Hooked Up: Book 2 (8 page)

Laura’s silence still echoed down the line. I knew that the words,
I’ve met someone
would be a blow to her, even though she was married.

“Who is she?” she finally asked.

“I’ll tell you when we’re really serious.”
Damn, that came out wrong.

I didn’t feel inclined to tell Laura Pearl’s name because I didn’t want her sniffing about my personal affairs. But at the same time, I wanted to nip any fantasy Laura might have had about rekindling our relationship . . . in the bud. Inferring that my relationship with Pearl wasn’t yet serious was a mistake. It gave Laura false hope.

“Well, I’m sure you’re having great fun, but it won’t last.” She tittered knowingly. “Is she a local French girl from the village?”

“No, she’s American.”
Shit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

Laura’s lighthearted tone changed several octaves. “So you brought her over specially? Imported her from
America?”

“Listen, Laura, I have to dash. Take care. Send my best to James. You’re both welcome to come for your vacation in a couple of weeks, when I’m not here. Bye.”

A
WOMAN IN EVERY PORT,
I mused, still savoring the buttery taste of the croissant. I was so wrapped up in this train of thought and was beginning to feel furious at Alexandre, when he entered the room. His charming smile soon made all wrathful thoughts dissipate and, within seconds, I was back to wanting his offspring again. Did I rush into the airplane toilet yesterday and frantically rinse off the sticky mess of the lovemaking aftermath inside me? No, I had to admit, I did not. Instead, I lay back on my beige leather seat with my legs up—a trick I had read about for best chances to conceive. I was as guilty as he, if he was to be condemned for fantastical castle-in-the-air desires. Yet he had started the ball rolling, not me.

Alexandre was standing before me now, his legs astride—a pose he often assumed. Very masculine. It was all Alain Delon again, and I melted all over just looking at his face and body. He was wearing loose black swim trunks and was all wet, his hair slicked back off his handsome face, his green eyes gleaming.

“Enjoying your breakfast?” he asked, kissing me and stroking my cheek.

“Dee-licious. Have you just been for a swim?”

“Yes, the pool’s very inviting. Come down, I’ll show you the garden.”

The garden was more lavender, and paths meandering through secret entrances and archways, all divided naturally by hedges and plants. It was like a formal garden in a chateau, yet more rustic, matching this pretty stone house, which he kept referring to as a “farmhouse” yet it seemed far too grand for that.

“You know why you can see the stone on my house and it isn’t covered up?” he asked me.

“Because it’s so pretty? Why would anyone want to cover it?” I said, my eyes distracted by white butterflies—like falling snowflakes everywhere.

“True, but in those days the peasants who once owned houses like mine couldn’t afford the
crepi
, the plaster rendering, so the stones remained bare. Each and every stone was collected by hand from the fields. Can you imagine the labor? They built their own houses in the past, maybe getting their friends and neighbors to help. Little by little, carrying sacks on their backs, or with mules and horses if they could afford them.”

“And now it’s some of the most expensive real estate in the world,” I commented.

“I know. Sad in a way. A shame the billionaires have moved in and all the summer vacationers have pushed up the prices even more.”

The billionaires . . .
he’s one of them,
I thought to myself. “I thought the English were the guilty ones. I read that book,
A Year in Provence
. Didn’t that start it all?” I asked him.

“Well, it didn’t help. But the British did us a favor, in a way. They went about restoring houses back to their original condition, ruins that were falling apart—things we French didn’t even want at the time. Okay, they put in tennis courts, sometimes, or pools, but they showed us how important our
patrimoine
was. They genuinely loved the land and all the quirkiness of the damp, crooked houses. But now some people only want to live here to bolster up their status symbol. Still, I have an interesting bunch of friends around—some film directors, artists and such. It gets quite busy in summer.”

“So who looks after everything when you’re not here?”

“As you can see, even when I
am
here I have people. You met Madame Menager this morning. She and her husband run the place, and a couple of others, too, who come and go. It may look quite rustic, but a lot of care goes into this garden and house.”

“Yes, I can see,” I replied, looking around. The pool was now in view, the water rippling with a myriad of colors reflecting the blue of the lavender and the sky. It was bordered with real stone and had grass surrounding it, and trees shading one end. It was discreet. “I love the color of the water,” I said.

“I had the pool interior rendered with a gun-metal gray—keeps the temperature up and gives off that natural, been-here-forever sort of impression. Come for a swim, the water’s warm.”

Like a schoolgirl desperate to impress her older brother and his friends, I did a back dive into the deep end, careful to keep my legs straight and my toes as pointed as a ballerina. I came up for air and then started the crawl—fingers out in a torpedo point, legs smacking the water with a fiery, rhythmical kick, and breathing only to one side. I cleared a few lengths but realized my breakfast had hardly settled—my showing off had got the better of me. When I sprang up with a splash, his eyes were fixed on me. Thank God. What if I’d done that show for nothing?

“Very impressive,” he clapped. “I can tell what country
you
come from. You really are a Star-Spangled girl, aren’t you?”

I felt self-conscious.
Is that an insult or a compliment?

“Most Europeans don’t know how to swim like that,” he explained.

“I swim a lot.”

“I bet you were competitive at sports and games,” he jibed.

I was. Ridiculously so. I always wanted to ace everything.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “Are you taunting me for being an American?”

“Being number one is important to you lot, isn’t it? Winning?”

“What’s wrong with winning?”

“It’s partaking in the game that counts,” he tut-tutted. “Not just the result.”

“You can talk, Mr. Winner Takes All,” I teased.

“Haven’t taken all yet. Not quite. Still working on it.” He narrowed his eyes.

“What more can you ask for?”

“You. I want you.”

You’ve got me, buddy,
I wanted to scream out. But I didn’t.
Let him think I’m a challenge. Let him believe I’m special. I’ll play along with that.

Cool, calm and collected. That’s me.

WE SPENT THE DAY lolling about the house and garden, and meandering through the lavender fields. Madame Menager prepared a delicious lunch outside, under a canopy of vines, which shaded us from the hot sun. The crickets were chirping a high song, and there was a gentle crooning from a pair of doves in a pine tree. We drank a pale, pale pink rosé wine, so chilled, so refreshing, that I found myself flopping onto one of the living room sofas, unable to do anything.

Oh, this is the life.

The living room had a terracotta floor as old as the hills, and like hills, it undulated and buckled with a life of its own. The fireplace was at least eight feet wide, and inside was a vast wrought iron fire-back of a dragon—iron to reflect the heat of the fire, I suspected. The room was lined with bookshelves, and amidst plays by Voltaire, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Camus, I noticed a lot of English titles of novels: smart sets printed by a publisher called the Folio Society. I inspected some. Several had stunning, color plate illustrations. He had
The Wind in the Willows
! I opened it up and read an inscription:
Darling Alexandre, this was my childhood favourite, hope you enjoy. All my love, Laura.
Favorite spelled the British way. My heart started pounding with an unfathomable jealousy. How dare she know about
The Wind in the
Willows
?
Who is this Laura?
Laura, who must have been lining his shelves with classics in the English language! There was
Doctor Zhivago, The Greek Myths I and II, The Grapes of Wrath,
Vanity Fair,
Madame Bovary
—not in French but
Madame Bovary
in English!

Alexandre came into the room. “Ah, there you are, I thought you’d done a runner.”

“Where did you learn expressions like that?” I demanded in a ridiculous way, my eyes turning from blue to emerald green.

He laughed. “Ah, I see, you’ve been having a look at my English books.”

“Yes, I have. Who’s Laura?”

“A friend.”

“A friend?”

“She’s a friend now. She was my girlfriend. From London. You’d like her.”

I’d hate her, I thought to myself, but said coolly, “Oh yes? She has good taste in books. She must have been a great reader.”

“Somewhat.”

“Somewhat? There are piles of them here. Did she
live
here?”

“She comes in the summertime.”

‘She comes,’ not ‘she came,’ Oh my God – he’s still seeing her!

He said casually, “Why do you think my English is so colloquial? It was Laura who taught me. She was ruthless—she’d correct all my mistakes.”

“How long did you date her for?” I asked nonchalantly, trying not to show my envy.

“We didn’t just date, we lived together.”

“Oh.”
It gets worse!

“We were engaged.”

I felt as if I’d been stabbed. “What happened?”

“She left me for someone else.”

Was she nuts?
“She dumped you?” I asked with disbelief.

“I don’t like the sound of that word, but yes, I suppose she did ‘dump’ me.”

“Are you still in love with her?”

“No, but I still care for her.”

I needed to stop this conversation now. I felt woozy.
Stay cool, calm and collected, Pearl. Don’t be a bunny boiler.

“That’s nice that you’re still friends,” I said, and then smiled sweetly at him.

“Hey, tonight there’s a party and I said we’d go.”

“Where?”

“A few kilometers away. At Ridley’s house.”

“Ridley?”

“He’s a film director. You’ll like him.”

“I have a feeling I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

“All sorts will be there, it should be fun,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Okay, great. Actually no—not great.”

“Why?”

“Because I have nothing to wear. I was in such a rush I threw the worst outfits into my suitcase.”

“Pearl, you could wear a potato sack and you’d look amazing.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I don’t see myself in such a positive light.”

“Alright then, let’s go shopping.”

“It’s okay, Alexandre, I’ll make something work.” I said this because I didn’t want him buying me things. Ridiculous, but I was not used to shopping with a man. “The truth is,” I added, “it’s so beautiful here, I’m loath to go anywhere.”

“That’s how I always feel when I’m here; it’s hard to get away. But let’s go for a drive and you can see some of the surrounding countryside. The party doesn’t start till about eight—we have a few hours.”

Alexandre’s garage was a low stone building covered in pink, climbing roses. Perhaps they were the roses he used for his homemade rose jelly. The garage blended in beautifully with his house. Madame and Monsieur lived in a small guesthouse next door, and behind was a walled-in garden bursting with rows of organically-grown vegetables, dominated by tomatoes which were a dazzling sunny red, and other produce like cucumbers, onions and even strawberries. The garage housed a host of shiny vehicles, even a Deux Chevaux, the quintessential French car. Batman’s car was there, too, in its full glory, the Murciélago, proud and intimidating, but Alexandre opted for a royal blue, vintage Porsche.

“She’s a 1964 356SC Coupé with an electric sunroof. I had to have her the moment I laid eyes on her,” and he looked at me, his gaze roving from my toes up to my face, where he fixed his stare. I caught my breath. I was just wearing shorts, a thin cotton top, and flip-flops—nothing special, and was amazed how desirable Alexandre made me feel. Each time he looked at me like that, his green eyes piercing me, my solar plexus leapt and circled around itself. I felt like a teenager inside.

“She’s adorable,” I said, stroking her smooth lines. “So cute. I’ve always dreamed about having a car like this.”

“Would you like to drive her, see how she feels beneath you?”

“You make it all sound so sensual, Alexandre, so naughty.”

“She is naughty. She likes to be driven fast, likes to grip the road around corners. This baby likes to have fun.”

I looked him in the eye. “Speaking of babies,” I said guardedly. “What you did on the plane? It’s a slim chance, but I could get pregnant. A slim chance, as I say, but still possible. This isn’t something you can treat cavalierly like it’s all a game.”

He took my hand and held it in his. “Pearl, you make me happy. I’m crazy for you, can’t you see that? I want to be with you, and stay with you. I’m a monogamous type. Once I find someone special I don’t play the field. Look,” he emphasized, locking his gaze with mine, “if you were twenty-something—which you wouldn’t be because I’m not into young ingénues—but if you were, then you’d be on the pill or something. But we don’t have time.”