Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy)

by Arianne Richmonde

  The way she says breakfast is split in two and reminds me about the origins of the word. She is smiling and gestures for me to get right back into bed. I do. She sets the tray before me, laying it carefully on the bedspread – it is replete with a variety of goodies that smell of oven baked freshness.

  I breathe in. Heaven. Fresh-baked brioche and croissants, home-made jellies and jams of three or four different fruits, a mound of yellow butter, a pot of steaming coffee with hot milk in a jug. Melon dripping with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon, and some little mousse-like cakes which must be from the patisserie. All this combined with the view, the perfume of lavender blossom. Did somebody plunk me in Paradise?

  She is shy and trots out of the room as soon as she is done. I begin to delve into the feast. Breakfast in bed. I can’t remember the last time this happened – maybe only in some hotel when I’ve been on business. But the experience has never rivaled this. I spread the croissants with butter and it melts – naughty, I know. They probably don’t need butter at all. You couldn’t do this every day of the week. Or could you? I saw a book called, French Women Don’t Get Fat, about dieting and food which says you can have it all, but in moderation. Is this moderation? I plunge the croissant into my mouth-watering jaws and feel the butter, the freshness of the pastry, mix with the home-made cherry jam, melting into one happy symphony on my tongue. The coffee is also delicious. French women might not get fat but this American sure as hell would – if she lived in this country!

  As I’m chewing and savoring all the calories, I think of the possible consequences of what happened on the plane with Alexandre. I could get pregnant. The idea sends shivers of excitement through my body, but then my sensible, don’t be an idiot you hardly know him, voice makes me stop chewing for a minute. When I pointed out what he’d done, he just laughed and said, “And what’s so terrible about you getting pregnant? I think a baby would be a wonderful addition, don’t you?” I was so stunned – I didn’t know what to say except, “you’re not H.I.V positive, are you?” He laughed again and said that no, he’d had a test only six months ago and that the last person he’d had relations with was a recently widowed woman who hadn’t even done it with her husband for the two years previously, let alone anyone else. Then I told him that the chances of getting pregnant at my age were very slim and that even if I did manage, I’d probably have a miscarriage, as that is what happened to me before with my ex. He looked pensive when I said that, squinted his eyes as if he needed to find some sort of solution and then said, “no, we can’t have that, a miscarriage won’t do at all.” Is this the Latin man-must-sew-his-seed thing, I wonder? Or does he seriously want my baby? I can’t believe a man so young would consider getting tied in with a family. Certainly American men aren’t keen for that at age twenty-five – most are commitment phobes.

  Perhaps he doesn’t want a family at all, but various replicas of himself running about the world – a woman, as my brother reminded me, in every port. Children in every port, too? He can afford child maintenance, so why ever not?

  I’m so wrapped up in this train of thought and am beginning to feel furious at him when he enters the room. His charming smile soon makes all wrathful thoughts dissipate and, within seconds, I’m back to wanting his offspring again. Did I rush into the airplane toilet yesterday and frantically rinse off the sticky mess of the lovemaking aftermath inside me? No, I have to admit, I did not. Instead, I lay back on my beige leather seat with my legs up – a trick I read about when trying to conceive. I am as guilty as he is, if he is to be condemned for fantastical castle-in-the-air desires. Yet he started the ball rolling, not me.

  Alexandre is standing before me now, his legs astride – a pose he often assumes. Very masculine. It’s all Alain Delon again, and I’m melting all over just looking at his face and body. He’s wearing loose black swim trunks and is all wet, his hair slicked back off his handsome face, his green eyes gleaming.

  “Enjoying your breakfast?” he asks, kissing me and stroking my cheek.

  “Dee-licious. Have you just been for a swim?”

  “Yes, the pool’s very inviting. Come down, I’ll show you the garden.”

  The garden is more lavender, and paths meandering through secret entrances and archways, all divided naturally by hedges and plants. It is like a formal garden in a chateau, yet more rustic, matching this pretty stone house which he keeps referring to as a ‘farmhouse’ yet seems far too grand for that.

  “You know why you can see the stone on my house and it isn’t covered up?” he asks.

  “Because it’s so pretty? Why would anyone want to cover it?” I ask, my eyes distracted by white butterflies – like snowflakes everywhere.

  “True, but in those days, the peasants who once owned houses like mine couldn’t afford the crepi, the plaster rendering, so the stones remained bare. Each and every stone was collected by hand from the fields. Can you imagine the labor? They built their own houses in the past, maybe getting their friends and neighbors to help. Little by little, carrying sacks on their backs, or with mules and horses if they could afford them.”

  “And now it’s some of the most expensive real estate in the world,” I comment.

  “I know. Sad in a way. A shame the billionaires have moved in and all the summer vacationers have pushed up the prices even more.”

  The billionaires…he’s one of them, I think to myself. “I thought the English were the guilty ones. I read that book, A Year in Provence. Didn’t that start it all?”I ask him.

  Well, it didn’t help. But the British did us a favor, in a way. They went about restoring houses back to their original condition, ruins that were falling apart – things we French didn’t even want at the time. Okay, they put in tennis courts sometimes, or pools, but they showed us how important our patrimoine was. They genuinely loved the land and all the quirkiness of the damp, crooked houses. But now, some people only want to live here to bolster up their status symbol. Still, I have an interesting bunch of friends around – some film directors, artists and such like. It gets quite busy in summer.”

  “So who looks after everything when you’re not here?”

  “As you can see, even when I am here, I have people. You met Madame Menager this morning. She and her husband run the place, and a couple of others, too, who come and go. It may look quite rustic but a lot of care goes into this garden and house.”

  “Yes, I can see,” I reply, looking around. The pool is now in view, the water rippling with a myriad of colors reflecting the blue of the lavender and the sky. It is bordered with real stone and has grass surrounding it, and trees shading one end. No Hollywood blue here. It’s discreet. “I love the color of the water,” I say.

  “I had it rendered with a gun-metal gray – keeps the temperature up and gives off that natural, been-here-forever sort of impression. Come for a swim, the water’s warm.”

  Like a schoolgirl desperate to impress her older brother and his friends, I do a back dive into the deep end, careful to keep my legs straight and my toes as pointed as a ballerina. I come up for air and then start the crawl – fingers out in a torpedo point, legs smacking the water with a fiery, rhythmical kick, and breathing only to one side. I clear a few lengths but realize my breakfast has hardly settled – my showing off has got the better of me. When I spring up with a splash, his eyes are fixed on me. Thank God. What if I’d done that show for nothing?

  “Very impressive,” he claps. “I can tell what country you come from. You really are a Star-Spangled girl, aren’t you?”

  I feel self-conscious. Is that an insult or a compliment?

  “Most Europeans don’t know how to swim like that,” he explains.

  “I swim a lot.”

  “I bet you were competitive at sports and games,” he jibes.

  I was. Ridiculously so. I always wanted to ace everything.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask. “Are you taunting me for being an American?”

  “Being number one is important
to you lot, isn’t it? Winning?”

  “What’s wrong with winning?”

  “It’s partaking in the game that counts,” he tut-tuts. “Not just the result.”

  “You can talk, Mr. Winner Takes All,” I tease.

  “Haven’t taken all yet. Not quite. Still working on it.” He narrows his eyes.

  “What more can you ask for?”

  “You. I want you.”

  You’ve got me, buddy, I want to scream out. But I don’t. Let him think I’m a challenge. Let him believe I’m special. I’ll play along with that.

  Cool, calm and collected. That’s me.

  * * *

  We spend the day lolling about the house and garden and meandering through the lavender fields. Madame Menager prepares a delicious lunch outside, under a canopy of vines, which shades us from the hot sun. The crickets are chirping a high song, and there is a gentle crooning from a pair of doves in a pine tree. We drink a pale, pale pink rosé wine, so chilled, so refreshing, that I find myself flopping onto one of the living room sofas, unable to do anything.

  Oh, this is the life.

  The living room has a terracotta floor as old as the hills, and like hills, it undulates and buckles with a life of its own. The fireplace is at least eight feet wide and inside is a vast wrought iron fire-back of a dragon – iron to reflect the heat of the fire, I suspect. The room is lined with bookshelves and, amidst plays by Voltaire, Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus, I notice a lot of English titles of novels – smart sets printed by a publisher called The Folio Society. I inspect some. Several have stunning, color plate illustrations. He has The Wind in the Willows! I open it up and read an inscription: Darling Alexandre, this was my childhood favourite, hope you enjoy. All my love, Laura. Favorite spelled the British way. My heart starts pounding with an unfathomable jealousy. How dare she know about The Wind in the Willows? Who is this Laura? Laura, who must have been lining his shelves with classics in the English language! There is Doctor Zhivago, The Greek Myths I and II, The Grapes of Wrath, Vanity Fair, Madame Bovary – not in French but Madame Bovary in English!

  Alexandre comes into the room. “Ah, there you are, I thought you’d done a runner.”

  “Where did you learn expressions like that?” I demand in a ridiculous way, my eyes turning from blue to emerald green.

  He laughs. “Ah, I see, you’ve been having a look at my English books.”

  “Yes, I have. Who’s Laura?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “She’s a friend now. She was my girlfriend. From London. You’d like her.”

  I’d hate her, I think to myself, but say, “Oh yes? She has good taste in books. She must have been a great reader.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Somewhat? There are piles of them here. Did she live here?”

  “She comes in the summertime.”

  ‘She comes,’ not ‘she came,’ Oh my God – he’s still seeing her!

  He says casually, “Why d’you think my English is so colloquial? It was Laura who taught me. She was ruthless – she’d correct all my mistakes.”

  “How long did you date her for?” I ask nonchalantly, trying not to show my envy.

  “We didn’t date, we lived together.”

  “Oh.” It gets worse!

  “We were engaged.”

  I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. “What happened?”

  “She left me for someone else.”

  Was she nuts? “She dumped you?” I ask with disbelief.

  “I don’t like the sound of that word, but yes, I suppose she did ‘dump’ me.”

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  “No, but I still care for her. A great deal.”

  I need to stop this conversation now. I feel wheezy. Stay cool, calm and collected, Pearl. Don’t be a bunny boiler.

  “That’s nice that you’re still friends,” I say, and then smile sweetly at him.

  “Hey, tonight there’s a party and I said we’d go.”

  “Where?”

  “A few kilometers away. At Ridley’s house.”

  “Ridley?”

  “He’s a film director. You’ll like him.”

  “I have a feeling I know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  “All sorts will be there, it should be fun,” he says with enthusiasm.

  “Okay, great. Actually no – not great.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have nothing to wear. I was in such a rush I threw the worst outfits into my suitcase.”

  “Pearl, you could wear a potato sack and you’d look amazing.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence but I don’t see myself in such a positive light.”

  “Alright then, let’s go shopping.”

  “It’s okay, Alexandre, I’ll make something work.” I say this because I don’t want him buying me things. Ridiculous, but I’m not used to shopping with a man. “The truth is,” I add, “it’s so beautiful here, I’m loath to go anywhere.”

  “That’s how I always feel when I’m here; it’s hard to get away. But let’s go for a drive and you can see some of the surrounding countryside. The party doesn’t start till about eight – we have a few hours.”

  Alexandre’s garage is a low stone building covered in pink, climbing roses. Perhaps they are the roses he uses for his homemade rose jelly. The garage blends in beautifully with his house. Madame and Monsieur live in a small guest house next door, and behind is a walled-in garden bursting with rows of organically-grown vegetables, dominated by tomatoes which are a dazzling sunny red – and other produce like cucumbers, onions and even strawberries. The garage houses a host of shiny vehicles, even a Deux Chevaux, the quintessential French car. Batman’s car is there, too, in its full glory, the Murciélago, proud and intimidating but Alexandre opts for a royal blue, vintage Porsche.

  “She’s a 1964 356SC Coupé with an electric sunroof. I had to have her the moment I laid eyes on her,” and he looks at me, his gaze roving from my toes up to my face where he fixes his stare. I catch my breath. I’m just wearing shorts, a thin cotton top, and flip-flops – nothing special, and am amazed how desirable Alexandre makes me feel. Each time he looks at me like that, his green eyes piecing me, my solar-plexus leaps and circles around itself. I feel like a teenager inside.

  “She’s adorable,” I say, stroking her smooth lines. “So cute. I’ve always dreamed about having a car like this.”

  “Would you like to drive her, see how she feels beneath you?”

  “You make it all sound so sensual, Alexandre, so naughty.”

  “She is naughty. She likes to be driven fast, likes to grip the road around corners. This baby likes to have fun.”

  “Speaking of babies,” I say guardedly. “What you did on the plane? It’s a slim chance but….I could get pregnant – a slim chance, as I say, but still possible. This isn’t something you can treat cavalierly like it’s all a game.”

  He takes my hand and holds it in his. “Pearl, you make me happy. I’m crazy for you – can’t you see that? I want to be with you, and stay with you. I’m a monogamous type. Once I find someone special I don’t play the field. Look,” he emphasizes, locking his eyes with mine, “if you were twenty-something – which you wouldn’t be because I’m not into young ingénues – but if you were, then you’d be on the pill or something. But we don’t have time.”

  “You mean my biological clock?”

  “I hate that expression – it sounds like some sort of time bomb, but yes. It’s unfair for women and God was being pretty sexist when he designed that one, but there it is. Let’s just see what happens, shall we?”

  “You’re acting as if I have no say in the matter. You’re just assuming I want children. You never asked me. I have a demanding career – maybe I don’t even want a family.”

  He looks shocked. “You’re right – I never even brought the subject up with you. I did just assume—”

  “But your instincts were spot
on. I do want a baby. It’s just….I’d given up. I didn’t imagine I’d meet anyone special enough. You’re the only person I’ve slept with since my divorce.”

  “I know. I was lucky to catch you before somebody else snapped you up.”

  I take a big intake of breath and ask him the question that has been on the tip of my tongue all day. “Why did you split with Laura? Did you want to have her baby, too?”

  “Laura…how can I explain Laura….I’ll show you some photos of her when we get home and some letters she wrote me. When you see the pictures, you’ll understand why she left me.”

  “Was she a supermodel, or something?”

  “She was beautiful both inside and out. And yes, she did do some modeling.”

  I feel a painful stab at my heart. Obviously, I am the rebound and this Laura was some sort of goddess who I’ll never match up to. I need to be more upbeat, not let jealousy consume me. He says he wants me and wants my baby – what more could I ask for? Marriage? I don’t know if I believe in marriage, anyway. One divorce was enough – I couldn’t risk that again. I need to change the conversation. I blurt out in a jolly voice:

  “I always think cars have faces, don’t you? This car has excited round eyes and the elongated Porsche badge looks like a funny nose. The way the hood is made looks like she’s smiling.”

  He opens the driver door for me. “Slip inside. Doesn’t she smell good?”

  I ease myself behind the steering wheel onto the old black seats and breathe in the odor of vintage car. “She smells divine.”

  “Start her up.”

  Nervously, I do, and back the car out of the garage onto the driveway. It is a stick-shift and although I learned driving one, living in New York City doesn’t give me the chance to practice very often, and I have certainly never been at the wheel of a car like this before. It is low, as he said, I can feel the ground beneath me – the idea of taking on something with so much personality and chutzpah is exciting. He jumps into the passenger seat – he’s wearing a grin, thrilled, no doubt, that I’m taking an interest in his passion for cars.

  We meander along country lanes, flanked by stunning views either side of us. What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong is playing loudly and I think, yes, Alexandre couldn’t have picked a better song – it really is a wonderful world. I mull over our baby conversation. It has been my secret fantasy, kept close to my heart; something I never share with anyone. Pearl, the career woman – the one who supports herself both financially, and in every other way. Pearl, who relies on nobody – that’s what I have told myself for the past two years. There is no such thing as a knight in shining armor, I convinced myself – nobody is going to come along and wave a magic wand.