was the only person who could catch her.

I dozed off on the plane, planning every move in my head: our flash-lightning wedding, our honeymoon, and how I’d insist on us both taking a break from work—maybe that tree house in Thailand I’d been fantasizing about would be a good plan. Pearl needed a rest, needed time to heal.

August in Paris. Tempers are raising the thermometers even higher.

We had a picnic by the river today, and everything was perfect. Sophie’s back home from staying at her friend’s. Papa’s been on good behavior. Maman loves him with every tiny piece of her heart. Smiles. Making sexy eyes, laughing, happy dinners, and happy faces. But I can feel the demon returning. The slimy creature is making its way back inside him and settling in for the night. Sophie says he’s okay; that he’s taken his medication, but I can feel it bubbling under his skin. I hold Sophie’s hand. We’re watching TV.

I whisper in her ear. “Stay in my bed tonight.”

She laughs. “You’re a big boy, you don’t need me.”

I want to tell her how he rubbed himself up against me—when she was away. When he wasn’t taking his pills. He rubbed himself up and down, through the sheets, and I could hear him moan when he stopped. I could feel the wetness. He gripped my shoulders. He rubbed. He cried. He rubbed. He got up and left.

“I don’t want him rubbing again,” I tell Sophie.

She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, away from our parents, who are still staring at the TV screen. Sophie isn’t smiling now. “What did he do? Did he touch you here,” she asks, her finger pointing to her private place.

“He didn’t touch me there. But he breathes in my ear and cries and rubs himself up against me. He tells Maman he’s coming to say goodnight to me and read me a story but sometimes he falls asleep in my bed when he’s drunk.”

“The bastard.” Her eyes are looking here and there as if she’s planning something. “And Maman does nothing?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t know.”

“No point telling her because she won’t believe you anyway. But I believe you, Alexandre. I know what he does. I know.” Tears are in Sophie’s eyes. I wonder if he has rubbed her too, but I don’t ask. “Are you going to stay at your friend’s house again?” I ask with fear.

“No, I’ll stay here tonight. If he touches you, call out to me. Okay?”

I nod my head.

I
DECIDED IT was only fair to swing by Alessandra’s to say goodbye and explain the situation. She was going to get wind of it one way or another, so I’d let her know that I wouldn’t be returning to LA for meetings, that I’d be emailing and Skyping if need be, but distancing myself emotionally from the movie project. What I’d thought was “my baby” now had a surrogate mother:

Sophie Dumas.

I’d been betrayed on so many levels and it made me bitter toward Hollywood. It brought something to light: I wanted my old job back—I felt the urge to do documentaries again. I didn’t care about movie stars and big budgets. I cared about those little Nigerian girls being sold for sexual slavery. I cared about the fourteen year-old girl Malala shot in the head by a Taliban man for championing education for girls. By some miracle she was still alive.

These were the things that drove my passion. Not some blockbuster, even if it did have a gay rights message.

I called Alessandra just to make sure she was going to be in. And on my way I swung by a Thai restaurant and picked up some Tom Yam soup and other treats. I was hungry after my trapeze exertion and I was sure Alessandra would be up for a bit of Thai food.

She was. When I walked into her house I realized I hadn’t been here before when it was dark. She had lit her wood-burning stove and it smelled of firewood and rose incense. She was delighted that I’d brought take-out, and we began to heat up the soup as we stood in the kitchen chatting.

She was wearing tight jeans and I couldn’t help my roving eye. Women are always checking out each other’s buns, but I was not comparing myself to her; I was admiring her sexy curves. I couldn’t help it. I still looked a bit disheveled and truthfully needed a shower—I knew I looked anything but hot.

“You wanna watch a movie or you want to talk about
Stone
Trooper?
she asked, stirring the Tom Yam.

“You know what? I’m a bit Troopered-out.”

I revealed to her the whole Sophie saga, keeping the tale simple and not too dramatic, but explaining why I’d be bowing out gracefully from any more script tweaking and future get-togethers. I told her about my plan to see my father, and that I was flying to Hawaii the following morning.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, her eyes mournful. “So it’s your last night at that cool hotel, huh?”

“Actually I checked out. I was in a flustered state, I thought I might be getting on a plane that very second, but then I got distracted by the trapeze school on Santa Monica Pier.”

“Oh so that’s what the sweaty appearance is? I wondered why you were looking so mussed up.”

“Would you mind if I took a shower?”

“Sure, of course. You wanna eat now or wait?”

“I’ll take a quick shower first, why not? I don’t want to stink up the kitchen.”

She got out some plates from a cupboard. “I like the smell of your sweat. It’s sexy.”

I snickered sarcastically. “Now that
has
to be a lie.”

“No it’s not. My ex . . . well she goes crazy for underarms, you know?”

“Well I have to admit, I like the smell of Alexandre’s day-old T-shirts so I do understand.”

“She likes it when I have hairy armpits, it drives her wild. I mean
crazy
wild.”

I grimaced. “Each to their own, I guess. You’re still seeing her? You refer to her as your ex yet you speak about her in the present.”

She looked uneasy but didn’t answer directly. “Whenever we have . . . whenever we
had
a fight, I’d shave to get her pissed.”

I laughed. “Shaving your armpits was a big punishment?”

“I know, isn’t it crazy?”

“What was she like . . . what is she like, your ex?”

“Beautiful. A tigress between the sheets.”

“Does she live in LA?”

Alessandra looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I don’t really want to talk about her, do you mind? Let’s talk about
you
, Pearl. Any more nightmares?”

I’d forgotten that I’d laid bare my soul before our bathtub ‘event.’ “No, no more nightmares, thank God.”

“Pearl, can I ask you a very personal question?”

“You can ask but I’m not sure I’ll give you an answer.”

Alessandra chuckled and tossed her mane. “Do you have multiple orgasms?”

Where did that come from?
I remembered the shock of when it happened in Cap d’Antibes with Alexandre. “Do
you?
” I asked, boomeranging her question.

“No. Never. And I never had an orgasm with a man. I wanted to . . . but . . . I tried, you know, but it just didn’t happen.”

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of women go through that,” I said carefully, not wanting to reveal anything too personal. “You know what? I’m going to grab that shower and then we can eat. I hope you like cold sesame noodles. Puffed rice cakes, vegetable spring rolls, and there’s some spicy prawn curry as well.”

“I’ll heat up the oven.”

“I won’t be long.”

I felt her eyes on my back as I sauntered to the bathroom, and she shouted after me, “Do you want to borrow a robe? Hey, Pearl, if you already checked out of your hotel, why don’t you stay here tonight?”

I turned around. “No. Thank you for the offer, but I can check into an airport hotel. I’m flying out at daybreak.”

“As you please. Grab a terry-cloth robe from the bathroom. You know, you can chill out comfortably while we watch the movie. Have you seen
All About Eve?”

“One of my favorite Bette Davis films: ‘
Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,
’ ” I said, quoting my favorite line.

“Oh dear, well, we can put on something else.”

“No, that’s perfect—I haven’t seen it for years.”

I showered and then we ate watching the movie. Eve Harrington . . . what an insidious character, and Bette Davis’s Margo Channing, who’d just turned forty. Oh, how I identified! Eve Harrington: a seemingly sweet-as-candy actress usurping her idol’s position in such a scheming, clever way. The whole scenario reminded me of Sophie. The story was different, but the intention was there: to slowly silently take over, to push out your rival with a smile on your face. Buying me my wedding gown, telling Alexandre she loved me, yet plotting behind my back. Although she hadn’t actually done anything
actively
bad, so it looked as if I was paranoid. Sure, she’d called me a “cougar” and a “stalker” a few months back, but I shouldn’t hold that against her forever. She did apologize, too. But I knew she was up to no good.

So far, Sophie was winning. Getting her way with Alexandre—pushing me away from him.

We’ll see if she succeeds,
I thought.

Alessandra plied us both with champagne, and because of the spiciness of the Thai food I’d glugged it down without really noticing. Uh oh, I had an early plane to catch, and I began to feel woozy. But I was so relaxed by the cozy log fire, and she had a way of making me laugh with her ironic and direct sense of humor, that I was loath to leave . . . just yet.