Then I met Alexandre. Is he waving a magic wand? Or is all this romance he is offering going to turn horribly pear-shaped?
I have been self-reliant and had even considered adoption but realized how tough it would be being a single parent and raising a child in New York City alone. Does Alexandre really mean what he says about starting a family? Or is he just so young he hasn’t thought it through properly?
My thoughts now turn to the moving view – more of his magic, bringing me to this fairytale land. As well as lavender, there are vineyards and stretches of golden wheat everywhere. Now and then, there is a tiny stone building plunked right in the middle of a field – so picturesque, it looks like a postcard.
“Don’t be afraid, Pearl, to really give it to her. She likes to be pushed harder. You don’t need to change gears so soon – keep her in third for longer. I know what she needs.”
“You know a lot about what females need, don’t you?” I tease. “You like to keep me in third for longer, don’t you? And sometimes, when I’m begging you for fourth, or even fifth, you put me back into second. Sometimes even first.”
He laughs joyously, his right arm relaxed against the sill, the wind whipping his hair from the wide open windows. “I love that analogy. Yes, women are like cars – they need to be controlled.”
“You’re so sexist!”
“They like to have their limits pushed – but not too much – and then be brought back on track. They like to be managed but at the same time experience freedom.”
“You are quite something, Alexandre Chevalier. Quite a secret macho control freak, aren’t you?”
“Not so secret,” he laughs.
“And there I was, mistaking you for this humble gentleman!” I rev up and speed along a straighter road, gaining more confidence. I’m in my element driving this car!
“There, you see how happy she is? She likes to show you what she’s capable of,” he shouts above the vroom, vroom of the engine.
“She likes me?”
“She loves you, Pearl.”
“Does that make her gay?” I joke, brushing my hand on his leg as I change gear.
“I think she’s bi,” he says, winking at me. “And if your sexual fantasies during phone sex are anything to go by, you’ll get along together just fine.”
“Shush, that’s a secret.”
I think about what Alexandre said earlier, “Pearl, you make me happy, I’m crazy for you…” and I hum Madonna’s Crazy For You to myself. Does he really mean those words?
Before long, we stop at his nearest village, Ménerbes, which is perched on top of a hill.
“You know, Ménerbes,” Alexandre begins in a serious tour guide voice, “has been inhabited since prehistoric times. Archaeological excavations have uncovered the remains of villas and an ancient cemetery dating back to Roman times. These villages were built on hilltops to protect them from invasion,” he informs me, “particularly during the religious wars. “Picasso had a house here and Peter Mayle who wrote, A Year in Provence.”
“So this is where he lived,” I murmur.
We enter through a large arch into the small central square, and potter about the tiny village which, from certain points, offers striking views of lush, rolling hills below, dotted with farmhouses and hamlets making a patchwork of colors like a quilt.
“This place is famous for its truffle market,” Alexandre tells me. “They use dogs mostly, these days, for digging truffles, the pigs got a little greedy. Truffles are so expensive, they can’t afford to lose even one.”
Our next stop is Gordes, marked with a sign as one of the most beautiful villages in France, Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. It, like Ménerbes, is perched on a hill with breathtaking views below. We park the car and wind our way through the narrow cobbled streets where no vehicles are allowed, and look up at tall houses of honey-colored stone, many of them built right into the rock itself. Natural and man-made beauty rolled into one supreme medieval mélange. There is a castle in the middle of the village where we wander about watching tourists pass by, oohing and aahing at the history of the place. We sit in a café and relax our legs. I order an iced-tea and Alexandre a Pastis, an aniseed drink that, when mixed with water and ice, turns milky – a drink favored by the people of Provence, he says.
On the way back, he drives. Way faster than I did, I may add. Even though it’s past seven the sun is creating a magical, golden dusk light, and there’s a cooler breeze now.
“So tell me, Pearl Robinson, did you grow up in New York City?”
“I still haven’t grown up,” I quip.
He laughs. “Alright, were you ‘raised’ in New York?”
“Yes, in Brooklyn. We moved to Manhattan when I was twelve because I got a scholarship to a private school on the Upper East Side.”
“You must have been a good student.”
“I worked hard. I was keen to prove myself, get top grades. I had to show them I earned the scholarship. I didn’t want to let anybody down. What about you? Did you do well at school?”
“No, I was a disaster. I experimented with drugs, you know, smoked weed, dropped some acid. I was a bad boy. A high school dropout. But I did have a passion and that was IT – all self-taught, and bit by bit I cleaned up my act. I got into an excellent school in Paris for graphics and communication but only stayed a few weeks – the fees were too high. My sister tried to help, but when I realized the kind of work she was doing, there was no way I could accept, so I left to get a job.”
“Why, what was she doing?”
“Just something that wasn’t good for her soul.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
He’s whetted my curiosity, that’s for sure. What could Sophie have been working at that was so bad for her soul?
* * *
When we get back, I busy myself with getting ready for the party. I take a shower and put on a pair of high, platform sandals and a short, slinky dress that’s red. Too much? Maybe. I look in the mirror and dissect myself. My hair is looking pretty good and I caught quite a tan today, just walking around and being in the pool. Those crow’s feet though, they’re a drag. I put on another layer of mascara to open my eyes up wider and I see the reflection of Alexandre standing behind me. He’s back to his casual self, in a black T-shirt and jeans. His chest muscles are prominent, even though the T-shirt is quite loose. His hair is wet from the shower. His eyes rove over my body and I immediately feel self-conscious.
“Too much?” I ask. “The red?”
“No, not too much. Perfect. Sexy. You look stunning.”
“Is it too skimpy, though? Too femme fatale?”
“Well if it is, I love it. You’ve got the body so flaunt it.”
He comes behind me and cups my buttocks with his palms. “Great ass.”
“It’s the swimming, I guess.”
He lets his hands wander up the small of my back and around to my stomach – then strokes the curves of my bare breasts. “Great tits, too.”
For the first time ever, I push his hands away. I should feel complimented but a clutch of anxiety takes hold as I imagine his ex, Laura, to be so much more than me. She broke up with him – she must be something else. “You said you’d show me photos of Laura,” I say, turning to face him.
“What, now?”
“Why not?”
“We should really be leaving.”
“Just a quick glance. I’m curious about her.”
“She’s a special woman.”
“Yes, so you keep saying.” What is this? Is he trying to keep me on my toes by making me jealous?
We go downstairs to the living room where the giant fireplace and all the English books are. Madame Menager has left a tray on the table with a bottle of chilled champagne and some tasty-looking canapés. He pours me a glass. I sip the refreshing drink, savoring the bubbly taste, and I nestle onto the sofa, while Alexandre gets out a photo album.
“This is typical Laura,” he tells me. �
�I don’t have any printed photos myself – everything is on my computer and iPad but she used to make albums – very English that.” He’s holding a large, blue leather-bound book in his hands. My heart is beating with trepidation – why do I want to torture myself?
He puts the book on my lap and sits next to me. I start carefully turning the stiff pages. There, before me, is a young woman who can’t be more than thirty, smiling into the camera, jumping in the air. She is tall, blonde, with a body like a swimwear model and a smile that takes up her whole face. She is gorgeous. On the page next to it is Alexandre looking really young, thinner and more boyish. I turn the page. Another set of pictures – them sailing at sea, soaked through – it looks like it’s a wet day with clouds in the sky. They are both laughing their heads off.
“That was in Cornwall, the south of England. We called ourselves the Salty Sea Dogs. It was always raining, or so it seemed. We sailed a lot, Laura was practically Olympic level.”
Now I understand. She was an all-rounder. Stunningly beautiful, smart (all those books), and sporty. She looks older than he does, perhaps she went off with someone more age appropriate. I turn more pages. A birthday party, she blowing out candles, her lips luscious, her eyes as big as saucers – she makes me look like Plain Jane.
“She’s beautiful,” is all I can muster.
More of Laura and him. Now they are in India riding elephants painted with flowers on their wrinkly skin. There are temples in the background. I feel envious – the love between them is so evident. I turn more pages and a jolt of shock arrests me.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at a blonde woman in a wheelchair. It looks like Laura. She must have broken her leg or something.
“It’s Laura,” he confirms, covering his face with his palms. He looks as if tears could well in his eyes.
I turn more pages. She’s still in the wheelchair here. “What happened?”
We lived in a basement flat in London. One night we came home late and the next door neighbor’s child had left one of his toys on the steps. Laura tripped and fell. I couldn’t catch her in time. She tumbled down the concrete steps and landed really badly. It was one of those freak accidents with a terrible consequence.”
“Oh no. Was she really hurt?”
“Paralyzed from the waist down. Luckily, no damage to her head.”
“Oh my God. I have tears in my eyes as he tells me this. “But she was a sportswoman and so active.”
“I know. Life’s unfair, isn’t it?”
“And now?”
“She’s a lot better now. She’s walking with a cane. Limping, but the doctors had told her, originally, that she would probably be paralyzed for the rest of her life, so what she’s achieved is a miracle. Her husband has been incredible, too. He’s been by her side every step of the way.”
“Husband?”
“The man she left me for. I was broken-hearted. He’d been her childhood boyfriend and had always been in love with her. I felt, at the time, as if she was dismissing me as useless, as if I wouldn’t know how to care for her, or didn’t care enough. But I would never have deserted her. Never. She knew what she wanted, though, and it was him. James. She was right, in hindsight. He’s been fantastic. I couldn’t have been there for her the way he has been.”
“Had you started your business by that point?”
“Just. Of course, when she left me, I threw myself headlong into work to keep my mind off her. I moved back to Paris and did nothing else but get HookedUp off the ground. I didn’t see daylight for weeks, holed up in my dark basement office, coding and working out formulas and ways to make it successful. Meanwhile, my sister was having meetings and getting backers.”
“You said your stepfather helped you.”
“He lent us fifteen thousand Euros and some of his friends pitched in, too. They’ve made their money back several thousand percent, I’m glad to say. They took a risk.”
“And you and Laura are still friends?”
“Of course. She and James are coming here in a couple of weeks. I won’t be here, though. I lend them the house every summer. We’d better get a move on, Pearl, or we’ll be late.”
I now see Alexandre in a whole new light. He is not the philandering, ‘woman in every port’ type, at all. He’s loyal and a good friend. He was prepared to stick by Laura even when she was crippled, not out of a sense of duty but for love. He’s a kind person who cares about people.
I want this man and his baby – more than ever.
Chapter Fourteen
We roll up to the party in the Murciélago, black as night. I would have felt self-conscious in such an outrageously flashy car, were it not matched by vehicles almost – but not quite – as impressive, lining the driveway. I can already spot some movie stars – I feel as if I’m in Hollywood at an Oscar party, not a place in the middle of the French countryside.
Alexandre walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I ease myself out, careful not to expose my panties to the world. Who knows, there might be paparazzi here – they could be interested in Alexandre Chevalier’s love interest. Love interest? What am I painting myself as, an actress in a movie? I am his girlfriend, am I not?
My insecurities are assuaged when he introduces me to the host and his friends, saying, “This is my girlfriend, Pearl.”
The house is slicker than Alexandre’s; more luxurious, but that’s to be expected of Hollywood royalty. Is that Charlize Theron I see over there? Beyond stunning. And is that Susan Sarandon, looking so elegant in a black sequined dress? The candlelit rooms are milling with the bold and the beautiful, spilling into the garden. Alexandre is holding my hand, leading me around.
Once in the swing of things, and after a few glasses of champagne, I feel completely at ease. After all, my main job as producer is communication. Chatting with people is easy for me and we’ve had a few stars doing voice-over work for us at Haslit Films. I’m not intimidated by fame.
After a while, we meander our separate ways. I get chatting to a woman from L.A – shop talk, really, and Alexandre gets distracted by one of his neighbors – they’re talking about their vines and lavender production. Before I know it, someone who looks oddly familiar has joined us and he soon overtakes the conversation. Who is he? That’s the problem with actors – you think one is your neighbor or even your old friend, because you feel you’ve known that person all your life and then you realize you’ve seen them on T.V or in a movie and you are a total stranger to them. Who is this man? Anyway, the woman has slipped out of sight now and I find myself discussing Haslit Films with him and my next, hopeful project. He’s smiling away and I’m smiling away, too. Finally, he asks my name and I tell him.
“And your name is?” I ask. He looks surprised as if I should know and then says, “Ryan.” He’s thirty-something – blond, blue eyes. Handsome in a classic way, although not my type. Funnily enough, he reminds me somewhat of my ex.
We are just beginning a conversation when I feel Alexandre grab my wrist from behind. “We have to leave,” he says briskly.
“What, already? I feel as if we just got here.”
The movie star is looking awkward so I introduce him to Alexandre. Alexandre nods and murmurs in a husky tone, “Pearl, we have to go.”
“Bye,” I say. “Nice meeting you.”
“I was having a good time,” I hiss at Alexandre. “Why are we leaving?” Is he jealous?
As we are walking out the front door, an elegantly dressed woman gives me a look of disgust like a dagger being thrown into my face. I recognize her but I can’t place her. What is wrong with me tonight? As I pass her I hear, “fucking cougar,” and wonder if the insult was directed at me.
Alexandre bundles me into the car and screeches out of the driveway. I feel like Batwoman in this thing. He’s no longer in a happy mood and I fear that I’ve upset him by unwittingly flirting with that famous actor, although what he’s famous for, I have no idea. Alexandre is silent, staring ahead at the road.
“You were right about your dress,” he says in a cold voice. “It drew too much attention to you. It was too garish.”
“I wasn’t flirting. At least I wasn’t conscious of doing so.”
But he doesn’t say a word. Twenty minutes go by and I’m aware that he doesn’t take a turning I noticed earlier on our way here. Half an hour later and we are still not home. He’s driving fast now, really fast. I can feel angry vibes emanating from every pore in his body. Jesus, if chatting to another man makes him jealous, this relationship of ours is not going to work.
“Are we going somewhere?” I ask.
“I’ll get Madame Menager to send your things on. We aren’t going back to my house.”
Oh my God! I am being dumped! He’s breaking up with me for some harmless flirting. That’s my job! I have to be charming, have meetings, lunches and sometimes, yes, they happen to be with attractive men. I’m looking over at him and see the rage on his face. Uh, oh. I’m feeling scared. Maybe it’s best to break up with him, anyway, if he’s going to be like this. I don’t want some possessive psycho as my boyfriend.
“Alexandre, what’s going on?”
“I don’t like seeing you treated like that. Fuck, just because you were wearing a short red dress doesn’t give people a license to be so judgmental.”
“That guy, Ryan, was being perfectly friendly. He wasn’t being lecherous or rude in any way at all.”
“We are not talking about him, for fuck’s sake,” he shouts. He has never spoken to me with that tone before and it shocks me. “We’re talking about you,” he adds, ominously.
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 18