Hooked Up: Book 3 Read Free

and I vowed I’d return one day. A work of art. The food hall was the original part of the shop, opened in the first half of the nineteenth century. Now Harrods was comprised of seven floors and spanned an incredible four and a half acres. I had never seen such opulence and grandeur where food was sold. 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 stretched before me like a long yawn, and the imposing molding decorating the ceiling reminded you that this building was a majestic legend: a true London landmark. Hall after hall was grandly overflowing with beautifully presented gourmet food delights. My eyes and nose were already feasting. The sheer volume and selection of British and International goods was 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 was 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 was 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 got some exquisite French truffles for Daisy’s mum Doris, and meandered towards another tempting counter.
    I stared at cupcakes. I needed 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 exclaimed behind my shoulders.
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. I saw a familiar reflection in the mirror before me:
    Sophie.
    I spun around in amazement, my sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floor. A nervous guilty churn made my stomach dip. Sophie with her carving knife . . . did she know about Alessandra and me?
    Obviously not, because she was smiling, and for the first time her happiness seemed to be genuine. Or was that just me? Now that I knew she didn’t hate my guts, I could observe her with fresh eyes, devoid of judgment and suspicion.
    “What are you doing in London?” she asked, kissing me on both cheeks. I inhaled her usual, heady scent of Fracas and noticed how pretty she looked, her eyes like pools of dark chocolate, and she was dressed immaculately in a chic, navy blue pantsuit. Hand tailored, no doubt. I knew she and Alexandre got all their suits cut on Saville Row, here in London.
    “I came . . . I-I had some work appointments,” I spluttered.
    “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 said simply. “Back to New York.”
    “What a shame, we could have ooked up. Isn’t zis place marvelloose? I come here to get my Jelly Belly jellybeans. Cannot get zem anywhere, you know. My little American addiction.” She held up the bag of candy. Jelly Belly—my favorites, too.
    I wanted to spill it all out and tell Sophie my woes. I wanted 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 was dumbstruck, not least by the bizarre coincidence of bumping into Sophie here at Harrods . . . what were the odds of that?
    “Where do you go now? You want a coffee? Or razzer, in England, a cup