What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG) Read online

  My eyes widen. “Seriously? You can even go to smart restaurants with your dog?”

  “I usually call ahead to be polite. I book the table and then add, ‘Oh yes, just one thing, do you mind if I bring my dog along, you know, he’s just a typical Black Labrador.’ They always say yes. But I’ll tell you a secret-”

  He leans forward and, oh so slightly, rests his hand on my knee. It starts to quiver, goose bumps shimmer along my thighs, my arms.

  “What’s the secret?” I ask, my voice sounding like a small child’s.

  “He’s not pure Labrador. I think he’s got a little Pit-Bull in him. He has a wide face and compact thigh muscles that feel as if they’re made of rock. He’s the sweetest dog that ever lived. The sweetest, the gentlest. You know Pit-Bulls were originally bred to be nannies? To be guardians to babies and young children – to watch over them?”

  “No, really? You’re kidding me.”

  “I’m serious. A whole lot of vintage photographs have been discovered from the Victorian age. American Pit-Bull Terriers were used as baby-sitters. Unfair they’ve been given a bad rap and their loving natures abused. In France, they were forced to be sterilized some years back, but my Rex has some Pit-Bull genes in his blood, I’m sure. They were never considered dangerous in the olden days.”

  Don Gaire Oose….dangerous…his accent is so alluring. “That’s fascinating,” I say. “I never knew that. I’m crazy about dogs. I had one as a little girl. She was a Husky.”

  “Huskies are beautiful.”

  “Mine – she was called Zelda, she had one blue eye and one golden eye. She was a real stunner. But she’d run off whenever she could. They’re real escape artists, Huskies. She was okay for the first year, but as soon as she turned thirteen months she started doing her own thing, escaping, getting into mischief. She killed chickens, unfortunately. One day she ran off and didn’t come back. We never knew what happened. It broke my heart. Since then I haven’t had the courage to get another dog.”

  Alexandre brings his palms up to his face and covers his mouth with genuine empathy. “That’s a very sad story. I’m so sorry. You’ll have to meet Rex. I’m organizing his move – should be in the next couple of months.”

  An invitation? Is this for real? “I’d adore to meet Rex – he sounds lovely. So why did you choose to live in New York?” I ask, not wanting this conversation to finish. Ever.

  “France is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Fine wine, great cuisine, incredible landscape – we have a rich culture. But when it comes to opportunity, especially for small businesses, it’s not so easy there.”

  Small businesses? His company is worth millions! No – billions, even.

  My sitcom alter-ego is rearing her naughty, lying head again. “You own a small company? What do you do?”

  He narrows his penetrating eyes. Every time he does that, it sends shivers cursing through my body. “That’s why I was at that conference,” he explains. “I was answering a few questions, giving people some tips, you know, advice from my own personal experience. It’s done nicely my company.”

  Nicely? So modest.

  “What were you doing at the conference?” he asks me. “Sorry, that’s very prying.” He looks down and takes a gulp of his iced-coffee. I observe the cupid bow of his top lip pressing on the cup. Then he takes out an ice cube and starts sucking on it. I catch a glimpse of his pink tongue licking his lips. Butterflies circle my insides again. Control yourself, Pearl, he’s sixteen years younger than you!

  “Your English is so good,” I marvel, steering him away from me and my story. I don’t want to tell him why I was at the conference. “Your vocabulary, words like prying. Where did you learn your English?”

  “I lived in London for a few years. But I started speaking it when I was young – self-taught from video games, mostly. All the best games were in English. There was nothing in French when I was a little boy. All the technical vocabulary for the Internet was also English. I was forced to learn if I wanted to have fun. Not to mention song lyrics. I learned a lot that way, too. My favorite bands were all American or British.”

  “You must enjoy your work, then?”

  “I don’t really consider it work. I’d be doing it anyway, even if I wasn’t getting paid for it.”

  “Is that what you do, then? Internet and computer stuff?”

  “Yeah, I started a company with my sister. She was single at the time, you know, no boyfriend, and an obsessive Twitter user. It was she who came up with the idea. A Twittery way to get a date. Get ‘hooked up’ as the Americans say. It started from there. I’m a programmer. Amongst other things.”

  “HookedUp. Is that your company?” I should be given an Oscar for best performance. Or slapped in jail for most wicked liar of the year.

  “Yes, that’s me,” he says simply.

  “Wow, doing okay, I guess.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been lucky. And I love what I do which is the most important aspect.”

  “So what are your hobbies? When you’re not doing technical stuff?”

  “Oh, I’m a sucker for anything technical even when I’m not working. Cars, electric guitars. I love gadgets. You probably think me pretty foolish – a typical guy.”

  “Boys toys,” I laugh. “Men usually like gadgets. Do you fly a plane?”

  “No. I have my cars. I like feeling the ground beneath the wheels.” He looks at me intensely.

  Ground beneath the wheels – why does that sound so evocative?

  “So you don’t fly about in a private jet or helicopter?” Where did that ridiculous question come from? – I’m beginning to sound like a chat show host.

  “I think my carbon footprint is bad enough as it is – no, I rarely travel by private jet or helicopter. Although, now you mention it – not a bad idea for Rex,” he says, deadpan. “It would be way more comfortable for him to travel that way. What about you?” he asks. “Private jet?”

  “Not unless you count the water-jet thing on my toothbrush private.”

  His defined lips curve into a subtle smile. “You haven’t told me much about yourself, Pearl.”

  Oh no. What do I say? Luckily, he’s European. I’ve noticed they rarely ask you directly what you do for a living; they consider it bad manners.

  “Well,” I begin, “I like writing. One day, I hope to pen a screenplay.”

  “Really? I love theatre. I don’t know much about screenplays or movies, but I adore going to the theatre. Actually, I prefer a good play to a novel. Molière, Voltaire, Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus. We have pretty bad translations of Shakespeare into French – they just don’t do him justice – another incentive to perfect my English. I’ve seen some great plays in Paris and London. My sister used to be an actress. She got me into plays. Theatre is her passion.”

  “It sounds as if you two are really close,” I remark, amazed at how sophisticated he is, and how well read. He seems so much older than his years.

  “I guess we are.”

  “So when you’re not going to the theatre, or working, or zipping about in your beautiful classic cars, what do you do to relax?”

  “Let’s see. I love rock-climbing.”

  “Not so relaxing, though.”

  “Not physically, but for your mental state of mind, it’s great. You have to concentrate so hard on what you’re doing – it cleanses the mind from all the clutter. A bit like meditation. Not that I meditate, but you know, I can imagine. It’s not a team sport, it’s boring for any spectator – it’s about personal satisfaction, personal goals.”

  “You sound as if you’re very accomplished at it.”

  “I’ve climbed a bit. Rock climbing involves strength, control and finesse. Using the muscles in your arms and legs to pull yourself up a sheer rock-face takes strength and control. Using your brain to place your hands and feet so that your muscles can do their job – that’s finesse.”

  I study the finesse of his chest, his lithe, tanned arms, and see where he gets his
worked-out physique from. But he’s not overly muscley, not exaggerated. There’s no bull-neck there, no bulging, bulky biceps. He’s long and lean but not too slim, either – he has definite substance.

  “I tried rock-climbing once,” I tell him. “I was terrified but I could see the attraction to the sport. It was fun, I’d love to try it again someday.” I’m aware that I’m fishing and he takes the bait.

  “Really? Would you like to come with me? My sister hates it. I can never get anyone to go with me.”

  “Your girlfriend doesn’t like rock-climbing?” I hear myself spurt out and wish I had a mouth-plug.

  “My girlfriend?”

  Oh no, he does have a girlfriend, after all.

  “I’m unattached,” he lets me know.

  I sigh with relief and hope he hasn’t heard my body heave gratitude. I sip a long, long mouthful of cappuccino through my straw. “I’d just love to come rock-climbing with you.”

  I notice he’s watching my mouth clamped around the straw, and I feel self-conscious. I wipe my mouth – fearful that I have foam on my upper lip and it looks like a moustache.

  “Great,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. “How about the weekend?”

  “You mean this weekend, or next?”

  “That’s right, today’s Friday. It’s all a bit last minute and I have something on tonight so it might−”

  “What?” I ask, panicked he’ll change his mind.

  “It’s too hot to climb midday in summer, so I usually set out very early. I mean, I often spend the night there – makes it easier. But it’s already Friday so−”

  I am waiting; my breath uneven. The cappuccino is gurgling, swilling in my stomach. Please don’t let me be sick. Please don’t let me throw up with anticipatory nerves.

  “I mean,” he continues, “if it doesn’t seem too forward to ask you for the weekend−”

  “Not at all!” I exclaim way too keenly, too desperately, a desperate non-housewife, with a sudden longing of nothing else but to rip off this young man’s clothes…but then panic sets in again. Who am I kidding? No way could I sleep with his man! I’m, what, sixteen years older than he is. I wouldn’t have the confidence. My body isn’t like it was when I was twenty-two…I wouldn’t even want him to see me in a bikini, let alone…

  He must be reading the alarm on my face. “Don’t worry, Pearl. We’d have separate bedrooms, of course.”

  “Yes, of course. Separate bedrooms,” I repeat pathetically, relieved, but wishing I had more gumption, more confidence to jump his bones. Be more like Madonna or Demi Moore.

  “Actually,” he breaks in. “I know another place we can go climbing that’s closer to the City. It’s only ninety miles Upstate – we can drive there very early and come back late, all in one day. Is this all too last minute?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say, now disappointed. I’ve blown it. I’ve sabotaged my one chance to spend the night with him.

  “Great, I’ll retrieve you at….what about seven o’ clock tomorrow morning? Is that too early?”

  Retrieve, how quaint. His accent is killing me. “No, seven’s perfect.”

  I give him my address, my phone number and when I stand up in my high pumps my legs are as wobbly as Jell-O. Forty years old? Really? I could have sworn I’d had my sixteenth birthday party just last week.

  2

  All night I was tossing and turning, going over our conversation in my mind. I wish I’d pressed ‘record’ on my iPhone app so I could now play back what he and I said to each other in the coffee shop. I realize my fleeting fantasies of Alexandre finding me attractive are just that – fantasies. He needs someone to hang out with. He said it himself in so many words…his sister hates rock climbing. He needs a sister figure, he feels at home with older women. He just wants me to go along for the ride. Hang out. Nothing more. Get a grip woman, this man is too young for you. Or rather, you are too old for him.

  But just to be on the safe side, I went to get a pedicure yesterday. The least I can do is have pretty feet. I also made a dash to my hairdresser. Roots – the bane of my life. My first gray hairs came early; I was only twenty-nine. Thanks, family genes. I read about those Thirteen Day Bergdorf Blondes who have their blonde heads re-touched every thirteen days, so they look like cool, natural, ice-princesses. I, too, have to keep an eye on the thirteen day thing, but for a different reason – those white ‘evil-step-mother’ hairs pop through in all the obvious places – around the temples on the parting line. I go for my natural color, dark honey-blonde. And if I keep a sharp eye on this impending granny situation, not letting thirteen days pass, I manage to fool everybody. People usually take me for thirty-something. That’s why, if I were to become famous overnight (don’t we all have those fancy flights of the imagination?) I would never do one of those reality TV shows when they’re trapped on a desert island or in the jungle. I need my hairdresser. And in emergency situations (if she’s not available) – my Honey Blonde 8.3.

  The phone rings and my heart starts pounding. It’s 7am sharp. It’s the doorman calling to say my visitor has arrived and he’s waiting downstairs in the lobby.

  I never pegged myself for a car fanatic but when Alexandre opens the door for me and I slide into the passenger seat, my skin tingles with anticipation. I sink into the bucket of the seat – vintage cars smell so good – and stretch out my legs, raise my arms into the air – it’s a convertible – and I glow with girlish glee. The sky is clear after yesterday’s rain and it looks as if we are in for a day of sunshine.

  Alexandre is grinning as we move off, the engine humming loud beneath the great long hood of this glorious sports car. He drives one-handed with his left elbow jutting over the sill. “She’s a 1968 Chevrolet Corvette C3. What a roadster! She packs four hundred and thirty-five horses under the hood. The ‘68 was the first year of the third generation of Corvettes−” he stops himself mid-flow. “Sorry, I’m sounding like a real car nerd.”

  “Yes you are,” I reply, and then laugh. “She’s beautiful, though. I love the color.”

  “LeMans Blue, the original color. That’s what made me fall in love with her. Same color as your eyes, almost.” He looks over at me and winks.

  My eyes? It’s his eyes that have me so weak. I can’t believe he just said that to me. I get it – this must just be what Frenchmen do. Disarm women with heady compliments, even if they aren’t true.

  “This model,” he goes on, “is underestimated. I’ve driven her all over America and she’s never let me down once.”

  “You said you had a collection. What other cars do you have?” The wind is blowing my hair and I do up another button of my jacket.

  “Really? You’re interested?” he asks with a look of surprise.

  “I’m no expert, believe me, but everyone loves a pretty car, don’t they?” Knowing he likes British classics I throw out the first name that comes into my head. “E-Type Jaguars are impressive.”

  “Ha! You’ve got excellent taste, Ms. Robinson. You know something? When the E-Type first came out Enzo Ferrari, himself, called it the most beautiful car ever made.”

  “A Ferrari – now that’s a fancy car. Do you have one?”

  “No. I’m a Lamborghini man. There are too many posers cruising about the Côte d’Azur with Ferraris that they can hardly drive. An exquisite car, that can’t be denied, but too much of a cliché for my own personal taste.”

  “So you don’t use cars as babe magnets?” I joke.

  “Actually, it’s usually men who are attracted to my collection. I’m a man-trap, unfortunately.”

  “What’s your Lamborghini like?” I ask, clueless.

  “It’s the Murciélago.”

  “That means bat in Spanish.”

  “Exactly. It looks like Batman’s car. It’s outrageous. It’s a stunning design. But it was actually named after a brave bull called Murciélago which fought with such spirit that the matador chose to spare its life, a virtually unheard of honor.”

  I
grimace. “I hate bull-fighting.”

  “Me too. There are two things I can’t understand in this world – cruelty to animals and cruelty to children. Oh, and women too – I don’t understand how anybody could physically hurt a woman.”

  “Even if the woman agrees?”

  Alexandre furrows his brow and stares at me hard for a second. “Why would any woman agree to being hurt by somebody?”

  Uh, oh, where’s my mouth plug? I find myself stuttering and wish I hadn’t said that but then I dig myself in deeper and blurt out, “Whips and handcuffs are all the rage right now – rope is flying off the shelves at the hardware stores.”

  He narrows his eyes at me but I blabber on, “Well….a friend of mine……there are a bunch of books….so many erotic romances these days with a BDSM and bondage theme to them – they’ve gotten everyone curious…I mean women seem to be intrigued by the whole thing.” Shut up, Pearl, what made you come out with all that?

  “France has a tradition of literary erotic writing,” Alexandre tells me. “The Marquis de Sade, Anaïs Nin, Pauline Réage – you know, the one who wrote The Story of O? But any sort of sexual slavery is a real turn-off for me.”

  “But what if it’s consensual? You know, the dominant role-play with the submissive female – if it’s an agreement between both parties?”

  “It depends how young the girl is. Any woman under twenty-five is underage for that sort of role-play, in my opinion.”

  “But you’re under twenty-five!” I exclaim, alarmed, and immediately wish I hadn’t come out with that. My God! He considers himself underage.

  “How d’you know how old I am?” he asks, and I can feel my face go hot.

  “Just a guess,” I lie. Please don’t ask me how old I am.

  “Almost right. I had my twenty-fifth birthday several months ago, actually. But I’m old for my age. I’m different, Pearl, I grew up way before my time – I was wise in all manner of things before the age of fourteen. Also, I’m a man. Young women are still vulnerable, still discovering the world and in my opinion it’s not right for a girl to get involved with that sort of kinky stuff. It could be damaging psychologically as well as physically.”