Shadows of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 2)

by Arianne Richmonde

  The producer’s eyebrows shoot up. “Women?”

  “Yes, women.”

  “But, sweetheart, this is a buddy movie.”

  “Flipping gender roles works in a buddy movie. Think about Thelma and Louise. It beyond worked - it’s a classic. You get my point.”

  He temples his fat, sausage-like fingers. “I hadn’t even considered that.”

  “Would you like to think about it? Sleep on it?”

  He gets up and pads his heavy frame over to the high window and looks down onto the street below. The usual background of New York City can be heard – muted by the thick triple-glazed windows, but still evident - the sirens never sleep, not in Manhattan. People below are rushing this way and that like ants on a mission. Samuel Myers snorts. “What are you saying? That if I don’t consider the leads going to actresses you’ll be unhappy?”

  “Let’s just say that HookedUp Enterprises will be less enthusiastic about doing future projects with you unless we feel we can make our mark. We want to put our stamp on the movie industry – shake things up a bit, not just churn out the usual run-of-the-mill, same-old-same-old blockbuster. We’d like to see more females in lead roles and less ageism when it comes to actresses. There is no reason why beautiful leading women always have to be in their twenties. That message is getting worn and tired, and frankly, you’re losing a big chunk of the audience that way.”

  “Oh.”

  I edge towards this powerful man and say, “There are some amazing, very sexy actresses in their late thirties, early forties: Charlize Theron, Jennifer Aniston, Cameron Diaz, Cate Blanchett, Gwyneth Paltrow, Nicole Kidman, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Lucy Liu—”

  “Lucy Liu is Asian.”

  “So? She’d be right for the part of Sunny. She’s beautiful as well as feisty.”

  “I don’t know, I can’t afford two names, Pearl.”

  I keep talking. “Those are just the big stars. There’s a lot of other talent out there, too.”

  I can hear his heavy, considered breathing.

  “There’s nothing in that script that dictates to us that a man should play those roles,” I go on, “a woman can kick ass just as easily, excuse the expression. I see women playing those parts.”

  “Okay, Pearl, let me think this through. I need to make some calls. This has taken me by surprise. Quite a ball-buster, aren’t you?”

  “No, Mr. Myers, I’m a pussycat.”

  He looks at my ring and then says, “Does your fiancé know what he’s letting himself in for?”

  “No, he doesn’t. I thought I’d surprise him.”

  He chuckles. “Call me Sam, by the way.”

  I shake hands with him to denote the end of the meeting. I mean, there really isn’t much more to discuss –either he goes for my pitch or he doesn’t. “Okay, Sam, let’s take a rain check. Call me as soon as you’ve thought this over.”

  “So you’re not flexible on this woman thing?” he asks.

  “I’m always flexible but the ‘woman thing,’ as you describe it, is an important factor, like it or not. We females do make up almost half of the world’s population and we’re pretty bored of playing second fiddle all the time.”

  “A feminist.”

  “Not a feminist, just a woman. But you can’t be a woman in today’s world without busting the odd ball here or there.” I give him a wry smile and he laughs. “We’ll speak later,” I say assertively. “Call me.”

  I walk him to the elevator and when he’s out of sight I punch my fists in the air. “Yes!” I never imagined he’d even consider letting the roles go to women. I call Alexandre to tell him the good news. No answer. He must be in the air. As I pass back by the lobby, Jeanine, our receptionist, an ice-cool brunette who matches the décor perfectly she’s so glamorous, tells me in a husky voice. “Pearl, there’s a video clip waiting for you.”

  Alexandre and I have instructed everyone who works here to call us by our first names. No pretentions here. We want to make everyone at HookedUp Enterprises feel like extended family.

  “Samuel Myers brought in a video? He forgot to mention that.”

  “No, your fiancé,” she says emphasizing the F of fiancé.

  “Alexandre? When?”

  He called me ten minutes ago. You weren’t picking up, he said. Check your email. There should be a video in your messages.”

  “Thank you, Jeanine.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I go back into my office and look through my emails. There is an attachment. I click on it. I simultaneously laugh and cover my hand with my mouth in shock. I should be used to this by now but Alexandre’s shenanigans still take me by surprise. He’s lying on a bed in the private jet. Then the focus zooms in on his huge penis taking up the whole screen. He must have shot this with his iPhone. There it is - smooth as silk in its full glory, hard and thick as granite, the head proud. His hand grips it as he lies on the bed propped up against cushions – the self-held camera pans up - he’s languidly seductive, his eyes half closed, his tongue running lustfully along his dark red lips. I hear his deep voice. “Chérie, I’m on the plane before take-off in this private cabin thinking of you, kicking myself that I didn’t force you to come with me today. I miss you already.”

  I’m hot and feel a throb between my legs. The sight of Alexandre’s huge penis has my heart beating fast, my whole body tingling. I press my fingers on my clit and give it a hard push. Oh yeah. I look at the screen and am transfixed as he fondles himself and starts moving his gripped hand tightly around his erection. He goes on, “I’m thinking of your wet pearlette, Pearl, and your beautiful face when you come for me and your erect nipples and that pretty waist and soft skin and I’m thinking how when I get home I’m going to tease you with my cock. I’m going to bend you over the arm of the sofa and flutter my tongue around your clit. Just the tip of my tongue. Really gently. I know you baby, you’re gonna get all wet and hot and be begging me for it. And I’ll make you wait. I’ll make you moan with anticipation.”

  I swallow. I can feel my pulse speed up hearing his words, imagining myself in the position he describes. I press ‘pause’ and go over to my office door and lock it. Jeanine always knocks, but just to be sure. I go back to my laptop and press ‘play’ again.

  “See how hard I am?” he purrs. “I’m thinking of you sucking me – your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, running your tongue up and down and making it even stiffer.”

  I unzip my skirt and let it pool around my ankles on the floor. I take off my suit jacket and fling it on the back of my swivel chair.

  Alexandre continues. “Have you got your fingers in your pussy, baby? Is it all wet for me? I want you to sit back in your chair with your legs wide open…”

  Wait a minute, I think, how does he know I’m next to my chair? I sit down, my heart pounding, and yes, I am wet. Very wet.

  “Let’s get back to the other position I had in mind for you, eh?” he says, the focus now on his face which is grimacing from pleasuring himself. “You bent over the sofa arm, your peachy ass in the air. I’m gonna have to spank that ass, baby and then I’m going to take you from behind.”

  He has never spanked me, ever, but he talks about it in his fantasies – does he do that to please me, or does he secretly want to punish me? I still don’t know.

  “I’ll slip my cock in just an inch, no more. Thrust it in all the way, and then out, and then tease you again with just a centimeter of my cock. You won’t know when I’m going to slam you. Maybe I’ll pump you good and hard, maybe I won’t. Maybe you’ll be screaming for me to fuck you.”

  My fingers are deep inside myself now. I’m hooking them up against my front wall against my G-spot - a place I didn’t even know existed until Alexandre found it with his magic thumb. My left hand is on top, both adding pressure now to my clit and my special zone. I make circular movements and press harder now. I can feel the build-up. My eyes are glued to the screen. The camera is back on his rock-hard cock and he’s moaning now, al
most growling – he’s about to come – I can sense it.

  “All I can think about is fucking you. I. Love. Fucking. You. Pearl. I love fucking you hard, fucking, you, really slow.”

  I suddenly hear a knock as I’m about to reach orgasm. The panic of it makes me climax in a thunderous spasm. But then I realize the knock’s coming from Alexandre’s home-made porn movie as I hear him shout out, “hang on, just coming.”

  “We’re about to take off, sir, I need you to buckle-up,” a muffled voice says through the cabin door.

  He groans. I watch his face, now shown up by the camera in twisted ecstasy, and I laugh at the madness and irony of it all – ‘just coming’ he said - and I’m still coming, too, with delicious, powerful contractions – never were words more aptly spoken.

  Then the video goes dead.

  Why does Alexandre continually make me feel like a naughty schoolgirl?

  I try to compose myself, which is difficult as now all I have on the brain is my sexy fiancé. I’m not the jealous type but I wonder at my foolishness of letting him roam free in London without me there by his side. I trust him, I do, but at the end of the day he’s still a guy. Women throw themselves at him. Women, girls, mothers, dogs; this is a man who enjoys popularity. He’s easygoing and nearly always has a gentle smile on his lips which makes him very attractive to everyone. But there’s also something commandeering about him that make people sit up and pay attention.

  Funny, he says the same about me – that people listen. I do a good job of pretending – shoulders back, head up (and all that) but inside I feel the same as when I was twelve years old. You think getting older would make you qualify in the extra confidence stakes, but it doesn’t. Perhaps all that happens is that you get better at acting. If I have him fooled, that’s fine by me. If I have Samuel Myers fooled – all the better.

  I go to the bathroom to freshen up. One thing Alexandre has had installed in every bathroom in his apartment and here is the old-fashioned bidet. At first, I thought it was archaic but now I’m a convert and wince every time I go to a bathroom and there isn’t one. How civilized they are – perfect for a quick clean-up at any moment, especially if you’ve indulged in a little afternoon sex and don’t have time for a shower. I have found they are perfect to use as a foot-bath, too.

  I look in the mirror and see a happy woman staring back at me. Her skin is glowing, her blue-gray eyes bright. Lots of passionate sex – the perfect cure for anyone.

  I turn my cell back on and see I have three messages. Alexandre? No, Anthony. My mind flashes through a series of disasters that could have befallen him. Has he set the kitchen on fire? Did he try and squeeze his huge body into the Dumbwaiter? Has he smashed something, broken a chair? Fed Rex the box of hand-made chocolate truffles that were on top of the piano? Has he spilled a hot drink onto the piano keys? Anthony has two left feet and is always crashing into something, and putting his foot in it either verbally or literally. I call him without even listening to the messages – God knows what’s happened, I dread to think.

  He picks up. “Pearl, thank God.”

  I can hear outside sounds – sirens, cars, horns, cries. “Anthony, are you on the street?”

  “I’m getting into a cab.”

  “Oh, where are you going? Shopping? Wait for me, I’m on my way home.”

  “Pearl, I’m catching a flight back to San Francisco. Bruce is ill, it’s an emergency.”

  I roll my eyes. Bruce did this last time. He is incapable of being without his boyfriend for five minutes. Co-dependency does not even begin to describe their ten year relationship. “Anthony, you know what a drama queen Bruce is.”

  “No, this is an emergency. Seriously. An. Emergency! He’s had an aortic aneurism. Something to do with the heart. He’s in intensive care. Oh my God, I’m like, freaking out, I think he’s going to die,” he wails.

  A wave of guilt washes over me for my dismissive attitude. “He’s not going to die. Calm down – if he’s at the hospital they’ll get him through this. Have faith, Ant. Stay strong. Why are you taking a cab to the airport? Suresh could have driven you there.”

  “He was running errands, I couldn’t wait.”

  I hear the cab door slam and the vehicle screech off. “What can I do to help? Do you want me to come with you? I have money – let me sort out the medical bill.”

  Anthony seems as if he is going to burst into tears. “No and no. There isn’t any point you coming and hanging around at the hospital – there’s nothing you can do. And Bruce’s job has great benefits – he has full insurance. Thanks, anyway, Pearly – I appreciate the offer.”

  “Well let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  “I will. Shame, I was having such a ball at Alexandre’s palace. I mean yours and Alexandre’s palace – if only Bruce wasn’t afraid of flying and he’d have come too -maybe this would never have happened.”

  “Life happens when you’re busy making plans,” I say.

  “John Lennon said that.”

  “Yes, he did. And that was before he got shot. There’s nothing you could have done, Anthony. Life throws stuff at you sometimes – things that are beyond your control.”

  “Shit happens, huh?”

  “Exactly,” I whisper, thinking of our mom.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go – I need some time to think.”

  “Good luck, Ant. I’m praying for Bruce. Call me later.”

  “Bye Pearl.” The line goes dead.

  I mull over the fragility of our existence. One second everything can be perfect and the next, bam, anything can change and there’s not a lot you can do about it.

  Except - live each day as if it were your last.

  Chapter Three

  I need someone to talk to. Bruce’s aneurism has really knocked the wind out of me. Not that I am a huge Bruce fan but he is everything to my brother and I can’t bear to see Anthony’s life fall apart. It brings it all gushing back again; my mother’s unexpected death. You’d think the pain would go away after all these years but that feeling of abandonment never leaves your side – the eternal lurking shadow which accompanies even your happy moods.

  Alexandre is still en route to London so I can’t talk to him.

  I dial my best friend - poor long-suffering Daisy. I say long-suffering because she always talks my problems through with me. That’s just the way she is. Even if I try to discuss her she somehow, swings the conversation back round to me. It’s in her nature, and besides, it’s her job. At least it was before she got married and had a child. She was a full-time counselor cum therapist when she lived in London. Now that little Amy’s at school all day, Daisy is back working again. Or will be soon. She has set up an office in the maid’s room in her pre-war apartment block. A lot of these old apartments come with small ‘box’ rooms – what once were maids’ quarters in the days when people rang bells for service, had their baths drawn and drinks brought to them. These days, only people like Alexandre live this way. And now me. I still can’t get used to the luxury of my new life and feel guilty every time I see his staff running around for us. It doesn’t seem right. Indecent, almost. But Patricia gets cross with me if I don’t act the complete ‘lady’. She winces when I put plates in the dishwasher or begin to scrub a pan. I need to act more like the princess people expect me to be in my privileged situation.

  Daisy picks up on the first ring.

  “Hi Daisy, it’s Pearl, are you busy, am I interrupting anything?”

  “Hi gorgeous. Right now, I need to take care of a few calls but my eleven o’clock has just cancelled on me, so come over then.”

  “You have appointments already? That’s fantastic!” I cry out.

  “Joel - he’s my charity case I don’t charge him a penny,” Daisy tells me in her British drawl. “Getting back into the swing of things, you know. But I do have my first paid patient, I mean client, coming in next Thursday. Come on over – see my nest-like office. Just got a new couch – it’s a bit squeezed but I
look pretty professional in my new surroundings.”

  “Can’t wait to check it all out. See you at eleven.”

  I grab my gym bag where I keep my swimsuit and decide to go for a workout at the pool. I usually do fifty lengths. Gets the lungs working, and the blood pumping – it keeps me in shape. Although Alexandre has installed a gym at his apartment, working out with him is a disaster – I can’t concentrate. Apparently, Barack and Michelle Obama exercise together every morning. Do they work out or just leap on each other? Because when I see Alexandre pumping those biceps, sweat beading on that toned chest of his, his cute, tight buns clenched in action, all I want to do is jump his bones. No, I need a nice peaceful swimming session alone to keep my concentration in check.

  ***

  Daisy has done wonders with her tiny space. It’s intimate but it works. The walls are painted burgundy – I wonder if people will imagine that they are back in their mothers’ wombs – safe, protected. It certainly makes you feel you could tell her any inner thought - although Daisy has that effect on people, at least on me. The burgundy clashes with her natural red hair and, as if on purpose, she’s donning an orange dress. Very Autumnal. She has two framed certificates of her diplomas on the wall and a photograph on her desk of her daughter, Amy, and her husband together in an embrace. There’s a small library of books in a shelf behind; Freud, Carl Jung and titles like Stage Theory of Psychosocial Development and Eponymous Influences in Therapy.

  “What d’you think?” she asks proudly.

  “I think you’ll have a line of people clamoring down your door.”

  “Really? I feel so insecure, you know, I’ve been out of the picture for ages but Amy’s just turned five, is at school all day now and I need to get my independence back.”

  I lean back on her couch. “My father once gave me a great piece of advice. He said, ‘Pearl, whatever happens, whatever you do, even if you end up with someone wealthy you always need to have your own ‘fuck-you’ money – money that’s just yours that you can do what you like with. Women need to have their own fuck-you money at all times. You never know when you’ll need to catch a plane or treat yourself to something special.’ ”