Hooked Up: Book 3 (2 page)

The line clicked dead.

I took a deep breath and stood up. I had a head-rush—black stars flickered behind my eyes. Laura’s front door was giving me heart palpitations. Black as the Devil himself, it beckoned me and taunted me mockingly.
Come, come and humiliate yourself.

But Alessandra was right. I needed to see Alexandre, face to face.

I stood at the door, once again. It was so glossy, I saw my warped reflection before me. A disheveled woman, forty whole years old. No wonder Alexandre had gone back to glamorous Laura. I rapped the lion’s brass knocker head. The lion was saying to me,
I challenge you, go on—make a fool out of yourself, see if I care.

I knocked three times. Rap, rap, rap. My heart . . . pound, pound, pound.

Nothing.

I planned in my head everything I wanted to say:
Alexandre, please be honest with me, please . . .

The smooth black door swung open. Not Mrs. Blake, but Laura herself.

I will not cry, I will not cry. Be strong, no tears, no scene . . . be
strong.

She was standing there, looking like some figurehead on a ship; tall, willowy, in a royal blue, silk-satin robe shimmering over her slim body like ripples of water. My heart sank. She had that just-fucked look; the afternoon lovemaking flush glowing in her cheeks. Her hair was all mussed up. She said coyly, “Pearl, what a surprise!” Her smile was set like a plastic bride on a wedding cake. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to speak to Alexandre,” I replied bravely.

“Sorry, but he’s not here. He just left.”

My composure melted into the damp sidewalk. “Don’t lie to me, Laura. I saw him come in through this door twenty minutes ago. He’s here!”

“My word, have you been spying on us?” Her smirk was victorious.

I tried to wedge my foot in the door. “Let me in. I need to see him, just for a few minutes, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Pearl, I’m not making this up. He left five minutes ago.”

“BULLSHIT! I’ve been watching your front door. Nobody has left, least of all Alexandre.”

“You don’t know much about London houses, do you? This house’s garden backs onto our mews house and garages. He went out the back.”

“Laura, you’ve gotten what you wanted. Why are you tormenting me? Please, I just want to see him for—”

“God, you’re a bore. Do I have to spell it out? HE. IS. NOT. HERE! Go round the back and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“What was he doing here?” I demanded, my body shaking with rage.

“Now you’re being naïve. He just fucked me senseless, if you must know. You’re not the only one who likes a little afternoon quickie, Pearl. Now run along, I have stuff to do.” She began to push the door in my face.

And then I shouted out something cruel. Something I knew I’d regret. Words spilled uncontrollably from my mouth:

“I wish you’d stayed in your freaking wheel chair forever!”

The lid was firmly in the coffin now. Not only had I been jilted, my behavior was despicable. When Alexandre hears what I have just said, I thought, he’ll be shocked and never want anything to do with me again.

It was official:

I was a jealous, spiteful, malicious bitch.

Laura slammed the door in my face.

I scampered around the block to see if what Laura said about a mews house and garage was true. It was. Only the extremely wealthy could afford to have their garden sandwiched between two stunning houses in one of the most expensive areas in London. The mews was cobbled. I’d read that, in the olden days, this was where the stables for horses and carriages were, but now of course, just a mews house alone in this Chelsea neighborhood would set you back millions, let alone adjoining garages. I imagined Laura’s husband, James, beavering away in the City to buy all this for the woman he was in love with, for whom he sacrificed his life . . . and now she was about to dump him because he was no longer rich enough for her. Did Alexandre know whom he was dealing with? That Laura was as ruthless as a razor blade? Like most smitten men, he probably didn’t see through her sweetness-and-light act.

A thought suddenly rushed to my brain. Uh, oh. I’d just insulted her, said the worst possible thing somebody could say, and she’d be out for revenge. Laura knew about Alessandra and me. All it would take would be one phone call to Sophie.

The carving knife . . .

I called Alessandra again.

She sighed into the phone, exasperated. “What do you want now, Pearl?”

“Laura knows about us. About . . . our evening,” I stuttered. “Just warning you.”

“Deny, deny, deny. And I suggest you do the same. How the fuck would Laura
know
that?”

“Alexandre must have told her.”

“Thanks, Pearl, for sharing that with him. Now I’ll have
him
after me with a carving knife, too.”

“No, you won’t, he really didn’t . . . doesn’t care. I’m history.”

“I didn’t know he was the tattle-tale type.”

“He’s not. He’s usually very discreet; it’s not like him at all.”

“Well thanks for the warning,” she said grumpily. “Bye.”

I ambled back to Sloane Street and walked towards Knightsbridge. I had a couple of hours to kill before I needed to go back to Hampstead for my suitcase and make my way to Heathrow for my flight. I got my iPod out of my bag and went through the playlist. Got it. The perfect ‘fuck you’ song ever written, Gloria Gaynor’s
I Will Survive
. The music felt great. Powerful. Encouraging. Hell, I even felt like disco dancing in the street. I punched my arm in the air. Yes, I
am
strong and I
will
survive. I refused to feel sorry for myself.
Life goes on and we women can be tough. I
am
tough. I’m a New Yorker for crying out loud! I can do it. I will survive,
I sang out loud
. I don’t care who hears me, even if I’m out of tune.

Where to head now? Harrods? Probably the most famous department store in the world. I’d go there and buy a gift for Daisy’s mother to say thank you for my stay. Perhaps some homemade chocolates or some fancy bath salts.

I stepped through revolving doors, greeted by uniformed doormen, and made my way through the vast labyrinth of the store, to the Food Hall. There was no place like it; I could have been stepping into a museum. My mother had brought me to this emporium once, and I vowed I’d return one day. A work of art. The food hall was the original part of the shop, opened in the first half of the nineteenth century. Now Harrods was comprised of seven floors and spanned an incredible four and a half acres. I had never seen such opulence and grandeur where food was sold. Like a food court at a palace—something worthy of Louis IV, or some bygone monarch’s banquet feast.

The black and white marble floors stretched before me like a long yawn, and the imposing molding decorating the ceiling reminded you that this building was a majestic legend: a true London landmark. Hall after hall was grandly overflowing with beautifully presented gourmet food delights. My eyes and nose were already feasting. The sheer volume and selection of British and International goods was awe inspiring: artisan chocolates, lavish cuts of meat and seafood—even exotic things like sea urchin. Unusual cheeses, Dim Sum, Beluga caviar, truffle butter, pistachio and rose Turkish delights, gourmet terrines and drool-worthy patisserie, all presented in breathtakingly beautiful displays arranged behind gleaming glass counters. It was like being in the hall of mirrors in Versailles, only with food, reflected twenty-fold by mirrors set in arches, made glorious by mahogany and brass light fixtures, everything twinkling and glittering in gold.

Foolishly, I thought I could whip in and out of here, but I was mesmerized by the beauty of the place, the surreal Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory I-want-it-all attack. Where to begin? What to buy? You could spend a week in the Food Halls alone, not to mention the rest of Harrods. I got some exquisite French truffles for Daisy’s mum Doris, and meandered towards another tempting counter.

I stared at cupcakes. I needed some kind of American comfort food after the Laura “encounter.” What to choose? Banana, Mocha, Strawberry, Rocky Road, Sticky Toffee . . . or the chocolate torte sprinkled with gold dust? Edible art if ever I saw it.

“Pearl, is zat you?” a voice exclaimed behind my shoulders.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I saw a familiar reflection in the mirror before me:

Sophie.

I spun around in amazement, my sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floor. A nervous guilty churn made my stomach dip. Sophie with her carving knife . . . did she know about Alessandra and me?

Obviously not, because she was smiling, and for the first time her happiness seemed to be genuine. Or was that just me? Now that I knew she didn’t hate my guts, I could observe her with fresh eyes, devoid of judgment and suspicion.

“What are you doing in London?” she asked, kissing me on both cheeks. I inhaled her usual, heady scent of
Fracas
and noticed how pretty she looked, her eyes like pools of dark chocolate, and she was dressed immaculately in a chic, navy blue pantsuit. Hand tailored, no doubt. I knew she and Alexandre got all their suits cut on Saville Row, here in London.

“I came . . . I-I had some work appointments,” I spluttered.

“What a wonderfool surprise. Alexandre never told me you were both here.”

Wonder Fool.
Fool being the operative word.
So you don’t know we broke up? That he dumped me? That he’s gone back to Laura?
“I’m leaving today,” I said simply. “Back to New York.”

“What a shame, we could have ooked up. Isn’t zis place marvelloose? I come here to get my Jelly Belly jellybeans. Cannot get zem anywhere, you know. My little American addiction.” She held up the bag of candy. Jelly Belly—my favorites, too.

I wanted to spill it all out and tell Sophie my woes. I wanted to discuss everything and ask her about Laura; tell her that Laura warned me that she would “top me off” in order to stop me marrying Alexandre in Vegas, but I was dumbstruck, not least by the bizarre coincidence of bumping into Sophie here at Harrods . . . what were the odds of that?

“Where do you go now? You want a coffee? Or razzer, in England, a cup of tea, no?

“I have a plane to catch, I need to get back to Hampstead, then get my case and catch the tube to Heathrow,” I replied uneasily.

“Hampstead? Alexandre usually stays at zee Connaught.”

Sophie doesn’t know??
“I’m visiting a friend,” I said cagily. “Alexandre isn’t with me.”

“My driver, he can take you to Hampstead and zen airport, okay? Save so much time. I have a friend in Hampstead I’ve been wanting to see forever. We go togezzer.” She linked her arm with mine and ushered me through the crowds, and out of Harrods. Her embrace was warm, and I wondered . . . was it me? Was I the one, all along, who had been spiky and defensive? Maybe Alexandre was right.
Sophie has been trying to be my friend for months.

I caused all that trouble for nothing. I wished, now, I could jump into a time capsule and travel back to the waiting private jet at Van Nuys Airport.

But it was all too late.

T
HE HOTEL DIDN’T have a gym, so I used one close by. I wanted to expend some of the pent-up, surplus energy I had, which was playing tricks with my brain, making me angry and quietly aggressive. I knew part of the reason was because I hadn’t had sex for nearly two weeks. It shouldn’t have affected me; I’d been without sex for long stretches before, when I was in the French Foreign Legion, but that was before I met Pearl. She was imprinted on my brain. I tossed and turned at night, smelling her, hearing her sweet voice, feeling that silky soft skin, dreaming of fucking her. Hearing her whimper when she came, the tears that would fall when her orgasm was so intense she couldn’t believe it was true.

After the gym I showered then checked my cell to locate Pearl’s whereabouts. A rush of adrenaline spiked my veins; she was at James and Laura’s house! What the fuck? Not only was Laura playing games with me, but she was obviously fucking with Pearl, too. Regret washed over me—I should have warned Pearl—told her how dangerous Laura was. She must have called Pearl again, after the “Sophie is a killer call,” to set up some sort of meeting. I dashed over to my hotel to grab the box of books and set off in the direction of Chelsea. Finally, I could deal with the problem in situ. I’d confront Laura with Pearl right there; Laura’s lies would be etched across her face, and Pearl would believe me. We could be rid of Laura, once and for all; face the music together as a couple. I hailed a cab and jumped in, urgently giving the taxi driver Laura’s exclusive Chelsea address.

I thought back to my code; treating women with respect at all times, no matter how unhinged they were. Bad idea. I should have told the lot of them to fuck off a long time ago. Laura, Claudine, even Indira. After the way my father treated my mother, I swore I’d always be gentle with women in every circumstance—the idea of being like him in any way disgusted me. But my kindness wasn’t paying off; it had got me in a tangled web with a whole lot of Black Widow spiders out to gobble me up.

“Can you please step on it—don’t mean to be rude but I’m in a hurry,” I said to the driver, who was chatting away in his Cockney accent about immigration.

“No problem, gov. It’s those bastard eastern European scum and the like. Vey come ’ere expectin’ work, stealin’ jobs from decent British citizens. Arf of ’em ’av illegal, dodgy businesses, drugs, prostitution and ve like—vey really are ve scum of ve earf.”
They really are the scum of the earth,
I finally realized he was saying.

“Is there a shortcut?” I suggested.

At first he thought I was engaging in conversation so I repeated, “Can we get there any faster? It’s an emergency.”

He swerved to the right and took a narrow street through the back of Belgravia. “Are you Rumanian, or sumfing?”

“No. French.”

“Like a few frogs legs, do ya? Snails?” He laughed at his joke.

Finally we arrived. I shoved too many pound notes in the driver’s hand, not waiting for change, and dashed to Laura and James’s front steps, rapping hard on the brass doorknocker. Laura came out and grinned at me, flinging her arms around me as if we were two long-lost, passionate lovers. I held the box of books out and pushed my way through the door.