Hooked Up: Book 2 (9 page)

“You mean my biological clock?”

“I hate that expression—it sounds like some sort of time bomb, but yes. It’s unfair for women, and God was being pretty sexist when he designed that one, but there it is. Let’s just see what happens, shall we?”

“You’re acting as if I have no say in the matter. You’re just assuming I want children. You never asked me. I have a demanding career—maybe I don’t even want a family.”

He looked shocked. “You’re right, I never even brought the subject up with you. I did just assume—”

“But your instincts were spot on. I do want a baby. It’s just . . . I’d given up. I didn’t imagine I’d meet anyone special enough. You’re the only person I’ve slept with since my divorce.”

“I know. I was lucky to catch you before somebody else snapped you up.”

I took a big intake of breath and asked him the question that had been on the tip of my tongue all day. “Why did you split with Laura? Did you want to have her baby too?”

“Laura . . . how can I explain Laura . . . I’ll show you some photos of her when we get home and some letters she wrote me. When you see the pictures, you’ll understand why she left me.”

“Was she a supermodel, or something?”

“She was beautiful both inside and out. And yes, she did do some modeling.”

I felt a painful stab at my heart. Obviously I was the rebound, and this Laura was some sort of goddess who I’d never match up to. I needed to be more upbeat, not let jealousy consume me. He said he wanted me and wanted my baby—what more could I ask for? Marriage? I didn’t know if I believed in marriage, anyway. One divorce was enough; I couldn’t risk that again. I needed to change the conversation.

I blurted out in a jolly voice, “I always think cars have faces, don’t you? This car has excited round eyes, and the elongated Porsche badge looks like a funny nose. The way the hood is made looks like she’s smiling.”

He opened the driver door for me. “Slip inside. Doesn’t she smell good?”

I eased myself behind the steering wheel, onto the old black seats, and breathed in the odor of vintage car. “She smells divine.”

“Start her up.”

Nervously, I did, and backed the car out of the garage, onto the driveway. It was a stick shift and although I learned driving one, living in New York City didn’t give me the chance to practice very often, and I had certainly never been at the wheel of a car like this before. It was low, and as he said, I could feel the ground beneath me. The idea of taking on something with so much personality and chutzpah was exciting. Alexandre jumped into the passenger seat. He was wearing a big grin, thrilled, no doubt, that I was taking an interest in his passion for cars.

We meandered along country lanes, flanked by stunning views on either side of us.
What a
Wonderful World
by Louis Armstrong was playing loudly, and I thought, yes, Alexandre couldn’t have picked a better song—it really is a wonderful world. I mulled over our baby conversation. It had been my secret fantasy, kept close to my heart; something I never shared with anyone.
Pearl, the career woman, the one who supports herself both financially, and in every other way. Pearl, who relies on nobody
—that’s what I had told myself for the past two years.
There is no such thing as a knight in shining armor. Nobody is going to come along and wave a magic wand.

Then I met Alexandre. Was he waving a magic wand? Or was all this romance he was offering going to turn horribly pear-shaped?

I had been self-reliant and had even considered adoption, but realized how tough it would be being a single parent and raising a child in New York City, all alone. Did Alexandre really
mean
what he said about starting a family? Or was he just so young he hadn’t thought it through properly?

My thoughts now turned to the moving view; more of Alexandre’s magic, bringing me to this fairytale land. As well as lavender, there were vineyards, and stretches of golden wheat everywhere. Now and then there was a tiny stone building plunked right in the middle of a field, so picturesque, it looked like a postcard.

“Don’t be afraid, Pearl, to really give it to her. She likes to be pushed harder. You don’t need to change gears so soon—keep her in third for longer. I know what she needs.”

“You know a lot about what females need, don’t you?” I teased. “You like to keep me in third for longer, don’t you? And sometimes, when I’m begging you for fourth, or even fifth, you put me back into second. Sometimes even first.”

He laughed joyously, his right arm relaxed against the sill, the wind whipping his hair from the wide open windows. “I love that analogy. Yes, women are like cars—they need to be controlled.”

“You’re so sexist!”

“They like to have their limits pushed—but not too much—and then be brought back on track. They like to be managed but at the same time experience freedom.”

“You are quite something, Alexandre Chevalier. Quite a secret macho control freak, aren’t you?”

He laughed. “Not so secret.”

“And there I was, mistaking you for this humble gentleman!” I revved up and speed along a straighter road, gaining more confidence. I was in my element driving this car!

“There, you see how happy she is? She likes to show you what she’s capable of,” he shouted above the vroom-vroom of the engine.

“She likes me?”

“She loves you, Pearl.”

“Does that make her gay?” I joked, brushing my hand on his leg as I changed gear.

“I think she’s bi,” he said, winking at me. “And if your sexual fantasies during phone sex are anything to go by, you’ll get along together just fine.”

“Shush, that’s a secret.”

I thought about what Alexandre had said earlier, “Pearl, you make me happy, I’m crazy for you . . . ” and I hummed Madonna’s
Crazy For You
to myself. Did he really mean those words?

Before long, we stopped at his nearest village, Ménerbes, perched on top of a hill.

“You know, Ménerbes,” Alexandre began in a serious tour guide voice, “has been inhabited since prehistoric times. Archaeological excavations have uncovered the remains of villas and an ancient cemetery dating back to Roman times. These villages were built on hilltops to protect them from invasion,” he informed me, “particularly during the religious wars. Picasso had a house here, and Peter Mayle who wrote,
A Year in Provence
.”

“So this is where he lived,” I murmured.

We entered through a large arch, into the small central square, and pottered around the tiny village which, from certain points, offered striking views of lush, rolling hills below, dotted with farmhouses and hamlets making a patchwork of colors like a quilt.

“This place is famous for its truffle market,” Alexandre told me. “They use dogs mostly, these days, for digging truffles, the pigs got a little greedy. Truffles are so expensive, they can’t afford to lose even one.”

Our next stop was Gordes, marked with a sign as one of the most beautiful villages in France,
Les Plus Beaux Villages de France.
It, like Ménerbes, was perched on a hill, with breathtaking views below. We parked the car and wound our way through the narrow cobbled streets where no vehicles were allowed, and looked up at tall houses of honey-colored stone, many of them built right into the rock itself. Natural and man-made beauty rolled into one supreme medieval mélange. There was a castle in the middle of the village, where we wandered about watching tourists pass by, oohing and aahing at the history of the place. We sat in a café and relaxed our legs. I ordered an iced tea, and Alexandre a Pastis, an aniseed drink that, when mixed with water and ice, turns milky—a drink favored by the people of Provence, he said.

On the way back, he drove. Way faster than I did, I may add. Even though it was past seven-thirty, the sun was creating a magical, golden dusk light and there was a cooler breeze now.

“So tell me, Pearl Robinson, did you grow up in New York City?”

“I still haven’t grown up,” I quipped.

He laughed. “Alright, were you ‘raised’ in New York?”

“Yes, in Brooklyn. We moved to Manhattan when I was twelve because I got a scholarship to a private school on the Upper East Side.”

“You must have been a good student.”

“I worked hard. I was eager to prove myself, get top grades. I had to show them I earned the scholarship. I didn’t want to let anybody down. What about you? Did you do well at school?”

“No, I was a disaster. I experimented with drugs, you know, smoked weed, dropped some acid. I was a bad boy. A high school dropout. But I did have a passion and that was IT – all self-taught and bit by bit I cleaned up my act. I got into an excellent school in Paris for graphics and communication, but only stayed a few weeks—the fees were too high. My sister tried to help, but when I realized the kind of work she was doing, there was no way I could accept, so I left to get a job.”

“Why, what was she doing?”

“Just something that wasn’t good for her soul.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He’d whetted my curiosity. What could Sophie have been working at that was so bad for her soul?

P
EARL AND I spent the day by the pool, wandering around my lavender fields, lingering over a long lunch and drinking too much chilled rosé wine, pale as rainwater; the grapes from my own vineyard. I took her to visit my local villages, or rather, she took me. I let her drive my electric blue, 1964 Porsche Coupé, sunroof open, as we soaked up the sun while Nina Simone sang a song that reflected our moods,
Feeling Good,
as we sped by open lavender fields, and rolling hills of wheat and sunflowers—the summer landscape dotted with farmhouses and hilltop villages.

I can’t remember the order of things that day, or exactly where and when each conversation took place, but we discussed a few important issues; namely the pregnancy topic. Knowing that Pearl was forty put our relationship on a sort of fast-forward. At least in my mind—there wasn’t time to dither about. I’m a practical man. I’m also impatient for outcomes. I’d met Pearl, I couldn’t stand to be without her, and she was forty. We didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out if we were a hundred percent perfect for each other—we simply had to get on with it.

She didn’t know that I knew she was forty. I was brought up to never ask a woman her age or discuss it with her. I was told it was bad manners. Pearl, however, berated me for having come inside her when we had sex on the plane. I guess she felt her freedom of choice had been tampered with. I didn’t blame her. Talk about bad manners! The bulldozer had momentarily taken me over—I couldn’t help it. But the upshot of it was (I know . . .
upshot
 . . . does sound crude) that she admitted she did want a family.

There was another topic I’d been meaning to talk to her about: the Russian.

While she managed the steering wheel of my Porsche, I steered the conversation in another direction. “So,” I began, “how are things in the documentary department, now that Haslit Films has given up on HookedUp?”

Pearl’s eyes were on the road. “Fine. Great. Natalie and I want to do a special about child trafficking in the sex trade. What’s going on is really despicable. You’d think it would be getting better with so much publicity and so many arrests, but it’s worse than ever.”

“I really admire what you do, Pearl. Didn’t you mention something about arms dealers the other day?”

“I sure did. That’s another thing Natalie and I are focusing on.”

“Oh yeah? Any leads?”

“My contact at the UN is pulling a few strings for me.”

I turned to look at her. To gauge her expression. “What kind of strings?”

Pearl swerved a little too fast around a hairpin bend. I pressed my foot on an imaginary brake and sucked in a breath.

“Oh, you know, just organizing a few contacts,” she said, with a nonchalant wave of her hand.
Keep your hand on the steering wheel!

Was it my imagination or was she being cagey? “Anyone in particular?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

“Oh, you know, just
contacts.
I prefer not to jinx things. Not discuss them till I have the goods in the bag.”

The goods in the bag?
What bloody goods?
“Have you met any of these arms dealers, personally?” I pried.

She just shrugged her shoulders. By this point, I could feel my pulse pick up; blood pumping hard. I felt aroused by jealousy, which in turn, made me possessive. Possessive, jealous, horny, irritated—all the sort of traits in myself I wanted to keep under control. I can’t remember how I did it, but I veered the conversation toward Laura. I’d mentioned Laura earlier that day. I wanted to let Pearl know that there was an ex in the picture, be honest about it. Just in case Laura called and Pearl picked up the phone or something. But now I decided to toy with the situation; I just wanted to keep Pearl on her toes . . . let her feel that same stab of jealousy that was spiking my Latin veins.

“I’ll show you some photos of Laura when we get home,” I told Pearl, “and some letters she wrote me. When you see the pictures you’ll understand why she left me for someone else.” I knew what was going through Pearl’s mind, and she fell for the bait.

“Was Laura a
supermodel,
or something?”

“She was beautiful, both inside and out.”
Outside, yes. Inside . . . a grand exaggeration on my part.
But I continued, blithely, “Yeah, she did do some modeling.”

At least, I
thought
Pearl had fallen for the bait, but she coolly, not only changed gear, but changed the conversation back to the subject of my Porsche like she didn’t give a fuck. Couldn’t give a toss about my exes. Yet
I
was burning up. Why was she insisting on not mentioning that she’d had dinner with Mikhail Prokovich? My pride wouldn’t let me delve any further, so I dropped the subject. But my curiosity had been whetted, and the possessive gene in my DNA got the better of me.

What was I to do with a cool, independent woman like Pearl Robinson? She was forty. She had her own money, an amazing career, owned her own apartment; men no doubt, were desperate to date her and falling at her feet. She didn’t
need
a man like me. Was my sister right? Was I just a sort of Boy Toy to her? Was she taking me seriously or just enjoying great sex? Women often confuse great sex with love. Maybe Pearl would wake up and smell the coffee. Find out about my fucked-up past and screwed-up head, not to mention my crazy family.