Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  It had been a catastrophe.

  She realised Claudie was saying something.

  ‘Today, cool. We swim, we lie in the sun, we read. We re-charge our batteries. Dinner is easy. Jean-Paul will cook the sausages on the barbecue. If you would like to help me prepare the tagine, we can do it this afternoon, at the end of the siesta. So tomorrow it will taste better. Tomorrow evening we prepare a little party, with the ham, the tagine. To celebrate the return of mon cousin. That’s a good reason to celebrate, no?’

  Claudie shot a look at Caroline who was pushing open the gate of the villa and did not reply.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THURSDAY 8 JULY

  The next day the heatwave hit.

  Caroline bumped into Jean-Paul as she was returning to the Villa Julia after an early morning walk. Jean-Paul was in his jogging kit, panting as he crested the hill.

  ‘Hi Caroline, you’re an early bird.’

  ‘Bonjour Jean-Paul.’

  He gave her a big sweaty kiss, grinning as she pulled a face.

  ‘Tomorrow you can come with me. Five o’clock start.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘We’re in for some seriously hot weather.’

  She had noticed the air was thick and unmoving even at seven in the morning. The sea too was curiously flat and oily, no waves, just the barest frill of foam and beyond, a pale sapphire expanse stretching to the horizon. She’d sipped a coffee at one of the little places on the harbour, le port des pêcheurs. White painted houses with red pantiled roofs clustered at the foot of the cliff. Behind, sombre green vegetation, scrubby pines and tamarisk, clung to the hillside. At the top the church of Sainte Eugénie rose into a bleached sky. It was all so lovely. So why did there have to be problems?

  They pushed open the gates and walked up the drive together. Figaro strolled to meet them, tail held high like a pennant.

  By noon the sky had become the colour of molten steel. They ate in the kitchen, the coolest room on the north side of the house. Caroline was glad that she and Claudie had cooked the tagine the day before. Claudie had added apricots this morning to give them time to absorb the flavour of the rich sauce. Jean-Paul had watched the weather forecast on TV, shaking one hand up and down, whistling. Temperatures were due to rise for the next few days. The twins had gone around closing all the shutters against the heat and the villa looked like a cave, full of shadows. A good place to hide thought Caroline as she took her Kindle into the cool dim salon and curled up in a comfortable armchair. Thin bars of light sliced through chinks in the shutters and there was a smell of logs and long ago fires.

  She still hadn’t finished the Patricia Cornwell. She kept reading the same page over and over, her mind on other things. What time was Edward due back? She hadn’t wanted to ask. Picturing him pulling into the driveway, pushing open the door, coming to say hello to everyone, her stomach churned.

  It was no good, she couldn’t sit still. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water. She’d been unable to eat at lunchtime, nibbling a tomato and a piece of cheese. It was so hot that no one had had much appetite, apart from Jean-Paul, who had polished off half a saucisson, two boiled eggs, several slices of ham and most of a baguette. She could hear Claudie on the covered loggia outside the kitchen talking on her phone. The others had gone to their rooms for a siesta. She wondered if they had noticed the frigid atmosphere between herself and her sister. Annabel had said hardly a word at lunch, then gone straight up to her room. What was going through her mind?

  ***

  Upstairs in her second floor bedroom Annabel put her head on one side and gazed at her nails. Oval, perfectly even, scarlet. She waggled her fingers to dry the varnish. She had always had beautiful hands. Raising her eyes to the mirror she lifted one graceful arm in a mock toast to herself. She turned her head slightly examining the line of neck and shoulder through narrowed eyes. No hint of sagging flesh. Good. She smiled. The sun had powdered her face with gold; in the grey light filtering through the shutters the gold took on a deeper glow, the hyacinth eyes turned to mauve, glittering with a dark intensity.

  Julian had finally left her alone, thank God.

  ‘I just need some space!’ she’d said. ‘And it’s so bloody hot in here! You’d think with all their money they could at least have installed air-conditioning.’

  Julian had sighed and picked up his newspaper.

  ‘Try to get some rest darling.’

  ‘Try to get some rest darling,’ she mimicked as soon as he had shut the door behind him.

  Abruptly she rose to her feet, shrugging the silk robe from her shoulders. A perfect body. Nature had been kind. She didn’t need to do any exercise, follow a diet. Maybe that would change, she thought, with a little frown. She stepped back, turned, looked at herself over her shoulder, noting the graceful back, the rounded hips, the long slender legs. She placed one hand one her stomach, let her fingers trail lower, touching the moist place between her legs. Her face grew sombre. She bent to pick up the robe and slipped it on again. It was still warm from her skin.

  Bloody Caroline. The thought of her sister planted itself like a thorn in her mind. Caroline, adoring, anxious Caroline. Always there in the background for as long as she could remember, ready to protect her little sister, ready to take her side in an argument, constantly seeking ways to bring a smile to Baby’s lips. First, an endless stream of toys and sweets bought with Caroline’s pocket money. Later, as she grew older, it was scarves, bottles of cologne, embroidered handkerchiefs. Annabel sprang from her seat and stalked over to the table where her packet of cigarettes lay. She wasn’t supposed to smoke in the villa. More bloody rules. She lit a cigarette, threw back her head, inhaling deeply, then began to pace back and forth with the twitching nervous movements of an angry cat.

  She had always been able to do exactly what she wanted with Caroline. Right up to the time she met Liam. Arrogant, domineering, she’d disliked him from the start. He’d shown plenty of interest in her though, when Caroline wasn’t around. She smiled coldly. Of course Caroline had never known, never even suspected. Annabel was still a teenager, an innocent younger sister in Caroline’s eyes. In reality she’d had more experience with men than poor Caro would ever have in her life probably. She ground out her cigarette impatiently. In the end it didn’t matter, Liam was only looking for an excuse to dump her sister, it was just a question of time. Anyone could see it. Anyone except Caroline of course. Annabel wondered what exactly had taken place between the two of them on that holiday. Caroline had been ill for weeks afterwards. Oh she’d struggled on as usual, pretended things were OK, refused to take time off work, brave little soldier and all that. But you could see she was being eaten up inside. Annabel had finally lost patience. With Liam out of the picture, she had expected Caroline to turn to her again, pay attention to her, but it was if a light had gone out inside her, she had no time even for her little sister. She’d become more and more reserved, shrinking into her shell. Though she had a sharp enough tongue when she was irritated. Which seemed to be pretty often these days, usually with Annabel.

  It had been a mistake inviting her on holiday. Of course she’d got her own back on Gloria, a sweet little revenge after that humiliating business, deputy editor, Gloria preening like a peacock, everyone at her feet, fawning. But she’d never suspected that her own sister would be more of a challenge than Glorious Gloria. When she and Edward had got back from Bayonne she had been literally taken aback by Caroline’s appearance. She could see her now, standing on the bottom step, a slender figure in a softly swirling skirt. Her waist looked positively tiny. And that top she was wearing! Annabel had never thought of her sister as having good boobs. She usually looked thin and scraggy, her figure hidden under baggy clothes. But that white top had clung to her. It was almost provocative! As she came to meet them she had even looked taller. That was the heels, though. Caroline usually wore flats. But that day she’d had on a really fabulous pair of wedge-heeled sandals. She’d looked taller, but also more confident. She was walking differentl
y. Of course she’d taken ballet classes when she was younger, they both had. But usually the way she walked, she was all hunched over almost like an old lady. But no, she was coming to meet them in her sexy white top and her clingy skirt, swaying her hips like bloody Darcy Bussell. At the same time she was projecting, what was it exactly? A sort of vulnerable femininity. That was it. A woman, but not one of those liberated feminists, no, the sort who needed a white knight on a charger. It was a look that Annabel knew was so appealing to the opposite sex. She used it herself, all the time, it had become second nature now, she scarcely gave it a thought. She just had to tilt her head, open her eyes as wide as she could and men would be falling over themselves to pull out her chair, take her coat. And here was her sister, doing her thing. And her hair! The sun had caught in it, turning it to a mesh of strawberry blonde. When she realised it was Caroline she also realised that she was face to face with a new and most unexpected rival.

  Of course she had taken Caroline aside at the first possible opportunity and quickly got to the bottom of it. Yvette Delorme, she might have known, that affected plump little creature, tiny hands fluttering like butterflies, sharp black eyes missing nothing. And her daughter was even worse! Marie-Claire this, Marie-Claire that. The season before her marriage it had been impossible to open a society magazine and not see her face staring out wearing a self-satisfied smile. And smile she may, having bagged the catch of the year. Her husband had about a million oil wells and film star looks into the bargain.

  Annabel’s thoughts turned to marriage and her eyes grew hard. She would not let Julian rush her into some hole in the corner affair with a half dozen guests and a column in the local rag. He was being unexpectedly stubborn about things. And then there was this stupid German business. Germany! She shuddered. Give up London, her friends, the weekend parties, the expensive restaurants? For what? Some gloomy Teutonic city full of fat men drinking beer out of steins and dowdy hausfrau wading into gigantic slabs of chocolate cake? Never. Julian would have to change his mind. If she couldn’t talk him out of it in the next couple of months he would simply have to go on his own. Let him just try it, living away from her for a year in a strange city on the twentieth floor of a block of flats! He would soon come to his senses and get somebody else from the business to replace him. Of course he was a senior partner, he was always banging on about his responsibilities, but there were plenty of other people he could send into exile. He could pop over to keep an eye on things from time to time and everything would carry on as normal. Annabel could begin to plan a real wedding. You needed at least twelve months now, even more if you wanted the right venue and the right event organisers. Of course there was this other business to sort out first, but she wouldn’t think about that for the moment. She thought of the little card, tucked away in her bag.

  But what had got her really riled was Caroline. First she turns into a L’Oréal advert, then she starts poking her nose into Annabel’s affairs. She couldn’t believe the conversation they’d had the other day. Caroline had said she wanted ‘a word’. Annabel had stupidly followed her into the house, thinking it was something to do with Margaret. She was always going on about their aunt, Annabel should make more of an effort to see her, she was getting on in years blah blah blah. Probably wanted to know if Annabel had sent her a postcard yet.

  She had flung herself into an armchair and gazed up at her sister, who was looking nervous and serious at the same time.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Julian asked if I could talk to you. About the Frankfurt thing.’

  Annabel sat up straight and glared.

  ‘He’s been talking to you about Frankfurt? What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Annabel, you are my sister, you know. It seems pretty normal to me.’

  ‘And what has he said exactly?’

  Annabel’s voice was ominously calm.

  Caroline hesitated.

  ‘Well, I think it sounds like a nice idea, don’t you? Living abroad, just for a bit? You’ve always fancied the high life.’

  ‘The high life! You think moving to Frankfurt is the high life? It’s not exactly Paris! Or New York!’

  ‘Yes but it’s more the lifestyle, Julian says you’d have a luxury flat, a maid, lots of money. And you could hop over to London any time you wanted. It would be a new experience. You could learn a new language.’

  ‘A new language? German? Maybe even get an Angela Merkel outfit while I’m at it? And what pray would I do about my job? Throw up everything and become a hausfrau? Join a knitting group? Cook dumplings and sauerkraut and spend jolly evenings singing Bavarian folksongs with the colleagues?’

  ‘Oh Annabel don’t be ridiculous!’ Caroline was getting exasperated now. ‘I don’t know where you get your ideas from. Look, the main thing is this, Julian loves you. He wants to be with you. He’s ready to give you everything you want, to marry you—’

  ‘Marry! So he’s been telling you about that stupid registry office scheme has he? What else has he told you?’

  Annabel’s eyes were flashing. Storm warning. Coming in fast. She looked ready to leap at Caroline and hit her.

  ‘Just... just that you could always have a big event sometime later. You’d have plenty of time to plan it, if you went to Germany with him. It would be so exciting. I could help you.’

  Annabel gave a snarl.

  ‘I am not going to be rushed into things Caroline. A registry office! You, Auntie M on her stick, Birdie sweating in her tweeds, and Julian’s parents all standing on the steps for a photo before going for a drink at the corner pub? Unbearable. I’m not doing it. If he wants to marry me he’ll have to wait. I want a proper wedding, like everybody else. And if he’s got to go to Frankfurt, he’ll just have to come over and see me every weekend won’t he. I’ve got my own life in London, the magazine, all my friends. No, I won’t do it!’

  ‘But he’s such a lovely man, Annabel, you’re so lucky, you know, he absolutely adores you—’

  They had argued for ages, each of them getting more and more angry until finally Annabel had hurled a cushion at her sister’s head and stalked out of the room shouting that if Caroline thought Julian was that wonderful, she could bloody well marry him herself. There were plenty of other fish in the sea.

  And, thought Annabel, standing in her bedroom gazing at her reflection, one of those fish was right here on holiday with them. And her big sister was not going to get in her way. She would make sure of that. Her handbag was on the table. She found her cell phone, selected the number in her contacts, and dialled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THURSDAY 8 JULY

  Edward, driving back to Biarritz on the A64, glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Not far now.

  He’d had a tough few days at work, a problem that had arisen with a supplier and that set off a chain reaction which affected several different departments. He’d worked flat out and hoped everything was now on course, if not totally sorted out. He’d left the final details in the hands of Gunter, his more than capable second- in-command.

  Every day he’d been in at six am, returning to his flat around eight in the evening. A microwaved a meal, a mindless TV show, and then bed, where he’d spent most nights tossing and turning, caught between the teething problems of the new plane and thoughts of Caroline.

  His last fling had been with a sexy Venezuelan air hostess, all heat and curves and mocha skin. They both shared the same philosophy, embracing life’s pleasures with all the relish of biting into a juicy peach. Easy come, easy go. No strings. She’d gone back to Venezuela, but there would always be others, to wine and dine and take to his bed at the weekend. He was a woman’s man. But each Monday morning he would return to his true love, the one with the gleaming curves and the swept back wings, waiting for him in the hangar at the Airbus site.

  So how did Caroline fit into the picture? Quiet little Caroline. She was no South American hottie, or the one before, the Uma Thurman lookalike who was so athletic in bed she’d almost put his back o
ut. So why, when he had startled Caroline in her tranquil spot under the chestnut tree, had he taken one look and felt himself being reeled in like a fish? A very surprised fish. The expression in those dark slanting eyes, the turn of the head on the beautiful neck, half hidden under unkempt hair, the way she started to her feet, something, as the Beatles said, in the way she moved.

  Admit it Rayburn, he told himself. She reminds you of Alice.

  He’d been 19, at the end of his first year at Cambridge. When the exam period had been over, his tutor had invited a group of them round for drinks at his pretty cottage in Grantchester. In the company of his pretty wife, Alice. She’d been standing by a window, clutching nervously at a glass of wine and trying to make small talk to her husband’s students. She was wearing a grey skirt that was too big for her and a blouse with a high collar. The Jane Eyre look. Edward had moved over, the other students had drifted off. She’d listened to him for an hour, smiling as he recounted his exploits on the rowing team, his prowess on the cricket field and his love of aeroplanes. He was handsome, successful, in the full flush of youth, and steadily getting drunk. He’d fallen hard, with the whole-hearted passion of a romantic young man. And she too had not remained indifferent. Who knows how it would have ended had it not been for Julian, his best friend? He had sat up with Edward for hours, supplying coffee and whisky and a sympathetic ear. With infinite patience and tact he had managed to get him to see that throwing up his studies and running off to a farmhouse in Tuscany with a married woman could only end one way. Also, that he wouldn’t be the first starry-eyed undergraduate to have entertained such notions. And that there would be others, it was not the end of the world. Edward had tossed his copy of D.H. Lawrence’s love poems in the back of his wardrobe and gone off to Biarritz with Julian, where he did his best to forget Alice in the arms of a certain Brigitte, fifteen years older than he was, and a woman of infinite wisdom. But he hadn’t forgotten Alice, not entirely. Nor Brigitte either, come to that.