Pearl (The Pearl Series) (14 page)

Last but not least, Laura, my ex. As I stood by the pool, white butterflies darting by me, the gentle sound of water tinkling from the fountain, I called her on my cell.

As I expected, she was not too thrilled.

“Laura,” I began, “how are things?”

She had ears like a bat. “Is that your fountain I hear by the pool? Are you in Provence?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied evenly.

“Alex, you promised!”

“No, actually, I didn’t.”

“I said you should wait for me! How long are you there for? I’ll get on a flight today.”

“Laura. No.” I walked slowly from the pool area into the house and sat down on the sofa in the living room, where coffee, fresh-baked
brioche
and croissants awaited me. I spread some homemade jam I’d concocted myself (from my very own cherry trees) onto a croissant and took a large bite. I was half listening to Laura and her protestations and wondering what Pearl’s reaction would be when she woke up here, in this beautiful, peaceful haven.

Laura droned on, “What do you mean,
no?
I told you I was planning a visit, I told you—”

I cut her short. “I’ve met someone, Laura, and I wanted to tell you directly.”

Why I even felt I owed Laura an explanation, I have no idea. But I did. I suppose it was the whole wheelchair thing, the guilt I felt about her having suffered for so long. As silence rang in the air, my eyes strayed to the bookshelves where several of Laura’s hardback books still lined the shelves. I needed to return them to her. Now that I had met Pearl, it didn’t seem right to have my ex’s belongings in my house. There was something else in those shelves I needed to deal with, too. Something Top Secret, hidden inside a multi-volume encyclopedia. I had cut out the middle and buried the incriminating evidence inside. Now that we had Wikipedia online, nobody used encyclopedias anymore—the stuff was safe, I decided.

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.”

Pearl and I spent the day by the pool, wandering about 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 and Nina Simone singing 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 bear 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 my company?”

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 feel 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
Toy Boy
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 nutty family.

Not only did I want Pearl to think me the hottest thing since the sauna, but also the coolest thing since Mount Everest.

I was balancing a difficult act.

That night, one of my fears materialized. We went to a party nearby, given by my friend Ridley. Sophie appeared like a bat out of hell, wearing a black slinky dress, her hair loose and sleek. I had an ominous feeling she might show up.

Everybody’s eyes were on Pearl in her sexy red dress. I mean,
everybody,
including my sister. As we walked in they were playing
Can’t Take My Eyes off of You
by Franki Valli & The Four Seasons—the perfect song for Pearl. Charlize Theron was there, and people were getting them confused—that’s how good Pearl looked. Some movie star was chatting her up, without any qualms at all—some blond guy, Ryan, who had been in a romantic, Kleenex type of tear-jerker movie—female film goers wailing with emotion at every scene. I knew this because of Elodie; she’d taken me to see it. That was before Elodie had become an Angry Young Woman. Now, it seemed, she eschewed the male sex in general, so I doubt even this Ryan character would have done it for her. And there he was now, brazenly hitting on
my
Pearl.

It was obvious to me that Pearl could get any man she chose. She didn’t look a day over thirty. When I say thirty, I mean a beautiful, hot, sexy thirty. She looked amazing: tall and slim, but with killer curves in all the right places. Her skin and body glowed with health and fuckability. I know fuckability isn’t even a word but it should have been coined just for Pearl because she oozed it from every pore. She was confident, self-assured, elegant. Despite her hot little dress.

Then
Wonderful Tonight
by Eric Clapton was playing and it couldn’t have been a better song to describe how I felt about her.

But I knew I had to get her out of that party ASAP. Away from Ryan the megastar, and away from Sophie and her sharpened claws.

While Pearl was being flirted with, I located my sister, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into the kitchen, where I hoped we could be masked by a little privacy.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Sophie?” I demanded, with a smile on my face.
The HookedUp CEOs. My what a lovely sibling team they are! They get on so well.

“Ridley invited me,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Where are you staying?”

“At your place, of course.”

“You can’t just turn up to my house whenever you feel like it! Especially when I’m there with company.”

“Company? I can’t believe you’re still fucking that cougar! In her slutty red dress, drawing so much attention. You
have
seen her, haven’t you, Alexandre, doing the rounds, ‘networking’ as the Americans like to call it.” She added in a whisper: “Four-tee. A cougar if ever there was one—I wonder what poor creature she’ll hunt down tonight.”

“Sophie, let me tell you something,” I enunciated, pinning her against the fridge. “40 is just a number, forty is just a word. In five year’s time
you
will be forty. In several year’s time, every single young woman
out there
will be forty—that is, if she’s lucky enough, and doesn’t get run over by a bus, first. And most of these women, I guarantee you, will not look as hot as Pearl
ever
during their whole lifetime, let alone when they’re forty. Stop pigeonholing people, especially Pearl. She’s my girlfriend and that’s final. Do. You. Understand?” I glared at her, my eyes burning through her and the smirk on her face. I had never felt this protective about a girlfriend before.

“Ooh, the Toy Boy’s getting touchy! Have I hit a nerve?” She threw her head back and cackled.

No, but Pearl has. Pearl has hit a nerve. Every single nerve in my body.