Hooked Up: Book 3 (41 page)

She was an enigma. Dark, like me. Luc Besson’s
La Femme Nikita.
They recruited women like Elodie—she had what it took to be a mercenary. A ruthless streak. Intelligent. Savvy. She was a schemer, a planner, a loner by nature. She’d be alright.

LIFE WENT ON uneventfully, except that Pearl was working very hard with HookedUp Enterprises, and Rex got married to a stunning black Labrador, who gave birth to six glorious, silky black pups. We took a house for the month of February in the Bahamas, and Pearl managed to do business from her laptop, on the beach. The Smartphone was used minimally—why? Because she was pregnant again! Five months and counting. I hadn’t even imagined we’d be blessed again with another pregnancy.

WE WERE LYING on the beach, the waves lapping gently—a pale turquoise water shimmering and glittering us with its welcome. The sand was almost white and squeaked beneath our feet. Pearl lay under an umbrella, and Louis and Madeleine were happily playing. A new nanny (Sally had her hands full with all the dogs, who were in New York—too hot here for them) had come with us so we didn’t have to worry about having eyes in the back of our heads.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked Pearl. She was stretched out on her towel, reading
Vanity Fair.
HookedUp Enterprises had just bought the magazine.

“This interview they did with you in Paris. You’re such a liar!”

I narrowed my eyes. “Which bit are you reading?”

“You told them we were living in a tree-house in Thailand.”

“I like my anonymity, you know that. Let them send their paparazzi out to Thailand and leave us alone peacefully here. What else does it say?” I asked, looking up at a cloudless blue sky.

“I’ll read it out loud and you can hear for yourself what a bullshitter you are.”

“Go on then, I’m all ears.”

“
INTERVIEW WITH ALEXANDRE CHEVALIER FOR VANITY FAIR.
By Stacey Black,” Pearl began.

‘It’s 4pm and I’m waiting nervously in the lobby of the George V in Paris to meet one of the top five richest men in the world. That, in itself, is impressive enough, especially considering this man is a renowned philanthropist and gives a percentage of his income to charity. But the fact that he is only twenty-eight years old and looks like a movie star makes most people quiver at the knees, including myself. His name? None other than Alexandre Chevalier, CEO of the billion-dollar Internet dating phenomenon, HookedUp, more popular than Twitter and Facebook and with an offer on the table from Google, poised for a historical buyout that is bigger than most nations’ national yearly budgets.’

“Sounds like this Stacey Black has a major crush on you, darling,” Pearl teased.

I grinned. I couldn’t deny I liked keeping Pearl on her toes. “Read on, this is interesting.”

‘
Finally, Monsieur Chevalier saunters into the lobby. He is wearing dark glasses – very Hollywood. My stomach flips. I shouldn’t be so in awe. But I am. This man is power personified. He is dressed in a sharp, obviously hand-tailored, charcoal-gray suit, contrary to how he is usually described; favoring a T-shirt and jeans, even for business meetings.
I stand up, and he smiles at me. Sadly, the smile is kept in check. This is a married man, after all. A man famously in love with his wife. He shakes my hand in a professional manner and takes off his shades. Two searing green eyes greet me. Alexandre Chevalier is devastatingly handsome. But enough of that . . . I’m here to do an interview.’

“Yes, she definitely had the hots for you, Alexandre.”

“Read on, chérie.”

‘A.C. Sorry I’m late. I got held up.

V.F. It’s so great to meet you and thank you for doing this exclusive interview.

A.C. You’re welcome. Shall we go through to the restaurant or bar? We can have some tea or something. I lived in London for a while so I picked up a few British habits. Nothing like an afternoon cup of tea to get the brain back on track.

Brain back on track? I doubt it. As well as being an astute businessman, Alexandre Chevalier is known for his brilliance. Self-educated, he started HookedUp with his sister, Sophie Dumas, with no more than 15,000 Euros—a loan from their stepfather. It wasn’t long before this French sibling team took the social media world by storm.

We sit down and are presented with a menu. I ask him to choose. My French is not up to much. Besides, hearing him speak his native language is a treat indeed. A waiter comes up to our table and hovers there reverently. Everybody knows who Alexandre Chevalier is, it seems. He orders us Lapsang Souchong tea and some petits fours. I start with my questions.

V.F. Is it true, Mr. Chevalier, that you’re retiring?

A.C. (He laughs.) Probably for a nanosecond, and then I’ll stick my fingers into some other pie. I am selling HookedUp. Rather, my sister and I are selling. By the way, call me Alexandre—I hate formalities.

V.F. Is it true that you’ve been offered ten billion dollars for your company?

A.C. I never discuss money unless it’s with my accountant or lawyer.
(He narrows his eyes at me.)

V.F. Okay, well, there’s something else that people are dying to know. Rex, your dog, has become a household name since you and your family were all photographed in Central Park together by the paparazzi. Is it true that your dog has become a father?

A.C. Yes, his wife/girlfriend, whatever, has just given birth. I’m glad to say that she’s had six very healthy puppies.
(A trace of a smile makes it evident that he is amused by my question.)

V.F. And is it also true that Rex gave his lady-dog a diamond collar that is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?

A.C.
(He laughs.)
Never believe what you read.

Pearl stopped reading and burst out laughing. “Sally bought that for Bonnie. It was a cheapie thing from one of those accessory stores. So funny. Sorry, I’ll continue.”

‘V.F Sorry, I couldn’t resist. May I ask you why you have agreed to do this interview with us? This is a first, isn’t it?

A.C I think you know the answer to that question.

V.F.
(I look blank.)
Err . . . actually . . . no.

A.C. My wife has bought your magazine.

V.F. She reads
Vanity Fair
?

A.C. I mean, literally. She has bought you. Out. She owns you now. Well, not you personally . . .
(he laughs).
The deal was sealed this morning. My wife, CEO of
HookedUp Enterprises
, is now your boss. She owns
Vanity Fair.

V.F. So
HookedUp Enterprises
is not part of the Google buy-out?

A.C. No, its not, it’s a separate entity. But you’d have to ask my wife the details. She’s the businessperson now. I’m just her dogsbody. You know, around to make her a coffee, if need be, hand out a bit of advice if she asks me. I’m going to be a kept man from now on.
(The curve of his lips makes me know he is being ironic.)

V.F. Somehow I doubt that very much! So what will you do with all your spare time?

A.C. We’ve had a beautiful tree house built for us in a jungle in Thailand. It’s hidden away in complete privacy on a private island. The jungle’s surrounded by the ocean. I like to cook, you know, simple stuff like fresh fish I’ve caught that day, and Pearl reads novels. Meanwhile the twins putter about collecting seashells.

V.F. That sounds extremely romantic.

A.C. Romance is what gets me out of bed every day. Romance is what makes the world go round. Without romance one might as well not breathe.

V.F. So you and your wife are very in love?

A.C. I speak for myself when I say yes, absolutely. Now what’s going on in that pretty head of Pearl’s is anybody’s guess.’

Pearl stopped reading and tittered to herself. She put down the magazine. “I thought I was an open book.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Sometimes you play it cool and I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

“I wear my heart on my sleeve—it’s
you
who has everyone guessing. You’re the trickster. You made me believe that it was over between us that time at Anthony’s, when I was blubbering in his back yard and you gave me all those ‘goodbye’ gifts. Bastard. Is there still a Coke in the cooler?”

“Coming right up,” I said, snapping the ring, pouring the bubbly liquid into a glass and handing it to her. “Oh wait, let me give you some ice cubes. And a squeeze of lemon.” I dressed up her drink and took a sip. “Delicious. Finish the article.”

She squinted her eyes at me. “Why have you got a guilty look on your face?”

I took in a deep breath. Sometimes there are things that niggle your subconscious, even when your conscious mind has wiped it clean. This was one of those things. “Because there’s something I never told you,” I said tentatively. “Something I hid from you.” The blood drained from Pearl’s face. “Don’t panic,” I added, “it’s nothing terrible—I’d even forgotten all about it, but when you mentioned the ‘goodbye’ gifts and so on; it came back to me.”

She sat up. “Okay, come clean.”

“I still have your old handbag. The one I told you was stolen. The old iPhone I smashed in a temper when I heard Laura’s sneaky message telling you that Sophie was going to bump you off.”

She raised an insolent brow. Uh oh, the whole Laura topic was about to be dragged out of the muddy mire. But Pearl answered coolly, “I know. When I was looking for an extra suitcase last year, I found the old purse stashed inside, at the back of one of your closets.” She winked at me.

“How come you never let on?”

“Because I enjoyed having the last laugh. I loved the idea that you thought you had me out-foxed but, in fact, it was the other way round.” Her lips tilted into a self-satisfied smirk, then she closed her eyes and lay back down. “Besides I got a forty grand Birkin bag out of it, so how could I complain?”

“How do you know it cost that much?” I asked. “You weren’t meant to know the price!”

“The second Laura and her antennae saw the unusual color of the bag, she knew it was an one-off, custom-made piece of art. It was Laura, herself, who enlightened me; that dreaded time when I went to her house in London to confront her.”

Please don’t remind me of Laura.
I squeezed Pearl’s thigh. “So you weren’t pissed at me, then, for holding out on you? For not being honest?”

“It was . . . what, a year later? Laura was dead. You were mine and everything had worked out just as it should have, so no. I was mildly miffed, but not angry. In fact, you probably did the right thing under the circumstances.”

“You minx,” I said, kissing her hand, “hiding all your inside knowledge.”

“It takes two to tango, Chevalier.” She opened her eyes—as blue as the ocean before us—and grinned.

“And we tango so beautifully together.”

“Yes, we do. Speaking of finding stuff, I forgot to tell you. I found my great grandmother’s diary, in a box of my mother’s, which I had in storage.”

I remembered Pearl telling me about her. She was a lady’s maid, had an affair with the lord of the manor, and they ended up fleeing to America. “The racy one?” I asked. “The English one who eloped with the duke?”

She took a sip of her Coke. “That was pretty scandalous stuff in 1923.”

“So what did the diary say?”

“I haven’t read it yet. I’m savoring it for when I’m holed up in the hospital, giving birth.”

“I doubt you’ll be able to concentrate on reading, chérie. Remember the labor pains last time? The
last
thing you’ll want to do is read.”

“Funny how women have amnesia after giving birth. How we forget the horrible part of it.”

“You were designed that way on purpose. If you remembered what a rough time of it you had, you might not go through with it again.”

“You’re right.

“Finish reading me the article,” I said.

Pearl picked up the magazine again and leafed through it until she found the right page:

‘Just as I am preparing my next question, a woman comes up to our table. At first, I think it is Charlize Theron. (No surprise there, so many famous people stay at the George V.) But then I see it is none other than Pearl Chevalier herself. She is stunning. Even more beautiful in the flesh than in photos. Her skin smooth and golden, her eyes a sparkling blue/gray. Her blond hair is pinned up in a messy chignon and she’s wearing a loose, flowing, floral coat that looks as if it might be vintage Christian Lacroix. I notice her swollen belly. It is evident that Pearl Chevalier is pregnant again.