Belle Pearl (16 page)

The evening of the New York premiere of
Stone Trooper
had finally arrived. Originally, Pearl had said that I needn’t bother accompanying her, but then she changed her mind. She had assumed I agreed but I was getting so into the househusband thing, I had other ideas. I lay on the sofa with my toddlers crawling all over me, their sticky fingers in my eyes and hair.

“Alexandre, you
have
to come,” Pearl pleaded, standing at the doorway. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant chignon—the hairdresser had been in our apartment all day. Her make-up was sultry and darkly seductive. She looked stunning.

“Sorry, babe, I really don’t like doing red carpet—you know that,” I mumbled, a set of baby fingers in my mouth.

“But this is different.”

“Still red carpet. I like to keep my anonymity. I already did the first premiere in LA. One’s enough. Sophie will be with you. Natalie, Alessandra, Elodie. You really don’t need me as well. Besides, someone has to stay home with Louis and Madeleine, and Sally’s busy tonight.”

“You told me Sally would be here,” Pearl grumbled. “You’re so stubborn, you know that? So
tetu
, it’s unbelievable!”

“I’ll stay home, order Chinese, and hang out with the twins.”

She walked towards me slowly, letting her ivory silk robe fall open. My eyes grew greedy observing her beautiful nude body—freshly moisturized—she smelled of peaches or something sweet and edible. Her tits were still big from breastfeeding. I felt myself go instantly hard. I’d fuck those tits later. Maybe now even, while she was all perfect—I’d ravage her—
women hate it when you mess with their hair and make-up.
I winked at her.

She raised her brow. “Alright, fine, don’t come. Don’t blame me if guys come on to me tonight. Don’t blame me if Mikhail what’s-his-face eyes me up and flirts his ass off.”

She had my attention. “That Russian arms dealer fuck? What’s he doing coming to our premiere?”

“Oh, it’s suddenly
our
premiere, is it? A moment ago I was on my own.”

“Seriously, who invited him?”

She exited the room with a
Wouldn’t-you-like-to-know
look on her face.

I got up from the sofa, Louis in one arm, Madeleine in the other. Their eyes followed Pearl too, and Louis gurgled, with a grin on his face as if he found the whole scenario hilarious. I called after her, “Who invited him?”

I took out my cell and arranged a babysitter, there and then. Jeanine, in fact, who worked at HookedUp Enterprises with Pearl. She was a big fan of Louis and Madeleine. She said ‘yes’ immediately. I called Sally for backup and when she said no, I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

The
Stone Trooper
premiere was less of a flashy affair than LA, but still, everyone seemed to want to be there to be seen, rather than to see.

Not Pearl, though. She was in professional mode, politely chatting to everyone who was congratulating her as we made our torturously slow way up the red carpet, toward the open doors of the movie theatre. She had on a floor-length silk chiffon gown that trailed and shimmied behind her—a sort of pale gold that made her angelic, although she was unaware of how dazzling she looked. It was amazing how fast she’d lost the post-pregnancy weight. Swimming, I guessed. Except for her breasts—no weight lost there. It unnerved me to know that others might see that too. As we ambled on through to the screening—she glided, I ambled—Elodie came up behind me, her eyes flashing with anger.

She clutched my elbow. “What the fuck?” she seethed in a hoarse whisper.

I had the twins on my mind and was on autopilot, nodding politely at people but not paying attention to what anyone said. “What? Did someone tread on your gown?” I asked absentmindedly. But Elodie wasn’t wearing a gown. She was back to Goth mode. She wore spiked black heels that could poke out an eye, and skin-tight leggings with a see-through top. Luckily, she had on some sort of bra underneath.

“She’s gay, isn’t she? She’s fucking well gay!” She shot a look at her mother, who was walking by Alessandra’s side, her hips pressed close to her girlfriend. As was often the case, Elodie’s father was absent. Maybe he was having an affair too. He was rarely around for events, or if he was, he had an air of invisibility.

“Your mother?” I said. There was no point pretending otherwise. I was amazed it had taken Elodie so long to work it out.

She pinched my arm. “Thanks for warning me. Thanks for hiding it from me for all this time.”

“Elodie, this isn’t the moment. Come over tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”

“Oh crap, that’s all I fucking need,” she sneered. I looked over to her line of vision and saw the Russian. He was making a beeline for us.

I turned to her. “You know him, Elodie?”

“You could say that.”

For a second, the man looked as if he were about to slit my throat in front of the whole crowd, but then he suddenly smiled as if he recognized me.

“Alexandre Chevalier,” he said, his accent very pronounced. “What a pleasure.” He held out his right hand. I felt some cameras flash.

I didn’t reciprocate. I replied coldly, “I’m sorry but we don’t know each other.”

Elodie rolled her eyes. “Uncle Alexandre, this is Mikhail Prokovich, Mikhail, my uncle, Alexandre,” she said in a bored drawl.

His eyes were menacing as he raked his gaze over her. He said in French, “You can do better than that, Elodie, my darling. Especially considering I’m your date.”

“
Va te faire foutre
,” she retorted, storming off towards the doors to go inside.

That’s right, va te faire foutre—fuck you, asshole!
My heart sank into my stomach. My
darling?
Her
date?
What the hell?
My eyes locked with his. “You
know
my niece?”

He smirked at me and answered cockily, again in French, “I more than know her. I’m
fucking
her.”

Before my brain was even aware of what I was doing, my fist—as if it had a will of its own—punched the man’s face. He tumbled backwards. My leg swung in a high arch, landing on the side of his chest in a hard thud. But he didn’t fall. I could hear gasps and women squealing with fright. The fuck shook himself off like a Spanish bull and came toward me, hurling his full weight at me. He was as tall as I was and strongly built, his chest wide, his arms thick—even though he was wearing a suit, I could tell he worked out.

Pearl screamed, “Alexandre, stop! What are you doing?”
Good point,
I thought
. What am I doing?
My limbs seemed to have their own agenda.

“I told you I don’t do red carpet well,” I said—a James Bond quip if ever there was one—as I dodged to the side, managing to avoid Mikhail Prokovich’s heaving torso lunge right at me. “Step back, Pearl,” I urged her, realizing this was so not the time, nor the place, for this fiasco—that I should have kept my cool.

But it was too late. The guy twisted his body at the last minute and caught me in a vice, his arm clamped about my middle. He was a tough fucker, seemed to have been trained in some sort of martial art like I was, because he had some sneaky moves—I’d met my match.

“She’s only nineteen, you fuck!” I hissed at him as we wrestled, both trying to overpower the other, without making too much of a scene. But we
were
making a scene. And how. The next thing I knew, Pearl was beating him on the head with her purse. I pleaded, “Pearl, you must step
back
, chérie, you’ll get hurt,” although my love for her at that moment swelled, not only at her bravery, but because of her loyalty.

A bright flash blinded me for a second. The paparazzi were at it in full swing now—snapping away at the spectacle: two grown men fighting in public. And then the Russian’s large knee jerked up and smashed me in the balls. I winced in pain, doubling forward. Prokovich jabbed me in the back with his sharp elbow. I used my crouched position to my advantage and, bending down even further, I hooked my fingers about his ankle. My opponent lost his balance and fell backwards to the floor, landing unceremoniously on his shoulder.

“You fuck!” he yelled up at me. I wiped my forehead—fighting in a suit was not the most comfortable option, and perspiration was gathering on my brow.

I leered down at him as he was getting up. “Leave my niece alone you arms dealing asshole!” I roared. There was another collective gasp from the crowd. People were filming now—Smartphones out in droves. No doubt the scene was already Tweeted to the hilt and it wouldn’t be long before it would be live on YouTube.

I heard hushed whispers of ‘arms dealer,’ jostling bodies gasping behind the cordoned off ropes, and VIP guests in shimmering, diaphanous gowns or crisp penguin suits, oohing and aahing; some vying for a closer view, others trying to get the hell out of our arena, and Sophie’s voice screaming, “Arrete! Stop, you two.”

Two hulking, balding men with earpieces suddenly came up either side of me and pulled me back. Prokovich’s bodyguards. It hadn’t even occurred to me to have
my
bodyguard on call. In that second, I knew what was about to happen as the Russian rose to his feet. I was going to be his punching bag while these two meatballs held my arms captive. As he came at me with a sharp left hook aimed at my gut, my leg shot higher than a Moulin Rouge can-can dancer—muscle memory kicking in (literally). I clipped him under the chin with the toe of my shoe. He flew backwards, his hand clutching his jaw in agony, blood flowing. Pearl flung herself at me, loyal to the last, screaming at Prokovich’s bodyguards.

“Let my husband go, you monsters!” She was using her body as a shield to protect me. I couldn’t stop her; my arms being pinned back by the meatballs.

Elodie came rushing up, too. I expected her to shout at me but she stopped at my bleeding enemy, as he was cursing in his own language, sprawled out on the velvety red carpet. She yelled at him in French, “You ever touch my uncle again and I’ll fucking
kill
you!”

I couldn’t help but beam inside, a faint smile flickering on my lips. My faithful ladies with me to the bitter end. The fact that I struck first didn’t matter to Elodie.
Blood is thicker than water, you Russian fuck!
My team of women, including Natalie, was screaming at the bodyguards to let me go from their beefy clutches, and soon enough, the movie theatre security arrived and the bodyguards let me free. Prokovich got back up on his feet and shook himself like a lion, his blond hair dripping with sweat; he even flashed his signature, billion-dollar smile, tinged now with scarlet blood, as our bemused audience observed us with fascination. Fitting, I thought—a bloody smile that has been bought by other people’s war-zone misery.

The theatre’s security team surrounded us, confused as to know what to do, asking if I was alright. They wondered if anyone wanted to press charges. They offered the same courtesy to Prokovich—but both of us pretended that our skirmish was a minor blip. As if it were a little show, put on for the crowd’s entertainment. I knew I’d have to watch it from now on, though. He’d be the type to seek revenge.

Everybody straightened their ties and jackets and snickered with embarrassment, pretending, seconds later, that all was quite normal. Pearl held my hand and then Elodie also came to my side, hooking her pale, skinny arm about my elbow. She shot her lover a look, loaded with both pain and threat.

Then Pearl said coolly, “Let’s go in and find our seats.”

I was about to turn and walk away from the theatre but then I changed my mind.
This is Pearl’s night. She has stuck by me. I’m not going anywhere.

“Good idea, chérie, let’s find our seats,” I agreed, adrenaline still pumping through my gut, heating my veins. Elodie gave me a pleading look as if to say,
I’m sorry, I’ll explain.
I winked at her, yet my face remained impassive.
Yes, we’ll discuss this later,
it said silently
—you bet we will.
But she was still only a child in my eyes. Whoever was at fault, it wasn’t Elodie. Prokovich should have known better, messing with a vulnerable teenager. He was a man of the world; she was just a fragile bird, learning to spread her wings.