Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (2 page)

“You really want to know?”

My heart starts pounding – might as well hear the worst. “Yes.”

“She thinks you’re the best thing to happen to Alexandre for years. At first, she suspected that you were like all the other women after him – interested primarily in money. But when you told him you wanted to do a pre-nup and refused to take a stake in HookedUp Enterprises, she knew you loved him for
him
.”

Wouldn’t everyone love him for him?
“Why is she still so bitchy, then?”

“It’s part of her DNA, Pearl. But if you made more of an effort, you’d find she’d be a good friend to you. She said that, too. That you didn’t like her, that you still hadn’t forgiven her, and that you were a hard nut to crack.”

“She said all this in English? Hard nut to crack?”

“Of course not. You know how bad her English is – we speak in French.”

“You speak French? I didn’t know that.”

“Well, Pearl – there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Just keep quiet about our little evening, will you?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course. Anyway, I don’t have anyone to tell even if I wanted to. It’s over between me and Alexandre.”

“Nonsense. Latin passion can escalate or descend at any moment – he’ll be back.”

“That’s just it, Alessandra. He broke up with me in a cold, passionless voice. And now he’s seeing Laura again. Not just seeing her but sleeping with her. She’s like some top model…I don’t stand a chance.”

“You say you’re outside Laura’s house and Alexandre is inside? Go and knock at the door, silly. I’m going back to sleep, Pearl. Remember, don’t you
dare
tell Sophie about what happened or you’ll regret it.”

“Is that a Sicilian threat?”

“You bet.”

Revenge is a dish best served cold.
“Don’t worry, Alessandra, my lips are sealed. You think I want Sophie running after me with a carving knife? Thanks for talking to me - things are a lot clearer now. Good night, morning - whatever. Sleep well.”

The line clicks dead.

I take a deep breath and stand up. I have a head-rush – black stars flicker behind my eyes. Laura’s front door is giving me heart palpitations. Black as the Devil himself, it beckons me and taunts me mockingly.
Come, come and humiliate yourself.

But Alessandra’s right. I need to see Alexandre face to face.

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

I knock three times. Rap, rap, rap. My heart…pound, pound, pound.

Nothing.

I’m planning in my head everything I’m going to say:
Alexandre, please be honest with me, please…

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

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

She’s standing there, looking like some figurehead on a ship; tall, willowy, in a royal blue, silk-satin dressing gown shimmering about her slim body like ripples of water. My heart sinks. She has that just-fucked look – the afternoon love-making flush glowing in her cheeks. Her hair is all mussed up. She says coyly, “Pearl, what a surprise!” Her smile is set like a plastic bride on a wedding cake. “What can I do for you?”

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

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

My composure melts 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 is victorious.

I try to stick 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 demand, 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 sex, Pearl. Now run along, I have stuff to do.” She begins to push the door in my face.

And then I shout out something cruel. Something I know I’ll regret. Words spill uncontrollably from my mouth:

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

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

It’s official.

I’m a jealous, spiteful, malicious bitch.

Laura slams the door in my face.

I scamper around the block to see if what Laura said about a mews house and garage is true. It is. 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 is cobbled – in the olden days this is 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 imagine Laura’s husband, James, beavering away in the City to buy all this for the woman he’s in love with, for whom he sacrificed his life – and now she is about to dump him because he’s no longer rich enough for her. Does Alexandre know who he is dealing with? That Laura is as ruthless as a razor blade? Like most men who are smitten, he probably doesn’t see through her sweetness and light act.

A thought suddenly rushes to my brain. Uh, oh. I just insulted her, said the worst possible thing somebody can say and she’ll be out for revenge. Laura knows about me and Alessandra. All it takes is one phone call to Sophie.

The carving knife…

I call Alessandra again.

She sighs into the phone, exasperated. “What d’you want now, Pearl?”

“Laura knows about us. About…our evening,” I stutter. “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-tit type.”

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

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

I amble back to Sloane Street and walk towards Knightsbridge. I have a couple of hours to kill before I need to go back to Hampstead for my suitcase and make my way to Heathrow for my flight. I get my iPod out of my bag and go through the playlist. Got it. The perfect ‘fuck you’ song ever written, Gloria Gaynor’s
I Will
Survive.
The music feels great. Powerful. Encouraging. Hell, I even feel like disco dancing along the street. I punch my arm in the air. Yes, I
am
strong and I
will
survive. I refuse to mooch about and 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 sing out loud and I don’t care who hears me, even if I’m out of tune.

Where to head now? Harrods, why not? Probably the most famous department store in the world. I’ll go there and buy a gift for Daisy’s mother to say thank you for my stay. Perhaps some home-made chocolates or some fancy bath salts.

I step through revolving doors, greeted by uniformed doormen and make my way through the vast labyrinth of the store to the Food Hall. There is no place like it; I could be stepping into a museum. My mother brought me to this emporium and I vowed I’d return one day. It’s a work of art. This was the original part of the shop, opened in the first half of the nineteenth century. Now Harrods is comprised of seven floors and spans an incredible four and a half acres. I have never seen such opulence and grandeur where food is sold. It is 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 stretch before me like a long yawn and the imposing molding decorating the ceiling reminds you that this building is a majestic legend – a true London landmark. Hall after hall is grandly overflowing with beautifully presented gourmet food delights. My eyes and nose are already feasting. The sheer volume and selection of British and International goods is 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 is 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 am 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 get some exquisite French truffles for Daisy’s mum, Doris, and meander towards another tempting counter.

I’m staring at cupcakes now. I need 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 exclaims behind my shoulders.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I see a familiar reflection in the mirror before me.

It is Sophie.

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

Obviously not, because she is smiling, and for the first time her happiness seems to be genuine. Or is that just me? Now that I know she doesn’t hate my guts, I can observe her with fresh eyes, devoid of judgment and suspicion.

“What are you doing in London?” she asks, kissing me on both cheeks. I inhale her usual, heady scent of
Fracas
and notice how pretty she’s looking, her eyes are like pools of dark chocolate and she’s dressed immaculately in a chic, navy blue pantsuit. Hand-tailored, no doubt. I know she and Alexandre get all their suits cut on Savile Row, here in London.

“I came…I…I had some work appointments,” I splutter.

“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 say simply. “Back to New York.”

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

I want to spill it all out and tell Sophie my woes. I want 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 am dumbstruck, not least by the bizarre coincidence of bumping into Sophie here at Harrods – what are 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 reply uneasily.

“Hampstead? Alexandre usually stays at zee Connaught.”

Sophie doesn’t know??
“I’m visiting a friend,” I say uneasily. “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 links her arm with mine and ushers me through the crowds, and out of Harrods. Her embrace is warm and I wonder…was it me? Was I the one, all along, who has 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 wish, now, I could jump into a time capsule and travel back to the waiting private jet at Van Nuys Airport.

But it’s all too late.

T
he limousine is waiting for Sophie around the back of Harrods like a panther on the prowl. Or rather, a Jaguar, because that’s what kind of car it is. The uniformed chauffeur opens the door for us as we slide onto the sumptuous, leather seats, and then he drives us off into the London traffic. I try to peel my gaze away from Sophie as she calls her friend, so I fix my eyes on the beautiful shop front window displays along Sloane Street (especially Harvey Nichols) as we glide through the shimmering wet streets - the traffic lights reflecting globes of color in the windows of passing cars and on the road. There is a thin haze of drizzle - bad for depression, good for skin, I think, having noticed the peaches and cream complexions of so many young British girls.

Sophie is now arranging an assortment of shopping bags and feasting on her Jelly Belly beans. She offers me a handful and I chew the mixture of flavors thoughtfully together, too afraid to speak because I really don’t know where to begin. It seems she thinks that Alexandre and I are still together.
How can that be?