Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2

by Laurette Long

  She went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. She’d left the Americans virtually all her crockery and cooking utensils. Edward’s flat was well-equipped and in any case she had her eye on some new stuff in a shop she’d seen near the place de la Trinité. The boxes now waiting to be shipped contained her books, CDs, clothes, and other personal items. She had taken some of her most precious things down to Willowdale, a collection of mismatched antique glasses she’d picked up over the years, a couple of original paintings she had treated herself to from an artist she liked.

  Back in the living room she kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa with her tea, grateful for a chance to relax for the first time in what seemed like a two-month mad scramble. It was going to take a while for her to absorb the fact that this was it, the rush was over, tomorrow she’d walk out of the door of the place that had been her home for the past eight years.

  A wave of tiredness hit her. She realised she’d eaten nothing since breakfast, but for the moment she was just too exhausted to drag herself back to the kitchen and make something. And in any case, she remembered, there was nothing in the fridge apart from some milk, she had cleared everything out. She’d have to take a trip down the road to the little supermarket, pick up a microwaved meal for tonight, a couple of rolls for tomorrow morning. But for the moment, she simply couldn’t summon the energy. She checked her watch. The removal men were due any minute. She’d have to galvanise herself into action when they arrived. Time to think about the shopping after they had left. And if she was really tired, she could always order a takeaway.

  A feeling of melancholy suddenly enveloped her. Now where did that come from? Probably due to the tiredness. Maybe, as Geraldine had suggested, withdrawal symptoms as well. And also, she was forced to admit, the realisation she was leaving the first place she’d ever called her own.

  That first year she’d spent her evenings and weekends visiting flats for sale. The ones she liked were always too expensive, the ones she could afford had a drawback, too far from work, too small, too much renovation needed. And then the agent had shown her this one, set back from the road, part of a large old house that had been recently converted into flats. It had ‘spoken’ to her as soon as she walked inside. Of course it wasn’t perfect, a little on the dark side, but it looked out over trees, was conveniently situated, was a good size. And it felt right. Following the agent’s advice, she’d made the sellers an offer, and they’d accepted. Excitement had mingled with trepidation as she signed the final papers, shook hands with the solicitor, and looked down at the keys she was holding. The realisation had hit her; she was now a property-owner, with her very own flat.

  She sighed. She’d spent some happy moments here, some of them with Liam. And a lot of unhappy ones as well, most of them with Liam.

  She checked her watch again. Edward would be at work for at least another three hours, he was getting as much done as possible before their escape to Biarritz. She’d phone him later. She let her head drop back against the cushions, thinking of the months ahead.

  June, and the holiday at Villa Julia. With Jill and Edward. Bliss.

  July, back to Toulouse, getting herself installed in Edward’s flat. Buying lots of nice things. Plants, dishes, shoes. More bliss.

  September, that was when she would start her new job. She’d finally decided on the in-town business school, Edward was right, the hours were shorter, and she’d be able to walk to work through the city each day, through the beautiful medieval centre, across the parks and squares, enjoying the fresh air and the new sights and sounds as she passed the poor commuters stuck in buses and cars, nose-to-tail on the wide boulevards. Exciting.

  August. She’d deliberately skipped August. Of course there was the big family reunion at Villa Julia, that would be so much fun. But first, Acapulco. The big black cloud of Acapulco. She suppressed a groan. Maybe she and Edward could contract a highly contagious but obviously not life-threatening virus which would force them to cancel. Sorry Annabel old thing, the doctor’s adamant, we’re sneezing non-stop, throwing up all over the place, covered in weeping sores, I know, I know, such a shame, we would have simply loved to be there with you on the hilltop with the shaman and the Andean flutes...

  Weddings. She and Edward had scarcely had a minute to discuss their own. When, where. Personally she had a soft spot for the old parish church at Ravensfield, where her parents and grandparents had been married. Wearing the MacDonald tartan of course. Edward’s face when Margaret had mentioned a kilt...It was true, he had the most wonderful legs, long, lean, muscled, sexy. She raised her hand, wiggled her fingers so that the sapphire caught the light. A wedding. And, later, a baby, she hoped. Perhaps babies, plural.

  But not yet, not just yet. All she wanted to do for the immediate future was enjoy being with Edward in their eyrie high above the river. Just the two of them.

  The doorbell rang. Time to deal with the boxes. She heaved herself to her feet, wincing at a pain in her back, and went to meet the removal men.

  10 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND. JUNE

  Ah the joys of low cost airlines.

  Jill threw everything on to the bed and started again. It would never ever all go into her cabin bag. 10 kilos and the size of an elf’s briefcase. They really were stingy. Who was that chap, the head honcho, O’Leary? Was he by any chance a distant relative of the O’Tooles? Maybe she could get her mother on to him, explain that, unless the man was a monk, he’d know very well the fairer sex simply couldn’t do with all these restrictions, these little drawings of bags with arrows and centimetre thingies and exclamation marks in triangles. Didn’t he have a wife? The rules had obviously been made up by a man, probably one of his cousins he’d taken pity on, some bloke from Killarney whose wardrobe consisted of one pair of all-purpose trousers that unzipped into shorts and a couple of Tesco shirts. A man who went on his holidays in a beige jacket with lots of pockets and the one pair of Hush Puppies he intended to wear day in day out.

  She’d just have to add on some hold baggage. There was no way she was going to turn up in Biarritz, pearl of the Basque coast, with one pair of trousers, one pair of shorts, one dress and seven pairs of shoes.

  True, she could cut down on the shoes. She stared at the jumbled mess she’d thrown on to the floor. The trainers, no, she obviously needed them for those long hilltop walks looking out over the ocean. And ditto her flat sandals, for walking into town, Caro had said the villa was up on a hill, no way she could totter down narrow winding streets in her gorgeous new wedgies with daisies on the front. And there was no question she was going to leave those gorgeous wedgies behind. They went perfectly with that bite-me sundress, all filmy and floaty, straight out of a Berber harem. And the gold chain belt, that weighed a bit, but it was absolutely essential, without it the filmy floaty harem outfit looked like an empty couscous sack. Of course she could always sling the belt round her waist to travel in, but think of all the alarms she’d set off in security not to mention being weighed down by the clinking medallions like Servilia of the Junii in ‘Rome’.

  She’d need a pair of flats, too, pretty but sensible, in case it rained. Rain? Banish that thought, she was not going to spend her holiday under an umbrella. Umbrella, she supposed she’d better stick in an umbrella, just in case the very worst happened. And her babies, her very favourite babies that brought a tear to her eyes every time she looked at them, and real sobs when she remembered the price tag. But they were Jimmy Choo for heaven’s sake! She couldn’t turn up for an evening in the Casino without having the right pair of shoes at the end of her shapely aquagym-toned pins.

  She hitched up her trousers. Shapely, but the colour...did she have time to book a spray tan before her departure? The pins were toned, but the same shade as gone-off milk. With freckles. Maybe a home tan? Better not. You could always spot them, the orange ankles, the sunset streaks just behind the knee. No, forget that, back to her packing. What about the rest of her Casino outfit? She’d need to take at least three
possibles, depending on the weather. That was the thing, June was the beginning of the season, it could be blissfully warm or goosepimply chilly. So obviously she’d need a couple of sweaters, some jeans along with the more summery stuff.

  She groaned, sat back on her heels and looked at her sketching things lying in a bundle on the floor. Yes, it was a holiday. But art was her secret passion, blossoming from the time she’d arrived in Edinburgh and enrolled for night classes. Since then, she’d learned about the Glasgow School, Rennie Mackintosh, the Glasgow girls and the Glasgow boys, then later discovered the seascapes of Bill McArthur, those visions of pale northern beaches whipped clean by the wind. She thought of Caroline’s descriptions of the wild Atlantic coast and made a decision. Her sketching stuff was going in. To hell with it if she needed two cases.

  She headed for the sitting room. Her laptop sat on the desk in front of the bay window. Right, what was her reservation number? She rummaged in her papers, entered the details and began to modify her reservation. How much??? Fifty-five pounds just to stick one measly suitcase in the hold? That meant over a hundred quid for two! What was that O’Leary man transporting that took up all the room? Gold bullion? African elephants? Grrr. She gritted her teeth, clicked on the boxes and got out her credit card. Just a minute, total £650? How had she got to £650? She peered at the box with the final numbers. What the hell was this, she hadn’t rented a Citroen Picasso for two weeks! And what was the thing about skis? Hold your horses, Mr O! Back, back! She clicked on the screen, ran her eyes down the pages, insurance, no, hotel room, no, transfer to the city centre, no, bulky items, skis, banjos, pushchairs, no no no. Come on come on. She just wanted to put two bloody suitcases in the hold, with the bullion and the elephants. Ah, at last. Picasso, adios. Banjos, adios. She hit ‘Confirm’.

  A message shot up telling her the page had timed out.

  11 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE

  ‘Hey Courtenay how are you this fine weekend? Is the sun shining in Frankfurt? Are those golden-thighed Bavarian maidens sitting out on terraces in skimpy leather shorts?’

  Edward fell back on the rumpled bed, windows open to the warm breeze wafting the scent of pines into the room. The shower was running in the bathroom, he imagined Caroline lifting her face to the warm water, squeezing out the perfumed gel she loved with its fragrance of lime blossom, soaping her body. He’d just been on his way to help her with that chore when the phone rang.

  As he listened to his friend’s strained voice, his expression darkened.

  ‘What? Of course you can, don’t be an idiot, you know you’re welcome here any time. But what makes you think Annabel...’

  He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and started pacing back and forth as Julian continued, his words tumbling over one another, voice cracking.

  ‘But you don’t know for certain? I mean, you haven’t actually...no, no, I understand. I told you mate, it’s all fine...yes I do realise there’ll be three of you...no, Caroline won’t mind, you know Caro.’

  He nodded, walked over to the window, phone pressed to his ear, and stared out at the garden.

  June. The villa grounds were at their most beautiful, flowers blooming in crazy profusion, the blue cedar spreading its crinoline to the top of the grass, jays chattering, swooping from branch to branch. Beyond the white wall at the bottom of the park, beyond the pink roofs of villas further down the hill, the Atlantic glistened and sparkled, deceptively calm, its surface undisturbed by the smallest wave.

  ‘Stop saying that, Jules, for God’s sake, how long have we been friends? Best friends? Who could count on each other whatever? The three musketeers, bar one? Right. We’ll expect you. Let me know the details when you’ve booked. I’ll be there to get you. Yes, yes, there’ll be three of you plus a mountain of luggage plus Joshua’s top of the range hi-tech pushchair-cum-astronaut’s ejector seat. Got it. Don’t worry, I’ll hire a bus. Hang on in there Jules, I mean it. It’ll all work out in the end, you’ll see.’

  He ended the call, threw his phone on the bed, ran his hands through his hair and resumed pacing up and down the bedroom. The shower had stopped. His beloved would probably be shimmying out stark naked any minute, wondering where he was.

  He groaned. How the hell was he going to break the news that their relaxed little holiday with Jill was turning into something rather more complicated? Something with three extra members, Julian, Baby Joshua and a Polish nanny called Nadia?

  Reluctantly, he headed for the stairs. Post-shower playtime would have to wait. Better make some coffee, Caroline was going to need it.

  ***

  ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  Caroline poured another cup, her third. Her winged eyebrows were drawn down into a straight line of worry.

  ‘Do you really think she’d do that? Only weeks before the wedding?’

  Edward sighed, took her hand between both of his and kissed it.

  ‘We’re talking Annabel, sweets.’ He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. ‘You know her better than I do. Or maybe not, after all, she’s your sister, it’s normal for you have some blind spots. But look what happened last summer, look how she pushed Jules completely over the edge, he could have got himself killed. And what about us? She nearly ruined it for both of us.’

  ‘I know. I still haven’t forgiven her, deep down. I don’t know if I ever will. There was all the other stuff, with Liam as well, she just seems–oh I don’t know Edward, I’ve spent hours thinking about it, trying to reason with myself, I know she went through a childhood trauma, she should really have had counselling later when she got older, but she always resisted the idea and Margaret was loath to push her into something that could have gone either way. And we all thought we could make it up to her. Stupid, with hindsight.’

  ‘Sweetheart. She wasn’t the only one who lost her parents. What about you? What sort of trauma was it for you?’

  ‘I was older, I had, I suppose, more mechanisms to deal with it. Plus there was Annabel to think about, she was my little sister, somehow I felt that she was my responsibility, that I had to look after her. She was scarcely more than a baby, really. Two years old, they just don’t understand. The way she cried, the way she used to run from one room to another, calling for her Mummy, it was heart-breaking.’

  In spite of herself tears had come into Caroline’s eyes.

  Edward got up to stand behind her, wrapped his arms round her, held her tight.

  ‘Maybe unconsciously I had a goal, you know, looking after Annabel. Maybe that helped me get through the shock of the accident. Maybe that’s why I was able to cope better. Anyway, I’m just blathering on, the real answer is, I have no idea.’

  Edward moved back to his chair, pulling Caroline with him, sitting her on his knee.

  ‘When I hear you talk, I realise how normal my life was. How lucky I was. I know I shouldn’t be the first to cast a stone. But we’ve been over this before, my sweet honey, you know my feelings on the subject. In my strictly non-professional opinion your sister has serious problems. Whatever the cause may be, whatever excuses she may have, she...there’s something that causes her to behave, maybe a personality disorder, something that makes her behave in a way that has serious consequences for other people. That causes them real hurt, damage. And while everyone else is reeling, she just seems to sail through it all and come out unscathed at the other end. That’s what really pisses me off, her imperviousness. And that’s what I feel I have to protect you from, and Jules too.’

  Caroline was silent. She nestled closer to Edward, breathing in the musky, night-smell of his skin. He’d not yet showered, his jaw glistened with golden stubble, he looked rumpled, dishevelled and incredibly sexy. She sighed. The last thing she wanted was to have to think about her sister yet again, to sort out her messes once more, to let herself get caught up in Annabel’s storm, find herself struggling to take control. Edward was right. People did need protecting from Annabel. But how to do it? They were all involved, all entangled
in one way or another, she was her sister, Julian was her husband and Edward’s best friend, and now there was the baby as well.

  There had been almost one whole year of respite. Annabel and Julian had officialised things last summer, first with the registry office marriage and the announcement of the pregnancy, then, in autumn, the move to Frankfurt. Caroline had felt as if a huge weight had rolled off her shoulders. The Courtenays had their own life, in a different country. And she had been free to indulge herself, to look forward to a new future, a life with the man she loved. It had been a wonderful time, happy, exciting, the strong feelings between herself and Edward deepening and expanding until they both felt so complete together she couldn’t imagine ever being without him.

  And she had even dared to believe in a future for Annabel too. Contrary to all expectations she had adjusted to her new life in Frankfurt, made friends, got caught up in a whirl of social life, become a mother. And that was when the clouds had started to appear on the horizon. Caroline, observing her sister with the baby, hadn’t missed the way in which Annabel related to her son. Or rather, failed to relate.

  ‘I still can’t really understand why Julian is so convinced she’s having an affair. Tell me again exactly what he said.’

  ‘Constant arguments. Disinterest in the baby. No sex for months. And Annabel has started moving with a fast crowd. There’s this group of rich, bored wives who go out together and egg each other on to be outrageous and daring, sort of Desperate Frankfurt Housewives meets Sex and the City from what I could figure out. He’s sure they’re into drugs, cocaine, designer stuff. Perhaps not Annabel, well not yet,’ he added hastily seeing the expression on Caroline’s face.

  ‘And then, this latest thing, when they were at a party. He says it was an accident, he’d dropped off to sleep in an armchair, woke up when he heard this couple going at it. All he wanted to do was get out of the room before they saw him. And then he recognised the man, heard his voice. He doesn’t know who the woman was, but the man was a new member of the group, some rich Italian playboy.’