Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (7 page)

I think of Alexandre – knowing I was at Laura’s and when I would land in New York – upgrading my plane ticket. But he had my phone in his possession so that makes sense. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could be a technology target of Laura’s. Scary. I read on:

I sit there stunned. My cell, that nice new Smartphone, and my old one – especially my old one (lost with my handbag) with even more unprotected technology - have been unwilling traitors to my every move, my every word. My phone, a recording device even when switched off? Laura could have practically been in the bath with me and Alessandra; been privy to our bondage madness, heard everything about my night with the footballers, not to mention all my intimate text messages and phone calls to Alexandre and Daisy! Maybe she’s been in on my emails, too. And if she has me tracked, who’s to say she hasn’t done the same to Alexandre, or anyone she chooses?

I’m horrified, yet relieved. Alexandre has not lied to me. He did not betray me. Laura is psychotic. And dangerous.
Dange-air oose,
as Alexandre would say.

Anything I say, I do, can be used against me. Not in a court of law, no – the woman is breaking every ounce of the law, what she is doing is highly illegal. But her knowledge is her weapon. There’s only one thing to do. Take my phone to some techie-genius to be swept clean of her spyware and get a new chip not registered in my name. And phone Alexandre – let him know that his ex is a total nut-job. Speaking of techie-geniuses, how come Alexandre, himself, didn’t catch on to the fact she was hacking my phone? He must know all about that sort of stuff. How come he didn’t guess?

All that Laura was saying about her husband, too? Being AWOL. Has she topped James off??’

I need to be careful. She’s not only jealous, bitchy and determined…

She is terrifyingly dangerous.

***

I take my phone to a specialized shop and the man confirms that yes, it looks as if it has been hacked. He restores the factory settings, changes the chip so I have a new number and warns me to watch all text messages coming in which could be new attempts at breaking into my conversations and messages.

As I’m opening my front door, my landline is ringing. It’s Alexandre. His voice sounds shaky and very apologetic. “Your cell isn’t going through,” he lets me know in an agitated voice.

“That’s because I changed my phone number. It had been hacked. By Laura.”

“I gathered.”

I chuck my coat on the hall table in fury. “What? You’re not surprised?” I shout out. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because I didn’t put two and two together until it was staring me in the face. I was being very blind, Pearl, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about Laura.”

“She’s been listening to my conversations! Maybe yours, too. I don’t trust my cell…even now after I’ve just had it swept clean. And you – you’ve been tracking me too – I don’t like it, Alexandre, I don’t like it one bit.”

“I feel safer when I know where you are, chérie. I just want to look after you, know you’re okay. Listen, baby, I have to take a trip – at least a week.”

“What about Christmas?”

“I have an emergency; I have to see my mother.”

“Oh my God, is she okay?” I think of my own mother –
please don’t say it’s the Big C.

“Physically, yes, she’s fine but…well…we have a family emergency.”

“Is Sophie alright? Elodie?”

“This has nothing to do with Sophie. It’s just between me and my mother. Something’s come up.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“When we’re married, Pearl, I’ll tell you all about it.”

This mysterious and enigmatic comment leaves me speechless. Suspicion nips at my heels.

“Pearl, are you still there?”

“I don’t understand, ‘when we’re married.’ Is this some kind of moral blackmail to speed up the wedding?”

“No.”

“Then what are you saying something like that for?”

“When we’re married we’ll be a team.”

“We’re a team now, Alexandre,” I say, hurt. I slump onto the chair and take off my sneakers.

“Not quite. I need to know…look, I don’t want to discuss this over the phone.”

I’m rendered silent, still trying to digest this weird conversation. Laura calling, telling me she finally has ‘Alexandre’s attention’ and Alexandre’s mother who isn’t ill, yet has a mysterious emergency.
What
emergency?

“Look, I’m flying to Paris in a couple of hours.”

I wait for him to say more. Wait for his invitation. He says nothing.

“Christmas?” I ask.

“I’m in a real mess right now, a real bind. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

“Christmas?” I repeat, my heart pounding with disappointment and anger.

“Baby, of course you’re welcome to come for Christmas in Paris but…”

“If there’s a ‘but’ involved, I don’t think I want to,” I reply tentatively, my throat swelling up.

“Yes, there is a very big but.”

I take a deep breath. My eyes are prickling with tears. I had imagined Christmas here, in New York, both of us alone with Rex. If his mother were ill of course I’d understand, but this…this is beginning to sound like some strange excuse. “What’s going on?” I croak through my wooden throat.

Alexandre’s voice sounds as pained as mine. “Something I have to sort out. I don’t want to lie to you, Pearl, so please don’t ask me any more questions. Just know I love you and want to marry you the second you say yes.”

“Why would I want to marry someone who has secrets from me? Someone who’s hiding something?”

“It’s a Catch 22, isn’t it?”

I try to stop my voice from breaking. “It certainly is.”

“I love you.”

“Are you going to London, by any chance?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer that I’m dreading.

“Please don’t ask me any more questions - I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I take that as a ‘yes.’ So you’re going to London,” I state flatly.

“Look, I have no choice.”

“We always have a choice, Alexandre.”

“External forces are trying to pull us apart.”

“Laura.”

“Yes.

“You’re going to see Laura?”

“Please, Pearl, don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

I hang up. There is no more to discuss. I don’t want to humiliate myself, scream and cry down the phone. All I know is that he will be seeing Laura again after he promised not to. Her phone call…she knew she had him back. She was right;
I
’
m
the deluded one, not her. For whatever reason, whatever hold she has over him, he just can’t keep away from her. And he’s not even offering to explain why – everything shrouded in some big, enigmatic secret. Well, fuck him!

This time I know it’s over between us, once and for all.

C
hristmas zipped by, Alexandre spent it in Paris. Anthony came to stay (Bruce went to his parents in Napa Valley because his father was ill). Here, at my new abode, it was like one big slumber party. Daisy and Amy, Ant and I all snuggled together in our two bedroom apartment, Ant on the couch and Amy in her special Wigwam in the bedroom which was a gift from Anthony. It was fun.

We watched endless children’s movies which we loved, particularly the
Toy Story
trilogy. Embarrassingly, I found myself weeping in
Toy Story 2
, identifying with the toys being abandoned by their owners. I still have all my old teddies; I never did have the heart to get rid of any. It feels to me that only yesterday I was a child, playing tea parties and doctors and nurses the way Amy does now.

She, Ant, Daisy and I all played cowboys, too – a toy gun and western outfits came along with the wigwam kit, although Amy refused to kill any Indians – a politically correct tomboy. Christmas is all about children and Amy had a ball.

I kept waiting for Anthony to slip into his old sarcastic, jaded demeanor but he didn’t. He was adorable and very loving towards me. I am so glad the troubled part of our relationship is history.

The troubled part of a relationship….namely, Alexandre. He called on several occasions and each time my brother picked up and chatted merrily away, but never handed over the phone and told Alexandre that as long as he had anything to do with Laura I was not interested in seeing him. Alexandre didn’t push it; he just seemed pleased to have news of me. He has been flitting from Paris to New York to London. I keep half expecting him to be waiting outside my door but it hasn’t happened.

I guess he has made his choice, after all.

And that choice is Laura.

Made all the more complicated by something I have been feeling for two whole weeks. Swollen breasts, sleepiness, occasional vomiting and a strange longing for pickles.

Perhaps my old teddies will get unpacked, after all.

Yes, I’m pregnant – at least that’s what a home pregnancy test has confirmed. I called my gynecologist and booked an appointment for next week. Meanwhile, I thought it was time to pamper myself, so I also booked a massage.

***

The Ayurvedic salon is not what I had imagined. Daisy recommended this place to me – a friend of hers comes here on a regular basis for soothing massages. Daisy’s friend had described in detail
a warm herbal oil massage designed to bring nourishment to the tissues, deep relaxation to the muscles and calmness to the mind.
Hmm…sounds perfect. However, this place seems like less of a beauty parlor and more of a doctor’s office. I am given a form to fill out with my medical history –
Jeez, all I wanted was a relaxing massage with oils!
But because the book I’m reading on my e-reader has me hooked, I remain in the waiting room patiently; in fact, happy that I have this peaceful excuse to devour my novel.

Finally, a large woman in a white coat brushes out of her office and says a warm goodbye to the lady before me. She smiles and ushers me in. She’s Indian and dons a happy, friendly face with cheeks like ripe apples.

“Come in, Ms. Robinson, sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem, I caught up with some reading.”

“Please sit down. Let me see your medical history,” she says, and I hand her the piece of paper.

She adjusts her spectacles and peruses it with great interest, although I’m not sure why – I’m your pretty average type. No allergies, no epilepsy, no addictions – except, of course, for sex with a particular Frenchman, if you count that. Right now, you could say I was going ‘cold turkey.’

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I…um…I came here for a basic massage.”

“Nothing is basic about our massage therapy, Ms. Robinson.”

“Oh, I see. Please call me Pearl, by the way; I hate formalities.”

“Pearl – what a lovely name. Tell me, what’s troubling you? Are you feeling tired, sluggish, depressed?”

“Yes to the first two things you mentioned. Depressed? Well, I would say I feel more anxious that depressed.”

She says nothing, just nods her head as if to say ‘go on’.

“I’m pregnant, for starters.”

“Congratulations, that’s wonderful news.” She beams at me, her sparkling white teeth are set off against her coffee-colored skin.

“Thank you. Well, yes.” I want to explain to her that I’m not with the baby’s father; I want to burst out crying, fling my arms about her ample shoulders and unleash my inner turmoil, but I chew my lip instead, and fight back any impending tears.

“Well, of course, you know that
any
kind of massage therapy is out of the question for you right now, don’t you?”

I’m stunned. Who is this woman?
I just want a goddam massage, lady!

“But why? That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, perhaps it’s divine intervention – you don’t want to lose your baby. How many weeks are you?”

I think back to the rampant, sex-fueled night with Alexandre when he practically pierced my womb, he went in so deep. I can’t be sure if that was the qualifying moment, there have been so many since.

“I think about five weeks. I’m not sure – I just did a home pregnancy test this morning.”

We discuss my periods, dates, medication and so forth for a good ten minutes. I’m wondering why I’m offering all this information about myself to a massage therapist when she informs me, “I run this Ayurvedic practice but, you know, I’m just as much a doctor as I am a masseuse.”

“No, I had no idea. So you don’t practice regular medicine here in the States?”

“Ayurvedic medicine is not recognized officially in this country but where I come from – Kerala in southern India – well, it is an important part of our culture and taken very seriously. But I am also a qualified GP. My mother was a doctor and also my grandmother; all of us GPs with a particular interest in preventative medicine.”

“But I have nothing to prevent,” I venture, still confused as to how I got myself into the doctor-ish situation when all I wanted was a freaking massage.