Hooked Up: Book 3 (10 page)

Alexandre’s voice sounded as pained as mine. “Something I have to sort out. I don’t want to lie to you, Pearl, so please don’t ask me any more questions. Just know I love you and want to marry you the second you say yes.”

“Why would I want to marry someone who has secrets from me? Someone who’s hiding something?”

“It’s a Catch 22, isn’t it?”

I tried to stop my voice from breaking. “It certainly is.”

“I love you.”

“Are you going to London, by any chance?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer that I was dreading.

“Please don’t ask me any more questions. I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I take that as a ‘yes.’ So you’re going to London,” I stated flatly.

“Look, I have no choice.”

“We always have a choice, Alexandre. Only abused children or animals, or women who are locked up in a basement somewhere, with their passports taken away from them working as slave prostitutes for their sick pimps, or starving people in Africa—they don’t have choices, but us? You and I do have choices because we’re the lucky ones who live in wealthy western civilizations. We
do
have choices, so don’t lay that shit on me.”

His answer was lame. Really lame. “External forces are trying to pull us apart.”

“Laura.”

“Yes.

“You’re going to see Laura?”

“Please, Pearl, don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

I hung up. There was no more to discuss. I didn’t want to humiliate myself, scream and cry down the phone. All I knew was he’d be seeing Laura again, after he promised not to. Her phone call . . . she already knew she had him back. She was right; I
was
the deluded one, not her. For whatever reason, whatever hold she had over him, he just couldn’t keep away from her. And he was not even offering to explain why . . . everything shrouded in some big, enigmatic secret. Well, fuck him!

This time I knew it was over between us, once and for all.

I
LISTENED TO Pearl’s rant about having a choice, before she finally hung up on me. A knot tightened in my throat.
A choice with a price to pay so high I’d never forgive myself.
My mind flitted to Pearl being gang raped at college. She didn’t have a choice then, although I knew that she was still blaming herself. Those fuckers would get their comeuppance—one of them I’d already tracked down. I thought of Laura again. How she was fucking up everyone’s lives.

It was all my fault. That bloody evidence had been sitting happily in a drawer at my mother’s in Paris. I’d brought it to my house in Provence to make sure my stepfather would never find it. To protect my mother. To make her safe. What a fucking joke!

Whichever way you looked at it, I was totally screwed.

C
HRISTMAS ZIPPED BY. Alexandre spent it in Paris. Anthony came to stay. (Bruce went to his parents in the Napa Valley because his father was ill.) Here, at my new abode, it was like one big slumber party. Daisy and Amy, Ant and I all snuggled together in our two-bedroom apartment, Ant on the couch, and Amy in her special Wigwam in the bedroom, which was a gift from Anthony. It was fun.

We watched endless children’s movies that we loved, particularly the
Toy Story
trilogy. Embarrassingly, I found myself weeping in
Toy Story 2
, identifying with the toys being abandoned by their owners. I still had all my old teddies, never having the heart to get rid of any. It felt to me that only yesterday I was a child, playing tea parties and doctors and nurses the way Amy was doing now.

She, Ant, Daisy and I all played cowboys, too; a toy gun and western outfits came along with the wigwam kit, although Amy refused to kill any Indians—a politically correct tomboy. It’s true that Christmas should be all about children, and Amy had a ball.

I kept waiting for Anthony to slip into his old sarcastic, jaded demeanor, but he didn’t. He was adorable and very loving toward me. I was so glad the troubled part of our relationship was history.

The troubled part of a relationship . . . namely Alexandre. He called on several occasions and each time my brother picked up and chatted merrily away, but never handed over the phone and told Alexandre that as long as he had anything to do with Laura, I was not interested in seeing him. Alexandre didn’t push it; he just seemed pleased to have news of me. He’d been flitting between Paris, New York, and London. I half expected him to be waiting outside my door, but it never happened.

I guess he’d made his choice, after all.

And that choice was Laura.

Made all the more complicated by something I had been feeling for two whole weeks: swollen breasts, sleepiness, occasional vomiting, and a strange longing for pickles.

Perhaps my old teddies would get unpacked, after all.

Yes, I was pregnant—at least that’s what a home pregnancy test had confirmed. I called my gynecologist and booked an appointment for the following week. Meanwhile, I thought it was time to pamper myself, so I also booked a massage.

THE AYURVEDIC SALON was not what I had imagined. Daisy recommended this place to me—a friend of hers frequented it on a regular basis for soothing massages. Daisy’s friend had described in detail
a warm herbal oil massage designed to bring nourishment to the tissues, deep relaxation to the muscles, and calmness to the mind.
Hmm . . . sounded perfect. However, this place seemed like less of a beauty parlor and more of a doctor’s office. I was given a form to fill out about my medical history—
Jeez, all I wanted was a relaxing massage with oils!
But because the book I was reading on my e-reader had me hooked, I remained in the waiting room patiently. Happy, in fact, that I had this peaceful excuse to devour my novel.

Finally, a large woman in a white coat brushed out of her office and said a warm goodbye to a client. She smiled and ushered me in. She was Indian and donned a happy, friendly face, with cheeks like ripe apples.

“Come in, Ms. Robinson, sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem, I caught up with some reading.”

“Please sit down. Let me see your medical history,” she said, and I handed her the piece of paper.

She adjusted her spectacles and perused it with great interest, although I was not sure why, being pretty average as I was. No allergies, no epilepsy, no addictions . . . except, of course, for sex with a particular Frenchman, if you counted that. Right now, I was going “cold turkey.”

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I . . . um . . . I just came here for a basic massage.”

“Nothing is basic about our massage therapy, Ms. Robinson.”

“Oh, I see. Please call me Pearl, by the way; I hate formalities.”

“Pearl—what a lovely name. Tell me, what’s troubling you, Pearl? Are you feeling tired, sluggish, depressed?”

“Yes to the first two things you mentioned. Depressed? Well, I would say I feel more anxious than depressed.”

She said nothing, just nodded her head as if to say, “Go on.”

“I’m pregnant, for starters.”

“Congratulations, that’s wonderful news.” She beamed at me, her sparkling white teeth set off against her coffee-colored skin.

“Thank you. Well, yes.” I wanted to explain to her that I was not with the baby’s father; I wanted to burst out crying, fling my arms around her ample shoulders and unleash my inner turmoil, but I chewed my lip instead, and fought back any impending tears.

“Well, of course, you know that
any
kind of massage therapy is out of the question for you right now, don’t you?”

I was stunned. Who was this woman?
I just want a goddam massage, lady!

“But why? That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, perhaps it’s divine intervention—you don’t want to lose your baby, do you? How many weeks are you?”

I thought back to the rampant, sex-fueled night with Alexandre, when he practically pierced my womb he went in so deep. I couldn’t be sure if that had been the qualifying moment, there had been so many since.

“I think about five weeks. I’m not sure. I just did a home pregnancy test this morning.”

We discussed my periods, dates, medication and so forth, for a good ten minutes. I wondered why I was offering all this information about myself to a massage therapist, when she informed me, “I run this Ayurvedic practice but, you know, I’m just as much a doctor as I am a masseuse.”

“No, I had no idea. So you don’t practice regular medicine here in the States?”

“Ayurvedic medicine is not recognized officially in this country, but where I come from—Kerala in southern India—well, it’s an important part of our culture and taken very seriously. But I’m also a qualified GP. My mother was a doctor and also my grandmother; all of us GPs, with a particular interest in preventative medicine.”

“But I have nothing to prevent,” I ventured, still confused as to how I got myself into the doctor-ish situation when all I wanted was a freaking massage.

“I see here that you are forty years old.”

“Yes.”

“With a history of two miscarriages—one D&C,” she said, reading my notes.

I remembered that awful time; when I went in for an ultra-sound, and they discovered the baby had no heartbeat. I had been carrying about a dead fetus for two weeks and they had to operate immediately. “Yes, I had a D&C,” I said, suddenly profoundly grateful that I was now pregnant, that God had given me another chance even if I was to be a single mother forevermore.

“How many times have you had sexual intercourse with your partner in the last few weeks?”

“Er . . . none.”

She nodded with approval. “Good. You must abstain from sex for the first three months of pregnancy or you risk suffering another miscarriage.”

Well, that will be easy now that Alexandre is with Laura, and I can’t even look at another man, let alone bed down with one.

The doctor continued, “Any penetration is dangerous for a woman of your age with your medical history. You will not find this written in any textbook, and most modern-day doctors would poo-poo this idea, but believe me, old wives’ tales are very often true.”

I stared at her bemused.
Abstain from sex??
What has this got to do with my herbal massage?

She went on, matter-of-factly, “No penetration but you can do other, non-invasive sexual practices. No massages, least of all with powerful oils that can upset the body’s hormone-balance. You must not even indulge in reflexology; too much stimulation. Some doctors believe abdominal massage is good as it gets the blood flowing. I do not, unless it is very gentle and with your own hands—do not go to a massage therapist for the first three months or you could lose your child. You’re forty; this could be your last chance at pregnancy, you need to take all the precautions you can.”

I eyed her suspiciously. Was she some kind of quack? “I’ve never heard of this before. It seems so extreme.”

“Once, my dear, people thought it was extreme when they were advised not to smoke and drink whilst pregnant. Believe me, I have been in this business all my life, since I could walk and talk—I have breathed it—every single member of my family, the men included, are doctors. We have picked up a few tips over the years.” She waggled her head in a figure of eight.

I observed her warily but was also fascinated by this information. My mother would have loved this woman; she hated conventional medicine.

“Now, what I’m going to prescribe for you, Pearl, is simple. One baby aspirin a day. This will safeguard you against any premature clotting. Stay off caffeine, alcohol, and away from second-hand smoke. Eat plenty of fresh vegetables and protein, but you probably already know all that. No heavy exercise at the gym, no jogging.”

“Is swimming okay?”

“Swimming is perfect, but don’t train for the Olympics.” She smiled. “Folic acid in a multi-vitamin, B6, B12, and omega 3’s,” she stated briskly.

“I already bought all that at the pharmacy, and fish-oil tablets.”

“Good. I’m going to give you a painless saliva test to see your progesterone levels, and if they’re low I’ll prescribe a completely natural progesterone cream. Progesterone is responsible for creating a healthy environment in the womb by creating and maintaining a healthy uterine lining. If more people used this treatment, a lot of miscarriages could be avoided. All you need is a pea-sized amount of cream on your finger that you can rub into a different area each time, just once a day—somewhere the skin is thin; your breasts, face, upper thighs. It’s completely natural, no synthetics, no harmful ingredients.”

She stuck something into my mouth to do the saliva test. My mind wandered off to my baby-to-be . . . that was if it could survive the next couple of months, up until the first trimester, the most precarious. Would he be blond or dark? Would she have Alexandre’s curvy red lips and his crooked smile? Would she be proud like him? Would he break hearts like his father . . .

“Oh, and one more thing,” the doctor said assertively. “Try to keep your cell phone calling to a minimum. Radiation levels are harmful and can impair fetal brain development. Nobody will tell you this and few people want to listen but—”