by
ARIANNE RICHMONDE
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible maybe liable in law accordingly.
Arianne Richmonde 2015
Kindle Edition
Copyright © Arianne Richmonde, 2013. The right of Arianne Richmonde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) 2000
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © by: Arianne Richmonde
Newsletter Freebies
To be advised of upcoming releases, sneak peeks, and exclusive FREEBIES:
CLICK HERE
For more information on the author visit her website:
www.ariannerichmonde.com
POST-MORTEM
PEARL
BACK IN MY APARTMENT, my mind tumbled over the disastrous breakfast at the Carlyle with Alexandre. Like a real glutton for extra punishment I called my thoughtful brother Anthony. As if that was going the help the situation.
“Don’t you see how childish that sounds, Pearl?” he said, after I told him various details about how I’d hidden information from Alexandre.
I was in my bedroom, throwing off the Jean Muir dress while climbing into something more casual. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late for work. Sinead O’ Connor’s Nothing Compares 2U was blaring on my music system, a reminder that Alexandre was irreplaceable. Unique. And I’d lost him.
“Pearl? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here, I’m just battling with my dress.”
“Rachel from Friends? Seriously? You’re likening yourself to a ditzy TV character? I mean, maybe you are that way, but you don’t want others to perceive you so. Do you know how lame that sounds? Not to mention dated. So 90s. It really shows your age, too.”
“I happen to love Rachel. And you make it sound as if being forty is some sort of disease.”
“It is when you’re dating someone from kindergarten.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t hang up . . . did you mention that to Frenchie—that you are still ‘hung up’ on Rachel from Friends?”
“His name is Alexandre. No, I did not mention Rachel from Friends to him. Maybe I did tell him I liked I Love Lucy and Bewitched, and I Dream of Jeannie.”
“Forty years old going on seven. Honestly. Interesting how all those characters tell fibs. I guess you must identify with them.”
“Well I love them all, and I still laugh when I watch re-runs.”
“Honey, you’re not going to get a chance to re-run this little episode, don’t you get that? And I don’t hear you laughing now, sweet pea. Do you know anything about French men? Do you not realize they are the proudest people on the face of this earth? You messed with his pride, girlfriend, you ain’t never gonna get another chance.”
“Stop that ‘girlfriend’ lingo, Anthony.”
I imagined Anthony swanning about San Francisco “girlfriending” everyone and giving high fives, and for some reason it made my blood boil. I yelled, “Anthony, what is all this, ‘French people do this and Americans do that?’ We are human beings, not stereotypes from some 1960’s Berlitz travel guide.”
“Do you remember that Mexican travel guide of Mom’s?” he cackled. “How we’d roar with laughter?”
“Listen, Ant, I’ll call you later, I’m running late. Thanks for listening to my woes. And being an ass.”
“Laters, baby sis. Take care now, don’t do anything rash, ya hear?”
WHEN I ARRIVED at work, I nearly had a heart attack. Natalie was sitting quietly at her desk.
“Natalie, why are you back so early?” I asked, dumping my monster purse on the floor. It was back with full vengeance now—everything packed inside, just in case. As in suitcase, it was so heavy.
“Good morning to you, too, Pearl.”
“I’m sorry . . . just . . . I thought you were in Hawaii until Monday.”
“I tossed up whether to stay and check into a hotel, or come home early. In the end it made sense to get back.”
“Hotel? What happened at Dad’s?”
“Your dad didn’t seem to want me there anymore.”
“What? But he’s crazy about you!”
“Was. Seems he got bored.”
“No, Natalie, you just read him wrong. That’s his style. He’s a loner, a surfer dude, just been used to being independent.”
“Selfish is what he is.”
“Okay, you know what? You are my boss and I love and respect you, but I spent my whole life hating my father and finally, finally we became friends. I know he’s selfish, I know he is a terrible husband, boyfriend whatever, but I do not want to know all the details of what an asshole he is. Especially, not right now.”
I found myself in tears again, and Natalie took me in her arms. I began to howl like some sort of wolf. The fact that she said, “there, there, let it all out,” made it worse. I let it all flow freely. I was like a dam suddenly being unblocked. My whole life was being spilled into her bosom. In between sobs I told her my Alexandre story, minus the mind-blowing sex. That was my precious secret—too beautiful to share with anyone.
“She listened carefully and then said, “Yeah, I had his sister, Sophie Dumas, on the line this morning cross-questioning me.”
“What?”
“I mean, it was lucky I was at my desk so early. I came here directly from the airport—took the Red-eye. I guess they’re five or six hours ahead of us in France. She was pretty pissed.”
“What did she say?” I asked, my heart on the floor.
“She wanted confirmation of your name. She had the e-mails in front of her, the ones I had sent her asking for a meeting and confirming your presence at the conference. She couldn’t understand why you hadn’t approached her honestly when you met them at that coffee shop, after their talk at InterWorld. And, of course, she was aware that you’ve been dating her brother—he must have spoken to her about you.”
Natalie was looking at me in a way that said, “Yes Pearl, why didn’t you just do things the way you were meant to? You have let us all down.” But no words come from her lips, just that look.
“I know. I know, Natalie. I screwed up. She and Alexandre were standing there in line. Very friendly. Very amenable. I just kind of froze with . . . I don’t know . . . with what. Fear? Excitement? All I know is the second Alexandre spoke to me I turned to Jell-O. I thought he might think I was a stalker. I wanted to be the beautiful girl he met in a coffee shop, not someone . . . someone wanting something from him. I’m so sorry, Natalie.”
“You would have still been that beautiful girl at the coffee shop, Pearl, no matter what.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“They wouldn’t have gone for it anyway,” she said in a soothing tone. “At least, not Sophie. She sounded pretty fierce. It’s just a shame it has all gone so horribly wrong with you and Alexandre.”
So horribly wrong. Her words were like clanging cymbals, or nails on a blackboard.
“Were you planning on telling me?” Natalie asked, looking me in the eye.
“Of course. But you asked me not to dist
urb you on vacation,” I stuttered, telling a half-truth.
THE DAY DRAGGED ON. I could hardly concentrate. I did research, caught up with important calls and e-mails, but I couldn’t picture anything but the shadow of disappointment on Alexandre’s face. I didn’t mention the pearl necklace to Natalie. And I hoped he wouldn’t send it back to me, after all, as he had promised. A reminder of what could have been if I hadn’t been such a dunce.
I reflected on all the dumb things I’d said, the way I behaved like a child when I was almost a middle-aged woman. I loathed, loathed, loathed that word, “middle-aged” and couldn’t bear to let it sneak its pushy way into my vocabulary, but as Anthony had reminded me, “how long, exactly, do you expect to live, Pearl? Of course you are heading into middle-age, you can’t deny it.”
After hours of beating myself up, I mentally replayed the sex scenes between Alexandre and me, and could actually hear low whimpers coming from my very being, the way when you have a fever and groan quietly. I thought of his worked-out torso, his strong thighs pressed hard between my legs, how the water gushed down on us, swirling about our pleasured bodies. I pictured his tongue meeting mine, and how it licked me, pressed me on my sweet spot until I came, my body writhing in spasms of bliss. I remembered him inside me, and my belly churned upside down.
I had to call him, or at least send a text—I could bear it no longer. Even if he thinks I’m a despicable human being who lies, surely he can at least have sex with me? I picked up my cell and began to write him a message:
Dearest Alexandre – no, scrap the “dearest,” that sounds ridiculous.
Alexandre, please forgive me. Can we meet up? Just to talk?
No, that gives him a chance to say no. I erased and started again.
Alexandre – I need to see you – please come over.
I could hear Anthony’s voice, “Helloooo, Pearl? Desperate!”
My cell rang and my heart practically popped out of my skin. It gave me such a jump. Alexandre? No, it was Daisy.
“Hi Daisy.”
“You called me four times, is everything okay?”
“I’ve really screwed up, Daisy.”
I related to her the whole drama, in whispers. I didn’t want anyone in the office to think I was a hopeless wreck (which of course I was).
“Okay, Pearl, listen to me. DO NOT send him a message or speak to him. Wait for me. How soon can you leave work?”
“In an hour,” I murmured.
“Meet me in the park—no, better still, I’ll pick you up from work and we can walk there together. I repeat, do not send any messages or call him, okay?”
I didn’t reply.
“Okay?” she repeated in a stern voice. “Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“What do you promise?”
“I promise not to send Alexandre any messages, nor call him.”
I could hear her sigh with relief. “Good. See you in a jiffy.”
Just knowing that Daisy’s one-woman rescue team was on its way, I found myself (after a couple more black coffees) getting a ton of work done. I did more in an hour than I had all week. I needed to get a grip. I listened to Julie London croon Black Coffee and identified with the lyrics, as if the song were made just for me. I too, was feeling as low as the ground.
If I work really hard perhaps I can get Alexandre’s smile, sex with Alexandre, and Alexandre’s very being—that has bored its way into my very psyche—out of my one-track mind.
I am a successful documentary producer.
I am in control of my life.
I HAD IMAGINED that Daisy would be bringing Amy along as she suggested Central Park, but no, she was alone. I was delighted (selfish me) that I’d have her and her undivided attention all to myself. She was in her tough-love mode.
It was a relief to get away from the sounds of horns and the ebb and flow of traffic, from the hot dog vendors and the bustling streets, and enter Central Park. We sat down on a patch of lawn, and Daisy let out a stream of wise advice, enunciated slowly from her heart-shaped lips. Her red hair was wilder and curlier than usual today, which made her particularly animated—the humidity had gotten to us both—curls for her—for me, hot and bothered between my legs, caused by a too-young Frenchman, who was no longer interested in seeing me.
“Okay,” Daisy began, sounding more British than ever, the ay of the okay drawn out languidly like a yawn. “This is not a foregone conclusion. You still have hope.”
“I do?” I squealed. “Really?” Music was playing in my ears. Operas, symphonies.
“IF you play your cards right. If you don’t, you don’t have a chance.”
“What are my cards?” I asked desperately.
“To do nothing.”
“But Daisy I need to apologize, I need—”
“You have already apologized. Worse, you blurted out to him that you loved him. Twice.”
“One and a half times. The second sentence he cut short. And the first time he didn’t even believe me.”
“He’ll be clocking what you said, trust me. Men are not so far removed from us, you know. They also dissect conversations and do post-mortems, even if it’s just privately in their own heads.”
“Not to the extent we do, surely?” I asked.
“They do care. Remember, I’m married. I see their human side.”
“Yes, but you’ve forgotten about the rest of it,” I grumbled, thinking about her sweet, kind husband who adored her—and knowing she could never truly understand.
“Pearl, you have no choice. You have to save your dignity. You cannot go running after him in guise of ‘apologizing’ or ‘discussing’ things. Firstly, men do not like to discuss. What’s done is done. Men are more forgiving than we are too. He’ll forget what you’ve done soon enough and start remembering the good times he had with you.”
“There’s no way, Daisy. He was furious. He hates me now. He thinks I’m scheming and dishonest. And if I don’t tell him that I’m sorry, he’ll think I’m even worse.”
“He’ll think you’re a bore. Let it go. Leave it be. If you do not, not contact him, he could call you, he could want to see you again. He’ll wonder why you haven’t got in touch—it will pique his curiosity.”
“But he was livid. Really angry—”
“Good, that means he likes you. You touched a nerve,” Daisy expounded.
I said nothing and digested everything she had said. Then I came out with, “Daisy . . . the truth is I’m hooked on him. I want more sex.”
“That’s only because you hadn’t had it for a couple of years so you’re obsessed. Quite normal.”
“No, really. He was like a god in bed.”
“Even more reason then you need to listen to me. Even more reason you need to control yourself.”
“What if I dress up really sexily, go somewhere I know he’ll be, say hello so I don’t seem rude, and then ignore him?”
“Pearl, how old are you?”
“That’s what he said to me, that I was acting like a ten year-old.”
“I can see you’re not listening to a word I’m saying, and you’re going to do something really foolish, really humiliating that you’ll regret later. And then don’t come crying to me afterwards.” She was now standing up, brushing down her dress and looking around the park. Irritated by me, her pursed lips said it all.
“Daisy, where are you going?”
“To get an ice cream or something. I’m hot.”
“I am listening to you, I swear.” I stood up, too, and breathed in the smell of freshly mown grass. There was a baseball game in the distance, and a dog chasing squirrels.
“Someone could get a ticket,” I observed. “Aren’t dogs meant to be on leashes at this hour?”
“As if you care, Pearl.”
“I care for the owner and the dog. Of course dogs should be able to run free, as long as its owner picks up after it. Everything’s gotten so regimented these days, so many rules.” I could feel Daisy was bo
red by me, so I tried to win back a star. “What you’re saying is really sound advice, Daisy. I’m going to try my hardest to follow it to the letter.”
“Good!”
“I just need to keep busy.”
“Normally, I can’t even get you on the phone at all, Pearl. Your job has been everything to you. The fact that this Alexandre business is taking up all your energy just goes to show how you’ve lost the plot. This is not like you at all.”
“I know.”
“Remember when I went out with that Argentinean? Latin men like a chase. All men like to chase but that lot more than most. I have never dated a Frenchman, but I’m sure if you come over as all keen, he’ll run a mile.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Do you remember that little book that came out that we read when we were in our early twenties? The one with rules for dating? That told you what and what not to do? How to get them to be crazy about you?”
“I’d forgotten about that—it was a bestseller.”
“Do not ask a guy on a date. Do not accept a date at the last minute. Always end the conversation first—”
“Do not say ‘I love you’ until the guy has said it first,” I interrupted. “I broke that one already.”
“Well,” Daisy said hopefully, “it isn’t too late to repair the damage. Don’t call. Do not get in touch. And if he rings you, don’t go all gushy and pathetic. Stay cool, calm and collected. You are a busy woman. You have plans, places to go, people to see, deals to make. You are not some pathetic, whimpering, sex-craved fool.”
“Do you think I can pull it off, Daisy?”
“I know you can pull it off.”
PEARL
A WHOLE WEEK of agony had passed. Work consumed me—what choice did I have? I called Daisy whenever I was feeling weak, when I needed to be reminded to not humiliate myself, to keep my resolve.
I got my period and I cried. I had a fleeting fantasy that by some fluke the condom was faulty, and I would magically be pregnant carrying Alexandre’s child. That when he met his baby he’d fall in love with me, and we’d live happily ever after.
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 1