Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  Too bad, she told herself. Holidays don’t last forever.

  Tomorrow, Monday, they were going to see Jean-Paul play in a cesta punta match. Julian would not be with them. He had a trip to Frankfurt. Annabel had announced the news quite calmly and with no trace of a sulk. He would be back on Tuesday, in time for the fête nationale. Bastille Day. A big night out was planned. They were all going to see a course de vaches landaises, whatever that was, and then watch the fireworks.

  ‘Maybe everything’s going to turn out OK, Figgy. Hey? Is my sister going to get married to Julian and live happily ever after? Am I going to be an Auntie with lots of little German nieces and nephews with bewitching accents?’

  Figaro rolled over on his back and flung out his paws in ecstasy.

  ‘You like that Fig, don’t you? When I scratch you just there? So come on, you’re a cat who knows many secrets. What do you see in the stars? Anything about dunes and moonlight and a man of experience? Hot rabbits?’

  Figaro twitched, closed his eyes, and dreamed of catching birds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY. TUESDAY 13 JULY

  ‘So, what are the rules of this game? Give us the basics.’

  Annabel and Caroline were examining the chistera, the long curved basket that Jean-Paul would use this evening for his match.

  Jean-Paul smirked.

  ‘The first thing you should know is that it’s the fastest game in the world. The record is 302 km an hour.’

  ‘You’ve told us that at least forty times,’ said Annabel, giving a swing with the chistera.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think you understand what that means, 302 km per hour, do you?’

  ‘Erm...quite fast?’ Caroline was thinking of the UK motorway speed limit, 70 mph. How many kilometres was that?

  ‘Faster than the TGV, the high speed train,’ said Edward. ‘That gets up to about 300km per hour. On normal journeys I mean. The record’s much higher than that. Around 574 kilometres, which is about 356 miles per hour.

  Caroline at least was impressed.

  ‘The second thing is that Dodo and I will be competing against the local equivalent of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his younger days. Plus another player, who’s not so good fortunately.’

  Dominique and Jean-Paul had been training every day, with Edward and Antoine sitting on the benches giving comments and advice.

  ‘I thought you had to be thin and agile to play, with all that running and jumping.’

  ‘Ma pauvre Caroline, Arnold, our Arnold, is not thin, but he is agile. He leaps like a goat. I am going to have to introduce some psychological tactics.’

  ‘He means cheat,’ said Claudie who was slicing onions faster than the high speed train. Caroline wondered where they kept the sticking plasters.

  JP looked shocked.

  ‘An Etcheverria never cheats. And anyway the umpires are eagle-eyed. I wouldn’t be able to get away with it. So the game. Short version: we’re playing with two teams, two players in each team.’

  He rearranged various items on the kitchen table.

  ‘Our team has to catch the ball and send it back against the front wall.’ He pointed to a packet of muesli that Julian had bought for Annabel. ‘The idea is to hit it so that it rebounds off the wall and hits the floor, or, and this is the tricky bit, so that it rebounds off the side wall and then hits the floor. The idea is to stop the other team from hitting it on that first rebound or getting them to hit the ball into the wrong part of the wall.’

  ‘I think they’ve got that, JP,’ said Edward as Caroline and Annabel studied the muesli with bemused expressions. He laughed. ‘Ladies, it’s very simple. Just enjoy the game and give a big cheer every time JP or Dodo gets the ball.’

  ‘Oh there will be plenty of cheers for Dodo,’ said Claudie, rinsing her knife. ‘I hear his fan club plans to be there.’

  ‘Don’t worry little sister,’ said JP ‘he only has eyes for you. He told me so the other night.’

  ‘Worry? Me? Why should I?’

  She gave a sniff and started to crack eggs into a bowl, one-handed.

  ***

  Annabel pulled open the wardrobe door and frowned. It was crammed full of her things, there really wasn’t enough room, look at the creases in her linen slacks. The villa was nice. The pool was absolutely lovely. But if she was the owner, she’d knock down some walls, convert some of these smaller bedrooms into dressing rooms. If she was the owner. Now there was a thought.

  Claudie had said they should wear something casual. She took out a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans which showed off her long slender legs. And the new espadrilles Julian had bought her the other day, after they’d been for lunch in that Michelin place. He was a sweetie really. And a good catch, all her friends said so. If she could just talk him into staying in London, sending someone else into exile, someone from a lower echelon, he could pop over to Frankfurt from time to time like he was doing today. Then everything could carry on as normal. She’d get sorted out with the magazine, the clinic, she could begin to plan a real wedding, choose the venue, it would have to be a summer wedding of course, none of these winter things where all the bridesmaids looked like something out of Snow White. She would be twenty-four in a couple of years. Then it might be time to think about a change, to give in to Julian’s pestering about starting a family ‘before it was too late’. She almost liked the idea of spending her days having coffee and lunches and shopping sprees with the other young mothers while the nanny took care of things at home. Look at the Beckhams. She managed to have an active social life, run her own business and still parade her little mini-mes with her at big events. If only she could make Julian come round.

  She didn’t like it when he got all authoritarian, like the other night. Though she had to admit the sex was good, afterwards. Of course he was right, she had gone too far, one should never insult one’s hosts, especially when they were letting you use their villa for free. But the way her sister had turned on her as well. Fastening her blouse, she paused. And Edward. What was he playing at? She’d seen the way he looked at Caroline when he didn’t think anyone was paying attention. There was something in his expression that Annabel simply could not bear, sort of tender and protective. And Caroline too seemed to go into a trance when he was around. That would have to stop. She paused for a last critical inspection in the mirror.

  It would be a shame if Julian refused to see sense. But if he didn’t, so be it. She would simply set Plan B in motion. And there was no need to worry about Caroline. Annabel was more than a match for her sister whichever way you looked at it. And tonight Julian was away, no one looking over her shoulder, telling her what to do. And Caroline was in for a big surprise. A surprise which would neatly remove her from the equation if Plan B turned out to be necessary.

  She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, checking her phone was safe and snug inside her shoulder bag.

  ***

  Caroline felt the excitement as they made their way along the benches high above the pelota court. The atmosphere was charged, the spectators were scrutinising the programme, the buzz of conversation rose up around them. A large net separated the crowd from the court. They were facing the longer wall, which would be the left hand wall for the players if she’d understood JP’s breakfast-table manoeuvres. The shorter wall was perpendicular, to the right of where they were sitting. Both were painted dark green with lines and numbers marked on them.

  ‘Antoine! Over here!’

  Claudie was standing up and waving. Edward had stopped to talk to some friends at the end of their row.

  Antoine bounded up, grinning.

  ‘It’s happening again! I am alone with three beautiful women!’

  He bent down to kiss them, giving a whistle when he got close to Claudie.

  ‘What’s that? You smell good enough to eat.’

  And looked good enough to eat thought Caroline. They were all wearing jeans but Claudie had tucked a low-cut white silk top into the waist of hers and cinched it with an enormous
Western style belt studded with what looked like bullets. Her waist looked tiny. Her black hair fell half way down her back in silky waves. She had outlined her eyes in a dramatic shade of blue and put on several layers of mascara. Her mouth was painted scarlet. Combat gear. She’d already nudged Caroline and tilted her head at a group of chattering girls lower down.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Caroline nudged her back. ‘They don’t have a chance. You look like Penelope Cruz.’

  Jean-Paul and Dominique were playing last. They settled back to watch as the first players came out on to the court. There were whistles, hoots, cheers. The men were dressed in the traditional white trousers with red kerchiefs fastened through their belts. One team wore white shirts, the other red. All wore protective helmets, no surprise when Caroline remembered the speed at which the balls flew around. They paced up and down the court, practising swings with the long curved chisteras.

  She was soon completely engrossed in the spectacle. Jean-Paul was right. It was incredibly fast. The room echoed to the thwack of the ball as it hit the walls, the squeak of shoes as the players shot across the court, the grunts and banging as they leapt high in the air, racing from side to side, managing to avoid each other in a mad frenetic ballet of sound and movement.

  It ended in a draw, the players left the court, sweaty and exhausted, wiping their foreheads on their sleeves.

  ‘Ouf.’

  Caroline realised she’d been perched on the very edge of the bench, gripping it on either side with clenched fingers.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  Edward was looking at her with a pleased grin.

  ‘Spell-binding. And really I’m not a big sports fan. Except for Wimbledon. But that was miles more exciting than Wimbledon.’

  ‘Jean-Paul was right. You really have caught the bug. Either that or you must have some Basque blood, way back in the family tree. Maybe that explains those eyes...’

  He ran his finger delicately along the curve of her eyebrow.

  The heat rushed to her cheeks. Edward dropped his hand to her back, rubbed gently between her shoulder blades. The Hallelujah chorus tuned up. Admit it, she told herself, you’re longing for something to happen. Maybe tonight, when they got back to the villa. Maybe.

  There was a movement in the crowd. Some of the spectators had got up and were stretching their legs. She noticed Annabel, standing a few feet away, cell phone pressed to her ear. Probably talking to Julian.

  There were three more games, then Edward said:

  ‘Here comes our boy!’

  He jumped to his feet clapping, a look of pride on his face as he watched his cousin walk out on to the court with his partner. They were the red shirt team. The Dodo fan club was screaming and jumping up and down.

  Claudie glanced at them, a look of haughty disdain on her face.

  Dominique paid no attention, concentrating on some warm-up moves with Jean-Paul.

  ‘Oh my God, it really is Arnold Schwarzenegger.’

  Caroline was staring at a giant who had come out on to the court and was swinging the chistera like a caveman with a club.

  ‘Don’t they have rules?’ she asked Edward, ‘about size and weight and stuff like that?

  He laughed at her horrified expression.

  ‘It isn’t a boxing match. And don’t worry. You haven’t seen JP and Dodo play yet.’

  He risked a glance at her as she sat forward in her seat. Only a few more days and the holiday would be over. He would have to make a move soon. It was just a question of how and when. He couldn’t afford to get it wrong. No more jumping on her like Tarzan and trying to rip her clothes off. Jesus. The thought had him crossing his legs. This one was special. He wanted her, for keeps. Maybe tonight, when they got back...

  A coin was tossed, the ball was handed to Jean-Paul. A silence fell. The umpire raised his paddle, blew his whistle. The court erupted into a blur of moving bodies. It looked as though there were at least ten people down there. They seemed to be in several different places at a time, running, jumping, swinging. Caroline almost forgot to breathe.

  First point to the Schwarzenegger team. They players took up their positions for a new serve. The whistle blew again.

  Wham! The ball hit the wall high up, causing several people to duck reflexively.

  Caroline watched open-mouthed as Jean-Paul leaped high into the air, seemingly suspended five feet off the ground, the chistera arced high above his head. Then he landed, the ball hit the wall with a thwack, the players dodged and weaved, slid across the shiny floor which threw back a reflection of their white-trousered legs moving in a blur of speed. The air was full of incomprehensible shouts and grunts as they swung and wheeled, like mowers scything the grass. Schwarzenegger crashed to the floor, rolled over, and was up again in a flash. The umpire declared a fault, the crowd groaned. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on the spectacle below, the red and white of the four players, diving and leaping, framed by the green wall at the back.

  And then it was over, the spectators were on their feet, applauding and cheering.

  ‘Have we won? Have we won?’

  Caroline was gabbling in excitement. But the sight of Claudie, Antoine and Edward jumping up and down and clapping like mad answered her question. Schwarzenegger lay on his back, both hands covering his face before getting slowly to his feet and coming over to congratulate the winners. Dominique and Jean-Paul were dancing round in a circle, hugging each other. They broke free, shook hands and waved their chisteras at the crowd. Claudie and Antoine were doing the hugging circle dance as well, and Caroline felt herself grabbed round the waist and swung around by a pair of strong arms as Edward joined in with the celebrations.

  They were all flushed and laughing as they spilled out into the square, which was packed full of people talking about the game, many of them speaking Basque. Young children were running in and out of the tables, jumping in the air and imitating the players with whoops and yells. There was a crash as one of them knocked a chair over and a torrent of recriminations as the would-be player got hauled back to his seat by his mother. They had arranged to meet Jean-Paul and Dominique at the Cafe du Fronton.

  Edward and Antoine were discussing the match, analysing the moves. Claudie had just come back from the Ladies room with a fresh coat of lipstick, leaving a trail of Dior in her wake. Ever since they’d arrived Annabel had been on her cell phone, texting. She had a gleam in her eye and an air of mystery about her.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘Great.’

  She tucked the phone back in her bag.

  Good, thought Caroline. Julian was due back tomorrow, presumably with a suitable bauble for his fiancée, judging by the smug look on her face.

  She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The night was warm, no breeze, with a scattering of stars. The conversation level was high, people laughing and chatting, pulling tables together to sit with friends.

  A blast of music came from inside the cafe and one or two couples got up and started to fool around, inventing numbers that were a mixture of the high-kicking Basque folk dances and old fashioned polkas. It was a long way from rainy England, and the fluorescent lights of a government office.

  ‘Hey! The heroes return!’

  Edward was pointing across the square. Jean-Paul and Dominique were coming towards them, carrying sports bags, getting held up every two seconds by people standing up, shaking hands, clapping them on the back. They looked like brothers, black hair gleaming, wet from the shower, brown faces split by wide grins. Applause broke out as they reached the table where everyone was sitting. They gave mock bows, waved their clasped hands in the air in a gesture of triumph.

  ‘Now I know how you two keep your figures!’

  Caro was smiling at them.

  ‘Congratulations! It was marvellous. Really marvellous. What’s the Basque word for ‘brilliant’? We enjoyed every minute, didn’t we Annabel?’

  She looked round. Annabel had disappeared. Probably off to
the Ladies, not about to let herself be outshone by Claudie, smiling like a sphinx from behind a curtain of hair.

  ‘Merci chère Caro.’

  Jean-Paul raised her hand and kissed it before flinging a friendly arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Drink up, heroes, you’ve deserved it.’

  The waiter was putting tall glasses of beer in front of them.

  Claudie had turned to a good-looking man in a football shirt sitting at the table behind them and was flirting outrageously, batting her eyelashes and smiling provocatively. Dominique’s face darkened. He took a swig of his beer, then lifted his chair and banged it down in front of Claudie, blocking the football shirt who reared back in surprise.

  Edward grinned and whispered in Caroline’s ear.

  ‘Uh oh. ‘High Noon’.’

  Suddenly the grin disappeared. His attention had been caught by something happening behind her. She started to turn round at the same time as she heard her sister’s voice, unnaturally high-pitched.

  ‘Look who I’ve found!’

  Caroline was on her feet without realising it. The colour drained from her face, she gripped the back of her chair. She felt Edward’s arm come round her waist steadying her.

  ‘Caroline, hi. Good to see you, it’s been a while.’

  His voice was strained, at odds with the half-cocky half-defiant expression on his face. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt, his hair shorter than when she’d last seen him.

  The others had stopped speaking. Claudette had got to her feet and was standing, arms crossed, body language radiating hostility. Dominique, sensing that something was amiss, pushed back his chair also. Jean-Paul came to stand on the other side of Caroline, instinctively closing ranks with his cousin.

  ‘Annabel, are you going to introduce us?’

  Edward’s voice was like ice.

  Annabel’s smile faltered.

  ‘Of course! Sorry! It was the excitement. I’m forgetting my manners.’