And, she admonished herself as she went back into the bedroom, this was the perfect opportunity to do some bridge-building with her sister. There had been times when Annabel had behaved so badly that Caroline had never wanted to see her again. ‘That’s it, finished,’ she’d vowed, furious at seeing how callously her sister had hurt someone, Margaret, Birdie, herself. Then, when she’d had time to calm down, she’d find herself missing the closeness they had once shared, the long intimate talks when they were younger, when Annabel would fling herself onto Caroline’s bed and pour out her woes to her big sister. Maybe here, in the relaxed ambience of the Villa Julia, they could talk things over, smooth out the knots, get back some of that earlier intimacy.
Her thoughts returned, as they had done constantly over the last couple of weeks, to Edward.
That first meeting. Half asleep in the chair, alone, relaxed, defences down. He had walked out of the wood and into her sanctuary. She could still remember how it had felt as he stood over her, there had been a sort of glow about him. The tree had enclosed them both in its green shade and for a few seconds everything had stopped, the movement of the air, the birdsong, like being suspended in the eye of a hurricane. When she managed to get to her feet her first instinct had been to step back, to escape. Yet something kept her there. And the moment he touched her...the memory still brought shivers. She had been so mixed up that weekend, so vulnerable. Whatever had gone on between her and Edward was complicated by what was going on between her and Annabel, her feeling of being used and manipulated.
And then there was the evening in London. Once again that fatal attraction, that magnetism, and once again the image of her sister intruding on the rush of emotion. She couldn’t quite rid herself of a reticence, mistrust even, which affected her response to him. It was as though something was going on in the background, another drama being played out behind the scenes. Nothing she could see and hear, just something in the air.
And in any case, the thought had struck her several times, what did she actually know about him beyond a few basic facts? She’d only met him twice. He had appeared to be attracted to her, but what did that mean? For all she knew he had a string of mistresses in Toulouse. Maybe even an ex-wife. Maybe even a not-so-ex-wife, God forbid. And even if there was something else, some deeper current pulling them towards each other, was that what she really wanted?
It had only been a year since the break up with Liam. A year in which she had learnt some painful lessons. Attraction, desire, love. All emotions that could strip you raw, leave you exposed, change you, make you doubt yourself. At least, that had been her experience. Did she really want to step back into that terrible dance once again?
Recently, the thought had crept into her mind that she might one day meet someone else. Someone mature, gentle, with whom she might find some measure of happiness. An older man perhaps. ‘Looking for mature man, good sense of humour, for outings together’. Those were the ads she lingered over when she read the Sunday papers. An easy, uncomplicated, affectionate relationship. Companionship. Strolling hand in hand through the countryside. Visits to the theatre. Watching old movies on TV.
Now there was an image. She and Edward sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea watching ‘Gone with the Wind’. ‘Pass the digestive biscuits would you darling?’ ‘Of course dear. Do you fancy another cuppa?’ Edward Rayburn, handsome, confident, successful. Athlete, extrovert, charmer of women. Why on earth would a man like that want to sit on a sofa and drink tea with someone like her?
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Caroline MacDonald, she told herself, switch off your brain. Stop analysing. Stop fussing. You are on holiday. Stop hunching your shoulders. Think prima ballerina. Actually, you look quite nice. You look different. You are An Other. Go and have that drink.
Emerging on to the terrace a second time was like stepping into an Impressionist painting. She slipped on her sunglasses and gazed at the red orb on its path towards the horizon. The darkening sea was flushed with pink, the pines silhouetted against the tender blue of the evening sky.
‘Caro! Come and join us!’
She moved across to the group sitting at the end of the terrace, chairs turned to face the setting sun. Julian, Jean-Paul and Claudie. Jean-Paul was holding out a glass. Its sides were beaded with moisture, and oranges and raspberries floated among the bubbles.
‘Merci beaucoup Jean-Paul. It looks… merveilleux!’
‘Aha!’ A gleam of appreciation lit up the smile in his eyes.
‘Here’s to Jean-Paul, le roi des cocktails!’ Julian raised his glass in an appreciative salute. ‘Our hosts, the King of Cocktails and his beautiful twin Claudette, the Queen of, erm, the erm, Vegetables!’
Claudette groaned as they all laughed.
‘Julian. You know how to compliment a woman. Now I begin to understand your fiancée, why she is so often grumbling.’
Julian protested hotly.
‘Not at all! I was thinking of Nigella, Domestic Goddess. Now there’s a woman for you.’
‘Nigella?’ asked Jean-Paul.
‘Ah Nigella Lawson, yes, we have her programme in France now,’ said Claudette. ‘OK Julian, I forgive you. She is a very sexy lady. Jean-Paul, why you don’t watch her programme? Maybe you learn to cook at the same time.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Caroline ‘you must tell me about the arrangements, who does the cooking cleaning and so on. How much to put in the food kitty. Is there anything you would like me to do for this evening?’
She was already putting down her glass. Julian patted her head, grinning.
‘Ah Caroline, Caroline. Ignore her,’ he told the others. ‘She’s always like this, jumping up to do all the work. If she had her way we would spend our time lying on the terrace while she waited on us hand and foot.’
‘I like that idea,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘No but seriously Caroline, we are in France here, we French believe in the Republic. Liberty Equality Fraternity. We are all equal. I am talking about the men of course. Claudette, I am warning you. If you throw that cushion at my head I shall be obliged to drop you in the pool.’
Claudie contented herself with a curl of the lip.
‘No really, it’s very cool here. Very, how do you say it, chilled out. We have our routine. Madame Martin our housekeeper has been with our family for twenty, maybe a hundred years?’
Caroline smiled.
‘Maybe since the villa was built, in 1899?’
‘Ah!’ The gleam of admiration was back in Jean-Paul’s eyes.
‘Good, Caroline, good. You are getting the rules fast, maybe thinking to beat me at my game? I warn you I am very competitive. So, Madame Martin, that venerable lady, is The Chief. She arrives in the morning to do some cleaning, tell everybody her opinions on the government, tell Claudie she is too thin, tell me I am too untidy, I must pick up the towels in the bathroom. While she is giving her orders she makes a cold lunch, usually a salad, and gives us a list of shopping to do for the next day. In the evening, we decide to cook together if we feel like it, or go out to eat if not.’
‘And luckily for us,’ said Julian ‘Claudette did feel like cooking tonight. A special meal for our latest arrival, and when I say special, Caroline, believe me, I am not exaggerating.’
‘I did smell something delicious as I came down. That’s so nice of you Claudette. Claudie. But you must let me help.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Claudette, rising gracefully from her chair. ‘But tonight, all is ready. I just go to take a quick shower and change. Caroline you look so pretty. A French girl must not be beaten.’
She winked and disappeared indoors. Caroline lay back against the cushions savouring a feeling of relaxed wellbeing. She trailed her fingers across the smooth stone of the terrace, eyes half-closed.
‘Oh my God!’
Suddenly she sprang upright, almost spilling her drink.
The others half rose in alarm then began to laugh.
‘Ah, I see you have met Figaro.’
/> ‘I thought it was a snake!’
Goosebumps had risen on her arms at the contact with the unexpected slithery presence that had brushed against her hand.
‘Figaro is no snake. A little pig, perhaps, a small bear.’
The creature in question, a black and white cat, must have weighed a good 12 pounds. He strolled innocently to a place on the terrace where the sun had warmed the flagstones and flung himself down, a picture of exhaustion.
‘Figaro you devil. See what you have done to Caroline? She nearly had a heart attack.’
Figaro emitted a loud purr and slitted his green eyes against the sun.
‘He looks just like Zorro,’ said Caroline, laughing.
‘Well he’s got the mask of Zorro,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘But the stomach of Sergeant Garcia.’
Figaro rolled on to his back and obligingly gave them a view of his vast white paunch.
‘I think he is trying to tell us something,’ said Julian. ‘Probably related to food. And, talking about food, where on earth have Annabel and Edward got to?’
‘Ah,’ said Jean-Paul with a wink at Caroline ‘Maybe my wicked handsome cousin has run away with your girlfriend, Julian. Think of the scandal! But there are many beautiful girls in Biarritz to console you, not to mention Caroline, here of course.’
Caroline struck a pose with her drink. She was quickly getting the hang of Jean-Paul. She liked him. Teasing was his default mode.
‘This is heaven,’ she sighed, settling back against the cushions once more. ‘And so is this drink, Jean-Paul. Félicitations!’
‘A hint!’ Jean-Paul sprang to his feet reaching for her glass.
‘Oh no I didn’t mean it like that! Now I’m embarrassed. No really I won’t have another, thanks. You know I was up early this morning, I don’t want to fall asleep before we have dinner.’
‘You don’t like my drink.’
‘Resign yourself Caroline, resign yourself,’ said Julian.
Caroline resigned herself.
‘Just a small one. Thanks.’
‘And a large one for me please,’ said Julian. He turned to Caroline. ‘Don’t you think—’
He broke off suddenly and listened. Figaro had rolled over and turned his head in the direction of the drive. They heard the sound of a car engine, the distant clang of the gate.
‘Here they are!’
Caroline averted her eyes from the look of relief and delight that spread across Julian’s face. She felt her stomach begin its pancake flips as she got up and followed the others round the side of the house.
Annabel was taking off her sunglasses as she climbed out of a rather battered-looking Renault. She and Caroline had not met since Margaret’s birthday in May. Seeing her sister her eyes widened.
‘Darling!’ her surprise was evident.
As they kissed each other, Caroline caught a flash in those hyacinth eyes, a look of—was it envy? It was gone in a moment. Annabel straightened and said:
‘So darling you arrived safely! Is that a new skirt? Not to mention the new hair do. Very chic.’
She raised a hand instinctively to smooth her own ruffled locks. Suddenly she remembered her fiancé.
‘How was the drive my pet?’ she asked, turning her head to one side to offer him a cheek.
‘Good to see you again Caroline.’
Caroline literally jumped. She had been absorbed in her contemplation of Annabel and Julian, her sister’s rather cool greeting, Julian’s disappointment. She turned, and her eyes widened. An unfamiliar Edward stood in front of her, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his arms and legs darkly tanned. His hair was longer than she remembered it, curling down his neck, bleached almost white by the sun. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, his jaw was covered in a dark blonde stubble. There was something else about him too, a sort of foreignness she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was a reflex, to blend into his surroundings, his French side coming out now that he was with his family. Whatever the reason she suddenly felt quite shy, as though being introduced to a stranger. Edward was looking at her with similar bemusement.
‘You look marvellous.’
He leaned forward to kiss her. Then, still holding her arms, he took a step back and smiled at her with such frank admiration that she blushed.
‘Thank you. It was our shopping trip. You know, with Yvette.’
‘Yes. You were wearing a stunning little lace number that evening if I remember rightly.’
Caroline realised they were staring at each other and hastened to add:
‘The villa is lovely. And the garden. The photos didn’t do it justice.’
‘Really?’ He was still holding her arms. ‘I’m so glad you like it. Are you all settled in? Did the twins look after you? What time did you arrive?’
‘Everyone’s been wonderful. Julian was at the airport, Claudie showed me my lovely bedroom and we’ve all been sitting outside, watching the sun go down and sampling one of Jean-Paul’s cocktails. I feel as though I’ve been on holiday for a week.’
‘How was the fiesta?’ Julian interrupted their exchange.
Edward let go of Caroline and slung an arm round Julian’s shoulders.
‘The party’s still in full swing. I had a job dragging your fiancée away. It’s due to last all weekend, you know. We were thinking we might go over tomorrow evening, join in with the fun? Unless you’re too tired?’
He turned to Caroline solicitously.
‘Oh! I feel great! I’d love to go. What is it exactly?’
‘It’s the Feria de Bayonne. An excuse to go mad, drink, dance, sing, get into a fight. Fall in love with a beautiful Basque temptress. There are processions, floats, bands, you name it, they’re doing it!’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ said Julian. ‘I hope you didn’t overdo it darling?’
He slipped a protective arm round Annabel’s waist.
‘OK everyone, à table!’
Claudie’s shout came from the terrace where the table was set and candles lit.
Annabel insisted she had to run upstairs and freshen up ‘just two minutes.’ Jean-Paul checked the thermometer and gave a little whistle. ‘Going up. Twenty-seven,’ he said with a grin.
As they sat down, the pines filled the air with their evening fragrance. The underwater lights had been switched on in the swimming pool, and it shimmered like an aquamarine at the foot of the steps. Solar lights appeared one by one like fireflies among the trees further down the garden. The air was balmy, not a breath of wind.
Annabel re-appeared in low cut white dress just as Claudie was putting the food on the table. As they ate, she regaled them with a high-spirited account of the afternoon in Bayonne, the procession of floats, the music, the lively crowds filling the streets. Caroline watched her sister, noting with relief her good mood, the effortless ease with which she captivated her audience, the life and vitality which sparkled in her eyes. This was the Annabel she loved, the person who made everyone feel part of the conversation. The Annabel of infinite charm. She felt herself relaxing more and more as they ate. They were drinking a delicious Basque wine, an Irouleguy. Caroline had never heard of it.
‘Igou-rou-gely?’
Everyone laughed.
‘Legy, Legy. Iroulegy.’
She had difficulty getting her tongue round the syllables.
Claudette’s dish had been greeted with whistles of admiration. She had prepared a roast of veal stuffed with olives, served with a version of ratatouille which she said she’d thrown together ‘from the inspiration of the market’.
‘Told you, Queen of the Veggies,’ said Julian. ‘And the roast veal. And the olives. If I wasn’t already engaged, Claudie, I’d be forced to drop to one knee.’
‘And I would accept,’ said Claudie, blowing him a kiss.
Ahem, thought Caroline noticing her sister’s face, time to change the subject.
‘This is absolutely wonderful Claudette. I’d love the recipe.’
Caroline had fallen like a starving woman o
n the tender pink veal, the fresh southern vegetables with their spicy sauce enhanced with Espelette pepper. Her eyes lit up at the platter of local cheeses, the yellow plate of fat juicy peaches and nectarines which bore no resemblance to their pale English counterparts.
‘Caro darling.’
Her sister made a dabbing motion at her chin.
‘Sorry.’ Caroline pulled a face and mopped up the dribble of peach juice. ‘Didn’t have much lunch,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I was a bit nervous on the flight. But I’ll do the shopping tomorrow. And cook. And put extra money in the kitty.’
‘Caroline only eats once a month,’ said Edward. ‘I saw her do the same thing with a plate of mussels.’
Jean-Paul was nodding approvingly.
‘Our competition is going to become a fight to the death Caroline.’
He sharpened his knife and speared a hunk of goat’s cheese, with a ‘Beat that!’ look that set everyone laughing.
The evening settled round them, more lights appeared under the trees. Against a distant hum of traffic, the sounds of nature asserted themselves. Crickets chirped their song of summer and somewhere in the distance a chorus of frogs started up. Figaro chased moths.
‘Not a chance mon vieux,’ said Edward with a hoot of laughter as the cat made a particularly ungraceful leap and almost fell off the terrace. ‘Too fat. Jean-Paul is taking you jogging tomorrow.’
Figaro slunk under a chair to sulk.
‘It’s so warm,’ said Caroline. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Yep. Summer has finally arrived.’
Edward leaned forward to re-fill her glass as he spoke. His arm brushed against hers. His skin was deeply tanned, the hairs a pale gold. His muscles rippled as he tilted the bottle. She caught a faint smell of sun oil. She got that melting feeling inside, felt dizzy. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking, she thought, but lifted her glass all the same.
Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel Page 15