“What about your dad?”
“I don’t talk about him. Ever.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
I want to ask him why. But I can see his eyes alight with fury, his mouth shut tight as if a floodgate has just been opened and streams of polluted water are flowing uncontrollably and it needs to be locked shut again. His look scares me. The charming Frenchman has turned. His face is dark with resentment. Is it resentment? Or am I reading him wrong? Perhaps he misses his father. I wonder if he is still alive and what the story is, but I’m too nervous to ask. I quickly change the subject.
“So, tell me about—” we both burst out simultaneously, our voices in unison. We laugh.
“You first,” I say.
“No, you. What were you going to ask me?”
“Just about your work.”
“Me, too,” he says laughing. “I was going to ask you about what you do.” Phew, his furious scowl has dissipated.
“I was just going to ask you about the way your company is linked to charities,” I venture.
He narrows his eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I read a piece in The New York Times. How all the advertising for HookedUp automatically gives a percentage to charity.”
“That’s right. People like giving to charity but they don’t like giving to charity, if you see what I mean. People want to, and often do, but when they have their hard-earned pay check in front of them, bills take priority, especially in these tough times, and charities lose out. This way, they don’t even have to think about it. It’s done for them.”
“You mean the advertisers pay?”
“Exactly. But they have such a massive audience that it’s worth their while. Everybody wins.”
“So how does it work?”
“It’s really simple. Three percent of all advertising costs goes straight to a multitude of different charities hand-picked by me and my sister. It sounds like nothing but you’d be amazed how much it adds up.”
“So what are your charities?”
“So many. All varied. Children in need. Water wells. The blind, deaf, and mute. Setting up schools in remote areas all over the world. There’s one called The Smile Train that fixes hare lips, cleft palates and deformities, and there’s another charity, I forget its name now, that helps with cataracts. Such simple operations that can transform a life. Then there are our personal favorites – women’s shelters to safeguard them from domestic violence, and animal protection associations. We even have a donkey sanctuary on our list.”
That’s the second time he’s mention domestic violence, I notice.
“A lot of people object to that,” he continues. “They think humans should always come before animals. But you know what? They can fuck right off. Until we all learn to treat creatures with respect, there isn’t much hope for the human race.”
Passion is dancing in his eyes again and he stares hard at me without smiling, maybe testing me for my reaction.
“You’re preaching to the converted,” I let him know. “I agree, animals are God’s creatures, too.”
I relax back into my seat and wonder more about who this man really is. He has me fascinated. So young to have such feisty, strong opinions, yet he seems way, way older than his years. His mother raised him and his sister, alone. Tough. I think of my own mother and the agony of her death, the cancer eating away at her insides when she was too young to leave this earth. “What about cancer research?” I ask, thinking of her. “Do you support those charities, too?”
“You see, I know this is a sensitive subject for you, Pearl – losing your mother to that awful disease – but that’s a tricky one for me. All our charities are vetted to make sure they’re not linked with any upsetting practices. As long as any particular cancer research center is not using animals to test on, that’s great. There’s stem-cell research now, there’s no excuse for anybody to be testing on animals.”
“You’re getting into deep water, there,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. I quickly look down so he doesn’t notice.
“Sink or swim.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“In this life, you have to make choices. You have to take sides. I have to make tough decisions in my line of work every day of the week. I can’t say yes to everybody. Plus, I have to make a stand. Nobody is being forced to use HookedUp. The list of charities is right there for anyone to investigate. If they don’t like the way we do things, fine, they can drink their tea elsewhere.”
I burst out laughing. He loves expressions that are to do with tea. Living all those years in England, perhaps. My laugh is nervy. I wanted to be angry with him but I find myself beguiled by his strength, by his overconfidence, his pride. And his quirky sense of humor.
“Do I amuse you, Pearl Robinson?”
“Drink their tea elsewhere – I love that. Especially the way you say it.”
“Are you making fun of my accent, Ms. Robinson?” Alexandre’s half-cocked smile lets me know he’s enjoying being teased. “My turn,” he continues, more seriously now. “I was about to ask you about your work. You said you write. Tell me more.”
“Actually, I make films. Documentaries.”
There, I said it. He’ll probably realize now, why I was at the conference.
“An activist, then.”
Good, he’s not put two and two together.
“I have my ideas. And yes, often they are quite controversial. Topics for discussion and thought.”
“Like what, for instance?” he asks.
“We did something on pharmaceutical companies. The hold they have over the world. The exorbitant sums of money they earn, often at the expense of poor nations.”
“So you like to kick up a storm?”
“I like to reveal the truth.”
I say this but it has struck me that there are all sorts of truths I am masking from him. Not to mention my age. Thank God he hasn’t asked me that. Yet.
“You have your own company?” he wants to know.
“No, I work for someone. She’s actually visiting my father in Maui. She left today on vacation. Ironic, that – that my boss should hook up with my dad. Didn’t see that coming when I introduced them.” The hook-up word, again. Clever name for a social media site.
“Keep it in the family. What’s she like, your boss?”
“Smart. Beautiful. Opinionated. Tough to please.” Sounds like I’m describing Alexandre himself.
“From New York?”
“Yes. From Queens. But she lives in Manhattan now.
“French origin?”
“No, why do you ask that?”
“Because Natalie is a really common name in France.”
“I don’t think she has French roots – she’s African-American.”
“Seems like your dad lucked out. She sounds interesting.”
“She is. It complicates things a little having two such close people to me, together in a relationship but I’m getting used to it now.”
We’ve been talking so much I hardly realize that we’ve already arrived outside my building. It’s now dark. Alexandre parks the car by the curb next to my apartment block.
“Well, here we are. Thank you, Pearl for a wonderful day.” Wonder Fool.
“Thank you. You’ve awakened my senses.”
“Oh, that’s just the beginning, believe me,” he says enigmatically.
I catch my breath and feel my mouth part. The beginning? Please say he’s not just kidding. I’m hoping he’s going to kiss me. But abruptly, he gets out of his side, walks around and opens the car door for me. I scramble out of this low Corvette, trying to look composed, but my legs are momentarily splayed apart, showing off a flash of my white panties.
He undresses me for a second, his eyes in a half-closed bedroom, come hither-and-fuck-me look, noticing the color of underwear I have on – I’m sure of it. He bites his lower lip and I feel those butterflies again.
“Would you like to come in? Have a bite to eat
, a glass of wine?” I offer.
“No, Pearl. Thank you, but I have an early meeting to- morrow.”
“But tomorrow’s Sunday,” I protest, having somehow whipped up a dinner à deux for tonight, a romantic interlude and at least a long kiss between us.
But it’s clear to me now that our ‘date’ has ended. He’s been toying with me. Amused to see me all flustered, turned-on and worked up. He’s a professional charmer. Of course he doesn’t want any romance with me. He’s twenty-five years old! He’s probably going off to dinner somewhere else, with someone else, and then on to a trendy club to dance the night away with her – some nubile sex-pot, before fucking her senseless and then taking her out to a fabulous Sunday brunch somewhere tomorrow. Stop! I say to myself. Enough! He’s taken you rock-climbing – you’ve had a great time. Leave it at that.
“I had a fabulous day,” I say.
“Me too.”
“Really?” I ask with an unwanted tinge of disbelief in my voice.
“Really. It’s been fun. Night-night. You’ll be tired and will sleep like a baby. Get some rest, your body needs it.”
If only, I mull, he knew what my body really needed. It has been awoken, and now awake, it is pining for attention.
He walks me up to my door and then presses a light kiss on my lips. No tongue, no exploration, just a gentle, soft kiss. “Night Pearl, take care.”
“Night,” I murmur, my voice small.
I turn to go inside and the doorman lets me into the lobby. “Good evening Mrs. Robinson, did you have a good day?”
“Marvelous thanks, Dervis.”
“Oh, Mrs. Robinson. One thing. I’ll be on vacation this week. They’ll be the new boy here taking my place. Luke.”
“The skinny one with dark hair?
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I turn my head and look through the glass of the wrought-iron door to see Alexandre’s expression but he’s already revving up his car and driving off. He didn’t even say he’d call. Who knows? I guess I’ll never see him again.
Chapter Three
The following day is slow torment. All yesterday’s fun is being marred by my own insecurity and post-mortem blues. I almost wish I hadn’t met him, my senses being stirred, like hearing a beautiful piece of music for the first time. Or a poem. And then having it snatched away from you forever. How can this whippersnapper of a man have this effect on me? I think of my last name, Robinson, and feel a wave of clichéd embarrassment surge through my veins. The Graduate - Mrs. Robinson. How apt. Except I am Ms. Robinson now. At least Mrs. Robinson got to see it through. At least she had guts. There I was, last night, like some simpering fool as I said goodbye. I should have taken the reins. Pounced on him. Okay, it would have only been one night probably, but one night of bliss, surely? Now I have nothing.
No, that’s not true, he’s done me a favor – he’s made me realize that there are fish in the sea. There is life after divorce. And I can, literally, climb a mountain.
As if reading my thoughts telepathically, my brother calls. His usual Sunday call. Comforting.
“Hi Anthony.”
“So where are you having brunch today?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer despondently.
“Hey girl, you sound happy. What’s up?”
“No, I am happy. Really. Just—”
“What?”
“Just a guy.”
“Halleluiah! I never thought the day would come. Tell me more, girlfriend.”
“Stop that ‘hey girlfriend’ talk, Anthony.”
“Seriously. Who is he?”
“A young guy.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-five.”
He hoots with laughter. “Cradle-snatcher.”
“Shut up.”
“So, how was it?”
“That’s just the problem. It wasn’t. Nothing happened.”
“Oh, I see. So you’re just friends?”
“Maybe not even that.”
I tell him about our day, all the details about Alexandre, re-hash our conversations. Anthony is silent for a beat. He is never silent.
“Speak. Say something,” I plead.
“Just forget him. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“You mean, I’m past my sell-by date and this man is way too young and gorgeous for me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice. Even in your silence.”
“Look, Pearly. He’s uber-rich, he’s young, he’s sexy. He must have pretty girls throwing themselves at him. Especially, with his French accent and his drop-dead-delicious body. Girlies wet their panties for that stuff. He’s probably your typical Latin Lover kind of guy who has a woman in every port.”
“You’re right. But why can’t I be one of those women in one of the ports? The Port of New York.”
“Go out there, and now this youngster has whetted your appetite – or should I say ‘wetted’ your appetite – start dating guys your own age and get laid by one of them.”
“But I haven’t found anyone else attractive. For…for… forever. That’s the problem!”
“Well, if you’re happy to dry up like some old prune, be my guest. I’m just trying to offer some brotherly advice. Look, I’ve got to go – we’re running late. I’ll call you next week, okay? By that time you’ll be over him. At least he didn’t get into your panties and then not call, or you’d really be obsessing. I know how women are. They want forbidden fruit.”
I frown. “So you’re already assuming he won’t call? Thanks for the vote of confidence. And why should he be so forbidden?”
“Hello? Pearl! He’s almost half your age.”
“But what about Madonna? Her boyfriend—”
Anthony cuts short my sentence with an exasperated sigh followed by a palpable silence. It cuts like a knife. Madonna, his heroine. Madonna, the Holy Grail.
“I know, I know, I can’t compare myself to Madonna.”
“No, you can’t. Bye sweet pea. Take care. And don’t do anything rash. Love you.”
He hangs up and I’m left feeling bereft and tiny. He’s right. I’ve got to be realistic – I must forget Alexandre.
I start doing my usual Sunday morning tidy-up. I go down to the basement and do laundry, do some dusting, put away clothes and generally sort out my apartment and the tangible things in my life.
I love my apartment. It’s my little haven. Full of my favorite books (self-help, classics like Graham Greene and sad Russian novels by Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky – just to remind me how heavy life is – and children’s books like the Beatrix Potter series, The Wind in the Willows, and books about dogs). Interesting taste. Varied, to say the least.
I have a mixture of modern and figurative paintings on my walls. Originals, no prints. I love to support new, young painters and always keep an eye out for up and coming artists. Some of the works have appreciated in value but I don’t care about that. I only buy something if it speaks to me, if it tells me a story. I have a dark wooden, four-poster, antique bed from France draped with off-white linen, and an art-deco table with four chairs for the times I have my girlfriends over. No men, apart from my father, my brother and the pizza delivery guy have set eyes on my apartment. I’m a loner. This place is like a sanctuary. It’s private. It’s me in a nutshell, and I find it hard to let anyone crack it open.
My phone is ringing again. Anthony to apologize for being such a negative schmuck? No, it’s Daisy calling, my British friend who’s been living in New York forever. I pick up.
“Hi Daisy.”
“Hi sweet cakes. Brunch?”
“A hundred percent yes. I’m starving. And feeling un- attractive. Maybe you can bolster me up.”
She chortles with laughter. “You? Unattractive? You make me sick. Wish I had your beautiful blonde hair, your perfect body.”
“I’m old.”
“Oh pl—ease.”
“I feel old.”
“You so don’t look your age. You could pass for thirty.”
“Still too old.”
“Too old for what?”
“I’ll tell you at brunch.”
* * *
We are downtown in The Village on the outside terrace of the restaurant where we’ve chosen to eat, blessed with another sunny day. The young and beautiful are wandering by in polka-dot dresses and designer shades, some with designer dogs. I’m people-watching and glugging down a Bloody Mary with extra horse-radish sauce, for kick and punch. I’ve wolfed down my Eggs Benedict and I’m ready for my third drink. This is unusual for me – I don’t usually have more than a glass or two of wine.
I can hear my words slurring, morose pessimism thick in my voice. “Why do you think I haven’t dated all this time? It’s too raw, too painful, that’s why.”
Daisy is married with a child. She has forgotten what it’s like out there. She’s looking fresh-faced and jolly; her husband has taken her daughter, Amy, to the park for the day and Daisy has a few hours free. Her dimpled cheeks and curly red hair make her look like a grown-up Annie.
“Bollocks!” she exclaims. “You’ve been locked away at work and have not even given dating a chance. Anyway, it sounds like this Alexandre guy is into you.”
“That wasn’t my brother’s opinion.”
“Yeah, well, this happens every week. After you’ve spoken to Anthony you always seem to want to slit your wrists.”
I say sarcastically, “I haven’t noticed that.”
“Families – often they do more harm than good. Take what he says with a pinch of salt. Look, Alexandre fondled your thigh, kissed your hand like some romantic, courtly knight from the Medieval Age. Come to think of it, isn’t that his last name? Knight?”
“Alexandre Chevalier.”
“Exactly. Chevalier means knight in French.”
“That’s right, I’d completely forgotten that. My French is pretty poor. I can speak some Spanish, though.”
“Listen, he took you away for the whole day, treated you to everything, including a beautiful lunch at that fancy resort.”
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 5