Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  She turned on her heel and marched towards the door.

  ‘So that’s it.’

  Something in Edward’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘That’s what all this is about? It’s taken you, what? Ten, fifteen minutes to tell me what’s really bothering you? Whereas, my dear, if you’d come right out with it at the beginning, I could have set you straight in two minutes. Yes, I have been talking to Annabel, at some length. About having the abortion, about splitting up with Julian. You really think I’m going to stand by and see his life ruined? She’d break his heart, take his child, and screw every last penny out of him. Maybe you disagree, think I’ve behaved wrongly. You’re perfectly entitled to your opinion. But as for the rest of it–well. You’re so wrapped up in jealousy and self-pity you can’t even see the end of your nose. Annabel gets everything, including that stupid prick Liam. Good luck, they deserve each other, and meantime poor little Caroline gets nothing. I can’t believe the things you’ve said to me tonight, some utterly despicable things. There’s just one thing wrong with your logic, and if you were the person I thought you were, you’d have seen it straight away.’

  He had caught up with her, grabbed her arm, turned her to face him.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch Annabel if she was served up naked on a platter of whipped cream. Do you hear? She’s just told you, has she? Well now, I’m telling you. Your sister is lying, Caroline, lying! You know what she’s like! Pure and utter invention, the world according to Annabel. She’s a mythomaniac! All you had to do was come to me, ask me. All you had to do was believe me. But you never gave me a chance.’

  Edward pushed past her out of the room.

  CHAPTER 29. WILLOWDALE

  The sun was warm on Caroline’s shoulders as she got to her feet, pushing aside a strand of hair that fell across a cheek still sunburned from her days on the beach. She dusted off her hands and surveyed the fruits of her labours with bitter satisfaction. Before her the flower bed spread out in a wide curve to embrace the lawn. Tall clumps of marguerites, hollyhocks and foxgloves stood on guard at the back, heads nodding slightly, overlooking the smaller flowers, the marigolds, lavender and black-eyed daisies that crowded at the edge of the grass. It was a picture. At her feet a bucket of weeds overflowed. She rubbed her back, glad for the ache, the physical pain, staring out across the lawn to the remaining elm trees in the lane which led to the village. They were lone survivors of the Dutch elm disease which had ravaged so many of England’s parks and gardens. Their foliage wore the faded dusty look of leaves past their best, awaiting the inexorable turn towards autumn that would follow in another month.

  Another month Another autumn. Another birthday, thirty this time. And then winter, with its long dark days and chilly winds. Her thoughts kept returning to another place, a villa, a cliff, black rocks and pounding waves.

  After that last terrible evening with Edward she had been unable to sleep. She’d tossed and turned, thought at one point she heard the front door open and close. Finally, at five o’clock she got up and finished her packing. She couldn’t face seeing the others, she was too ashamed. Taking the coward’s way out, she left a note on the kitchen table, saying she had to return suddenly to Willowdale, Margaret was ill. She promised to be in touch as soon as things calmed down. She thanked them for their hospitality and the wonderful time she had spent at Villa Julia. And apologised for any inconvenience caused by her abrupt departure. Sent her love, all her love.

  As the taxi pulled away she had looked back for the last time at the place where she had spent such memorable days, and where she had thrown away a chance for love through her own fault. Edward’s words had hit home with cruel accuracy. How could she have doubted him, believed Annabel? Because she had been stupid, blinded by prejudice, by jealousy. She’d judged him and found him guilty without even giving him a chance to speak. He was right. The early morning sun was just touching the branches of the big cedar, turning its sombre depths to a gold flecked mist. Behind shutters the house slept, unaware of her departure.

  Her plane didn’t leave until the afternoon. In spite of herself she kept glancing towards the entrance to the terminal, hoping she would see him running through the doors, calling her name, telling her all was forgiven. Giving her a chance, one she didn’t deserve. But life wasn’t a romantic novel.

  Inside the sitting room at Willowdale Margaret MacDonald turned from the window, shaking her head. Her niece looked a picture of health with her brown arms and her hair bleached the colour of a cockleshell. It was only when you looked into her eyes that you could see the sadness. She turned to Birdie with a frown. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know what really happened in Biarritz.’

  Birdie, who had heard the muffled sobbing in the room across the hall, shook her head.

  ‘Would you like a sherry Margaret? Sit down. I’ll get the glasses.’

  Birdie had been anxious about her friend ever since Caroline’s return, and then, yesterday, with the phone call from Annabel, she wondered just how Margaret was coping.

  They had all been watching television, some programme or other about the Antarctic that none of them was really paying attention to.

  Birdie had picked up.

  ‘Annabel! How are you my dear? And Julian?’

  She had listened for a couple of minutes, nodding her head.

  ‘Good, good. So you’re planning to leave France tomorrow? Are you sure Julian is up to it? I see, putting the car on the train, yes, that’s handy.’

  More nodding, then:

  ‘Yes dear of course. Hold on.’

  She handed the phone to Margaret. Caroline had got up and was standing looking out across the garden. Whatever had gone on that had upset Caroline, thought Birdie, her sister had surely played her part. She could imagine the stress of having Julian in hospital, Annabel nowhere to be found, really, there were times when she felt like sitting down with Annabel and giving her a piece of her mind. Not that it would do the slightest good.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation from Margaret.

  ‘Married! But that’s...well no, it’s wonderful news my dear. You’ve just got me a bit flustered, we weren’t really expecting a wedding so soon.’

  Caroline had turned from the window, her face white under the tan. She sank down into a chair. Birdie too, found her legs giving way and just made it to the sofa.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ A frown was appearing on Margaret’s face as she tried to take it all in. ‘Julian? Of course I understand, it’s just, but as you say, with Julian’s new commitments...yes, of course we will, so what are the arrangements exactly?’

  In a dream Caroline heard her Aunt’s voice, exclaiming, repeating, asking questions. When she finally ended the call, her face was a picture. Not a word was spoken until Birdie had opened the cupboard, brought out The Macallan, and poured them all a stiff dose.

  ‘Thank you Birdie.’

  Margaret took a sip, then put down her glass.

  ‘Well, you heard. She’s getting married. The first Saturday in August. In a registry office. We’re all invited.’

  She took another sip.

  ‘And next year we’re all going to Acapulco.’

  ‘Acapulco?’ Birdie’s voice was faint.

  ‘Courtesy of Julian. A planeful of us. For another ceremony. On top of a cliff with an Aztec holy man. It’s all the rage, apparently.’

  It was so absurd and yet so predictable that Caroline felt quite calm. She tried to imagine the discussions that had gone on between her sister and Julian, then gave up. It was, she thought, one of those situations where you either gave up, or went mad.

  ‘And there’s one other thing,’ said Margaret, her voice as calm as Caroline’s thoughts. ‘We’re to expect a little Courtenay, sometime around Christmas. Won’t that be nice?’

  That evening, Caroline had summoned her courage and phoned Claudie. She had been ecstatic to hear from her. But the mood at the villa was sombre. The suitcases were packed, they were all on the p
oint of leaving. All apart from Edward, who once again had been called back to Toulouse on urgent business and had said his goodbyes on Monday. The atmosphere, said Claudie, had been ‘ow-ful’, like a ‘mortuary’. And then yesterday evening Julian and Annabel had made their announcement. Julian had taken his fiancée out for dinner and Claudie and Jean-Paul had got drunk on the terrace. They were both missing Caroline ‘cruelly’ and worrying about her, and worrying about Aunt Margaret. Would Caroline come over to Paris for a weekend in September, when things had settled down? They had spoken for over an hour, and both ended up in tears. There had been no further mention of Edward.

  That night Caroline had cried herself to sleep once again. The following morning she had attacked the garden like a mad thing. Weeds were wrenched out, flowers were dead-headed, the wheelbarrow was piled high.

  Inside the house Margaret and Birdie were sitting at the table by the window, sipping their sherry.

  ‘She’s going to wear herself out.’

  Birdie nodded.

  ‘She just doesn’t seem able to relax. And the phone call yesterday didn’t help.’

  ‘I just wish, I know this sounds terrible, Margaret, but I just wish it was Caroline’s wedding we were going to in August.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. And as for this Aztec business, every time I think about it I can feel my blood pressure rocketing. What’s wrong with the parish church at Ravensfield? It was good enough for her parents. And her grandparents. I like to think I’m broad-minded, but really, there are limits.’

  The ringing of the doorbell made them both jump.

  ‘I hope this isn’t another surprise. My nerves won’t take it.’

  Birdie went off to answer the door. Margaret heard muffled voices, then the door closed.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, but Birdie seemed to have vanished. She glanced outside again, took another sip of her sherry and let her eyes close. She hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  The flowers were fully out on the honeysuckle bower. Caroline pressed her face into them and inhaled. The smells of an English garden, cool and green. The memory of the blue cedar with its tangy scent came and went in a flash of pain along with the dry odour of sun bleached grass and the fragrance that wafted from the heart of the pines on warm summer nights.

  She felt a movement at her side.

  ‘Hello Titus old boy. Come for a stroke?’

  She petted the old Lab, scratching his ears. What was Figaro doing now, she wondered? Had he abandoned her bedroom, Great-Grandmother Julia’s quilt? Was he lying on the terrace, watching the butterflies for the last time? Claudie had told her he was going back to Paris with her for the winter. At least she’d be able to see him if she went over.

  And Edward. What was Edward doing? She pictured him in an office, shirt-sleeves rolled up, surrounded by drawings of his beloved planes, pacing up and down, talking to his colleagues, running his hands through his hair, trying to figure out a problem. Was he going out that evening, maybe to a restaurant with friends? Maybe one special friend?

  She buried her face deeper into the foliage, heart-sick. Titus, seeming to sense her mood, gave a small bark.

  ‘Caroline…’

  A tremor ran through her entire body, her heart stopped its beat, her lungs ceased to breathe. That voice, so real, inside her head. Almost as if he was there beside her, had heard her silent questions. She looked up, as if the sky could give her an answer.

  ‘Caroline.’

  She swung round, disbelieving. The sun was in her eyes, she could only see his form, outlined in black. And the intense fire of blue eyes blazing from the shadows of his face.

  Was it really him? He was holding something towards her. As if in a spell she put out her hand to take the small packet. It was wrapped in black paper with a silver ribbon. She undid the bow, slowly, her fingers moving of their own accord. The paper rustled. A box, plain white with a name on the cover. Michaud et Ferraud, Biarritz. The memory returned, a vivid flash, the day she had walked with him along the beach. They had turned up the hill to the villa and stopped in front of a shop window. A jeweller’s.

  Carefully she lifted the lid. Against the pale satin lining it flashed in the sunlight, making her blink. She stared down at the slender gold chain on which hung the strange-shaped cross, emblem of the Basque country. The engraving. With shaking fingers she lifted it out and held it in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Maita nezazu maité zaitutan bezala.’

  Edwards’s voice, the strange words.

  ‘Do you remember what it means?’

  Without raising her head, she nodded. Around them the garden noises seemed to have stopped. Like the very first time they had met, under the chestnut tree. Edward continued, his voice scarcely audible.

  ‘Aime-moi comme moi je t’aime. Do you, Caroline? Do you love me as I love you?’

  She lifted her head, slowly, unbelieving. The pain in his eyes changed. She saw a tentative then startling happiness.

  ‘Oh Edward!’

  She was against his chest, the cross clasped tight in her fingers, breathing in the warm familiar smell of him. He held her very tightly, without a word, rocking her gently like a child. Locked together in silence they forgot everything, the hateful words, the terrible accusations, lifted high on a wave of almost unbearable joy. A thousand years passed.

  He finally let go, and tilted her face toward him.

  ‘Is it true then?’

  Staring into those dark, liquid eyes, reflecting a myriad of tiny suns, he had his answer.

  ***

  ‘Margaret! Wake up! Look!’

  Margaret MacDonald came out of a dream, a happy dream, where she was back in Aden, back with the only man she had ever loved. Reluctantly she pushed herself up and looked out of the window where Birdie was pointing.

  They were coming across the lawn, arms entwined, bodies pressed close. Edward stopped, bent his head towards Caroline who looked up at him with an expression that Margaret recognised from a candle-lit ballroom, sixty years ago.

  She groped for a handkerchief, started to say something.

  Birdie interrupted, patting her old friend on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s alright. It’s in the fridge. The last bottle of the Pol Roger Millésimé. I was keeping it, you know. Just in case. For our Caroline.’

  The End

  COMING IN 2014

  BOOK TWO IN THE FRENCH SUMMER NOVELS: HOT BASQUE

  It’s almost a year since Caroline and Edward first met. The course of true love seems to be running smoothly, they have overcome all obstacles and are en route for a blissful life together in France. Caroline has taken the plunge, gone for a career change, and is working hard to pass her exams. But it’s spring in southwest France, hard to concentrate on studying when the leaves are in bud, the air is sweet and her mind is on the romantic evening she has planned when Edward gets back from work. And then she gets a message from her friend Jill, in Edinburgh, and finds herself getting even more distracted...

  And what about sister Annabel? She’s Mrs Courtenay now, living in Frankfurt. A wife, and also a mother. But Annabel is forever Annabel. Difficult, unpredictable, devious. She prefers to leave the nanny to look after Sweet Baby James while she enjoys herself with her rich friends. Julian is working hard at his new job and is over the moon about his baby son. But when a new friend joins their social circle, he starts to have suspicions about Annabel. The friend is called Claudio. He’s Italian, sexy and very very rich. Just how much can Julian take?

  Extract from Hot Basque:

  “There was a ping from Caroline’s laptop. Her mailbox showed a little envelope. She shouldn’t really allow herself to be distracted, should buckle down immediately to her essay. Maybe she needed another cup of coffee. A quick caffeine fix. She’d just check and see who was writing to her first, then she’d definitely get going. She clicked on the icon. It was a message from Jill. Temptation got the upper hand. She pulled her laptop closer and opened the mail.


  ‘Bonjour chère amie, howya doin’? Hoping that you’re beavering away hard and are going to be top of the class when you graduate. Hoping you’re not letting yourself get too distracted by Drop Dead Ed. Scrub that. Hoping you are indeed letting yourself get distracted by His Gorgeousness. Let me dream! Am in dire need of distraction after my latest Desperate Encounter.

  Annie and Ian set me up with a bloke called Jonathan. Yes, another bloke. But...très promising, this one. Rich, a Porsche (yes!) and a pilot to boot. We had a nice titillating evening. He wiggled his eyebrows and promised me a ride in his plane. He eyed me up, I eyed him down, there was a naughty sexy goose-pimply moment under the dining table when he recovered the serviette I’d dropped (no, honestly I didn’t do it on purpose, ye olde dropped handkerchief trick, it genuinely slid off my silk-clad thigh) This is it, I thought my sexual exile in the desert is finally coming to an end! Will I remember how to do it?

  We actually made it back to my place and I slipped into the bathroom to check the O’Toole body was primed and ready for action. I can tell you I was so wound up I nearly had an orgasm brushing my teeth. Those Oral B vibrations! I flossed, gargled and sprayed so much Givenchy round the bathroom I nearly choked. Finally, boobs alert, I made my grand entrance into The Bedchamber.

  Would you believe it, the bugger was out for the count! Snoring fit to raise the roof. Absolutely comatose. I cleared my throat. Clapped my hands. Did a fandango in my stilettos uttering bloodcurdling Spanish screams. No dice. The Flying Scotsman was beyond help. I had to spend the night on the sofa, with earplugs. In my own flat!