Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  The bedroom door opened. Birdie edged her way inside with exaggerated care.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh do stop whispering and hovering about!’ snapped Margaret. ‘Either come in or go out.’

  Birdie and Caroline exchanged looks. Birdie came in, followed by Titus doing his best to be invisible.

  ‘It’s all planned,’ announced Margaret as Birdie perched carefully on the side of the bed. ‘You and Caroline are to go up to town and buy whatever’s necessary. I shall sign a cheque.’

  ‘But Aunt—’

  ‘No ‘buts’! It’s all arranged. I shall take it as a personal insult Caroline if you cannot indulge the whim of a person who has sacrificed the best years of her life to look after you and your sister.’

  The violins soared. Exit left Russian Czarina, enter right Joan of Arc. Margaret proceeded to list the various trials and tribulations she had suffered bringing up two orphaned children until Caroline finally threw up her hands.

  ‘Alright I’ll go! I, Caroline MacDonald, your ungrateful niece do solemnly swear that I will go up to town with Birdie and blow my hard-earned money on some entirely frivolous and unwanted clothes for my holiday in Villa Julia with its view of the Grand Palais!’

  ‘Caroline. There is no need to take that tone. In your heart of hearts you know I’m right.’

  It was impossible to win a battle with Margaret. Through clenched teeth, Caroline felt herself beginning to smile, the smile turned into a laugh.

  ‘There, that’s much better,’ said Margaret innocently. ‘You have such a charming smile my dear. And excellent teeth, thanks to my insistence on regular visits to the dentist. Birdie I think it’s time for a medicinal glass of scotch. I’m quite worn out. Caroline never used to be this difficult.’

  ‘Caroline is here, in front of you, Auntie. You have won. But, just one thing, it’s very very generous of you to offer to treat me. But please, no, don’t argue, no cheque, I was joking about the hard earned money. And I know that you two—’ she hesitated, not wanting to spark off another argument ‘look, we all know how much the house is costing, it’s no good beating round the bush. We need to sit down and talk seriously about money. Very soon. It’s not fair that you two should have to meet all the expenses. I can help, I have savings, and in any case I was thinking about putting my flat on the market.’

  She threw a glance at Birdie, an appeal for support. But Margaret and Birdie were exchanging looks.

  ‘My dear I appreciate your concern. I really do. It’s quite typical. I’ve never heard such nonsense, putting your flat on the market, next you’ll be selling your body. No,’ Margaret raised a hand as Caroline’s mouth fell open, ‘no, my dear, that’s all quite unnecessary.’

  ‘Aunt Margaret. You can’t afford to spend your money on clothes for me. What about the roof? Come on, be reasonable.’

  Birdie gave a little cough and fiddled with the counterpane. The two women exchanged another look, then Margaret announced majestically:

  ‘Currently, I am happy to announce that expense is no object.’

  Caroline laughed.

  ‘What, you found £5000 in the secret drawer of the writing box?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no, not in a secret drawer. And not in your delightful present. Also, ahem, quite a bit more than £5000. We were going to tell you yesterday, but then Annabel and Julian had to rush off.’

  Margaret paused and put her head on one side, rather coyly.

  ‘We, that is to say Birdie and I, we have had a Win.’

  Both women were studiously avoiding meeting her eyes.

  ‘Yes. Thanks to our numbers. My birthday, Birdie’s birthday, Titus’s birthday.’

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘Yes my dear, I do mean. We’ve been playing for years, it’s about time something came up.’

  ‘Are you...have you...you’re not telling me—’

  ‘Yes my dear we are telling you. The National Lottery, bless it.’

  The two of them had been buying Lottery tickets ever since the scheme started. And they were not averse to a flutter on the horses, Caroline knew. Soames the gardener often gave them tips from his nephew who worked at Newbury. She stared at her aunt, speechless. They had actually had a win!

  ‘It was last Saturday. I have to say we couldn’t quite believe it. We had to check the numbers several times. Then we were so stunned we had to get the Macallan out, ended up getting quite tipsy, didn’t we Birdie? Oh it’s not millions. Just a nice few thousands. But I think we’re on a roll. Now Birdie, this calls for a little celebration, doesn’t it?’

  ‘As a matter of fact Margaret I brought up a bottle from the cellar yesterday. Pol Roger Millesimé. I thought we could drink it last night when we announced our news, but what with Annabel and Julian leaving early I left it in the fridge.’

  ‘Quite right Birdie. It would have been nice to drink it all together, such a pity they had to rush off, we really weren’t expecting that. But after all it is my 80th, and we have won the Lottery, and Caroline is going off for an exciting holiday in Biarritz. I think that justifies a few bubbles, don’t you? And from the look on Caroline’s face, she needs a stiff drink. You can close your mouth now, dear.’

  ‘Would you give me a hand Caroline?’ Birdie was getting to her feet. ‘I can never seem to wrestle the cork out without getting the wretched stuff all over the kitchen.’

  After the door had closed behind the two of them, Margaret tried to settle herself more comfortably in the bed. A sudden spasm contorted her features. The pain in her hip began to throb in earnest. She reached for the packet of anti-inflammatories. She detested the things. They eased the pain, but they sent her stomach haywire. Still, she reflected, swallowing the tablet, on the whole it had been a very satisfactory morning.

  Persuading Caroline hadn’t been easy. The effort had left her exhausted but content. And she had seen her niece laugh, no giggle, for the first time this weekend. That alone was worth everything else. Her face, when she heard about the Lottery! She could hear her excited laughter coming from the kitchen. If only this holiday worked out well. She was beginning to seriously worry about Caroline. Too pale, too thin, constantly twisting her hands around. But it was not only the physical symptoms. Caroline, always neat and meticulous was becoming, what did they say nowadays? Over the top. That was it. Only yesterday, at lunch, the minute they had swallowed the last mouthful she had leapt to her feet and swept all the plates away before anyone could be offered a second helping! And personally Margaret would have liked a second helping of Birdie’s excellent apple crumble. The coffee had to be drunk at breakneck speed so that the table could be cleared, the flowers put back in the exact centre, even the crumbs swept up from the terrace instead of leaving them for the birds to peck at. It had worn Margaret out to watch her. Worn her out, and worried her desperately.

  If only things had worked out with Liam. For the hundredth time Margaret wondered what had gone wrong. He had seemed a nice enough boy on the face of it. Maybe too full of himself at times, a bit lacking in a sense of humour. But nobody was perfect. And they’d been together a good while, Margaret was already making wedding plans in her head. It would be lovely to have a wedding at Willowdale. And then, all of a sudden, it was over. A stony-faced, dry-eyed Caroline, refusing to give any details. ‘Mutual consent’. ‘Just hadn’t worked out.’ ‘People change, grow apart.’ In vain had Margaret cajoled. Caroline had a stubborn streak. Once she decided to turn in on herself like a clam shrinking into a shell there was nothing to be done.

  Margaret’s thoughts drifted to her niece’s forthcoming trip to town to buy new clothes. If only she were well enough to go with her. But this wretched pain in her hip. It was awful to grow old, to know that your mind was still that of a twenty-year-old but your body refused to do what you told it. And Birdie, could Birdie really be trusted to push Caroline into the right purchases? Her clothes sense was almost as bad as Margaret’s. No, she’d have to come up with a better scheme.
She’d had an idea the previous day, maybe there was a way after all. Reaching for the leather-bound address book which lay on the bedside table she ran her fingers through the numbers. Davidson, Duncan, there it was, Delorme, Yvette Delorme. Heaving herself upright with a sharp intake of breath at the pain she reached for the telephone.

  The last time she had seen Yvette had been a couple of years ago for a family wedding, just before the arthritis had started to get really serious. She would have been well into her sixties by then, unbelievable though it seemed. Of course Yvette had always taken care of her figure.Well, French women just do. She had been a wee bit plumper than when Margaret first met her all those years ago, but it was a plumpness that suited her, gave her face a youthful roundness. Unless of course Yvette had actually had some work done, collagen fillings or whatever they did these days. And she had always had the most wonderful hairdresser who knew just how to keep her thick dark hair looking as natural as it did in her twenties, without a hint of grey.

  The phone was picked up and a voice with an English accent announced that she had reached the Delorme residence. One of the retainers, no doubt.

  ‘Hello? Could I speak to Madame Delorme please? This is Margaret MacDonald.’

  There was a pause while the retainer went off to fetch the mistress of the house.

  ‘Margaret! What a lovely surprise! How are you my dear?’

  Yvette’s voice had kept that oh-so-charming accent. The two of them exchanged pleasantries then Margaret came briskly to the point.

  ‘Yvette my dear, I shan’t beat about the bush. I have the most enormous favour to ask…’

  At the other end of the line, Yvette Delorme smiled. Margaret hadn’t changed. She listened, nodding occasionally and saying ‘Mmm’ while her friend explained.

  ‘Margaret. Do you really need to ask? I would be delighted. When would you like me to meet Caroline?’

  They discussed possible dates, different rendezvous.

  ‘If she could come down early on the Saturday, that would be best. I’ll make her an appointment with Marcel.’

  Margaret gave a smile of satisfaction. Marcel was the hairdresser.

  ‘We could have lunch in town afterwards, then the shops in the afternoon. It would be wonderful! Ever since Marie-Claire had been in the States I have really missed our shopping expeditions together, just mother and daughter, you know? It will be lovely to take Caroline round the boutiques, Marie-Claire knows all the best ones, and of course the most expensive ones, unfortunately for her maman!’

  Yvette rattled on for another ten minutes about her daughter’s new life in San Francisco.

  ‘Yvette my dear that’s so wonderful. I’ll get it all sorted out this end. Caroline will be down for her day of pampering. I’ll call you back to give you the final details. Merci beaucoup, dear Yvette, you are a true friend. Give your delightful husband a big kiss from me!’

  With renewed expressions of affection and effusive greetings to Birdie, Yvette finally hung up and Margaret fell back against the pillows, a smile on her face. Everything was arranged. All was now in the more than capable hands of Yvette. A hint of malice crept into her blue eyes. Poor Caroline, she almost felt sorry for her. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Now, what about this Rayburn boy?

  ‘Champagne!’ said Birdie and Caroline, bursting into the room.

  CHAPTER NINE. SATURDAY 12 JUNE

  Two weeks later on a fine June morning Caroline stood on the doorstep of a house in Belgravia with trepidation in her heart. It had taken her a few minutes to gather the courage to pull the ornate brass bell gleaming on one side of the black painted door. She had stared desperately at the clipped bay tree standing in a smart tub near the step wondering if there was enough time to change her mind, escape down the street and hail a passing taxi. Her thoughts were interrupted by a maid in a starched white apron who greeted her and showed her inside. She had a confused notion of acres of blue carpet leading to the curve of a staircase, potted palms reflected in gilt framed mirrors before finding herself alone in a white-panelled salon hung with soft green drapes. An oriental carpet covered with intertwining flowers and foliage spread out before her. Through the open windows at the far end of the room she glimpsed a green courtyard where a fountain splashed.

  ‘Caroline my dear! Let me have a look at you!’

  Caroline turned. The person who had entered the room was petite and curvaceous, stunningly elegant in a pink two piece suit with an oyster satin blouse. She didn’t look a day over forty-five, though Caroline knew this old friend of her aunt’s from the days of the Diplomatic Corps must now be well into her sixties.

  ‘How are you Madame Delorme?’

  Yvette Delorme leaned forward to kiss Caroline’s cheek, then stepped back, her eyes narrowing in appraisal. Though she had made a particular effort with her dress that morning, Caroline felt provincial and dowdy next to Yvette’s Parisian chic. But she had no time to reflect on the shortcomings of her appearance. Yvette took her by the arm, chattering away, and ushered her into the vestibule where the maid waited by the door holding an oyster leather handbag and matching scarf.

  ‘We’ll have coffee chez Marcel. I’m sure you must be dying for a cup but we have a really full day ahead of us so, en route! It seems like an age since I last saw you Caroline! Let me see, was it Marie-Claire’s wedding? Good heavens! Time flies. Marie-Claire was married seven, no eight! years ago this August! Imagine! It seems like yesterday! And how is dear Margaret? What a shame about this arthritis of hers, she would have loved to be with us.’

  Yvette was propelling Caroline down the steps towards a Bentley which waited by the kerb.

  ‘I thought it would be quicker if Rollins took us directly chez le coiffeur, then dropped us in Oxford Street. It’s so much easier than scrambling for taxis. Shopping in London has become a madness!’

  Caroline scarcely felt the car move off. She sank back against the soft upholstery smelling of expensive leather and French perfume, her mind reeling.

  ‘I’ve arranged for Birdie to meet us at twelve-thirty, at the Savoy,’ Yvette continued. ‘We’ll have a quick cocktail, just to give us a little energy, you know, a light lunch, then in the afternoon, we attack the shops!’

  She laughed in excitement and squeezed Caroline’s arm.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to our outing! Marie-Claire used to come to town once a month and we always had our day of shopping.’

  Lunch at the Savoy. A quick cocktail. A chauffeur and a Bentley. Caroline didn’t know whether to giggle like a madwoman or utter a long howl of panic.

  ‘Here we are, he’s only five minutes away, so convenient. Thank you Rollins, I’ll ring when we need picking up.’

  Caroline accepted the hand offered by Rollins, stepped out of the car and gave an apprehensive look at the elegant facade with ‘Chez Marcel’ written over the door in swirling gold letters. As they went inside Yvette laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  ‘By the way chérie I have the most strict instructions from your Aunt that you are not to open your purse once today, on pain of the most dire consequences, for both of us!’

  Caroline opened her mouth to protest but Yvette cut her short.

  ‘She has arranged everything. I for one am in too much awe to disobey her. Now come and meet Marcel.’

  Marcel was a tiny intense Frenchman who smiled reassuringly at her reflection as she sat down.

  ‘So, you are Caroline. I am Marcel. And today…’ he lifted up various strands of her hair, turning her one way and the other, scrutinising her profile, her neck, before swinging her round to face the mirror again.

  ‘Today, Caroline, I am going to perform some magic. I am going—’ he snapped his fingers— ‘to transform you. To make you An Other. An Other, but...’ he tilted his head and studied her intently, ‘the Same. You understand what I am saying?’

  Not a clue. She nodded obediently.

  ‘Good. The True Caroline. Still herself, yet also An Other. Will
you let me do that?’

  She nodded again, mesmerised by Marcel’s piercing black eyes, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Hmm, basically you know you have a not so bad colour, kind of dark blond. Maybe too dark. Maybe a bit mouse. I think we just change the mouse, no? Maybe into a lion? A sun-kissed lion?’

  The maestro snapped his fingers, and three assistants rushed to his side.

  ‘Now, while Marie prepares the colour, a little espresso, to give you courage, no? I see in your eyes you are thinking ‘what is this Marcel going to do with me?’ But Marcel is an artist. Do not worry. Anna please come with me, I think a base of blond doré, and for the highlights...’

  Time passed in a blur. As she lay back with Marie or Anna or one of the other glamorous assistants massaging a sweet smelling conditioner into her hair with skilful hands, Caroline felt the tension draining away. She thought of her last visit to the hairdresser’s, three years ago? Four? That was when she had worn her hair quite short.

  Anna blotted the moisture from her hair with a thick towel and led her over to the mirror. Four years ago… it was Liam who had persuaded her to let her hair grow long. And have it coloured a dark chestnut. He had loved to lean over and slowly unpin the piled up masses when she got back from work, letting her hair tumble free around her shoulders, spilling over the strict suit jackets he chose for her. And then, slowly, he would instruct her which items of clothes to remove, in which order.

  ‘That’s right my beauty. My Spanish-eyed beauty. Good girl. Oh you good little girl, come here.’

  She shivered.

  Suddenly Marcel was behind her again, wielding scissors and clips.

  With the speed and grace of a bullfighter he darted from one side to the other, lifting, snipping, shaping. Caroline winced as she saw long strands of hair falling to the floor. She closed her eyes as Marcel attacked from the front, wondering what she would see when she dared to open them again.