Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  They remained in silence beneath the tree as the laughing chattering group passed them by, calling out ribald comments, whistling and applauding. Caroline’s body was still moving, little spasmodic jerks she was unable to control. It was like being dropped from a plane.

  They waited till the group had passed, the voices disappeared. Then he pushed himself away. He exhaled, gave a short laugh.

  ‘Was that the hand of destiny again?’

  Her body was on fire. She had blushed from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair.

  ‘Caro.’

  Very gently his arms came round her again, helped her to stand, steadied her. With infinite care he smoothed her tangled hair, brushed her shoulders. She winced as his fingers touched her skin.

  ‘I’ve hurt you!’

  He turned her round, exclaiming as his fingers examined the indentations left in her bare skin by the rough tree bark.

  ‘I’m OK, it’s nothing.’

  Her voice wobbled.

  He turned her round to face him again, looked at her. She avoided meeting his eyes.

  They stood there, awkwardly.

  He passed both hands over his face, rubbed his hair.

  ‘We’d better go back.’

  Silently they began to walk towards the square. After a moment, he reached for her hand. Caroline’s mind was blank and seething by turns. Her body still felt flushed. She could have given herself to him, right there, in a public park, next to the street. Anybody could have seen them. She had never done anything like that in her whole life. What was happening? Was he having the same thoughts? He came to an abrupt stop at the end of the street, as if coming to a decision. Putting his hands on her shoulders he turned her towards him. His expression was strange, almost brooding.

  ‘Caroline. I’m sorry. I got carried away.’ He gave another one of those short hard laughs. ‘That’s a cliché, isn’t it? Carried away. But I did, I was. I’m so sorry. Though I never meant to force you, to hurt you, I swear.’

  No, she wanted to say, no that’s not what happened. You didn’t force me. I wanted to. I wanted you to take me, strip me naked right there and then, to hold me, to posses me, to never let me go. I’ve gone mad.

  She would never be able to say that, not in a thousand years, so she said nothing.

  ‘You’re angry. I don’t blame you.’

  ‘No, I’m not, I—’

  She turned her head away in case he could read her thoughts.

  ‘Look at me then.’

  Reluctantly she raised her eyes. The planes of his face, the blue eyes glittering strangely, the half-parted lips. She was drowning.

  He examined every inch of her face with that intent gaze, his eyes moving from her eyes, to her mouth, back to her eyes again.

  Letting his hands fall from her shoulders he shook his head.

  She was pierced with a feeling of loss, followed by a rush of shame. What must he think of her? They had a reputation for being easy, the English girls. Especially after a drink. She would never be able to look him in the eyes again. She made herself move, made herself put one foot in front of the other automatically. At the edge of the square he caught up with her.

  In front of them there was light and music. He took her hand in his, turned it over, kissed her palm gently.

  ‘They’re just over there. The others. You’ll be alright?’

  Then he was gone, and she made her way back to the table on her own, stammering excuses as she sat down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN. WEDNESDAY 7 JULY

  ‘Caroline,’ said Claudie, stepping out on to the terrace with a large basket over one arm. ‘I am thinking to make a tagine. You want to come to the market with me?’

  Caroline jumped to her feet. She’d been up since six, sitting in the tranquil parc, listening to the birds, smelling the fragrance of the syringa. Chewing her nails to stubs.

  ‘I’d love to, Claudie. Just a sec, I’ll get my things.’

  The two of them set off down the hill towards the centre of Biarritz. It was still early, just after eight o’clock. A fresh breeze came in from the sea, bringing the tang of salt and seaweed. Gulls wheeled overhead.

  ‘So.’ Caudie shot her a sideways look.

  ‘So.’

  ‘You are missing my cousin?’

  Edward had been gone for three days. When Caroline got up late on Monday morning, after a sleeplessness night, the house had been virtually abandoned.

  Annabel and Julian had gone to visit Ainhoa, a hillside village near the Spanish border. It had a Michelin restaurant and Julian had taken his fiancée ‘for a nice lunch and a few treats’.

  Jean-Paul had a training session with his cesta punta team.

  And Edward, it seemed, had been called back to Toulouse, for urgent work reasons.

  Claudie had told her all this on Monday morning as she sat in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee. It was Madame Martin’s day off.

  Claudie too was invited out to lunch, with Dominique.

  ‘Why don’t you come with us? I’ll get him to give Antoine a ring.’

  But Caroline insisted she was worn out after her weekend and would just like to sit in the garden and read a book.

  Claudie nodded.

  ‘I keep forgetting you have only been here since Saturday. It was a heavy programme this weekend.’

  She had tilted her head to one side, studying Caroline’s pale face, the dark shadows under her eyes.

  ‘In fact you look worse than when you arrived. That’s no good. You stay here and relax. Take a swim in the pool, have a nice glass of wine. There’s cheese in the fridge, salad, fruit.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that Claudie. I’ve eaten so much since I arrived, I must have put on pounds.’

  Claudie had left, looking like a starlet from the Cannes film festival, high wedge-heel espadrilles, a striped sundress in a clingy material with a frill round the bottom and giant sunglasses. Her long dark hair was wound up in a sophisticated French pleat.

  ‘He won’t be able to resist you,’ said Caroline, forcing a smile.

  Claudie winked.

  ‘He has never been able to resist me. You’re sure you’ll be OK here on your own?’

  ‘I’ve got Figaro.’

  ‘Ah yes. He can pin burglars to the ground with one paw. Also he makes good conversation.’

  Caroline had spent the day alternately lying on a sun chair and pacing up and down the garden. Did Edward despise her? Was that why he’d gone to Toulouse? The ‘problems at work’ thing sounded suspiciously convenient. Although he had been on the phone the day before, hadn’t he? But maybe he couldn’t face seeing her so soon after their...their what? Their fumbled almost-sex in the bushes of a public park? Every time she thought about it the blood rushed to her cheeks. What had got into her? What would Margaret say, if she found out her niece had been cavorting half-naked in a public place like a sex-mad teenager? What if they’d been arrested? People could get arrested for that couldn’t they? Indecent exposure. She got heart palpitations every time she thought about it. The worst thing was, she could still feel his hands on her body, still feel his hardness pressing against her, his voice husky with passion, the look in those blue eyes, the pupils dilated with desire. She could remember it all, in vivid detail, remember how she had wanted him. And still did.

  Now, walking down the hill with Claudie, she took a deep breath of the tangy air. Edward would be back tomorrow apparently. She would have to face him. Don’t think about tomorrow, she admonished herself. Don’t think about last Sunday.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Claudie was saying something.

  ‘Ah Caroline, you are in a day dream! Look at the magnificent view! Look at the sea! Isn’t it marvellous?’

  The narrow streets in the centre were still quiet. They wound their way down to the rue des Halles, to the covered market. An ugly building from outside, with a lot of battleship grey paint, it was a gourmet’s paradise inside.

  I
n spite of the early hour there was a bustle. Caroline felt her spirits lift as they stepped indoors. The tiny bars with their zinc counters were doing a brisk trade in strong espressos. A din came from the produce stalls, where the market sellers, on raised platforms, vaunted the quality of their wares interspersed with rapid-fire banter with the customers in a mixture of languages, French, English and Spanish.

  ‘Deux kilos de saucisse pour la belle dame à la robe rouge!’

  ‘Et vous Monsieur, qu’est-ce qu’il vous faut? Un bon pied de porc pour ce midi?’

  A long queue had formed at one stall where three men in Basque berets were nimbly dodging and dancing past each other reaching for hams, duck legs and trays of charcuterie.

  ‘Madame la Présidente! I love you!’

  The senior ‘beret’ was blowing kisses at a lady in the queue. President of what? thought Caroline. The bridge club? The folk dance society? Whatever it was she gave a disdainful sniff in the direction of the ‘beret’ tossed her black curls and answered in Spanish ‘No te quiere, I don’t love you!’ causing ripples of approving mirth among the line of ladies with baskets.

  She caught up with Claudie, who had come to a halt at a stall with the name ‘Garcia’ written above it. It was decorated with strings of red chilli peppers, the famous ‘piment d’espelette’ and festooned with wreaths and clusters of sausages like Xmas trimmings, long thin ones, clusters of fat little links, knobbly twisted ones dusted with white saltpetre. As Claudie sized up the sausages, Caroline’s eye was drawn to the hams on top of the glass counters, whole salted hams, displayed on special curved wooden stands, dainty black hooves pointing gracefully up in the air ballerina-style. These were the famous Iberican pata negra de bellota. They’d been talking about them one day on television, on the Saturday morning cookery programme she loved to watch. They’d shown pictures of the vast oak forests of Salamanca where the black pigs roamed wild in herds, eating acorns and berries.

  The butcher, playing to the audience, sharpened his long thin knife, then with the flourish of a bull fighter, stroked the blade tenderly along the side of the ham. Translucent slices of the meat, a dark ruby edged with creamy fat, curled over his knife as he slid it down the length of the hock. Caroline’s mouth began to water.

  ‘He’s an artist, no?’

  Claudie was standing by her side, nodding her head in approval as the butcher laid the slices reverently on a piece of waxed paper.

  ‘I’m going to buy some.’

  Impulsively Caroline reached for her purse.

  ‘Ah no Caroline, this ham is very expensive! I am looking for some Toulouse sausages, for this evening, with a nice purée. Something simple.’

  Caroline shrugged.

  ‘You go ahead with the sausages. I’m getting the ham, my treat. We can eat it tomorrow, as a starter. We are en vacances!’

  And baby’s coming back.

  She placed her order, paying close attention as the butcher performed his magic again. She put the packet into Claudie’s basket.

  ‘OK, we have delicious ham, so now we have to find some Estremadura wine to go with it. Follow me.’

  It took a good half hour for Claudie to drag Caroline to the stall which sold the lamb for the tagine.

  ‘Claudie, look at this cheese! It’s made from sheep’s milk. Lait de brebis. Look at those little vine leaves! And they’ve got asparagus! I’ve never seen such fat bunches!’

  ‘Caroline, I think you must change your job. No seriously. Ah here we are.’

  There was another long queue at the Maison de l’Agneau. Laid out behind the glass were different cuts of lamb chops, shoulders of lamb, gigots, racks of lamb, lamb sausages. Caroline tried to take it all in.

  Presiding over the proceedings was lady of a certain age with a regal bearing. Under her white apron she wore a fluffy angora top in Barbie pink. Rubies glittered in her ears, the same colour as her Chanel red lipstick. Her blonde hair was sprayed into an immaculate golden helmet.

  Caroline nudged Claudie.

  ‘It’s Catherine Deneuve.’

  Claudie giggled.

  ‘That is la patronne. The owner’s wife. She has to keep up appearances. Look at that diamond, you can see it through her plastic gloves. Le patron is doing well.’

  Madame, on her raised platform, was playing the crowd. She spread her arms theatrically and apologised graciously to the steadily growing queue.

  ‘They are busy with the orders,’ she said, indicating her husband and a team of assistants who were cutting, sawing and packing meat into Styrofoam boxes.

  The way she imparted this information indicated the customers should be honoured there was any meat left for them at all. They nodded respectfully, an eye on her flashing knives.

  ‘Oui Mesdames?’

  Finally it was their turn.

  Claudie began to order.

  Madame paused.

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘A tagine.’

  Madame smiled.

  ‘I will choose the meat,’ she said, putting away the cuts that Claudie had asked for.

  ‘First, we’ll take the shoulder. With the blade.’

  Her manicured hands in their plastic gloves hovered over the tray of shoulders. She paused, dived on one piece of meat and held it up for Claudie’s inspection, turning it from side to side like a jeweller showing a rare gem.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Claudie.

  They watched as Madame selected a long thin knife and deftly removed the bone, holding that up for inspection too.

  ‘This will be good. For the flavour.’

  She made a neat wax paper package.

  Her eyes travelled over the other trays. ‘The fat.’

  She chose three pieces of neck and weighed them.

  ‘Perhaps one more?’ ventured Claudie.

  Madame complied graciously.

  Caroline looked behind her at the waiting customers. They all had solemn expressions on their faces. No one moved or complained.

  Five minutes later they a basket full of packages and Claudie had handed over a lot of money.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ said the patronne. ‘And give my regards to your mother.’

  She tilted her head in a nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘She knows the family,’ said Claudie under her breath, adding ‘Merci Madame. Bonne journée.’

  ‘Well that’s cleaned out the kitty, but it’s worth it,’ she said, closing the purse. ‘We’ll just get the men to take out their wallets and put in another lot of notes. This is the best lamb on the coast. Now, the vegetables. No! Caroline! We are not going to stay all morning while you fall in love with the aubergines!’

  ‘Merveilleux, truly merveilleux,’ said Caroline as they left the market.

  ‘You know, I’m serious about the job idea. You don’t sound too keen on what you’re doing now, so why not re-train?’ said Claudie. ‘You love food, you’re interested in the way it’s prepared and that dish you cooked for us the other night was excellent.’

  ‘Well I’ve been on a couple of cookery courses. But it’s just a hobby really. Or was a hobby. I kind of lost interest this last year.’

  ‘The salaud.’

  Caroline laughed.

  ‘Yes, the salaud.’

  ‘I think we deserve a coffee, don’t you?’

  They made their way towards the Grand Plage to the colonnaded café beneath the Casino overlooking the bay. The clientele was a mix of chic ladies with small dogs and surfers in flower patterned shorts. They managed to find a table on the crowded terrace.

  The water was full of surfers, bobbing up and down on the swells like a colony of seals.

  ‘It’s so uplifting. Such a tonic.’

  Caroline waved an arm at the wide sweep of the bay flanked by rocky outcrops, the white column of the lighthouse on the promontory to their right. Whitecaps were breaking on the rocks, sending plumes of spray high into the air. They caught the morning sun sparkling like jewels.

  ‘All this lig
ht. And that wonderful ozone smell.’

  ‘Like being on holiday,’ said Claudie with a wicked grin. ‘Look over there. That is the old Bellevue Casino.’ She indicated a newly restored building with a white facade and a curved rotunda overlooking the sea. ‘Built in 1857. It was the start of the Belle Epoque. All the aristocracy of Europe used to come here, but also writers and artists. It was very free, very gay, very avant garde.’

  ‘Really?’ said Caroline, thinking of Victorian England. Nothing very free about that.

  ‘What are those small trees everywhere? The ones on the cliff? I noticed them as we were coming down. They look like little Hobbit trees.’

  ‘That’s tamarisk. It grows well by the seaside.’

  ‘It’s magical. Those soft pink plumes. And the hydragangeas. I don’t think I’ve even seen such magnificent hydrangeas.’

  ‘Ah yes, they are the flower of Biarritz. On every postcard.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Caroline.’ I need to buy some postcards.’

  They walked back along the sea front. The beach was filling up with the morning bathers, laying out beach towels and putting up umbrellas.

  Claudie pointed up the hill.

  ‘See that pink and cream building? That’s the Grand Palais. Where all the royals used to stay. We’ll go there for a drink one evening. Annabel has been going on about it ever since she arrived.’

  Caroline’s euphoria vanished.

  Annabel.

  All day Monday Caroline had been so wrapped up in what had happened between her and Edward at the feria that she hadn’t given a thought to Julian and his problems. But the following day she had waited until the others were busy, then asked to speak to Annabel in private. The prospect was as inviting as a trip to the dentist, but a promise was a promise. Julian was counting on her.

  She’d been running over different scenarios in her mind, trying to find the diplomatic approach. Above all, she admonished herself, you have to remember to keep calm. Adopt a reasonable tone, don’t let Annabel irritate you. Gentle persuasion.