Hooked Up: Book 3 (26 page)

“What other things?”

“Ah, that would be telling. You’ll have the rest of your life to find out.”

“What? You have
more
secrets? I thought you’d told me everything!”

“It would be a bit dull if you knew
everything
about me, wouldn’t it?”

“Something tells me, Alexandre Chevalier, that life with you will never be dull.”

THE SKY WAS mostly blue and clear, but the air crisp. I pulled up the collar of my coat and linked my arm tightly with Alexandre’s. I didn’t say much as everywhere I turned there was some spectacular building saying, “Look at me, how proud and stunning I am,” and I ambled along in a daze. Paris did not disappoint, but it was hard to put it into words. Alexandre was right, it was a feeling. A feeling of majesty, grandeur and pride.

We came across the
Grand Palais
, a magnificent
Belle Epoque
landmark and museum with Greek-style columns and a glimmering, glass domed roof supported by heavy cast iron beneath. It loomed ahead of us. The
Petit Palais
was nearby, arranged around a courtyard and garden, manicured and laid out symmetrically. Paris appeared to me highly structured, nothing left to chance, nothing abandoned, at least, not here, where everything was neat and tended. The buildings faced a beautiful arched bridge that crossed the Seine, the artery of Paris.

“That’s my bridge,” Alexandre told me with a wink.

“Because it’s so beautiful?”

“No, because it’s named after me,” he joked. “It’s called Alexandre III.”

We crossed the road and sauntered towards it. At either end of the bridge I observed high stone columns topped with gilded, winged horses overlooking the river as if they were guarding the bridge. The whole way along the sides of the bridge itself were cherubs and ornate Art Deco lamps, with globes of hand blown glass. Everything was in such tip-top condition it felt like going back in time a hundred years ago. No filth or soot coated the surrounding buildings or bridge, despite the traffic. No, everything gleamed and twinkled as if invisible hands were polishing the stone edifices, and as if the horse statues had been gilded with gold leaf, just last week. Alexandre told me that it was all restored a few years ago, the gold real. I marveled, wondering if this would all still be in one piece if it were New York City. The Parisians must have real respect for their treasures, although he told me the outskirts of the city was a different story, with graffiti everywhere and tower blocks.

We made our way to the middle of the bridge. Behind, in the distance, was the Eiffel Tower, and ahead the Seine meandered its way under more elegant bridges. There were some moored boats and barges below. The river swirled in little eddies, and I instinctively clutched my belly, knowing that there was life inside me; blood and fluids ebbing and flowing through my body just like the river, giving life to this newcomer: our precious baby. I leaned over the bridge and stared into the water below, wondering what our child would be like, and grateful that I had Alexandre back in my life, that I wouldn’t be venturing into parenthood alone.

He noticed my hand spread across my stomach and asked me, “Was everything okay with your last check-up?”

“It all looked great; the ultrasound shows a tiny beating heart. Just over two more weeks until the trimester is done, and then I’ll feel completely safe.”

He laid his large hand on top of mine. “You’ll be fine. It’s meant to be.”

Meant to be. So true. After all the heartache we’d been through, and were still going through with Laura, Alexandre and I were meant to be together, and nothing could break us apart. We’d been tested, and we were in this together for the long run.

Just like our relationship, Paris was one big superlative. Everywhere were tree-lined avenues and stunning historic buildings. I could appreciate that it would take years to do this city justice. We meandered slowly back, past the
Petit Palais,
toward the
Place de la Concorde
. What I had imagined to be a quaint square was massive, boasting a towering obelisk in the middle, flanked by two grandiose fountains and more historic buildings at one end.

A frisson of excitement ran up my spine. The awesome beauty and wonder of the architecture against the icy blue of the sky, and the way the square was ideally situated so that you could see the most magnificent monuments of the city, including the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysees, the Alexandre III Bridge, the Grand Palais, the Assemblée Nationale, the Tuilleries Gardens, and the Eiffel Tower, all at once, was a testament to the clever design. Looking at my little map, my eyes scanned all around to find my bearings, even though I didn’t need a map, having Alexandre by my side. I was your archetypal American tourist, with my sneakers and sensible clothes, clutching a map. Just to add to the look, I whipped out my camera and took a few snaps. Alexandre stood there, amused and happy that his city was obviously giving me goose-bumps and eliciting a huge grin on my face.

A skinny man in glasses rushed up beside us—we looked like sitting ducks; the quintessential sightseers, at least I did. He shuffled up next to me and gushed forth in a heavy accent, at breakneck speed, about how King Louis Sixteenth was guillotined here, and an obelisk was offered by the Egyptians.

We both laughed when he said something about, “Falling down of heads,” and then Alexandre blurted out something in French. The poor man was mortified and scurried off to see if he could nab some other, more bona fide tourists.

“Poor thing wanted to be our guide for the day, I guess,” I said. “I forgot that it was you guys who invented the guillotine. Nice touch. So who got beheaded here in this square? I didn’t quite catch what that man said.”

Alexandre cocked a dark-winged eyebrow at me. “Everybody and his cousin, basically. Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI, Robespierre. They called it la ‘Place de la Révolution’ in those days. Just in one summer alone, I think it was in 1794, over a thousand people were beheaded here in this square, not to mention the bloodshed going on all over the rest of the country.”

“All because of what Marie Antoinette said, ‘Let them eat cake’ when the people complained there was no bread?”

“Supposedly, she never said that, but that’s right – the people were starving and fed up with the unfair tax system, and lavish lives of the royalty and aristocracy. Everyone always imagines it was only the peasants that started the Revolution, but it was several groups; the intellectuals, the bourgeoisie, even poorer members of the clergy.”

Not only was my husband-to-be gorgeous, but he was intelligent and well read. I thought about Laura’s desire to have him father her baby. “Brains and beauty,” she had said. I tried to erase her from my mind, but the niggling thought of her nibbled at my brain. I said a silent prayer to God to get her—somehow—out of our lives, to fixate on someone other than Alexandre. To let us be free to get on with our lives in peace and harmony. We deserved to be happy together. We deserved our family, without gatecrashers pounding down our door to happiness.

I tried to distract my thoughts and fixed my gaze at one of the beautiful stone fountains with mythical bronze figures encircling the basin. In the water below, in the bigger basin, I discerned more characters; their torsos dark bronze, almost black; their mermen and mermaid bottom-halves a beautiful green verdigris, and the fish they held gilded with gold leaf. Water gushed from the fishes’ mouths.

Alexandre continued with his history lesson, saying something about how La Place de la Révolution was payback time when the people punished the nobility for their crimes, not the other way around, as it had always been before.

“My God, France has so much crazy history, enough to make you dizzy,” I said as I stared up at yet another sight: the Egyptian obelisk decorated with hieroglyphics—a giant red granite column pointing erect like a rocket to the sky. I smiled to myself and thought of Alexandre’s Weapon of Mass Destruction.

“What are you smirking about?” he asked.

“Nothing, just thinking about what you’ve been saying.”

He was oblivious to my naughty musings and continued with his spiel. “Funnily enough, you lot contributed in some ways to the French Revolution. French troops who served as anti-British mercenaries in America during the American Revolution helped spread revolutionary ideals to the French people.”

I laughed. “So you blame us?”

“Didn’t you know? The French blame the Americans for everything. I blame you, Pearl.”

“For what?”

“For causing a revolution in my heart.”

His words stirred me. To think that a year before, I’d been not only alone, but had given up on ever meeting a man I liked again. Let alone a man I was head over heels in love with. And let alone a man who was going to father my baby! “To have a sexy Frenchman telling me things like that in Paris itself is almost sinful,” I said.

“I can shut up, if you like.” He winked at me and a little tremor capsized my insides. I pictured my baby and wondered if he (or she) could feel what I felt; the thrill of absolute love.

I squeezed his hand, glove on glove. “Don’t you dare. I want to hear sweet talk for the rest of my life.”

Alexandre suddenly enveloped his arms around my hips and lifted me into the air, the way my father sometimes did when I was a child. I wrapped my legs around him and we kissed. A kiss in Paris. So romantic. When he set me down, he said, “It feels good, doesn’t it, baby, knowing we’re getting married? Knowing we share each other’s secrets? I’ve carried such a burden all these years. What my mother did, my abusive past. Now Laura. Thank God it’s all out in the open, finally.”

“I know. What a relief.”

Just like the unexpected lift, I was taken aback when Alexandre’s cell rang. It made us both jump. He fished it out of his coat pocket, looked at it and connected the call. “Hi Daisy, where are you all? We’re kind of slowly making our way to Notre Dame . . . very slowly, walking and talking about charming things like decapitated rolling heads and . . . ” He paused to listen. “You’ve done all that already? Jesus! Alright, we’ll meet for ice cream. We probably won’t have one as we’re on our way to lunch. Well, Pearl should, ice cream is good for her but . . . perfect. See you there in an hour and a half.” He looked at me. “I know it’s winter but this ice cream place is very famous.” Just as he was putting his phone back in his pocket, it rang again. “Daisy?” But his smile quickly vanished—a dusky cloud swept across his face.

“Who is it?” I mouthed, fearing I already know the answer.

Alexandre’s lips twitched with a mixture of sadness and anger. “Look, Laura, just calm down.” He then said nothing, just rolled his eyes. I could hear her screaming through the line, although what she was saying wasn’t clear. “I can’t, alright, I have commitments,” he said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched.

I looked up at him expectantly, terrified Laura was going to steal him from me—steal our happiness away like the thief she was.

“I told you, I can’t fucking well come right now. I have a meeting, I have—” he bit his lip, closed his eyes and let out a menaced groan. She had obviously slammed the receiver down on him. When he opened his eyes again, the green of his irises shined like wet moss. He shot me an apologetic glance and said, “If I don’t go now, she’s going to do something crazy. She’s going nuts.”

“What about lunch with your mother?”

“You’ll have to go on ahead without me.”

“No way, Alexandre. No. I want to meet your mom with
you
there.”

“Okay, I understand. Well, we’ll just have to postpone it, then, and go when I return.”

“When will you be back?”

He raked his hands furiously through his hair. “As soon as I fucking can. Jesus, this bitch is ruining our lives, I could fucking kill her!”

“You mean, you’re going to just leave, right now?”

“I have no choice. You could come with me if you like.”

“Somehow, I think that might make things worse.”

“You’re right. If I can get back late tonight, I will. If not, I’ll be back tomorrow by midday. I need to sort this shit out, once and for all.”

“What are you going to say? Tell her you’ll go ahead with the IVF?”

He shook his head solemnly. “I just don’t know.”

“Are you going to the airport, right now?”

“That, or the train, which actually might be faster; it’s so quick these days—just over two hours. I need to go back to the hotel to get my passport first, just in case I do end up flying. You can get some rest.”

“If you’re not going to be hanging out at the hotel with me, there’s no point. I’ll carry on with my walk and meet Daisy, as arranged.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a big girl. This is Paris, not South Central LA.”

“Well, if you’re sure. You can’t go wrong and you’ve got your map.” He pointed left. “Go through the park, Le Jardin des Tuileries—you’ll hit the Louvre—then head across one of the bridges to Isle St-Louis. The ice cream place is famous, it’s called Berthillon Glacier. The little island next to it, Ile de la Cité, is right where Notre Dame is. Here, take this.” He stuffed a massive wad of Euro notes in my hand, and a credit card. “My code is 1492, Fourteen ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. You can withdraw as much cash as you need or punch in that code when you buy things. Treat yourself to whatever you want; go on a spree.”