Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  ‘Only 2000?’ said Dominique coming up behind her and tickling her ribs.

  ‘She loves that, really loves it,’ said Jean-Paul as Claudie shrieked and writhed.

  ‘So, Caroline, it is Caroline, isn’t it, I have a terrible memory for names, you are an English rose, one of Edward’s cousins?’

  Antoine was sitting down next to her, leaning in close, a look of interest on his face.

  ‘No she isn’t,’ Edward replied frostily.

  ‘Oops!’ said Antoine, putting up his hands. ‘Just asking.’

  ‘I’m the sister of the fiancée of Edward’s best friend. If you can follow that.’

  Caroline smiled widely at Antoine. He was just as good looking as Dominique. These Basque men. She wondered if he was another hot rabbit.

  ‘Are you and Dominique related?’

  ‘All of us Basques are related, if you go far enough back. But no, he’s an Ibarra and I’m an Arantxa.’

  ‘I won’t even ask how they’re spelt.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been to the Pays Basque? Edward, what are you planning to show our English rose? How long are you staying?’

  ‘We’re going to the Feria tonight,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

  Dominique shot a smouldering look at Claudie.

  ‘You’ll text me when you get there?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Claudie smouldered back.

  Whew, thought Caroline. She hadn’t felt so many hormones zinging around since she was at the 6th Form Dance.

  Antoine looked at his watch.

  ‘Time to go.’

  He stood up, downed his drink.

  ‘You coming Dodo? Or do you have other plans?’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘See you tonight, la rose,’ said Antoine, bending to kiss Caroline goodbye. It was a lingering kiss, pleasantly salty.

  Edward was giving her one of his looks.

  ‘I see you’ve recovered from your morning...shall we say, state of disorientation?’

  Caroline widened her eyes innocently.

  ‘Shall we say...I am just beginning to appreciate the marvels of le pays basque.’

  My God, she thought, am I flirting?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN. SUNDAY 4 JULY

  ‘Where have you all been?’

  Annabel’s injured tones greeted them as they walked on to the terrace. She was painting her toenails.

  ‘The day belongs to those who get up early,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘A French proverb. You see Annabel if you had put on your alarm clock you could have come surfing with us.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Annabel. ‘You could have left a note,’ she continued, turning to Caroline. ‘I didn’t know where you’d gone.’

  ‘Your big sister has to leave a note when she goes out? Maybe ask permission to use the bathroom?’

  Annabel shot a cold look at Claudie.

  ‘Just a question of courtesy. I was getting worried.’

  Caroline went for a diplomatic change of subject.

  ‘Julian not around?’

  ‘He’s gone off looking for ‘The Telegraph’. I told him he’d never get an English paper in Biarritz.’

  ‘Oh yes he will,’ said Edward, ‘there’s a tabac just at the bottom of the hill, got all the foreign press. So, what has Madame M left us for lunch? I’m starving, don’t know about you lot.’

  He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen. Jean-Paul said he was going to take another shower, hot this time. Claudie went to her room to find some paracetamol, saying that her hangover was returning after the aperitif.

  ‘Aperitif? You’ve been having aperitifs?’

  Annabel looked accusingly at her sister, who shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘Somebody got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. What’s the problem, we can’t even have a drink without you moaning?’

  ‘I’m just saying. It would have been nice to be asked.’

  Caroline threw up her hands and followed Claudie upstairs. Paracetamol sounded like a good idea.

  She passed Claudie on her way down, carrying sunglasses and a thick book.

  ‘Anything good?’

  Claudie gave a sexy pout.

  ‘Some inspiration for tonight. With Dodo. Fifty nuances.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Caroline peered at the book she was holding up, in French.

  ‘Oh! ‘Fifty shades of grey’!’

  ‘You have read it of course?’

  ‘Erm...’

  Claudie gave her a look.

  ‘You do know there was a Feminist revolution, about fifty years ago, no? And a sexual revolution as well? We need to have a serious talk, Caroline. Come and join me in the garden. Bring your book with you. What is it, ‘Alice in Wonderland?’’

  Caroline slitted her eyes.

  ‘Good guess. But the unexpurgated version.’

  Claudie threw back her head and gave a laugh.

  They spent the afternoon in various states of semi-consciousness. Claudie and Jean-Paul had given up on the reading front and were stretched out by the pool. Annabel and Julian were on the terrace reading the papers that Julian had brought back. Edward was inside the house, on his phone. Something to do with his ‘new baby’ in Toulouse.

  Caroline was sitting under the blue cedar. She was reading a novel by Patricia Cornwell, one of her favourite authors. Her Kindle kept slipping out of her hands as she nodded off. It seemed unbelievable that she had been here less than twenty-four hours. So many things had happened, the wonderful meal last night, the ridiculous water-fight. One minute they were being all sophisticated and discussing wine vintages, the next they were shooting at each other with water pistols. She smiled. It was fun. She thought back to the morning on the beach with Claudie. It was as if they’d known each other for ages. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. The headache had disappeared. In fact she was feeling good. Relaxed, sleepy, and sexy. Well,wasn’t that what the song said? ‘Sea, sex and sun’.

  She’d first heard it when she was on a school trip to France. An old song, but one that was played every summer. A legend. One of the French boys had it on his Walkman. He told them all about the singer, Serge Gainsbourg, and his English girlfriend, Jane Birkin. There was an even more erotic one, where Serge said, in a sexy French accent ‘Sorry, I am a Frenchman, I do not speak very well English’ and then went on to describe how exciting it was to make love to young Jane, who could be heard moaning loudly in the background. They had all erupted in shocked giggles, and later, at the farewell party, there had been a certain amount of naughtiness going on in the shadows outside the school hall.

  Her thoughts turned to the evening, and the Feria.

  ***

  The town of Bayonne was heaving. They had all piled into the big Renault and were inching along the crowded streets, trying to find a space.

  ‘There, there!’ said Julian, pointing to a car which was pulling out. Jean-Paul shot forward with a screech of tyres and deftly manoeuvred the car into the gap.

  ‘Bravo! Yeah!’ shouted the passengers in the back as he pulled on the handbrake.

  They were still a way from the centre. Jean-Paul set off in front leading them towards the pedestrian precinct where everything seemed to be happening. Crowds of holiday makers, their faces alight with excitement, mingled with the local inhabitants, shouting, singing, throwing streamers, jostling each other playfully.

  ‘Careful no one gets lost!’ cried Jean-Paul over his shoulder. They followed in his wake, clutching hands and keeping their eye on the lean athletic figure bounding ahead, singing a Basque folksong. He was wearing the traditional white shirt and trousers, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck.

  ‘My cousin is a pure-blooded Basque,’ said Edward, leaning forward to shout in her ear. ‘Both his parents both grew up here, went to the lycée together, childhood sweethearts.’

  The music, faint at first, gradually became more distinct. They were in the middle of a ma
ss of people all flowing in the same direction, as if drawn by a mysterious force. They lost their grip on each others’ hands and bobbed along like corks on a wave.

  ‘OK?’

  Caroline swept along by the people on either side of her, turned to see that Edward was keeping a watchful eye.

  ‘Yes, fine, I can still see Jean-Paul, what about the others?’

  ‘They’re right behind, keep following the red handkerchief!’

  Caroline battled on, thinking that there were lots of red handkerchiefs. The narrow street suddenly opened out onto a wide boulevard whose pavements were lined with expectant crowds. She managed to push her way to a parked car where Jean-Paul had found them a space and sank thankfully against the bonnet.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ She began to untangle the paper ribbons from her hair. The music was louder now, an enthusiastic banging of drums mingled with strident trumpets.

  ‘Ringside seats, without the seats,’ said Edward, from behind her. ‘Well spotted JP.’

  ‘Are you alright darling?’

  Julian had his arm round Annabel, half-supporting her. He smoothed back a lock of hair from her forehead and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Oh Jules stop fussing!’

  ‘Here they come.’

  Claudie pointed up the road

  Round a bend came the first of the bands in Basque costume, marching in time to the beat, trumpets flashing gold among the red and white. The crowd stared to clap along to the staccato rhythm, singing and calling out to the musicians. They marched past, blowing into the brass with distended cheeks, banging the drums they carried round their necks, rolling their eyes at the crowd. Caroline felt the excitement grip her, the atmosphere of wild gaiety that fizzed in the air. A group behind them yelled something in Basque, a chant that was taken up by others in the crowd.

  ‘Euskadi! Euskadi!’

  ‘Oh look at that! Did you know they were going to do that Edward?’

  The first float was coming slowly down the street pulled by a gleaming tractor which looked as though it had just come off the showroom floor. The driver, under the obligatory beret, wore a look of satisfaction as he guided his vehicle through the crowd. Behind him on a platform covered in shimmering cloth, a model of Concorde arched skywards. Made out of some space age silver material, flanked by silver-capped flight attendants, the plane glittered against the sky, now a dark blue velvet crisscrossed with the branches of the plane trees.

  ‘It’s your plane!’

  ‘Well, not exactly, mine is about forty years younger. But it’s the symbol of success for southwest France. And isn’t she a beauty?’

  Already the float was past, and another band was marching towards them, trumpets blaring a different tune. For a moment there was a discordant clamour then the musicians drew alongside and the second tune drowned out the first. A group of young people wearing red sashes dashed into the road behind them. Arms linked, they followed the band, dancing lightly in their espadrilles, throwing their legs into the air and singing loudly.

  ‘It’s a Basque folk-song,’ said Jean-Paul by way of explanation, before breaking off to join in, roaring the words and jumping up and down.

  Claudie was looking pained.

  ‘He never could sing in tune,’ she shouted into Caroline’s ear. ‘But he always had the loudest voice.’

  Another float was on its way, the sounds of the folk song receded into the distance. This time a galleon in full sail approached, every detail of the rigging, the mast, the hull executed to perfection using thousands of tightly packed flower-heads.

  Caroline gasped.

  A group of children stood on the deck of the galleon, tossing streamers into the crowd and grinning madly.

  ‘Uh oh! Here comes the sexy bit.’

  Julian was peering over their heads at the next item in the procession.

  ‘Majorettes?’ said Annabel. ‘How tacky!’

  A bunch of young girls pranced past, in tight formation, twirling batons. In front strode the leader, long brown legs swinging beneath the tiny skirt, tossing the baton high in the air and catching it with a look of bored nonchalance on her face.

  ‘Oops!’ said Edward as one of the majorettes in the middle dropped her baton. There was a confused pile-up as she stooped to pick it up, bumping the girl behind who in turn dropped hers. The leader swivelled to face them, dark eyes wrathful, marking time until her minions had got themselves into a semblance of order. The group finally marched off to the sarcastic jeers of the grinning spectators.

  The procession continued for a good twenty minutes, band following band, each playing its own lively tune. Interspersed with the bands were dancers in Basque costume. The girls wore long red skirts and laced bodices echoed in the famous high-laced espadrilles. Float followed float, each one causing gasps and cheers and clapping. In a Chinese pagoda a black-haired maiden in a kimono sat in a grove of almond blossom. Fish swam in an underground grotto where mermaids combed their locks. A flying saucer had landed on a moonscape of strange green rocks and cold mountain peaks.

  As the last float passed, there was a sudden surge forward and the empty street filled with people milling about, dancing, singing, a slowly drifting tide in the wake of the procession.

  Caroline was swept along by a man in a red beret.

  ‘Wait for me!’ called Claudie, grabbing her hand. ‘And me!’ They formed a chain, unable to speak, arms stretched to breaking point, laughing uncontrollably.

  The pressure eased as they spilled into a square where there was room to spread out. Groups began to form under the trees, hung with coloured lights. There was a raised platform in the centre of the square. Someone was speaking into a microphone. Sound blared from loudspeakers then stopped abruptly. A voice boomed saying something incomprehensible then suddenly there was a burst of pop music which had everyone clapping their hands over their ears.

  Edward had somehow got ahead of them and managed to find a table outside one of the cafes that surrounded the square. He and Jean-Paul grabbed empty chairs two at a time and finally they were all sitting down together, gasping.

  ‘C’est merveilleux!’ said Jean-Paul, throwing up his hands and gazing around.

  ‘Oh là là! J’ai soif!’ Claudie had sunk into her chair and was fanning herself with the end of her scarf.

  ‘I’ll get the drinks in.’

  Julian craned his neck in the direction of the makeshift bar where harassed servers were trying to keep up with the demand.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Edward. ‘Beers everyone?’

  Caroline and Claudie asked for wine.

  ‘Right. Back in a couple of hours.’

  Jean-Paul spotted some friends nearby and went over to say hello.

  ‘Hey! Claudie!’

  Antoine and Dominique were coming towards them through the crowd.

  ‘I was going to text you,’ said Claudie. ‘We only just got here.’

  She introduced the two of them to Annabel.

  ‘Ah! Another English rose!’ Antoine kissed Annabel’s hand and was rewarded with a dazzling smile.

  ‘Three beautiful women! Alone!’

  Dominique threw himself down next to Claudie, who turned to Caroline.

  ‘Did I tell you that Dominique and Antoine were on the pelota team with Jean-Paul? In fact they do everything together, everything crazy and dangerous.’

  ‘Pelota,’ said Caroline, trying to remember her guidebook.

  Antoine began to explain, first in halting English, then:

  ‘Tu parles français?’ he asked a gleam of hope in his eyes.

  ‘Un peu.’

  ‘Ah!’ His face cleared and he launched into a rapid-fire explanation with lots of gestures. Annabel switched off after the first couple of minutes and started fiddling with her cell phone.

  Caroline nodded, remembering, as Antoine demonstrated.

  ‘I was reading about it. And I think I’ve seen it on television, or something like it. It was a programme about South America
. Don’t they call it jai alai?’

  ‘South America!’ Antoine was clearly insulted. ‘Yes, it’s been adopted all over the world, but jai alai is our game, a Basque game. It originated here. And it was the Basques who discovered America, you know.’

  Caroline apologised, realising she had ruffled some patriotic pride.

  ‘Hey Jean-Paul!’

  Jean-Paul came back to the table, clasping his friends’ hands with a loud smack.

  ‘Here come the drinks.’

  Edward and Julian were both holding trays of glasses that tilted perilously as they were jostled by the swarm of people on the terraces.

  The music had started and couples were pressing on to the square.

  Julian was introduced and came in for some joshing as the friend of the ‘faux Basque’, the fake Basque as they called Edward.

  ‘Look at him, blondie, calls himself a true son of the pays.’

  Edward put up with the jokes good-naturedly, boasting that he was not only able to play pelota with the best of them, he could also play cricket like Gary Sobers.

  ‘Who?’ Antoine and Dominique spoke in chorus. ‘Cricket?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Julian. ‘We’ll organise a match on the beach, Edward, what do you say? Show these innocents what a fast ball really means.’

  Caroline smiled. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. All except Annabel who was nursing her drink with a sulky expression.

  ‘Everything OK sweetheart?’ said Julian, guiltily.

  ‘Is that all everyone talks about here? Surfing and pelota and cricket? I thought we’d come out to dance.’

  She looked at Antoine from under her lashes.

  ‘I’m sure Monsieur Antoine here isn’t going to leave a lady sitting down when there’s some music playing.’

  Antoine spluttered into his beer and made to get up.

  ‘Of course, please excuse me, that is, if that’s OK with you Julian?’

  ‘Go ahead old chap,’ said Julian scarcely hiding his relief.

  Annabel flung him a look and marched off to dance with Antoine.

  ‘I know,’ he said to Caroline, ‘I’m going to have to take lessons. I’m hopeless with these modern dances. Two left feet. They don’t seem to do Viennese waltzes any more.’