Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2

by Laurette Long

  ‘Good thing I called a taxi,’ said Edward, as Antoine and Jill embraced enthusiastically. ‘When I see what the pair of you have on your feet there’s no way we’d have got you down that hill.’

  Caroline raised the hem of her dress, extended a slim leg, pointed her toes like a dancer, turned her foot one way and the other.

  ‘Nice, though, aren’t they?’

  ‘Mmm. New ones, are they? A bit tight? Might you need a foot massage or something when we get back?’

  Caroline smiled and sent his pulse into overdrive with another one of those upward glances from under her lashes.

  ***

  As the barrier swung upwards, Jill clutched Caroline’s hand.

  ‘Omigod. Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Better,’ said Edward. ‘The Queen doesn’t have a Michelin chef in her kitchens.’

  The taxi swept up the curving drive, past lawns where every blade of grass was identical to its neighbours in colour and length.

  ‘Is it real, do you think? Oh look at those flowers, what are they? They look like ballerinas.’

  ‘Gaura,’ Caroline told her. ‘Pretty aren’t they?’

  A light breeze ruffled the delicate white sprays, making them dip and sway.

  The taxi dropped them in front of the imposing entrance.

  Caroline smiled at the look on Jill’s face as they stepped inside the foyer. She bet she’d looked exactly the same one year ago, when they first came for cocktails.

  Le Grand Palais. Its interior breathed luxury, elegance and refinery. The opulent belle époque decor was so packed with tiny details, carvings, mouldings, delicate traceries of gold leaf, that it could have been overwhelming. But the romantic history of the palace, built by Napoleon III for the Empress Eugénie, made everything seem quite fitting. A gift from an Emperor to his beloved, it was perfect. Marble pillars, magnificent teardrop chandeliers suspended from lofty ceilings, glittering fractals of light reflected from dozens of mirrors, all transported the beholder back to a vanished world.

  ‘I’m in a Renoir painting,’ said Jill. ‘Really. Do you know that one, Caro, it’s one of my favourites, ‘Dance in the City’, there’s this woman in a beautiful white satin ballgown and long white gloves, dancing with this bloke, you can just see the top of his head, a dark handsome stranger, a bit like Antoine now I think of it. There’s this palm tree behind and oh–’

  Her voice trailed off as she gazed around.

  Caroline nodded. It was easy to imagine a sea of dancers waltzing through the magnificent salons, across the shining floors, past the painted frescoes, pausing to chat among the palm trees and flowers. Easy to succumb to the magic and dream.

  ‘Monsieur Rayburn, enchanté.’

  The maître d’ was coming to meet them. A tall man, dark hair greying at the temples, he exuded poise and assurance, a polished veneer acquired through years of experience of greeting distinguished guests. But Caroline noticed a look of genuine pleasure in his eyes as he addressed Edward.

  ‘Monsieur Arantxa, good to see you.’

  Antoine grinned and reached out a hand to clap him on the shoulders before remembering where he was and transforming the movement into a dignified handshake.

  ‘How is your mother?’ The maître d’ turned to Edward. ‘And the judge? Will we be seeing them later this summer?’

  Jill pinched Caroline.

  ‘The judge!’

  They were ushered through to the Hippocamp, the outdoor restaurant. Glancing to her right Jill glimpsed the magnificent semicircular dining room with its sweep of windows looking out over the Atlantic. Waiters glided among the tables like swallows, the black and white of their uniforms contrasting with the white and gold walls, the impressive flower arrangements of lilies, roses and orchids.

  They stepped out on to a terrace with similarly dressed tables, heavy double cloths of impeccable whiteness, silver cutlery, sparkling glasses. Each table had a vase of orange and yellow blooms set in the middle.

  Two waiters materialised to pull back the rattan chairs and seat the ladies. Two more wished them ‘Bonjour et bienvenue’ and handed them menus.

  Shaded from the sun by a vast awning, the terrace seemed to overhang the sea, so close that you could almost dive straight in. The weather gods were with them, the sky was a cerulean blue reaching up to infinity in countless translucent layers. Below, in a panoramic sweep, the Atlantic spread before them, filling the graceful curve of the bay as far as the opposite promontory. It was a different blue, darker, the same shade as Caroline’s ring, and the pendants that hung from her ears. A series of rocks broke its surface like a school of whales coming in to the shore. Flocks of seagulls whirled round them, taking off, landing, soaring into the air then plunging vertically into the sea with high mewing cries.

  The lawns of the hotel ran down towards the railings, the manicured surface adorned here and there by stands of shrubs and showy groups of blue and pink hydrangeas.

  ‘Look!’ Jill was pointing to an imposing gate flanked by two stone pillars.

  Antoine followed her gaze.

  ‘Ah, ze ‘ippocamps!’

  At the top of each pillar was an ornate metal lamp in the shape of a seahorse, topped by a pearly globe.

  ‘Hippocamp? Sea-horse? The Seahorse Restaurant?’ Jill clapped her hands. ‘I’m sitting in the Seahorse Restaurant in the Grand Palais in Biarritz! Who’s going to believe me when I tell them all at the Whitekiss Dental Practice?’

  ‘You can see how they got their names,’ said Caroline. ‘They really do look like little horses, perched on bar stools.’

  ‘They do exist don’t they, seahorses? In real life I mean? Or are they just myths?’

  ‘No, they exist. In fact you can find them in the Med,’ said Edward, studying the menu.

  ‘You know Irish,’ said Antoine, taking Jill’s hand and gazing into her eyes, ‘when a man seahorse take a wife it is forever.’

  ‘You’re kidding me Antoine.’

  ‘No, it is true.’ He leaned closer. ‘You can ask to Blondie, he is the brains. But I am a man of the sea, I know.’

  ‘Who am I to pour cold water on romantic myths?’ said Edward. ‘Now, let’s get down to business before we carry on with the biology lesson. Aperitifs, mes amis?’

  On their visit last summer they had chosen the house cocktails, the Emperor and the Empress. Caroline remembered sharing complicit looks with Edward, their relationship was just starting to blossom, she had been filled with unbearable happiness. And then Annabel had cast a shadow over them all.

  She gave a little shiver, smiled brightly and made her suggestions.

  ‘Good, la rose, good,’ said Antoine. ‘Emperors and Empresses for one day. Let us dream.’

  ‘You know it’s so romantic here, even the cocktails are inspired by love,’ said Jill. ‘And just look at the view, incredible. Where’s my camera?’

  She rummaged in her bag, took several shots of the bay, then turned to Edward and Caroline.

  ‘OK, Blondie and the rose, heads together.’

  ‘My turn,’ said Edward, reaching for the camera. ‘Antoine and Jill, the Emperor and his Empress. Smile!’

  ‘Wait!’

  Antoine reached out and gently turned Jill’s face so she was looking at him.

  ‘Now,’ he instructed Edward.

  Edward clicked.

  ‘Let me look,’ said Caroline. ‘Oh wow! Rita Hayworth and Clark Gable.’

  Antoine’s dark chiselled profile was turned towards Jill. In the shade of the sun awning her hair was a deep auburn, cascading to her shoulders. Both of them were staring into each other’s eyes like Mr and Mrs Seahorse.

  A warm breeze blew a lock of Jill’s hair into her eyes. Tenderly, Antoine reached out and tucked it gently behind her ear.

  ‘You know you have the ear like a seahorse?’ he murmured.

  Caroline turned away from Edward and looked resolutely out to sea, trying not to giggle. She heard a snort of laughter escape from her beloved�
�s nose, hastily turned into a cough.

  Fortunately the drinks arrived.

  ‘To Caroline,’ said Jill as they raised their glasses. ‘Clever Caroline, top of the class! Splancha!’

  ‘Splancha!’

  They laughed, clinked glasses. Antoine put his head on one side, studied Caroline.

  ‘Ah la rose, you know what is going to happen. Your students, they all fall in love with you. You know that mon ami? You are cooked.’

  ‘What I know, Antoine, is that I am taking her to work. And picking her up. Every day,’ said Edward. ‘And meeting her for lunch. Also, I’m having a chip installed in her ankle. With a GPS transmitter. So, what’s your fancy?’

  They studied the menus with appreciative murmurs.

  ‘I’ll have the lot,’ said Jill. ‘Even though I don’t know what any of it means.’

  ‘I can recommend the wild prawns à la plancha,’ said Edward. ‘Or possibly à la slàinte heh heh. Delicious, with ginger dressing, not that you two need any encouragement. That’s what I’m having.’

  ‘Me also,’ said Antoine.

  ‘Look at these salads,’ said Jill, ‘they sound amazing.’

  ‘Jill. I can make an amazing salad, at the Villa Julia. Well, perhaps not as amazing as they do here. But why don’t you go for something more adventurous. Not tempted by a wild prawn?’

  Finally there were three wild prawns, plus Caroline’s choice of fresh garden peas in a creamy herb sauce.

  For the main course Caroline chose fish, while Edward went for veal medallions with basil and ricotta ravioli.

  ‘Filet de boeuf angus cuit à la plancha, sauce béarnaise, et grosses frites.’

  Antoine snapped his menu shut.

  ‘What? Steak and chips? You’re joking Antoine.’

  ‘Ma chère rose,’ said Antoine gravely. ‘It is Angus steak. The Angus is a famous cow. With no ‘orns. And béarnaise sauce. And big chips. I am a man, I need my meat.’

  He slipped an arm round Jill’s waist.

  ‘So Irish, you take some beef like me?’

  ‘Antoine, you forget I live in Scotland,’ said Jill. ‘That’s where they live, too, the Angus. On hooves. No, I’m looking at the St Pierre with olives, sun dried tomatoes and fennel with lemon sorbet. What exactly is a St Pierre, Caro?’

  ‘Oh I always get this one wrong,’ said Caroline. ‘Is it a John Dory, Eddie?’

  ‘Yeah, its colour, a sort of golden yellow, jaune dorée in French.’

  In consultation with the sommelier, Antoine and Edward chose the wine, a Domaine Brana white for the fish and a Domaine Arretxea ‘Haitza’ for the meat.

  ‘That’s that wine with the funny name isn’t it, Irousomething,’ said Jill. ‘I think I’m developing a discerning palate.’

  It was a perfect lunch, a perfect day. Laughter and conversation came from the surrounding tables, the clatter of cutlery, and the pop of champagne corks. The distant sound of children’s laughter rose from the beach below, carried on the breeze.

  ‘This chef should get a knighthood,’ said Jill, finishing her John Dory. ‘These flavours!’

  ‘He’s been here for years, I remember him from when I was a kid. We’ve been coming with the family every summer for ages, it’s the twins’ birthday in August–the mothers, that is, not Jean-Paul and Claudie.’

  ‘So your mother is a twin as well?’

  ‘Yes, she and Anouk are identical twins.’

  ‘Do they have the whole telepathic thing going?’

  ‘From time to time yes, it’s pretty creepy, you know they’ll turn up in the summer and they’ll each be wearing the same sweater. They’re incredibly close, on to the phone to each other every day.’

  ‘No other children, your maternal grandparents I mean?’

  ‘No. I think they decided two girls at the same time were enough of a handful.’

  ‘Ah yes, girls are the hardest.’ Antoine nodded, in between mouthfuls of waffles and ice-cream. ‘My mother is always saying that, about Marielle and Jojo. But it is more easy now that they are older, they have boyfriends so they calm down, not running around in the countryside like wild horses.’

  He turned to Jill.

  ‘You meet them soon, when you come to eat Chez Arantxa.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that.’

  ‘Is not le Grand Palais, I warn you.’

  Antoine flashed a grin.

  ‘But is good, very traditional cooking. And tomorrow also we try some traditional dishes, at the inn of my Tante Marie, my favourite auntie.’

  He looked at his watch, pulled a face.

  ‘I must to go, I am sorry, my mother want me to prepare for this evening. But tomorrow morning, Irish, I show you my country, mon pays. I pick you up, 6 o’clock?’

  Jill choked on a strawberry.

  ‘No worry, I joke,’ said Antoine, leaning down to plant a tender kiss on Jill’s lips.

  ‘Mmm, wonderful, you are tasting like mango and strawberry. And looking like a peach, a beautiful white peach.’

  He bent down and whispered something in Jill’s ear that had flames shooting up to her hairline.

  He laughed, stood up and reached inside his jacket for his wallet. Edward stopped him with a gesture.

  ‘Hey, we agreed, my treat. For my clever girl. Glad you could come. See you later mon pote.’

  They waved goodbye to Antoine. Edward grinned across the table at Jill.

  ‘How are you enjoying yourself so far, Irish? Or should I call you ‘Seahorse’ from now on?’

  Jill her mouth full of dessert, shook her head, waved her arms, clutched her stomach.

  ‘And you, Cupid? Happy? Give me your seahorse ear.’

  He leaned over, nuzzled Caroline’s neck then sat back in his chair and tossed his serviette on the table with a sigh of contentment.

  ‘La vie est belle, n’est-ce pas ladies? Poor Antoine may have had to rush off but that doesn’t mean we can’t linger over a cup of coffee, does it? We are en vacances! Everything is perfect!’

  14 BASQUE COUNTRY, FRANCE. JUNE

  Now what does one wear to go out for a day exploring the Basque country? One perhaps wears one’s jeans? And one’s sneakers? And why not a jolly old waxed Barbour while one’s at it?

  Jill flung her sneakers back into the wardrobe with a snarl of disgust. She might be going to explore the countryside but there was no way she had to dress up like Princess Anne. Now what about these...she held up her new corsair trousers, bright red and extremely tight round the derrière. And for the top, one of her new T-shirts? No, too sporty. She wanted practical but sexy, just enough of a hint to keep Antoine’s eyes firmly fixed on her, when he wasn’t watching the road that is. She didn’t know what sort of a car he had, maybe one of those little low-slung sports jobs? She’d need something to stop her hair flying all over the place, a scarf in case they went really fast, yes, a pale chiffon scarf, to wind round her head, Grace Kelly style. Plus her new Donna Karan sunglasses.

  So that left the top. She took out a pretty, demure, embroidered blouse she’d picked up at Monsoon. Very feminine. Ever so slightly transparent. And she could button up or button down, depending on the circumstances. If she tied it at the waist the effect was very enticing. Sort of urban cowgirl. And it also showed a tantalising hint of bare skin when she raised her arms. She raised her arms to check, spotted the beginnings of a spare tyre, lowered them. She was going to eat salad for the rest of her holiday.

  She stared down at her feet. Just one more problem to solve. She opened the door and peered over the banister.

  ‘Caro? You there, mah honey? Footwear crisis alert!’

  Ten minutes later she was back in her room, holding a pair of espadrilles. Just the thing, she could storm along the hilltops while still looking cute in her navy and white striped espadrilles tied in a neat bow at the back. Good thing she and Caro had the same size feet, if nothing else. Either petite willowy Degas ballerina Caroline had extra large feet or tall athletic curvaceous Jill ha
d strangely tiny trotters.

  Fifteen minutes later Caroline called upstairs to say her escort had arrived. Jill picked up her shoulder bag containing all essential objects for a day in the country and tripped out to meet him, blowing kisses to Caroline who was chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

  ‘Bonjour Irish.’

  He was waiting at the bottom of the steps, wearing jeans and a very tight, very white T-shirt, looking exactly like an ad for Budweiser. He pulled her into his arms, planted four kisses on her cheeks, then stood back.

  ‘Oh, very beautiful! Beautiful to fall to earth! Now, we go, the sun is shining, OK?’

  ‘Très OK.’

  Jill beamed and trotted after Bud Man, wondering where he’d parked his truck. Scrub the sexy little Mazda, he’d never squeeze inside, all those bulging muscles, had to be a truck. Trucks were just as sexy as sports cars, maybe even more so. More...alpha. Bonnets you could lean on. Her mind flashed on an image of Antoine pulling her against him as he leaned back on the warm bonnet, eyes gazing into hers...

  She came to a sudden halt. On the other side of Edward’s dusty Renault stood a gleaming monster. Black as shining, newly-mined coal. Dazzling chrome. Polished leather. The only problem was it only had two wheels.

  ‘Is this–you mean we’re...’ she stuttered to a halt.

  Antoine was holding out a helmet to her, a look of pride on his face.

  ‘Nice, no? I call her Brigitte.’

  ‘Brigitte...?’

  ‘Yes, you know the song? By Serge? Serge Gainsbourg? No?’

  His eyes widened in disbelief as if it was inconceivable that Serge’s French hit had never made it across the channel.

  ‘Harley Davidson!’

  Jill spread her hands.

  ‘It’s a Harley Davidson motorbike?’

  ‘Yes! A bike, like in the song of Serge, ‘Harley Davidsonofabitch!’’

  ‘Son of a...’

  Jill’s eyes widened. What was Bud Man going on about?

  ‘You know? Top twenty hit parade! Serge, he wrote a famous song, Harley Davidsonofabitch, number one hit, with Brigitte Bardot singing the words! Oh Irish, no! How you not know this song? Is famous in the whole world! Even Ireland! You know Brigitte Bardot, right? BB? I find you the clip on the YouTube. Brigitte is singing, and she wears oh so sexy boots, black, in leather, they come right up to...’