“You must enjoy your work, then?”
“I don’t really consider it work. I’d be doing it anyway, even if I wasn’t getting paid for it.”
“Is that what you do, then? Internet and computer stuff?”
“Yeah, I started a company with my sister. She was single at the time, you know, no boyfriend, and an obsessive Twitter user. It was she who came up with the idea. A twittery way to get a date. Get ‘hooked up’ as the Americans say. It started from there. I’m a programmer. Amongst other things.”
“HookedUp. Is that your company?” I should be given an Oscar for best performance. Or slapped in jail for most wicked liar of the year.
“Yes, that’s me,” he says simply.
“Wow, doing okay, I guess.”
“Yeah, we’ve been lucky. And I love what I do which is the most important aspect.”
“So what are your hobbies? When you’re not doing technical stuff?”
“Oh, I’m a sucker for anything technical even when I’m not working. Cars, electric guitars. I love gadgets. You probably think me pretty foolish – a typical guy.”
“Boys toys,” I laugh. “Men usually like gadgets. Do you fly a plane?”
“No. I have my cars. I like feeling the ground beneath the wheels.” He looks at me intensely.
Ground beneath the wheels – why does that sound so evocative?
“So you don’t fly about in a private jet or helicopter?” Where did that ridiculous question come from? – I’m beginning to sound like a chat show host.
“I think my carbon footprint is bad enough as it is – no, I rarely travel by private jet or helicopter. Although, now you mention it – not a bad idea for Rex,” he says, deadpan. “It would be way more comfortable for him to travel that way. What about you?” he asks. “Private jet?”
“Not unless you count the water-jet thing on my toothbrush private.”
His defined lips curve into a subtle smile. “You haven’t told me much about yourself, Pearl.”
Oh no. What do I say? Luckily, he’s European. I’ve noticed they rarely ask you directly what you do for a living; they consider it bad manners.
“Well,” I begin, “I like writing. One day, I hope to pen a screenplay.”
“Really? I love theatre. I don’t know much about screenplays or movies, but I adore going to the theatre. Actually, I prefer a good play to a novel. Molière, Voltaire, Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus. We have pretty bad translations of Shakespeare into French – they just don’t do him justice – another incentive to perfect my English. I’ve seen some great plays in Paris and London. My sister used to be an actress. She got me into plays. Theatre is her passion.”
“It sounds as if you two are really close,” I remark, amazed at how sophisticated he is, and how well read. He seems so much older than his years.
“I guess we are.”
“So when you’re not going to the theatre, or working, or zipping about in your beautiful classic cars, what do you do to relax?”
“Let’s see. I love rock-climbing.”
“Not so relaxing, though.”
“Not physically, but for your mental state of mind, it’s great. You have to concentrate so hard on what you’re doing – it cleanses the mind from all the clutter. A bit like meditation. Not that I meditate, but you know, I can imagine. It’s not a team sport, it’s boring for any spectator – it’s about personal satisfaction, personal goals.”
“You sound as if you’re very accomplished at it.”
“I’ve climbed a bit. Rock climbing involves strength, control and finesse. Using the muscles in your arms and legs to pull yourself up a sheer rock-face takes strength¬ and control. Using your brain to place your hands and feet so that your muscles can do their job — that's finesse.”
I study the finesse of his chest, his lithe, tanned arms, and see where he gets his worked-out physique from. But he’s not overly muscley, not exaggerated. There’s no bull-neck there, no bulging, bulky biceps. He’s long and lean but not too slim, either – he has definite substance.
“I tried rock-climbing once,” I tell him. “I was terrified but I could see the attraction to the sport. It was fun, I’d love to try it again someday.” I’m aware that I’m fishing and he takes the bait.
“Really? Would you like to come with me? My sister hates it. I can never get anyone to go with me.”
“Your girlfriend doesn’t like rock-climbing?” I hear myself spurt out and wish I had a mouth-plug.
“My girlfriend?”
Oh no, he does have a girlfriend, after all.
“I’m unattached,” he lets me know.
I sigh with relief and hope he hasn’t heard my body heave gratitude. I sip a long, long mouthful of cappuccino through my straw. “I’d just love to come rock-climbing with you.”
I notice he’s watching my mouth clamped around the straw, and I feel self-conscious. I wipe my mouth – fearful that I have foam on my upper lip and it looks like a moustache.
“Great,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. How about the weekend?”
“You mean this weekend, or next?”
“That’s right, today’s Friday. It’s all a bit last minute and I have something on tonight so it might—”
“What?” I ask, panicked he’ll change his mind.
“It’s too hot to climb midday in summer, so I usually set out very early. I mean, I often spend the night there – makes it easier. But it’s already Friday so—-”
I am waiting. My breath uneven. The cappuccino is gurgling, swilling in my stomach. Please don’t let me be sick. Please don’t let me throw up with anticipatory nerves.
“I mean,” he continues, “if it doesn’t seem too forward to ask you for the weekend—”
“Not at all!” I exclaim way too keenly, too desperately, a desperate non-housewife, with a sudden longing of nothing else but to rip off this young man’s clothes…but then panic sets in again. Who am I kidding? No way could I sleep with his man! I’m, what, sixteen years older than he is. I wouldn’t have the confidence. My body isn’t like it was when I was twenty-two…I wouldn’t even want him to see me in a bikini, let alone…
He must be reading the alarm on my face. “Don’t worry, Pearl. We’d have separate bedrooms, of course.”
“Yes, of course. Separate bedrooms,” I repeat pathetically, relieved, but wishing I had more gumption, more confidence to jump his bones. Be more like Madonna or Demi Moore.
“Actually,” he breaks in. “I know another place we can go climbing that’s closer to the City. It’s only ninety miles Upstate – we can drive there very early and come back late, all in one day. Is this all too last minute?”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, now disappointed. I’ve blown it. I’ve sabotaged my one chance to spend the night with him.
“Great, I’ll retrieve you at….what about seven o’ clock tomorrow morning? Is that too early?”
Retrieve, how quaint. His accent is killing me. “No, seven’s perfect.”
I give him my address, my phone number and when I stand up in my high pumps my legs are as wobbly as Jell-O. Forty years old? Really? I could have sworn I’d had my sixteenth birthday party just last week.
Chapter Two
All night I was tossing and turning, going over our conversation in my mind. I wish I’d pressed ‘record’ on my iPhone app so I could now play back what he and I said to each other in the coffee shop. I realize my fleeting fantasies of Alexandre finding me attractive are just that – fantasies. He needs someone to hang out with. He said it himself in so many words…his sister hates rock climbing. He needs a sister figure, he feels at home with older women. He just wants me to go along for the ride. Hang out. Nothing more. Get a grip woman, this man is too young for you. Or rather, you are too old for him.
But just to be on the safe side, I went to get a pedicure yesterday. The least I can do is have pretty feet. I also made a dash to my hairdresser. Roots – the bane of my life. My first gray hairs came ea
rly; I was only twenty-nine. Thanks family genes. I read about those Thirteen Day Bergdorf Blondes who have their blonde heads re-touched every thirteen days, so they look like cool, natural, ice-princesses. I, too, have to keep an eye on the thirteen day thing, but for a different reason – those white ‘evil-step-mother’ hairs pop through in all the obvious places – around the temples on the parting line. I go for my natural color, dark honey-blonde. And if I keep a sharp eye on this impending granny situation, not letting thirteen days pass, I manage to fool everybody. People usually take me for thirty-something. That’s why, if I were to become famous overnight (don’t we all have those fancy flights of the imagination?) I would never do one of those reality T.V shows when they’re trapped on a desert island or in the jungle. I need my hairdresser. And in emergency situations (if she’s not available) – my Honey Blonde 8.3.
The phone rings and my heart starts pounding. It’s 7am sharp. It’s the doorman calling to say my visitor has arrived and he’s waiting downstairs in the lobby.
* * *
I never pegged myself for a car fanatic but when Alexandre opens the door for me and I slide into the passenger seat, my skin tingles with anticipation. I sink into the bucket of the seat – vintage cars smell so good – and stretch out my legs, raise my arms into the air – it’s a convertible – and I glow with girlish glee. The sky is clear after yesterday’s rain and it looks as if we are in for a day of sunshine.
Alexandre is grinning as we move off, the engine humming loud beneath the great long hood of this glorious sports car. He drives one-handed with his left elbow jutting over the sill. “She’s a 1968 Chevrolet Corvette C3. What a roadster. She packs four hundred and thirty-five horses under the hood. The ‘68 was the first year of the third generation of Corvettes—” he stops himself mid-flow. “Sorry, I’m sounding like a real car nerd.”
“Yes you are,” I reply, and then laugh. “She’s beautiful, though. I love the color.”
“LeMans Blue, the original color. That’s what made me fall in love with her. Same color as your eyes, almost.” He looks over at me and winks.
My eyes? It’s his eyes that have me so weak. I can’t believe he just said that to me. I get it – this must just be what Frenchmen do. Disarm women with heady compliments, even if they aren’t true.
“This model,” he goes on, “is underestimated. I’ve driven her all over America and she’s never let me down once.”
“You said you had a collection. What other cars do you have?” The wind is blowing my hair and I do up another button of my jacket.
“Really? You’re interested?” he asks with a look of surprise.
“I’m no expert, believe me, but everyone loves a pretty car, don’t they?” Knowing he likes British classics I throw out the first name that comes into my head. “E- Type Jaguars are impressive.”
“Ha! You’ve got excellent taste, Ms. Robinson. You know something? When the E-Type first came out Enzo Ferrari, himself, called it the most beautiful car ever made.”
“A Ferrari – now that’s a fancy car. Do you have one?”
“No. I’m a Lamborghini man. There are too many posers cruising about the Côte d'Azur with Ferraris that they can hardly drive. An exquisite car, that can’t be denied, but too much of a cliché for my own personal taste.”
“So you don’t use cars as babe magnets?” I joke.
“Actually, it’s usually men who are attracted to my collection. I’m a man-trap, unfortunately.”
“What’s your Lamborghini like?” I ask, clueless.
“It’s the Murciélago.”
“That means bat in Spanish.”
“Exactly. It looks like Batman’s car. It’s outrageous. It’s a stunning design. But it was actually named after a brave bull called Murciélago which fought with such spirit that the matador chose to spare its life, a virtually unheard of honor.”
I grimace. “I hate bull-fighting.”
“Me too. There are two things I can’t understand in this world – cruelty to animals and cruelty to children. Oh, and women too – or any kind of debasement to women.”
“Funny you should say that. There are a couple of books that have become best-sellers recently, sort of contemporary romance cum erotica stories. I wanted to see what the fuss was about so I read one of them. But the premise of the story was all about bondage and BDSM, and I found it disturbing. It seems to be the latest craze.” Shut up, Pearl, what made you come out with that?
“France has a tradition of literary erotic writing,” Alexandre tells me. “The Marquis de Sade, Pauline Réage – you know, the one who wrote The Story of O? But glorifying the abuse of women, or any sort of sexual slavery, is a real turn-off for me, even if written by a female.”
“What if it’s consensual? You know, the dominant role-play with the submissive female – if it’s an agreement between both parties?”
“It depends how young the girl is. Any woman under twenty-five is underage for that sort of role-play, in my opinion.”
“But you’re under twenty-five!” I exclaim, alarmed, and immediately wish I hadn’t come out with that. My God! He considers himself underage.
“How d’you know how old I am?” he asks, and I can feel my face go hot.
“Just a guess,” I lie. Please don’t ask me how old I am.
“Almost right. I had my twenty-fifth birthday several months ago, actually. But I’m old for my age. I’m different, Pearl, I grew up before my time – I was wise in all manner of things before the age of fourteen. Also, I’m a man. A woman under the age of twenty-five is still vulnerable, still discovering the world, and if an older guy involves her with any kinky stuff, he’s taking advantage as far as I’m concerned – bordering on abuse.”
“Wow, you have very old-fashioned morals,” I remark, surprised at his conservatism.
“People, especially impressionable women, do all sorts of debasing and degrading acts to seek approval, to be loved – it doesn’t mean it’s right. And I don’t see how it can be construed as sexy by someone in a more powerful position, usually because of money. Taking advantage of someone weaker and being turned on by it? I find that abusive.”
“It seems, though, that type of erotic literature is making a real come-back so there must be a lot of takers.”
“Reading about it is one thing – it’s just fantasy. But in reality? Some guy getting his rocks off by dominating a weaker woman just to feed his own ego, his warped sense of manhood? Each to their own, but for me that sort of practice is so not erotic.”
“What if it’s the other way round? With some—” I am about to say, ‘some Mrs. Robinson type,’ but stop myself. I hate my last name sometimes.
“Well, being a guy that’s hard for me to imagine because as a teenager, I happened to love older women but I suppose a boy, in certain instances, could also be vulnerable.”
“Well, millions of people might disagree with your attitude. Most people believe anyone is a fully-fledged adult at eighteen.”
“You see?” he exclaims. “That’s what’s so strange about this country. You can whip and tie a girl up at that age with her consent but not offer her a glass of wine, or you’d be breaking the law.”
“You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that. Most states you have to be twenty-one to drink.”
“Anyway, cruelty, intertwined with sexual satisfaction, is not my cup of tea, I can assure you, Pearl. Even if it is consensual. I can’t imagine wanting to hurt a woman. Females are the gentler sex and should be treated with respect. Wanting to tie up a person and spank or whip her is something I could never do. I can’t imagine how anyone could seriously get off on that.”
I catch a glimpse of Alexandre’s face and he looks angry as if I’ve touched a nerve. Mama Mia, what made me steer the conversation in that direction? He must think I’m a pervert!
Then he adds with a wry smile, “A little harmless dress-up, maybe. A little food-play, but nothing that could hurt anyone.”
Food pl
ay? Dress-up? My only contribution to dress-up was when I put on some heels and asked my ex-husband to do it to me with my shoes on. He didn’t get it at all, told me to take them straight off. Seriously, is this what turns Alexandre on? Dress-up? Food? What kind of food? Mick Jagger and his legendary Mars Bar, shoved up you-know-where, type of food? (My brother told me that – is it true, I wonder)?
“Speaking of food, Pearl, you must be starving, I bet you didn’t have time for any breakfast. I picked up some fruit and croissants and a couple of bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice.” He leans behind him and produces a bag of goodies. “We can stop off for a coffee if you like or just wait until we get there.”
“I can wait.”
“Really? Can you?” The way he looks at me when he says it makes me wonder if there’s a double-entendre somewhere. His eyes seem to be undressing me and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip ever so slightly. Perhaps the double-entendre is my imagination, and maybe he’s just innocently licking his lips. Whatever, I’m feeling the heat between us.
Then he says, “As well as literature there are lots of erotic French films, too. Here, I’ll play you the soundtrack to this famous one from the 70’s – Emmanuelle – maybe you know it.”
He puts on the music and I do recognize it – beautiful and very sensual. There’s something about a man singing in French which is a real turn-on. Alexandre hums along to the tune and winks at me again. I sense a tingling in my groin which takes me by surprise. Our conversation about sex, the erotic music, the deep vibration of the Corvette’s heavy engine makes me throb with desire. I wriggle in my seat just looking at him – his defined arm muscles flexed at the steering wheel, and he looking so handsome, driving this sexy femme-fatale of a car with such control – all this is excitingly new to me, truly unexpected.
I feel a pulse between my legs.
* * *
It’s amazing how just ninety miles away from New York City you feel as if you’re on a different planet. When we arrive at Shawangunk Mountains – pronounced Shon-gum and known simply as ‘The Gunks’ – Alexandre informs me that this is one of the best places for rock-climbing in North America and has a steady stream of eclectic visitors from all over the world. It is also home to several conservation groups. The scenery is breathtaking. Lush green stretches as far as the eyes can see, topped by imposing white and gray quartz cliff-bands, several miles wide, shooting up from the earth like proud monuments.
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 3