The wine, plus the long drive, made Pearl woozy. The hotel prepared us a candlelit dinner under the stars. Crickets were singing, and the Mediterranean waves lapped soporifically, inducing an intoxicating scent of sea and fresh air that had Pearl in a trance. She leaned back in her chair, sipping her Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
“Am I in Heaven?” she asked drowsily.
“I’m afraid so,” I said with a guilty smile. “I’ve got you a bit tipsy.”
“I’m tipsy on the aroma of wild thyme and lavender, and France, not to mention this wine which is out of this world.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it. A good Châteauneuf-du-Pape is like a beautiful work of art that takes you by surprise. It’s not for everybody. It’s earthy and sometimes fierce, the proverbial ‘brooding’ wine.”
“Like you, you’re a brooder,” she said, pointing her finger at me, almost toppling over in her chair.
She has my number. “Why do you think I’m broody, Ms. Robinson?”
“Oh, Mr. Broody, Mr. Moody . . . you think I haven’t worked you out? There’s more to you, Monsieur Chevalier, than meets the eye.”
“Honestly Pearl, I’m very basic. Boringly so.” I tipped her a wry smile.
“Yeah, right, Michael Corleone with your illegal empire.” She closed her eyes and inhaled the saline breeze as if it were her last breath. My illegal empire? Did she know about the gems? And what lengths I would go to, to protect my loved ones? Michael Corleone, huh? I always did respect that man.
When Pearl opened her eyes again—her pupils dark like pools of fathomless ultramarine—she gazed at me questioningly, and asked, “Why, Alexandre, don’t you just throw in the towel with HookedUp? You have more money than you need for several lifetimes. You said you wanted to get back to being creative, not just making deals.”
My throat felt suddenly dry. Perhaps if Pearl hadn’t been so tipsy, I wouldn’t have admitted my failings so readily. “The problem, Pearl, is that making money has become addictive—the more I make, the more I feel I need. Power does corrupt, no doubt. I’ve created a kingdom, and like any king . . . ” I trailed off. Pearl was rocking in her chair, about to pass out. I took her hands to steady her and thought about what I’d just said. I, like Pearl now, could topple. I was afraid to lose my crown. Sophie was part of my kingdom. We were equal partners in HookedUp, so it would have been tricky to extricate myself. Her obsession with making money, and more money, and more, had rubbed off on me. But our relationship wasn’t healthy—we were too entwined with each other mentally, as well as being business associates. A ‘marriage’ made in hell.
I was beginning to want out completely.
I got up from my chair and walked over to my beautiful Pearl. Her red dress reflected against the glass of deep wine, like blood, glinting under the moonlight. I took the glass from her hand and set it on the table—she’d had enough to drink for one night. “And you, Pearl? Do you care about money?” I asked, scooping her up in my arms and turning in the direction of our suite.
Her head flopped back and she grinned. “If I did, I’d be doing a different job, don’t you think? Being a producer of controversial documentaries isn’t going to bring me millionzz,” she slurred. “I love what I do. I’ve had a lot of headhunters knock at my door offering me almost double but, you know, I’m not motivated by money.” She nuzzled her head into my neck and kissed me there. I took in the sweet smell of her hair, of her sun-kissed skin, and carried her, like a baby, to bed.
It was true what Pearl said. I could tell that she really didn’t give a toss that I was so wealthy. So if she didn’t care, why did I? I could wind down HookedUp. Sell my share to Sophie—go back to being more creative. Sophie was meddling with my life, and without realizing it, destroying my happiness. I’d lay my cards on the table, I decided. Tomorrow.
PEARL
I DID IT AGAIN. Wasted a night sleeping! Last night, after a mouth-watering dinner that was accompanied by both vintage red and white wines (so delicious, I drained every glass), I conked out on the sofa, in our suite. Alexandre carried me, woozily drunk as I was, to bed, and I discovered myself, the following morning, in the most beautiful place in the world, with the most beautiful man in the world, nursing a hangover. What a fool! Except, right now, I appeared to be alone in our sumptuous suite, decorated as it was with pristine, antique furniture.
I went to one of the two bathrooms, a marble affair beyond luxurious, and looked in the mirror. Uh, oh. My hair was wildly messed up and I had dark makeup around my eyes. Did Alexandre wake up to that unsightly mess? Poor guy.
I splashed water on my face and glugged down some mineral water to clear my foggy head. I wandered back into the bedroom and living room. Alexandre was definitely not around. I had a memory of last night’s dream, quite Freudian, perhaps, that I was making love to a black horse. Well, not with his actual wiener, but riding his foreleg, which was pressed in tightly between my legs, holding me up. I was worried I was too heavy for his leg as he was supporting all my weight, and I asked him if it hurt (of course, animals speak in dreams). The horse replied, “no, it’s fine . . . keep riding.” I was meant to ride Alexandre but ended up dreaming about a horse instead! I fancied I had an orgasm in my sleep. Well, in the dream I did, but did that make it really happen? I had always wondered that—when you come in your sleep are you actually climaxing, or just dreaming you are? For men it’s obvious, they wake up with a sticky mess on the sheets, but for women it is more of a mystery. I had sexy dreams from time to time, often waking up with my hands between my legs, still tingling and hot. Today was a testament to how I felt.
Alexandre had certainly awoken my sensibility, my sexuality. Less than a month earlier, I had resigned myself to a sexless, passionless life, centered around work, and little else. Yet, I was only forty—too young to give up so soon. Forty. Once that seemed a lifetime away for me, and then the number crept up. Four O. Four Oh! Like the pearls, I was made of forty shades, a different tone for every year I’d been alive. Forty. For some that seems old, I mused. For some I was a preying cougar, who had no right to be with a man fifteen years younger than me. Yet, for centuries it had always been accepted when the roles were reversed. I thought of Princess Diana, being only nineteen when she married thirty-two year old Prince Charles. Nobody blinked an eye. Yet she was still just a teenager.
But I was perceived as a Cougar with a capital C.
Cougar . . . Sophie’s one word, spat at me like venom, was echoing in my ears. I should have ignored her spite, but I couldn’t. I felt I was being judged, and that eyes were upon me, not just Sophie’s, but others, too. Would people be observing me here, thinking, “how did she get that young guy?” Shut up, Pearl! He wants to be with you, just accept It. Be happy, stop doubting yourself all the time.
But I did doubt myself. I couldn’t help it.
I gazed out the window from my balcony at the view, and tears welled in my eyes. Tears of happiness, tears of despair. Had I ever witnessed anything so perfect? I looked across the century-old grove of pine trees to the sea before me; a blue more profound than I thought possible. Even Hawaii could not match this. I had heard all my life about the Mediterranean, and here I was at the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, on the southern tip of the Cap d’Antibes, the pearl of the Côte d’Azur—yes, pearl—where the glamorous and great had been coming for a hundred and forty years.
Here I was, me, Pearl, in this place that held such mythical status, standing on my balcony, listening to the sound of nature’s summer music—the cicadas chirping in my ears—and breathing in the scent of jasmine, or something delicious, mixed with pine. Perhaps the great playwright, Bernard Shaw, stood right here, or the Hollywood legends, Tyrone Power, and Rita Hayworth?
The turquoise water was shimmering with the morning sun, and there was a sailing boat in the distance, its white sails like fairy wings edging on the deep horizon. The deep green of the pine trees complimented the glistening cobalt—his eyes and mine—green and blue. I thought back to whe
n I was a little girl putting my green and blue crayons side by side together—my two favorite colors, so pretty, peaceful, pleasing. Now those colors were part of my soul.
Only yesterday I was a little girl.
Today, I am a “cougar.”
I took a shower to freshen up, washed my hair, but once dry, I realized I had nothing to wear but the fated red dress. There was no way I was going to strut about this hotel in that, garnering stares from the glamorous guests. I’d heard a rumor that Madonna was staying here. Eat your heart out, Anthony!
I called reception and ordered a blue and white bikini, a tennis skirt, and T-shirt from the hotel boutique—something, for now, to make me blend in. Then I asked for breakfast to be brought to the room. It was ten o’clock—where was Alexandre? I didn’t want to go looking for him. I had my iPhone, but my battery had run out and the charger was back at his house. I opened the mini bar and drained a whole bottle of orange juice. Already I felt more alive and was grateful I’d had this last hour to myself, alone. No more drinking alcohol.
Famous last words, I knew.
When Alexandre returned, he found me in my little tennis outfit. He stood at the doorway and gave me a wolf whistle. I laughed.
“Hi Pearl, love the look. But isn’t it a bit hot to play right now?”
“I have no intention of playing tennis,” I replied. “All I want to do is get into that crystalline sea. I had to wear something, so I got this tennis gear, and look,” I said, flashing the bikini underneath. “Ready for a swim?”
He sauntered up to me, kissed me on the mouth and lay his hand on my butt. “Absolutely.”
“Where have you been by the way?”
“Making calls.” By the look on his face I knew whom he had been speaking to.
“You talked to your sister?”
“I needed to get a few things straight with her.”
“What’s her problem, anyway?”
“She’s possessive.” He led me to the sofa and sat me down. He obviously wanted to explain things. Explain why his sister was such a tough cookie. Why she disliked me. “Look, she was the same with Laura. Laura was never good enough for me. Until we split up, of course. Then, suddenly, the sun shone out of Laura’s ass and she could do no wrong.”
“Even when Laura was already married to the other guy—to James?”
“Exactly. Once safely ensconced with another man, Laura became the perfect woman for me. They’re friends now. For some reason, my sister feels that if I am in love with someone, she’ll lose me.”
I basked in his words. Did that mean he was in love with me?
“But Sophie has a step-daughter,” I argued, “and a husband—she has a life outside HookedUp. You’re not a seven year-old boy anymore. She doesn’t need to play mommy to you any longer.”
He was shaking his head solemnly. “She can’t let go.”
“And what about you?” I asked. I was beginning to see his sister as a major obstacle to our relationship. Like a wicked, jealous mother-in-law, with whom you’ll never see eye to eye.
“She’s had a tough life,” he answered, as if by way of explanation.
“So have you, but it hasn’t made you aggressive.”
“Oh, I can be, Pearl. When crossed. Sophie’s the same.”
“But I haven’t crossed her! I met her once, for five minutes.” I put my hand on his knee and softened my voice. “Something you said yesterday’s been haunting me. You told me she did a job that wasn’t good for her soul—to help you with tuition fees. What was it?”
“I really don’t want to go into that.”
“Was it dealing drugs?”
“No, she’s never had a drug problem. She’s pretty straight. In fact, she was furious when I was loafing about smoking weed and playing video games when I was a teenager. She was the one who insisted I get my act together.”
“So what was she doing that was so awful?”
“Pearl, I don’t want to judge people, least of all my sister. What she did was just her way of trying to make ends meet. It was hard for her at age seventeen when she had to support me. She had to endure stuff she wasn’t happy about. And years later she fell back on a profession that she knew could make money fast.”
“She worked as a prostitute?” I guessed, looking him in the eye.
He was tapping his fingers together in agitation. “I don’t like that term. I prefer ‘sex worker.’ It’s still work, whatever anyone says. And it’s not the sex workers who are at fault but their bloody customers. All the perverts of this world who take advantage of someone in a weak, vulnerable position.”
“I see.”
“That sounds judgmental, Pearl.”
“What? I haven’t said anything! All I said was, ‘I see.’ ”
“Just your tone of voice. Have you any idea how tough it was for Sophie?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said carefully. “I can try to imagine but I can’t put myself in her shoes.” I nearly said, I have never done anything so desperate, but instead come up with, “Life has never gotten that bad for me.”
“Money’s important to Sophie. She’s terrified of losing everything we’ve built up. Scared shitless of going back to being poor, or in a compromised situation.”
“Look, I don’t know much about your finances, Alexandre, but it seems to me that you could both sell up and never work a day again for the rest of your lives—if you ever chose to.”
“Tell me about it. Not a day goes by when I haven’t considered doing that.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“I can’t just abandon her—we’re business partners.”
“You’d hardly be feeding her to the lions, Alexandre. She’d be set for life. You both would. You said yourself, it’s all about deals now, and the creative process is over. You could start another company; create something new if you wanted. I mean, if you’re not happy—”
“I am happy. Please, let’s drop this, Pearl. Let’s go swimming.”
ALEXANDRE
SO THE NEXT DAY, while poor Pearl was suffering from a morning-after-the-night-before hangover from consuming champagne, plus two different vintage wines (each paired with a different course of the meal), I started by explaining to her a little about my past. I told her that Sophie had once been a sex worker, that she was fearful of being poor again, and that she was like a mother to me after we left home when I was seven. I didn’t get into the nitty-gritty details about her being a Dominatrix, nor about her eventually running the show and being a Madame with her own highly illegal ‘house,’ hiring other women to work for her. Too much information at once could have scared Pearl off. I tried to explain to Pearl Sophie’s motivations but I think it came out wrong. It sounded as if I was defending my sister, putting her before all else.
Putting her before Pearl.
The look on Pearl’s face after I’d admitted that Sophie was a sex worker made me snap, “Don’t be judgmental, Pearl. Have you any idea how tough it was for Sophie? She was only seventeen when we left home. She was doing her best.”
“I guess life has never gotten that . . . . tough for me,” Pearl replied, choosing her words carefully in an undertone which said, I would never do something like that—never stoop so low.
“You should understand, Pearl. Your brother, John, got involved with drugs and alcohol—it was his demise. People don’t always do the right thing for themselves or others but it’s right for them in that particular moment. You can never judge someone else’s life or their choices—the path they take, because there are always two sides to every story. Or more. Sometimes there are multiple sides to someone’s story.”
“I guess you’re right,” Pearl answered, her eyes welling up.
I hadn’t meant to bring her down by mentioning John’s death, but I wanted to put us on the same par. I held her hand and we sat there silently for a while, both of us what-if-ing about our individual histories.
I thought of my mother, what she’d done, and my own shady pas
t and wondered if Pearl would stick with me if she knew my whole story. Probably not. She was a wholesome, star spangled American girl who, after the initial novelty of great sex wore off, might decide she didn’t want some screwed up Frenchman in her life. Was that why I had come inside her—to get her pregnant? So she couldn’t get away from me, even if she tried? So that we’d always have a bond even if she left me?
We went for a swim in the sea and I watched Pearl in awe. She dipped and dived, her toes pointed like a dancer, and when she swam, she sliced the water like a sharp blade. Watching her do the crawl made my chest fill with pride, knowing that she was my girlfriend, knowing that this interesting, sexy, independent American woman had chosen me as her mate.
Still, there were undulations of bad feeling about Sophie, rippling between us. I sensed that Pearl had reservations; that there would be only so much she could take. I needed her close to me. Needed to be buried inside her. So after the swim, I took her to our suite. The more hooked on sex she was, I reasoned, the more likely it would be that she would never leave me, despite my crazy family history, despite Sophie’s uncontrollable jealousy. Despite my dark side. I’d fuck her senseless. Literally. Make it so she couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think straight.
Outside our suite the cicadas were singing their summer song, thick in the pine trees. From our open balcony the blue sea glittered beyond, and an aroma of pine and oleander, sweet as cake, wafted into the room, blowing perfume in the air. But the view that caught my attention was Pearl herself. We Europeans are used to seeing topless women on the beach. So when Pearl took off her bikini and revealed two vanilla breasts, begging to be sucked they looked so tasty, I was instantly hard—instantly aroused by the forbidden, American fruit.
PEARL
THE WATER WAS heaven and washed away that unpleasant conversation. The sea was smooth and refreshing but not cold. Rocks glimmered beneath us and we dipped and dived around each other like children. Alexandre was a strong swimmer—thank God. I was glad not to be disappointed in that department. Snotty, I know, to care about something like swimming, but I did. A bad swimmer could be a deal breaker. How ridiculous is that?
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 9