by Jane Holland
‘It’s rubbed away.’
‘Maybe ask your aunt, then?’
‘I could,’ I agree slowly, trying and failing to read his expression. ‘But I wouldn’t want to upset Tamsin by stirring up bad memories. Not so soon after Emily’s funeral.’
‘Of course.’ He grins, and nods towards the spade. ‘Well then, maybe I should dig it up? See what kind of bones are under the earth.’
‘Ugh.’
Jacques sees at once that his joke is not appreciated. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and makes a face. ‘That wasn’t very funny, was it?’ He looks me up and down again, and this time I’m not imagining the glint of appreciation in his face. ‘The sun’s hot today. Don’t forget your sun oil.’
There’s something about his smile that makes me think he was watching me sunbathe before, when I stretched out next to the statue in the gardens above.
‘I won’t.’
I turn to leave, irritated by that smile.
‘Hang on,’ he says.
Reluctantly, I stop. ‘What?’
Jacques glances back the way he came, as though half expecting to see someone behind him on the path. But the gardens are still and silent.
He looks back at me. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with Tamsin,’ he says, his voice lowered as though conveying a secret.
‘What isn’t?’
‘That,’ he says, and gestures to the gravestone in the shade. ‘She never comes down here.’
‘Well, that’s hardly surprising.’ I turn, planning to continue on my way. ‘The path’s pretty steep and my aunt’s not as fit as she used to be.’
‘Somebody comes though,’ he says hesitantly. I look back at him with sudden interest, remembering the wilted spray of bougainvillea on the ground before the gravestone. ‘Someone comes every week, regular as clockwork. With flowers.’
‘Who?’
‘The housekeeper.’
I’m amazed. ‘Lucille?’
‘That’s her. Madame Latour, as she insists I call her. Snooty old bitch.’
I’m taken aback by the hostility in his voice.
‘Okay, thanks.’
I start to walk on down the stony track towards the beach, sensing his eyes on my back. It makes me uncomfortable.
‘Hey,’ he calls out when I’m nearly at the next bend in the path.
I glance back.
Jacques is still standing by the grave, though the spade is over his shoulder again. ‘Emily used to stop here sometimes too,’ he says. ‘On her way down to the beach for a swim, just like you. Once she left something behind on the grave.’
‘What?’
His voice is expressionless. ‘A fish head.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Just before ten o’clock the next morning, I kiss my aunt goodbye, shoulder my pack, and stroll out past the gatehouse to meet Robin at the allotted place on the coast road.
It’s another gorgeous summer day on Cap d’Antibes, exactly like the days I remember from my youth. Purple-flowered bougainvillea tumbles wildly over the high walls of the private residences, lavish in its fertility. There are green-leaved lemon trees too, with tangles of white jasmine climbing through branches, sweet and delicate. The Med sparkles emerald green close to the coast, deepening into azure further out. The sun is already high and dazzlingly sunny, and I can smell pine and mimosa on the air, the intoxicating scents of the French Riviera.
In such surroundings, even given Dad’s desperate prognosis, it’s hard to stay gloomy for long. But perhaps it’s the awareness of how seriously ill my father is that’s making me feel so vitally, spectacularly alive today.
The thought makes me guilty.
I’ll go home soon, I tell myself, and breathe in the sweetly fragranced air of the Cap as though for the last time, trying to stamp it on my memory.
A moment later, I see Robin from a distance, parked up in a dusty layby on his motorbike, and wave cheerfully. He waves back, spare helmet dangling from one hand. I don’t blame him for not wanting to come any nearer the house. Not after seeing the look on Lucille’s face when he dropped me off after our night together.
What a dragon that woman is.
The more I think about it, in fact, the surer I become that Lucille was watching us from her bedroom window that morning. She was horrified by my dishevelled appearance, and not through mere prudery. Tamsin has held plenty of decadent parties over the years, both here and in Hollywood, some of them quite infamous. So Lucille must have seen many scandalous things in her time. She couldn’t have been upset simply because I stayed out all night. The only possible explanation for her outrage is that she saw me with Robin.
But at least Lucille chose not to tell Tamsin that I’d spent the night with Robin. And she hasn’t brought up the topic with me either. In fact, it’s almost as if she’s avoiding me.
He kisses me, looking me up and down. ‘Charming.’
This time I’m dressed for motorbike travel, wearing a pair of jeans and my sturdiest trainers, and the padded jacket he bought me in St Tropez. It’s sensible clothing.
I get the feeling he’s making fun of me. ‘Not what Emily would have worn?’
His smile is dry, a little crooked. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Well, I’m not Emily.’
‘And thank goodness for that.’ He hands me the spare helmet. ‘Here you go. I hope you don’t mind another long journey. It’s a bit of a hike.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Provence.’
I stare at him, still fiddling with the helmet strap. ‘But that’s miles away. Half a day’s ride, surely?’
‘Nothing so drastic. Three hours, maybe.’
‘Oh, is that all?’
Robin laughs at my expression. He pats the back seat of the motorbike, which is a large-bellied red Kawasaki, pulling his own helmet on. ‘Come on, we’d better get moving. I’ve booked us dinner and a room at Les Baux de Provence, up in the back hills above Marseille.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
He climbs onto the bike, and I swing my leg over behind him. The metal is warm. He is warmer. I remember how hungry I was, last time we did this, my heart racing with the bike all the way round the coast road. Now that we’ve made love, it feels so right and natural to link my arms around his body, our thighs touching, hearts beating in unison.
He kicks the bike into life, glances over his shoulder, and accelerates away, raising a dust-storm in our wake.
At the bottom of the hill, we round one sharp corner after another, the Kawasaki dipping almost to the ground. I catch a dazzling glimpse of sunlight dancing on the bay, and think again of Emily out there in the water at night, swimming on her own, cold and desperate …
I recall what Robin said.
She couldn’t face living a lie anymore.
Is he right? Was Emily with someone that night? Yet said goodnight to them, and then walked out into the sea without warning, and never came back?
We hadn’t been close in years, there’s no denying it. But I could have made more of an effort to keep in touch, maybe reached out to her at Christmas or on her birthday. Instead I tried to protect my heart by pretending things had ended differently between us, that I had not been sent home in disgrace after that strange night. Guilt envelops me again. Emily was my cousin and I failed her. I had no idea she was even unhappy. Robin seems to have stayed close to her though. They had plans together, to move abroad, to change their lives. If I failed him, perhaps he did too.
Was she unhappy because of Robin?
It’s a disquieting thought, and reminds me of the beach photograph in my back pocket.
Three red crosses, one scoring out each of our faces.
Who could have done that? And why? And what on earth was the photograph doing covered in dust and lodged in the back of a kitchen cupboard at Chateau Tamsin?
I can’t help wondering if Emily knew about the photograph. Perhaps even knew the person who hated us enough to do that.
Robin slows the bike almost imperceptibly. His head half-turns towards me. It’s as though he’s sensed something is wrong. That psychic link I often felt we had as kids. Or maybe my arms have tightened round his waist, my body stiffening against his.
‘Caitlin, are you okay?’
My lie is instinctive. ‘Yes, great.’
‘Good,’ he calls back. Am I imagining an edge of relief in his voice? ‘Provence, here we come.’
We speed up again, and a short while later pull onto a slip road leading to the main autoroute away from the coast.
Once on the autoroute, he starts passing cars immediately, eating up the miles, the powerful Kawasaki engine effortlessly outpacing other road users. I stare at the scenery on either side, isolated old farmhouses in the middle of rough grassland, dark green wooded slopes, the occasional factory or industrial estate sited beside the motorway. The traffic is surprisingly light on our side of the road. But I suppose most tourists will be heading in the opposite direction at this time of day, making for the beaches in this fine, sunny weather.
A sign for St Tropez flashes past, and I smile, remembering the night club where we kissed again for the first time in years.
The wind tears at us.
I hold tight, leaning against his strong body, the sun beating down on my back. It’s like we’re two halves of one person, joined again after too long apart.
I plan to show Robin the old photograph I found. To ask him what he knows about it, if anything.
Not yet though.
This new-found love between us is beautiful. But it’s based on the past, on memories we made together as inexperienced teenagers. The new, more adult memories we’re making here are still too fragile to take any kind of stress. Like eggshell, what we have at the moment could crack under the slightest pressure.
I need to tread lightly. Or risk losing him again.
Les Baux de Provence turns out to be an ancient fortified town, perched on the top of a vast, towering hill in the arid hinterland of Provence. The remains of a medieval fortress and its surrounding village overlook the plains below, visible for miles around, high ragged walls and arrow slits shimmering in the heat haze.
On the steep, shoelace-style approach road, the bike zigzags slowly from bend to bend, passing through ancient olive groves and cool, green vineyards on either side.
I cling onto Robin’s waist and stare over his shoulder at the medieval town, perched high above us on a natural plateau.
From down here, the ruins of the white limestone chateau look more like sun-bleached bone, not helped by gaping window holes, presumably defensive, that watch us on the approach.
The village itself, once we park the bike and start to walk up the sloping, cobbled streets, is charming – if steep.
‘So bloody hot here,’ I say, wiping my forehead.
‘Yes, that’s one of the drawbacks of this part of Provence. The scenery is stunning. But this far inland there’s no sea breeze to take the edge of the heat, and less humidity too, which can make sleeping problematic.’ Robin smiles down at my flushed face. ‘Hey, don’t worry. The place I chose has air conditioning.’
‘I suppose you’re thinking I’m not much of a traveller.’
‘Of course not, honey. I would never think that.’ But he takes my hand and squeezes it, his smile broadening. The American drawl intensifies as he adds, ‘I’m thinking you’re very English, that’s all.’
It’s not meant as an insult.
I smile, but dryly. My cousin was English too, after all. But she had spent most of her life in France, so I suppose to his mind she was less Anglicised.
‘I thought you liked the English?’
‘I do, Christ, absolutely I do. You’re very … cute.’
‘Cute?’
I’m slightly annoyed now. But reining it in.
Robin stops in the street, still smiling. He slips an arm round my waist, giving me a quick awkward hug. ‘Sure,’ he says in a surprised tone, as though being ‘cute’ is not anything to be embarrassed about, then glances up at the pretty, stone-clad building next to us. It’s a hotel, I realise, following his gaze. ‘Here we are.’
The receptionist looks up with a bright smile as we head inside out of the sun. It’s still hot in the lobby, but not unbearably so. A small, glass-topped fridge containing ice cream hums noisily in a corner, and there’s a large-screen television playing to itself in the empty bar area, set to a sports channel with an agitated-sounding French commentator.
I hold both our bike helmets and gloves while Robin searches for his wallet. There’s already a small group of tourists in the small, shady lobby, three middle-aged couples. They are not talking to the receptionist though, who keeps glancing at them warily, but seem to be heading off for a walk around the town. Overhearing their animated discussion over a town map, I guess that they are Americans.
‘Hello,’ I say, smiling.
One of them, a middle-aged woman with large hips and masses of dyed blonde hair, looks round at us. ‘Oh, English?’
‘Yes, but my friend is American.’
They all look at Robin, who nods at them in a friendly enough fashion but says nothing.
The tourists shuffle outside into hot sunshine, one of them complaining about the ‘inefficient air con’ in their room in a way that does not reassure me.
My French is not up to following the quick-fire conversation between Robin and the receptionist. But her smile and occasional nods in my direction indicate that everything is fine.
When she turns away to print something out, Robin flips open his wallet, and pauses. ‘Damn it.’
The receptionist glances back at him. ‘Monsieur?’
‘Attendez, s’il-vous-plaît.’ He checks his other pockets, frowning heavily, then mutters, ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
I peer over his shoulder. ‘Problem?’
‘I left my credit card in the apartment. Stupid of me. I took it out of my wallet to make the booking over the phone, then must have forgotten to put it back in.’
The receptionist comes back, staring at his wallet, and the two of them have another exchange in French, so swift that I barely understand it.
‘Can’t she just take it off the card automatically?’ I ask him.
Robin turns to me, shaking his head. ‘I asked her that. But she needs to run the physical card through the machine. It’s a security thing, apparently.’ He looks exasperated, a dark red tinge of embarrassment in his cheeks, avoiding my eyes. ‘I’m really sorry about this, Caitlin. I don’t know what to do.’
‘How much is it?’
The receptionist appears to have enough English to understand this. She beams at me and turns the bill helpfully round in my direction.
I raise my eyebrows at the amount. ‘For one night?’
‘Two nights,’ she corrects me.
Robin makes a face, and puts his hand flat on the bill as though to stop me paying it. ‘Look, don’t worry. I said I’d treat you, Caitlin. Let’s forget Les Baux. We can look round the old town for an hour or two, then I’ll take you back to the coast.’
‘Don’t be silly. We’re here now.’ I put down the biking gear, and stoop to rummage through my rucksack. I hand my credit card to the woman with a smile. ‘Here, you can put it on my card.’
‘Two nights?’ she queries.
‘Yes, definitely two nights.’ I smile at Robin, though secretly I’m thinking of my need to get home to my father as soon as possible. ‘You’re right, this place is gorgeous. A real find. We’ll need more than a day here to explore.’
‘If you’re sure …’
‘Of course.’
A short while later, we are in our room. It does not appear to have air conditioning, working or otherwise, despite Robin’s promise. But it is surprisingly cool, and boasts a generous double bed and an inviting balcony. The exterior walls seem to be made of rough stone, which is unusual, rather like living inside a cave, but which almost certainly accounts for the pleasant atmosphere
.
Robin opens the floor-length windows and we step outside together. I regret it instantly, shrinking back. The balcony is so dizzyingly high, I guess this part of the hotel must be set into the rock, forming part of the cliff itself. But I don’t want Robin to think I’m a coward.
‘Wow,’ he says, staring out across the plain, then glances back at me in surprise. ‘It’s okay, it’s quite safe.’ He pats the balcony rail. ‘Come on, honey. Take a look.’
I’ve never liked heights, though I love panoramic views. And I have a sudden memory of that flash of light when I first stood on the balcony of my room at the chateau, steeling myself not to be afraid. One of the paparazzi’s cameras, I thought at the time. But it could have been anything.
Lightheaded, a little unsteady, I grip the metal balcony rail with both hands, and force myself to peer over at the sunlit valley floor below us. So far below, in fact, that it’s hard to make out any details in the shimmering heat.
What I can see though is how incredibly high up the cliff-face we are. The sheer drop under my feet is terrifying.
My hands tighten on the rail.
‘Shit.’
He understands at once. ‘Pretty damn high, huh?’
I take a couple of quick steps back, my knees inexplicably weak, and he supports me. ‘Easy,’ he says in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. ‘Scared of heights?’
I take refuge in sarcasm. ‘Oh, just a little.’
‘Yeah, I thought you were. Better not go too near the edge.’
I look round at him. I thought you were. Did he book this room deliberately?
He sees my frown. ‘Hey baby, what is it? Are you upset because of the bill? I’m sorry about that. I’ll reimburse you when we get back.’
‘It’s not that. And I don’t need you to reimburse me, for God’s sake. It’s not important.’
His frown deepens, then he bends to kiss me. His kiss is persuasive, his hands cradling me gently. I turn into his body, hang onto his broad shoulders in the padded biking jacket, and try to forget the staggering drop a few feet away.
But it’s no use.
Robin pulls back, sensing my unease. ‘Perhaps we should change rooms. I can go back down, ask that woman on reception if they have something else available.’