Hooked Up: Book 2 (56 page)

“My name’s Zac,” the man said. His huge frame towered above us. Floppy blonde hair half covered his sparkling blue eyes. His toned and muscular legs were covered in sand and he grinned down at us with a dazzling white smile.

“You must be our local champion,” I said, my neck craning up at him, noticing his defined abs, not an inch to pinch anywhere.

He crouched down on his haunches and shook both of our hands. “Finally I meet Billy’s beautiful daughter,” he said, gazing at me. “And who have we here? Her gorgeous friend Daisy. There should be a law against having such stunning women grace our beaches. We’re trying to surf here, and you two women are way too distracting.”

We both tittered like teenagers. The fact he knew our names was very flattering. He must have been talking to my dad. And who could resist a bit of male attention, especially when we were both nursing broken hearts, and especially when it came from a god-like apparition with a deep tan.

“Perhaps we can hook up for a drink later?” Daisy suggested bravely.

“Nothing would please me more,” he replied. “You two ladies have a good day now.” He stood up. “I’ll see you around. Excuse me, I need to catch a few waves while the going’s good.”

He strolled off and we both trailed our eyes after him. His neat butt in long, black surfer shorts sauntered along the shoreline and he picked up his surfboard, his rippling muscles moving as he lifted it up from the sand and carried it with him to the ocean.

“There you go, Daisy, the answer to your payback plot. Maybe you can give Johnny something to
genuinely
worry about.”

“It’s you he fancies,” she told me, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t think so. Didn’t you see the way he eyed you up? Anyway, I’m too hung up on Alexandre.” I sighed. “Still . . . can’t complain about the attention.”

Daisy let out an exasperated groan. “And I’m too hung up on my bastard of a husband. Mind you, I wouldn’t kick Zac out of bed on a cold rainy day.”

We both burst into a cascade of giggles.

I
T WAS RAINING in London. Gray and dull and depressing. No wonder Alexandre preferred New York, even with the cold in wintertime. I imagined the skies clear and blue back home.

But Daisy’s mother was a sweetheart. She lived in a little house in Hampstead, near Hampstead Heath, a wild and sprawling park where people take their dogs for rambling walks or play soccer on Sundays. Although part of London, Hampstead is like a village, full of adorable pubs and quaint shops. Daisy’s mum Doris set me up in a cozy room at the top of the house, decorated with flowery wallpaper—quintessentially English—and treated me like a daughter—she missed Daisy so much.

I did some wonderful sightseeing: the Crown Jewels, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Portobello Rd, a street market on Friday and Saturday mornings, where you could pick up silver for nothing, and vintage clothes. Actually, despite the weather, this city really did have its charm. It felt like dozens of villages melded together, each with their unique character. I went out with some of Daisy’s friends, who were more than welcoming. They took me to local pubs, the theatre, and walks along the Thames. The food in England was not the way it had been when I’d come here as a teenager. Now the cuisine was eclectic and plentiful, with fabulous restaurants on every corner, the best of all being Indian food, inexpensive and delicious.

I had some business meetings here, too. I couldn’t justify to myself coming all this way to basically stalk Alexandre’s ex-fiancée. I needed a better reason, so I visited some television stations, made a few connections and fanned about some ideas. The British had always done great documentaries . . . so far I was being taken seriously and had been given a list of people to contact for future projects. Natalie needed my input more than ever.

I flew here straight from Hawaii with just a stopover in LA. I couldn’t face New York so I still hadn’t ventured into my new apartment there, hadn’t worked out what I was going to do. I had called Alexandre several times, but he always seemed too busy to discuss things in detail, or didn’t want to. He simply refused to let me return the gifts. The Mercedes would be sitting in the garage in New York by now. When I called Elodie she told me she’d had a wonderful trip with her friend driving across the States. It was Elodie who’d provided me with Laura’s address.

It was my final day here in London.

I had left the most daunting task until last.

I
’D BEEN TRACING Pearl’s movements with the tracking device I’d installed on her new cell phone. Guilty. Guilty of obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, and controlling manipulative behavior of every kind. I’d convinced myself that all I was doing was keeping a distant eye on her in case of any emergency; that I could be wherever she was at a moment’s notice like a knight in shining armor, ready to save her should the occasion rise. Except my armor was a little rusty, the metal too bulky. Maybe when I was seven years old I’d been a good
chevalier,
a good knight, but now I’d lost the flair. She had been in London for several days. Why? Instead of catching a plane from Hawaii to New York, she’d chosen to fly to London. Hampstead, to be precise. I remember her having told me that Daisy’s mother lived there. I thought back to my actions: trying to force Pearl to marry me, pushing her too hard . . . being the bulldozer guy. All I’d done was make her run from me. I had to find another tactic.

I needed to go and join her.

I stopped off at my house in Provence first. The pool was being fixed so I had a meeting with the builders, stayed the night, picked up those bloody books of Laura’s, and left. Technically, a few of the books were mine; gifts from her. I could have taken them to Goodwill, or the French equivalent, but somehow getting them free and clear of my house and giving them back to Laura was symbolic—a fresh start for Pearl and me. Returning gifts to the gift bearer sends a clear, no-nonsense message—
get out of my life; not even your gifts hold any meaning anymore.

I took a nice, small and discreet room, not at the Connaught, but another hotel, just in case Laura decided to track me down. Annoyingly, when I asked one of the members of staff to wrap some gifts for my mother—some cashmere scarfs I’d bought—they also gift-wrapped the bloody box of books. I didn’t have time to unwrap it. But the last thing I wanted was for Laura to believe I was showering her with gifts, or there was some good, pre-Christmas feeling on my part. No, I wanted to ice her out. I’d go there, give her the books and get my Aston Martin, which James had been kindly looking after for me—it was parked in their garage, which I still had keys to. I’d asked him to run the engine every now and then to keep it tuned. I’d bought the car in England and had hoped to drive it to France with Pearl, but we hadn’t had a chance. Right now, the idea of my precious classic car being anywhere near Laura was making me nervous—I could just imagine her dousing it with acid or something, stripping off the beautiful gunmetal-gray paintwork.

I couldn’t wait to snip all ties with her. Although, I knew how persuasive she could be, and I asked myself: What will Laura do next to try and lure me into her web?

I
STOOD NERVOUSLY by Laura’s front door. It didn’t look dissimilar to number 10 Downing Street, the British Prime Minister’s abode, with a big brass knocker and letterbox. The wood was painted in a high gloss black, flanked by matching wrought-iron railings. It was all extremely “grown-up” and intimidating. And it screamed serious wealth. I wondered if Laura had bought this place with all her modeling money, or if her husband was rich. I seemed to remember Alexandre once mentioning that he worked in the City; a hedge-fund manager or something—the type that made a million or two just for his Christmas bonus.

Finally I plucked up the courage to rap the doorknocker: the threatening head of a hefty brass lion.

Nobody answered.

My heart was pounding. Was it because I was uninvited? Or because Alexandre was once so in love with Laura all those years ago? I didn’t know the answer, but blood was drumming in my ears and my hands were clammy with trepidation. Finally I heard footsteps.

The door opened slowly, guardedly. A head peeked out. By the way the person was dressed, I guessed that she was a member of staff. “May I help you?” the voice inquired with suspicion.

“Hi,” I said, beaming (to try and hide my nerves). “I’ve come to see Laura.”

“Mrs. Heimann?”

“Yes, is she in?”

“Do you have an invitation?”

Er, no.
“I tried calling,” I managed with a dry throat.
Why am I
so nervous?

“Who should I say is paying her a visit?”

Jeez, this is so formal.
“Pearl.”

“You’re a pearl salesperson?”

“No, my name is Pearl. Pearl Robinson.”

“Wait one moment, please.”

I was already feeling as insignificant as a little sparrow, but when the door closed on me, I felt as if I might as well be invisible. I waited. Five minutes later, the door opened. Wide. My jaw dropped. A tall woman in her early thirties stood before me. She was achingly beautiful. She must have been at least five ten or eleven because I was like a shrinking violet in comparison. She was dressed in tight jeans and her legs went on forever. Her hair wavy, long and blonde, her smile broad, with perfect, movie star teeth. She held a black cane in her hand with a mother-of-pearl handle.

Laura.

She greeted me like a long-lost friend yet didn’t introduce herself. “Pearl, come in.”

I stepped into the immense hallway. The floors were of polished white marble, and a huge bunch of calla lilies adorned a big round table in the middle of the entrance, the table draped with pale blue shot-silk.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company, the place is a mess,” she said with a faint giggle.

The “place” was immaculate. Laura was immaculate.

I offered her my hand. “So nice to finally meet you. Alexandre always speaks . . . always
spoke,
” I corrected myself, “so fondly of you.”

“Well, I’m sorry he’s not here right now but he’s been in a meeting all day—you know how it is with him? Always jetting off on a plane somewhere to make another deal, always wheeling and dealing. Come through, would you like some tea?”

Did I hear that right? “Sorry, Alexandre isn’t here right now?”
No, she must have said his name by mistake. It must be her husband she’s referring to.

I followed her through to a grand room. She had a slight limp but nothing you’d hardly notice. I looked about me in awe. The walls were hung with what looked like grand masters, the vast sash windows let in an afternoon glow. I noticed she was wearing a huge ring on her engagement finger, not unlike mine.

She sat on a sofa and jingled a little bell. Her back was erect, her posture perfect. “I’ll call for some tea and cake. I always get a bit peckish at this time of day,” she said in a plummy British accent (like some aristocratic character out of
Downton Abbey
).

“Did you mention Alexandre not being around?” I ventured edgily.

The same woman who answered the door to me earlier came in to the room. “You called, Madam?”

“Yes, Mrs. Blake. Tea for two, please. Lapsang Souchong. Oh no, actually that might be a little too fancy for our American guest . . . make it basic PG Tips or whatever builders’ tea we have.” She smiled sweetly at me, and I wondered if I had just heard correctly:
Too fancy for our
American guest?? Builders’ tea?

“Where was I?” she continued in her posh accent. “Oh yes, Alexandre is out. He’ll be so upset he missed you.”

Alexandre? This is crazy, what does she mean?
“Where’s your husband?” I creaked out, my mouth dry and parched. I needed that tea even if it was only fit for builders.

“My soon to be ex-husband, you mean? Or are you referring to Alexandre, my fiancé?”

“You . . . and . . . Alexandre . . . are
seeing
each other again?” My brain was thumping with blood, I felt as if I was about to collapse.

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to him lately . . . I—”

“We’re going to be married, Pearl.”

“But . . . but . . . that’s impossible! He was engaged to me, he was going to marry
me.
You’re not divorced yet, Alexandre would never—”

“Well, we’re an item again. He had a little . . . what should we call it . . . a detour. With you. You were the rebound, Pearl, his solace after a broken heart. I’m sorry, it must be very painful to hear this but . . . well . . . he’s always been in love with me, surely you guessed that?”

My hands were shaking, my breathing pinched. I thought of all those books of hers still at his house in Provence. “But you were happily married to—”

“We never stopped loving each other, Alexandre and I.”

“You’re
sleeping
with him?” I cried out, trying to keep control of my frayed nerves.

She cackled with laughter. “
Sleeping
is not exactly the word I’d use.”

“But he was . . . he was in love with
me
.”

“No, Pearl. He was in ‘lust’ with you, for a brief spell. But he never had me out of his thoughts, not for a second. You were . . . oh, I’m sorry, would you like a tissue, there, there, don’t cry now.”

But I couldn’t help it. Tears flowed down my cheeks. She handed me a box of Kleenex, and I sniveled and blew my running nose into a wad of them, but there weren’t enough to soak up my gushing tears. I was making a complete spectacle of myself and was about to get up and leave but her cell phone rang. My curiosity was piqued. She answered and started speaking perfect, fluent French; laughing and joking. I felt sick. Her French was perfect,
she
was perfect. Stunning. Intelligent. And the worst thing of all? Alexandre had been in love with her the whole time. She ended her call and beamed at me.

“That was Sophie, she’s coming over in an hour. Do stay, I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

“But you said Sophie was dangerous. That she tried to kill you!”