Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  ‘Yes well if you want to make a suggestion try coming up with a plausible story to tell that poor lovesick fool when he gets out of hospital tomorrow!’

  ‘Hey! Julian’s no fool, he’s just...’ Edward flung up his hands ‘temporarily insane.’

  ‘Yeah well that bitch is driving us all insane!’

  ‘Stop it, please stop it! I can’t bear to see you shouting at each other!’

  Caroline stood in the middle of the room, hand over her ears, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Oh Caro! I’m so sorry!’

  Claudette rushed over with a look of contrition.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of us! We’re French! We’re always yelling at each other. Please don’t be upset.’

  Jean-Paul was looking mortified.

  Edward gave a little nod at Claudie and put his arm round Caroline’s shoulders.

  ‘It’s been a rotten day,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a tisane,’ said Claudie, making for the kitchen. ‘Help you sleep.’

  Jean-Paul stepped in front of them.

  ‘One minute, dear cousin,’ he said, removing Edward’s arm.

  Then he enfolded Caroline in a warm bear hug, lifting her off the floor.

  He was silent for a few seconds, then, putting her gently back on her feet he said ‘I can’t say the ‘s’ word, you know it’s forbidden. Edward will throw me in the pool. I’ll probably get struck by lightning and die. But I am. ‘S’ I mean. Very very ‘s’. I have hurt you, and I ask myself how can I do that when I love Caroline?’

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted it upwards.

  ‘It is a good thing that Edward is my cousin. I must remember the family honour. He saw you first.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. FRIDAY 16 JULY

  Caroline thought about Jean-Paul’s words when she opened her eyes the next morning and heard the rain drumming on the roof. She lay under the quilt, naked. She had slept like a baby, every muscle relaxed, not moving.

  Last night. Edward had taken her upstairs, and after Claudie had brought the cup of steaming tisane, he had very slowly and very gently undressed her. He had taken off her blouse, folded it carefully and placed it on a chair. He had knelt down, undone the clasp on her sandals, and slipped them off her feet. Then he had unfastened her jeans, slid them down to her ankles, pushed her gently back on to the bed, removed them and folded them with the same care he had used to fold her blouse. And then he had looked at her. She was sitting on Julia’s embroidered quilt. Her lace bra and panties seemed to glow unnaturally white against her tan. The lamp at the side of the bed threw her face into shadow. She was trembling so hard the brass bedhead was shaking. He had moved to sit on the mattress behind her, slid his legs on either side of her and held her close. He had reached out for the tisane and lifted it to her lips, encouraging her to take little sips. When it was finished he had pulled her back, still holding her from behind, until they were both lying down, and he was wrapped around her. Neither of them had said a word. She could feel his erection through his jeans, pulsing against her back just as she knew he could feel the tautness of her nipples through her bra. He had kissed her neck, her shoulders, soft feather-light kisses. He had done that for about five minutes until all the trembling had stopped and she was full of a sweet inertia, incapable of movement. Then he had flipped her on to her stomach, straddled her, and with firm competent fingers begun to massage her back. Long strokes at first, moving from the base of her spine and out to her shoulders. Then thumbs pressing into her spine, harder, forcing her against the quilt. The stroking stopped, changed to little circular movements, again moving from the base of her spine to the top, digging into her shoulders, undoing the knots. He pressed and kneaded, working out the tension of the last two days, sending her deeper into a trance of warmth and relaxation. Her body became limp beneath his hands, she was floating in a warm bath, euphoric, seeing nothing but the patterns of red and black that swam behind her closed eyelids. She became aware the movements were slowing, the pressure lessening, just light feathery touches now on her bare skin. She wanted to ask him not to stop, but didn’t have the energy to speak. Then he wasn’t touching her anymore, she could feel the muscles of his legs tense against hers as he sat up. He was breathing heavily. Don’t go, she thought, don’t leave me.

  He moved away. She could feel his presence near her, on the bed. Then with a quick, deft movement he turned her so that she was on her back, looking up at him. The gleam of the lamplight caught his hair. His shirt was undone, his torso shining with sweat. Sweat too down the length of those strong, muscular arms. She couldn’t see his eyes until he leaned close. Then she could see them perfectly. The black pupils glittered, almost filling the blue of the iris. He lowered his head, brushed her breasts with his lips. They burned through the thin silk like fire. His hands moved behind her, her bra slid off. He licked her naked breasts, slowly, teasingly. His head moved lower, kissing her down to her navel. With a gasp she felt his tongue, pushing, probing, and an arrow of flame shot down to her sex. With another quick movement he slid off her panties and a second later she felt his hand between her legs, one finger entering her, then another. She reared up, a moan escaped from her lips, she tried to catch him, to pull him towards her, to unzip his jeans, to get him inside her. With his free hand he pushed her back gently, keeping her pinned down, his fingers moving to her right breast, tracing her nipple. Her blood was on fire, her skin covered in goosebumps. Inside, in the deep secret part of her, his fingers slid back and forth, rubbing, teasing, His thumb, outside, had found her clitoris. He circled, slow, then faster, then slow again. Deep inside, his fingers pushed and rubbed and probed into her dark folds. Her head was coming off her shoulders, she could feel her wetness soaking into the quilt, hear her voice somewhere outside her body, begging, pleading. And then he pulled both hands away, grasped her legs and spread them wide. As he raised his head to look at her she heard herself say his name. Then his mouth was down on her, licking, sucking, pushing, tasting. She arched her back, grabbed his hair, threw back her neck and uttered a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a scream, starting deep in unknown primal depths. Another and another, she was dying...

  Afterwards he held her tight, spooned against her back, hard against her, stroking her hair and crooning little baby words into her ear, until she fell fast asleep, lulled by his whispering voice and the sound of the rain falling outside.

  And now, it was Thursday morning. He had gone. She had to get up.

  She was in the bathroom when Claudie knocked at the door.

  ‘Caroline, are you awake? Can I come in? Caroline?’

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened Claudie? You’re as white as a sheet. Oh God.’

  Caroline struggled into her bathrobe.

  ‘What is it Claudie? Tell me!’

  ‘Sit down, sit down. Listen, keep calm. François rang. They located Annabel’s phone. They’re on their way now. Jean-Paul and Edward have gone to meet them.’

  On their way? Caroline had thrown off her bathrobe, was pulling on jeans and a sweater.

  ‘On their way to get her you mean?’

  ‘No, no, we don’t know, it’s just the phone. He wouldn’t say much, François, just asked Jean-Paul and Edward to meet him.’

  ‘But where? Where have they gone? What does it mean, located her phone?’

  Claudie shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know, it was all a rush, listen Caroline, I’ve got to go and get Julian from the hospital, he’s been waiting, I can’t put it off any longer. Can you stay here? Is your phone switched on?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ she rummaged through the things on the table next to her bed.

  ‘It’s here. But Claudie, why must I stay here? Why can’t I go with them?’

  ‘They’ve already left, Caro. I told you. It was so quick, François phoned, they both rushed out. And now I’ve got to pick up Julian, and I don’t know what
to tell him. What shall I do?’

  She’d grabbed hold of Caroline’s arms.

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’ll come with you Claudie, it’s not fair you having to face him alone.’

  ‘No, they said you had to stay here. They’ll ring as soon as they know anything. And I’d like you to be here when I get back with Julian. I’m going to need some support. Oh God, what are we going to tell him?’

  They stared at each other in a panic.

  ‘I mean what if—what if—’

  ‘Listen,’ Caroline was struggling to take everything in. ‘We have to stay calm. OK, Claudie?’

  Claudie closed her eyes, then nodded.

  ‘I have to go, Julian’s going to be wondering what the hell is going on. You’ll ring me, won’t you, if you hear, I mean?’

  ‘Yes yes, of course. Oh Claudie.’

  They hugged each other. Claudie raced off.

  She’d been gone for no more than ten minutes before Caroline’s mobile rang.

  ‘Hello, hello, Edward?’

  Her heart was beating so loudly that at first she couldn’t hear a word.

  ‘Allo? Allo? Puis-je parler…’

  She heard a French voice speaking rapidly, then a series of clicks, then the line went dead. It was a woman, a woman’s voice.

  She hit the menu for incoming calls, saw ‘unknown number’.

  The adrenalin was beginning to drain from her body, she sank into a chair, made herself take deep breaths.

  She was on the point of trying Edward’s mobile when her own phone rang again.

  ‘Hello? Allo?’

  She heard ‘mademoiselle MacDonald,’ then something about ‘votre soeur’.

  ‘Oui oui, ma soeur?’

  She screwed up her face trying to make sense of the stream of incomprehensible French coming through the receiver. The woman’s voice was shrill and agitated, with a strong Basque accent. There was an abrupt pause.

  ‘Allo? Villa Julia?’

  ‘Yes! Oui, ici la villa Julia...’

  The woman was off again at breakneck speed on the crackly line.

  Caroline managed to interrupt, shouting into the phone:

  ‘Excusez-moi Madame, je vous entends très mal!’

  She managed to get the message across that she couldn’t hear, could the woman please speak slowly. Grabbing a postcard that was lying on the table she scribbled the odd words she picked up.

  ‘Could you repeat the address please? Oui, l’adresse s’il vous plait?’

  She transcribed the words the woman spelled out for her, her fingers slippery with sweat.

  ‘J’arrive tout de suite Madame, I’ll be there as soon as possible!’

  The woman had rung off saying something about ‘wasting time’. She picked up the card, looked at the scribbled address. Hotel Victoria, rue Sebastopol. In Bayonne. Annabel was in a hotel in Bayonne. The women had said she was ill, malade, docteur, argent. She’d been unable to catch the details, the woman was obviously not in the best of moods, the word ‘money’ was repeated several times. Caroline got the distinct impression she wanted to be rid of her sister as soon as possible, something about not being a hotel for ‘malades’, not a hospital.

  But Annabel was there. She was safe. She sank down on the bed, the strength leaving her legs. Annabel was alive. She was ill. She had to get to her. She dialled Edward’s number. It was engaged. Now what? She threw the phone on the bed, stood up. Think Caroline think. Should she try Claudie? She’d have her hands full with Julian. She’d never thought to get Jean-Paul’s number, stupid stupid. She tried Edward again, same result. Maybe he was already there? In Bayonne, if they’d located Annabel’s phone. But why hadn’t Annabel called herself?

  Stop it, she told herself. You’re just wasting time here, you’re going to have to do something. Call a taxi, go to Bayonne. She grabbed her bag, began to pile things inside, phone, wallet, what else did she need? A jacket, it was pouring outside. Rushing out of the room she remembered the card, the card with the address. Calm down she told herself, calm down, take deep breaths, think.

  She raced downstairs, there was a basket on the hall table, with cards in it, restaurants, taxis, a map of Biarritz. As she hunted through, she noticed the keys lying next to it. The Clio. They had left the Clio. It would be quicker to go by car. She could drive a Clio, even though she’d never driven in France, even though the wheel was on the wrong side, how hard could it be? They had been to Bayonne for the feria. She just had to follow the signs. She rooted in the basket, found an old map of Bayonne, tattered but it would do. She scanned the index, Sebastopol...There it was. She opened the map, studied the layout. It was this side, the Biarritz side; she wouldn’t have to cross the estuary.

  Cramming the map into her bag, she grabbed the keys and rushed out of the door. She would get Annabel, bring her back. Her heart gave a lurch. Malade. Supposing she was too ill to move? Supposing...stop it, she told herself, just concentrate on getting there. Get in the car, adjust the seat. Start the ignition.

  At the end of the drive she turned right, heading towards Anglet. She had to concentrate on using the left-hand drive gearbox and following the road signs at the same time. It wasn’t far, she remembered that from the other evening, maybe half an hour or so, depending on the traffic.

  It never entered her head that she hadn’t left a note for Claudie and the others.

  ***

  As she neared her destination the rain redoubled in intensity. Caroline slowed and peered out of the window. Rue Tati. That meant she had to turn right somewhere, was it the first or the second? She pulled into the kerb and lowered the window. There was a pedestrian sheltering from the downpour in a doorway.

  ‘Excusez-moi Monsieur! Rue Sebastopol?’

  He shrugged and turned away, hunching his shoulders against the rain.

  She drove on at a snail’s pace, trying to catch the names of the streets. It was difficult, the wipers were on high speed, and the rain was coming down with a vengeance. A car behind her hooted impatiently, then swerved round and overtook. The driver made an obscene gesture as he passed.

  Surely she must be almost there? She forced herself to concentrate. Images of Annabel kept intruding, Annabel lying in a bath, the water bloodstained… her sister had seemed crazy enough the other night. She remembered the look on her face as she had taunted Julian that last evening, and shivered.

  Rue Jacob. She hit the brakes. The car behind her almost rear-ended her. There was another concerto of klaxons as she turned. A woman with an umbrella was hurrying past.

  ‘Madame! S’il vous plait!’

  The woman hesitated, struck by the urgency in Caroline’s voice.

  Yes, she told Caroline, rue Sebastopol. Near the top of the hill. A narrow street, on the right.

  Crawling along, peering through the blurred windscreen, she became aware of the buildings lining the street. Dingy facades, peeling paintwork. Shuttered shops with refuse piled up in the doorway. A neon sign flickered. Hotel Vic-o-ia. Trying to find a parking spot she slammed the car into an overflowing garbage can half hanging off the pavement.

  Before she could try the door, it opened. The woman must have been watching for her. She was dressed in a blue smock, the sort of thing that cleaners wore. She led Caroline inside, her feet slapping on the tiles of the entryway. She was wearing an old pair of espadrilles with the back trodden down. Her hair was cut short, dyed a midnight black. The face underneath was hard, thin-lipped suspicious. It was the women she had spoken to on the phone. As soon as she started talking, pouring out a torrent of words in a shrill nasal voice with strong Basque accent, Caroline recognised her. She heard the words ‘doctor’ ‘medication’ and ‘money’ repeated several times. They began to climb the old wooden staircase, its metal handrail missing several bars. Caroline just had time to take in the pitted plaster on the walls before the small of urine and dirt struck her like a slap in the face.

  They climbed to the second floor. A door banged shut further
down the corridor and someone started coughing and retching. The woman took out a key and unlocked the door. Caroline felt suddenly faint. On shaky legs, she stepped inside the dingy room, where the grey light from the window and the sickly glare of an unshaded light bulb fought for predominance. In a bed to the right of the door, lay an inert form. Caroline hurried over, then stopped. Her sister’s eyes were closed, her face pale and shiny with sweat. The normally golden curls lay in a bedraggled heap on the pillow.

  ‘Merci Madame. I’ll speak to my sister alone.’

  Caroline opened her bag, took out some notes and thrust them at the woman who quickly began to count. Caroline held out her hand.

  ‘Donnez- moi la clef s’il vous plaît.’

  The woman stopped counting, surprised by the firmness of her tone, and the imperious look in her eyes. She shrugged, handed over the key, and muttered something about waiting downstairs.

  Caroline took a deep breath. She must not flinch now. She needed to keep her wits, to get her sister out of this room, this room where she had been locked in, like a prisoner!

  Annabel looked to be asleep. Her hands lay on the counterpane, unmoving. On the small table near the bed stood a glass of water and a bottle of pills. Caroline picked them up, thought she recognised the name of an antibiotic. She looked around her, appalled.

  The wallpaper was faded and stained. Grey linoleum covered the floor, cracked at the joins. The small window was facing what looked like a disused factory. She let the net curtain fall back, rubbing her hands on her jeans. It was black with grime along the hem. In one corner stood a cracked washbasin, with a tap dripping rusty brown water. She couldn’t believe her eyes, couldn’t believe such places still existed, here in France, in the 21st century.

  On a chair next to the washbasin was a pile of clothes. She recognised them as the ones that Annabel had been wearing on Tuesday night. A handbag hung over the back, zip open. The little Gucci handbag. A deep shudder ran through Caroline’s body. How on earth had her sister ended up in such a place? And why hadn’t she phoned?