Hooked Up: Book 3 (27 page)

“Don’t be silly, Alexandre, I have money.”

He widened his eyes as if to say, “don’t argue,” and held me tight against his chest. “I love you, Pearl. Have fun today. Don’t exhaust yourself. Just jump in a cab if you get tired. I’ll call you at the hotel later.”

“I don’t have a cell phone, remember.”

“I know. But you can call me any time from the hotel, and I think you should stay in tonight anyway, and take it easy.”

“I will, I’ll order room service. I mean, hello, how much punishment is it to slob out in one of the most beautiful hotels in the world?”

“Get Daisy and Amy over, they can spend the night; we might as well make use of that big suite.”

“Good idea.” I looked square into his eyes, which were flickering with fear. I had never seen him look that way. Ever. “I love you, Alexandre. Good luck with ‘you know who.’ I’ll support whatever you decide.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that. Although, what that decision will be, I haven’t the faintest fucking idea.” He gave me a weak smile then hugged me again. We kissed but the kiss wasn’t romantic. How could it be with Laura as good as standing right there, between us? He turned on his heel to go, and we both looked back several times, hardly bearing to let go of each other, even for one second, let alone the whole night.

L
AURA WAS infiltrating my mind, polluting the beauty I saw around me like toxic waste in a gorgeous meadow. Ten minutes ago the world was awash with perfection but sank instantly with one jarring phone call.

The Tuileries Gardens were bleak in winter yet breathtakingly beautiful, but I walked along with misty eyes, wishing that Alexandre hadn’t been snatched away from me and wondering how in the world he was going to extricate himself from Laura’s tangled web. Was it possible that he could convince her to drop this madness? I doubted it. I couldn’t see a way out of this. One thing I had learned about him was his fierce loyalty to his loved ones. He wouldn’t let his mother down, of that I was sure. He felt responsible. Had he not gotten involved, those stupid, hip parts and teeth remnants would have still been hidden in her attic. It was true; in a sense it was his fault that Laura got her bony hands on it all. But poor man, how could he have envisioned what could have ensued? How could
anybody
have imagined? Not even the scriptwriters for
CSI
could come up with such an insane scenario.

As I scurried through the park, the only good thing about having my eyes on the ground (to avoid people’s stares—I was crying shamelessly now) –was that I missed stepping in dog poop, right in my path. Yes, I’d heard Paris was famous for that. Just like Laura, it was unexpected; a blight on perfection. The gardens had an air of formality, with flower beds set out in a pattern, and gravel paths lined with rows of trees, so the dog shit seemed incongruous here, where everything was in such order. A mess left to be picked up by some innocent bystander, or for someone to tread in and have smeared all over their shoe. Like Laura. The dog shit was a symbol of everything that had gone wrong.

I sat down on a stone bench, to pull myself together and get my breath back. Not from the walk, but the torrent of emotions churning around my body, draining me of oxygen. I wanted my baby to feel serene and peaceful inside me, not all riled up and bubbling with rage. Surely babies could sense everything?

I raised my head up to the sky as a cloud lifted with the breeze, and the blue was once again revealed. A warm sun was welcome with the biting chill, and I let it caress my cold cheeks. It felt good. I thought of our baby, again, took my iPod out of my Birkin and went through my playlist until I found what I was looking for:
Here Comes the Sun
by George Harrison.
I mustn’t dwell
on Laura.
Just a couple of months ago, I had thought I’d lost Alexandre for good, but our bond was now stronger than ever. I had
him
and his baby, and that was what counted, no matter what happened with this IVF threat. Alexandre loved
me,
not Laura.
That
is what I had to hold onto. And I needed to trust him to make the right decision.

“This song’s for you, little baby,” I told my belly, smoothing my gloved hand over myself. And it was true; the being inside me
was
the sun. Maybe even the ‘son.’ I didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, I was just grateful, and prayed that I’d make it to the first trimester, and there wouldn’t be any complications with the birth, and that he, or she, would be healthy.

The song lifted my spirits and I continued walking. I felt positive and hopeful. If Alexandre could manage all the thousands of people who worked for him in his multi-billion dollar empire, surely he could handle Laura. I had faith. It
would
work out.

As I wandered through the park I had the sensation that I was meandering through an open-air museum, and I was glad for the distraction. There were classical marble sculptures dotted everywhere: characters from Greek myths, and some modern ones, too. A few people were sitting on metal garden chairs placed along the paths or around the octagonal pond. It seemed that it was forbidden to sit on the grass in this park, even in summer. I watched water spurt out of the pond’s fountain, but my gaze got distracted by a huge Ferris wheel in the distance, with the Louvre in the background.

As I approached, I soaked up the pure majesty of the Louvre set like a horseshoe in an expansive courtyard—the space in front giving the facade the added grandeur it merited. The modern glass pyramid (that caused such a stir when it was first erected) seemed like a rebellious teenager in contrast to the classical Renaissance of the Louvre, probably the most famous museum in the world, once a royal palace. The vast glass and metal pyramid was surrounded by three smaller ones. Being able to see through the pyramid was interesting because it didn’t block out the honey-colored stone of the old Louvre behind. But if I tilted my head, the reflection of clouds gave it a different feel. Did I like the Pyramid? I was still not sure. There was no doubt in my mind that it was interesting and probably something that needed a lot of mulling over. I could stand here and pontificate all day long; anything to rid myself of obsessing about the Laura problem.

But I had to get on or I’d be late meeting Daisy. I continued on my merry way, still humming
Here Comes the Sun
and blanking out my thoughts from any word beginning with L.

I came across a little pedestrian bridge with wooden decking that I realized was the famous
Pont des Arts.
All over the sides were little padlocks clipped to the railings: “lovelocks” with names of lovers written or engraved on each one. One even said ‘Bonnie and Clyde.’ Another rusted one, had a pink lipstick mark with scratched-on hearts and the initials B and P at each end. Everlasting, locked love, left in Paris. I wondered how many of these couples were still together. As I was reading some of the messages, a man in a black wool hat told me, “Zee Pont des Arts used to be one of my favorite bridges, now I can’t stand to see it. I bet zaire is some jerk selling padlocks near ze bridge, with little hearts on them. He should be shot.”

I turned around, surprised that he was talking to me in English. How did he know I wasn’t French? Did I look so obviously like a tourist? But then I realized I still had the map in my hand. “Oh, you don’t like the padlocks?” I asked. “You don’t think it’s romantic?”

“Ze Pont des Arts used to be a beautiful, delicate bridge, now it looks like it’s covered wiz some kind of metallic disease in zis mindless graffiti rusting on ze padlocks. Zis and ze dog crap everywhere.” He gesticulated with his arms in the air and blew out air through his lips.

“Yes, I noticed the dog poop,” I replied, and Laura shot into my mind again. “Well bye, have a nice day. Au revoir,” I said, and scurried off in the direction of Notre Dame.

I swung my Reverso watch around to Parisian time and saw that I wouldn’t have a chance to go inside Notre Dame itself or I’ll be late for Daisy and her gang. The cathedral looked majestic in its Gothic glory, commanding the ancient Île de la Cité with its flying buttresses and extraordinary gargoyles. It was both a chilling and comforting thought to know that heads once rolled in Paris, yet this great stone building still remained through all that turmoil . . . more real to us than what was once flesh and blood. People that were now no more than words in a history book.

I knew I needed time to explore Notre Dame to do it justice. I shouldn’t be worried, I thought—
I’m marrying a Frenchman, for Pete’s sake
—
Paris isn’t going anywhere fast, so I shouldn’t feel I need to do a whirlwind sightseeing trip all in one day.
Chill out, Pearl.
Take your time.

I passed a man playing Edith Piaff’s
Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
on an accordion, and I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Alexandre in LA about regrets, life, and external forces. The evidence he didn’t destroy . . . one of his regrets.

The smell of something deliciously sweet wafted before me, and when I turned the corner, there was a wheeled cart with a knobbly-faced old man selling honeyed almonds. I bought a little bag—the last thing I wanted was ice cream right now; it was simply too cold. Honeyed almonds were far more tempting.

When I arrived at the ice cream parlor, I saw the posse of exhausted twelve year-olds licking their cones with great concentration. Daisy was in a heated discussion with Mary, one of the teachers, and Amy was looking up adoringly at the eldest child in the group; a girl named Vanessa.

“Daisy!” I shouted. Amy rushed over and flung her little arms around my legs.

“Auntie Pearl!” I had been promoted to ‘auntie’ since Christmas.

“Hi guys, hi Mary, hi Susan. Hey girls, have you been having fun?” I asked the small crowd. They all started shouting at once, squealing about their adventures and discussing which of the outings has been their favorite so far.

We chatted about how beautiful Paris was, and they relayed their activities that had been non-stop since dawn. A bus ride, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame—I was exhausted just listening to it.

Then Daisy mouthed to me silently, “Take me away from this, Pearl, I’m wiped out!”

I laughed and whispered, “Do you want to come and hang out in the lap of luxury?”

“Yes, I bloody well do! But just us, not the whole lot ’cause they’re too wild and excitable.” She turned to Susan and said, “Would you mind if Amy and I go off with Pearl for the rest of the day?”

Susan, a lanky woman with glasses and a Trilby hat (who reminded me of Diane Keaton in
Annie Hall
) replied, “Throwing in the towel already, you lightweight?”

“Yes I am, because I know what’s next and I think Amy’s a little young for it.”

“What have you all got planned?” I asked.

“A bicycle tour around the city with a company called Fat Tire.”

“
Tire
being the operative word,” I joked. “You’ll be exhausted.”

“We saw them this morning, by the Eiffel Tower, it looked really fun,” Susan told me. “Perfect for the girls.”

“Wow, you lot are going to know Paris like the back of your hands by the end of this trip. It puts me to shame.”

“Shall we get going, then?” Daisy asked eagerly. “Come on Amy, we’re going with Pearl, back to her hotel.”

“Mommy, I want to stay.”

Daisy hesitated but then told her, “No, sweetie, you’re still too young. But you’ll be back with the big girls tomorrow, all day.”

“I hate my age,” Amy grumbled to her mother with a pout. “It sucks being five.”

“Rubbish. Five is the best age ever. Now come on, or we’ll be late for lunch.”

Mary, the other teacher on this trip, bustled up to me and said, “Thank you Pearl, you’ve no idea what this means to the girls, and to us, too. This is an experience of a lifetime.” She was the antithesis to Susan and they looked like a comic duo. Mary was so round, all you wanted to do was squeeze her; next to Susan’s towering skinny frame, they could have been a female version of Laurel and Hardy.

I smiled and replied, “It’s not me, but my fiancé. It was his idea. He’s the one who organized everything.”

“He’s so incredibly generous! I mean . . . our apartment is divine. The spending money he gave us is way too much. I feel . . . I mean, I don’t know how to
repay
that level of kindness, I don’t—”

“Just knowing how much fun you’re having in France will be payment enough, believe me. He’s the kind of person who gets a real kick out of helping people and seeing he can make a small difference.”

“These kids haven’t even been out of the Bronx, and now one of them is saying she wants to be a pilot, to fly a private jet one day.”

“You see, that’s what seeing another slice of life can do,” I agreed.

I could tell that Vanessa was Amy’s crush. She was an elegant black girl with soulful, sparkling eyes. She bounded up to us and exclaimed, “And I’m going to live here in Paris when I grow up, and learn to speak French.”

Amy tugged on her mom’s coat and asked, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“To the Marais. I’m treating you and Pearl.”

“What’s the Marais?”

“It’s a neighborhood, darling.
Marais
means swamp in French—that’s what it was, hundreds of years ago. Now it has itty-bitty winding streets and lots of galleries, beautiful medieval buildings, and amazing boutiques. I’ll buy you a present, if you’re a good girl.”

“I’m always good.” Amy looked up at me with her large brown eyes as if to gain an ally, and I laughed.

“I’ll buy you a gift, too,” I whispered, “and maybe you can choose something for each and every one of the girls.”

“Cool!”

“See you guys later,” Daisy said, linking arms with Amy and me, and pulling us off in the direction of Le Marais.

I waved the group goodbye and I felt relieved that I had a distraction from straying thoughts of Laura and the damage that she was sure to be planning.
Let’s hope Alexandre can stop her.

How, I didn’t know, but I was sure he’d come up with something.