Hooked Up: Book 3 (28 page)

I
FORCED MYSELF to relax against the soft leather of the Daimler’s back seat; anything to ease the tension gathering like sailor’s knots in my shoulders. I had Laura on my mind. I was now being driven to her house in Chelsea—she was expecting me.

Sophie and I always used this chauffeur when we came to London; it was so much easier than messing about with diesel-belching taxis and their chatty Cockney drivers who wanted to talk about the weather. Not that I was knocking them, no—they were the most knowledgeable taxi drivers of probably any city in the world. They had to pass an exam called the Knowledge, could take you to any tiny corner of London by memory—but still, having a private chauffeur was one of the perks of having money to burn. And it was one of my secret pleasures.

It still felt at odds, that . . . being so bloody wealthy, yet it was something I never took for granted. It seemed only yesterday when I was rummaging through my jeans’ pockets, or picking coins off the floor to scrape up enough money to buy a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Being poor stank, but being rich and not appreciating what you had was worse. That’s why I needed to justify that private jet. It made me feel too guilty to swan about the globe in jets without good reason. It was only fair to spread the wealth a bit and share my good fortune. I hoped those Bronx girls were having fun and didn’t see it as “charity,” though. I hated that, being the magnanimous “do-gooder.” No, it was simply a question of dividing things out, like buying a round of drinks at the pub: a British tradition I admired. If you had the money, it was your “round,” and if you didn’t have enough from your paycheck that week, never mind, you’d do it another day—your “mate” would pay instead.

My mate. The pub. That’s where I’d met Laura. She was there with a group of friends and we’d started up a conversation. Strange that—as beautiful as Laura was, I never did have that “love at first sight” thing with her, the way I did with Pearl. It was more a case of feeling lonely in a new city, a need for companionship. We’d got talking and then soon started going out to movies together, or art exhibitions. It was a nice change from hanging out with Sophie all the time, and Sophie was in Paris anyway. I didn’t like male company so much, either. It always reminded me of
La Légion
and all its madness. When I arrived in London all those years ago, I felt lonely, screwed-up; I needed a friend, wanted some female company, and Laura was right there.

La Légion . . . a part of my life I wanted to forget. I’d joined up at fifteen, an underage romantic idealist. Death seemed glamorous at the time—even welcome. The French Foreign Legion was infamous for having one of the highest fatality rates of any modern military. I wanted to be one of the “chosen ones,” feel that I could stand amongst the world’s hardest, and not even blink.

There were three types of people who joined La Legion. The men who needed to be there because they had nothing else, the fly-by-night dreamers, and the complete fucking lunatics.

I never was sure which category I fit into best . . . perhaps a mixture of all three.

I remembered the eerie words of one guy, an Australian, who said, “I’ll get a second chance at achieving something real, anything, even if it’s just a shallow grave.”

I’d seen enough shallow graves for a lifetime: bodies blown to smithereens. La Légion was tougher than any army, any professional fighting force. It was no fucking picnic. If I’d stayed, I would probably be dead by now.

I replayed the march of La Légion in my head
; Le Boudin
. Eighty-eight steps a minute. 88, the magic number, the number of pearls on the Art Deco necklace I gave Pearl. I seemed to be wedded to that lucky number. Eighty-eight.

I now gazed out of the car window, humming the first verse of the marching song to myself:

Nous sommes des dégourdis,

Nous sommes des lascars

Des types pas ordinaires.

Nous avons souvent notre cafard,

Nous sommes des légionnaires.

Translated into English was:

We are crafty.

We are rogues.

We are no ordinary guys.

We’ve often got our black moods,

For we are Legionnaires.

Our motto was:
Legio Patria Nostra
—The Legion is our home. Thank God I had a real home now, with Pearl. I had been searching all this time and knew I’d finally found what I was looking for. Stability. Love. A family. Trust. Sexual and spiritual connection, unlike any other.

An unwelcome image of Laura being pregnant flashed before me. I groaned and felt tension clamp at my jaw. I cursed the day she opened her bee-stung lips and asked me the time. I should have just kept her as a friend, not started fucking her. The truth was, she was pretty unsexy in bed anyway; all angles and bones—never letting go—too uptight, too neurotic. I felt bad judging someone like that, but fuck, I felt no remorse now in ripping Laura’s personality to pieces. She was proving to be a bitch of the first order. But the worst thing was that she didn’t even seem to be aware of what a monster she was being. As if all her demands were “by the by,” the sort of, “Oh by the way, I need a baby and it has to be yours.” As if her actions wouldn’t have consequences for all involved. Had she thought of the child itself? I doubted it. Doubted Laura would have thought far outside the little box that was her own selfish head.

I’d told Pearl that Laura had become “doolally” because of the accident, but I was now aware that wasn’t quite true. She had always been self-absorbed—it just didn’t seem to matter when I was younger. Telling Pearl that—excusing Laura’s behavior—somehow justified having been with Laura in the first place. Modeling hadn’t helped her one bit. Take an egotistical person and shove them into the modeling world, and all it does is magnify the problem. And all that money she’d grown accustomed to with James. She’d become a spoiled brat, used to getting her way.

What a fuck-up! I still didn’t know what I was going to say to her.

I’ll come up with a
solution, I have to
.

As much as I had goals and wrote lists, I always played things by instinct. It drove Sophie nuts. Sometimes, I’d go in the opposite direction than planned, just before an important business meeting. If I instinctively trusted someone . . . or the reverse; had a suspicion that someone would double-cross me (a gut feeling), then I might change my course altogether. It had made me a rich man and I wasn’t going to change tactics now.

I’d play it by ear. Read Laura by looking into her eyes. Maybe it was all about money and she could be bought off.

I couldn’t imagine her as a mother anyway—surely it was some crazy fantasy of hers? The idea seemed preposterous—the woman could hardly boil an egg. Changing diapers? Forget it, she’d want a 24/7 nanny. Two nannies, in fact, a team of cleaners, and God knows what else. I’d talk her out of it. Woo her with cash. Anybody could be bought at a price. Anybody.

Except Pearl, funnily enough. She was the one person I knew who really wasn’t motivated by money. I believed that if I lost my entire financial portfolio, overnight, she wouldn’t give a damn. Maybe, she’d even be relieved.

Oh yes, you could add Elodie to the list. She was even embarrassed by being wealthy; a reaction, no doubt, against her mother . . . well, Sophie was her stepmother, but it amounted to the same thing. Poor Elodie, such a loner. I wondered if she had ever gone on a real date with a boy. Probably not. She was a nerd, like me, and preferred to stay in and play video games.

I looked out of the window at Trafalgar Square, home to the landmark, Nelson’s Column, proud as ever, guarded by the four, famous lion statues and ridiculous amounts of pigeons. It was erected to celebrate the Battle of Trafalgar, a British naval victory during the Napoleonic wars over France. British French rivalry.

It was a pain in the neck being French sometimes; especially in England. I sometimes wondered if the two countries would have a love/hate relationship forever. The French had a reputation for being cocky and arrogant, and I suspected people saw me that way. I was fond of London; it was a beautiful city, so I’d asked his driver to take me by way of the scenic route. If it weren’t for this impending meeting with Laura I would have enjoyed the ride.

My mind shifted to Pearl. My rare pearl. My gem. I missed her already, and it had only been a few hours. It felt great opening up to her the way I had the day before. But it had unlocked so many emotions, and not in a good way. I had never realized the anger I’d silently and unwittingly harbored for my mother. It was true; she had abandoned me, her own son, at so young an age. But still, I couldn’t let her down now, and wouldn’t. It was strange the way children could sometimes feel responsibility for their parents. It was common with children of alcoholics, too. My mom had never been a drinker, but she had an addictive personality. My father had been her drug, and now she relied on me for emotional support. Not the healthiest of relationships, yet I felt responsible for her happiness, somehow.

Large raindrops, like tears, slid down the glass of the windows as the car crawled along in the traffic. The streets were slick with wet, as usual. When did it not rain in London? The double-decker buses were stopping and starting as people piled in and out of them. It wasn’t long ago that I had been hopping on and off buses; a taxi was a rare treat in those early days. I couldn’t believe how lucky I’d been with HookedUp. An American Dream if ever there was one . . . even if I wasn’t American.

The Daimler was now cruising through Admiral Arch and along the Mall toward Buckingham Palace, where the road was paved in red. I thought of how I’d like to take Pearl here one day . . . so many plans, so many things for us to do together. And now there was a baby on the way; it would be fun to watch the Changing of the Guard—children loved that.

Everything was perfect, except for this fucking Laura fiasco.

My buzzing cell jolted me from my rumination, and I dug it out of my coat pocket.

“Oui, hallo?” For a moment there, I was in Parisian mode.

The voice was excitable and I recognized it immediately: Anthony.

“Oh Alexandre, I’m going crazy with this no cell phone ban thing. I never get to speak to my sister anymore!”

“She’s worried about radiation vibes damaging the fetus.”

“So like our hippie parents. Must be the genes. But, of course she’s worried, I can totally understand; she’s carrying what is going to be the most beautiful baby in the world inside that little stomach of hers. No wonder. I mean, pur-lease. Is she there, by the way?”

“No, she’s in Paris, and I’m in London.”

“Oh my God! No! Alexandre what has she done now? Please don’t tell me she’s leapt out of another bathroom window? What have
you
done? I can’t stand the agony of it! Please tell me you two guys are not on some stupid separation thing again.”

I chuckled. “No, not at all. I’m just here on business. Briefly. Pearl’s at the hotel. At the George V if you want to call her there this evening. In the Presidential Suite.”

“Well, excuse
me
your royal highness, Mr. President.”

My lips tipped upwards. Anthony always brought a smile to my face, especially recently, since he had changed his tune with Pearl and was being so sweet to her.

Anthony blabbered on, “I’m glad I got you anyway, because I want to be reassured that your wedding is going ahead as planned, and that my sister is not behaving like Lucille Ball or Rachel Green from
Friends
. Is she acting like a grown-up or is she—”

“She’s being extremely grown-up,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry, everything’s going very smoothly with us.”
If it weren’t for goddam Laura, that would be true
. I added, “In fact, we’re crazy in love with each other, more than ever, so don’t worry, Anthony.”

Anthony sighed in a sort of singsong. “Aah, so cute. Well, I’ll call her later at the hotel, then. Good luck with your business, Michael.”

Did he just say Michael?
“Excuse me?”

“I said good luck, Mr. Corleone, with your business meeting.”

I chuckled again. “Thanks. I need it.”

“Make, whoever it is, an offer he can’t refuse.”

Anthony’s comment made me freeze for a second.
Make Laura an offer she can’t refuse
? Tempting.

Very bloody tempting.

THE CAR DREW UP at James and Laura’s house.

James . . . where the fuck was he? He hadn’t returned one single call.

I rarely felt nervous, but a foreboding feeling suddenly clenched my gut. Laura could be dealt with, couldn’t she? So why I felt so jumpy, I couldn’t explain.

My long fingers gripped the brass doorknocker like an eager spider, and I rapped at her black front door. I’d heard once that lions for doorknockers were a good idea; it kept the burglars at bay—a subliminal message—“don’t fuck with me.” Laura did have a way of alienating people. She never had been much of a girls’ girl. Not like Pearl, who everyone warmed to straight away.

I waited. No reply. Rain suddenly shot down like cold needles, and I’d left my umbrella in the car and told my driver to come back later. I knocked again. Nothing. Where was Mrs. Blake? Fuck Laura! Making me wait like some lackey. Typical. Then I remembered I still had my key to the garage; I’d forgotten to give it back.