Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2

by Laurette Long

That brought her to the long shot. Claudio.

  Money? Oodles.

  Situation? No doubts on that score.

  Prestige...that was the tricky one. He was certainly part of a high-flying, high-rolling European set. But she didn’t know a thing about his background, his family, only that he was divorced. Did he have children? She really needed to find out more, she should have looked on the internet, maybe even hired someone to investigate, but it was too late now, time was running out, she may not get another opportunity like this week.

  Also, while she knew that she could twist Julian around her little finger, Claudio was proving to be a more difficult challenge. What did he really think of her? He murmured all sorts of stuff while they were locked together, panting and gasping, but he’d always managed to avoid discussing the future. Their future. Did he want her to leave Julian? In the throes of passion he now appeared to be as hooked by her as she was by him. They had both reached the stage where being together was an all-consuming obsession. They were like two junkies sharing the same needle.

  But they rarely had time to talk, it was all physical, even when they were at the restaurant together the focus was on seduction, on the build up to what inevitably came later. And during the day she had no time to think, catching up on her sleep, going through the motions for the wedding, while all the time at the back of her mind one thing possessed her–the next encounter with Claudio. What would she wear, how would she act, how long could she make him wait, how much could she make him burn? For the moment, he was still the victor. But each time she was bending him a little more to her will, pushing him that bit further, feeling her power increase.

  She ordered another drink, felt the alcohol heat her stomach, felt her rationalisations drift, as they had been doing for days, into erotic daydreams. She didn’t want to have to think, to have to make decisions. She wanted to enjoy. To be with Claudio, her Claudio. She wanted that kick, that unsurpassable thrill, that sick feeling of being out of control, that moment at the top of the roller-coaster...

  A burst of noise brought her out of her reverie. She looked up, caught a glimpse of a famous singer passing through the foyer. Flashbulbs were popping. What was her name, something South American, she could hear the photographers ‘This way darling! That’s it, a nice smile now!’

  Really the Ritz was getting quite vulgar.

  She glanced at her watch. She wondered what time Claudio finished his meeting. She’d better be getting back to the flat, give herself time to take a long hot bath, maybe catch a little sleep, before getting ready for tonight. Their rendezvous was at ten. She would wear white tonight. White satin. Like a bride.

  She smiled, signalled for the bill, took out her credit card. Thank God Julian never complained about how much she spent. That at least was one thing in his favour.

  The press was still hanging round as she walked through the lobby. She found herself blocked, changed direction. The ping of an elevator distracted her, she glanced across the foyer. Two people, a man and a woman, were standing side by side in the elevator as the doors opened. They just had time to pull apart, there had been the briefest glimpse of an embrace, then a hasty movement away from each other. But the body language, the look on their faces said it all.

  Annabel’s heart seemed to stop. Rooted to the spot she saw them step out, the smiling man politely ushering the woman, who turned to smile her thanks. Their eyes locked, their smiles changed subtly, they moved a fraction closer to each other. It was palpable. The complicity of lovers who have just spent the afternoon in bed together. She could almost smell them from where she stood.

  The woman. It wasn’t possible. Annabel’s eyes refused to believe what she was seeing. But the man, oh there was no doubt who the man was. Claudio.

  With a jerk, Annabel’s heart resumed its beat at the same time as heat rushed to her face, and her entire body flooded with adrenalin-fuelled rage. As she flew towards the smiling couple, she vaguely heard a shout from one of the photographers, but the roaring in her ears drowned out the sound of popping flashbulbs.

  25 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE

  They heard the noise before they got out of the car. Chez Arantxa was on a side street just back from the town centre. Its windows were brightly lit, the frames painted in Basque red, light spilled out onto the pavement where all the tables were already occupied with groups of holiday makers, laughing and talking. The doors stood open. As they approached they saw that the inside too was crowded, long wooden tables covered in platters of food and bottles of wine, waiters rushing to and fro between the kitchen and the customers, orders being shouted, gusts of laughter rising to the ceiling.

  A long bar in dark wood ran along the back, decorated with strings of Espelette peppers. The walls were painted cream and adorned with pictures of boats and sailors, Jill noted, painted in a naive style with bold colours.

  Near the bar a table for six was laid with white plates and multicoloured-striped linen serviettes. At one end, in pride of place stood a high chair.

  ‘Ils arrivent!’

  They recognised Antoine’s roar as they stepped inside, and suddenly found themselves in the centre of a mob of brown-skinned, flashing-teethed Antoine lookalikes. The Arantxa clan in all its splendour, minus the chef, doubtless occupied with his plancha in the kitchens.

  ‘Edouard, mon petit!’

  ‘Petit’ Edward was caught up in the embrace of a lady half his height and twice his girth, who could only be Antoine’s mother, thought Jill. Introductions somehow managed to be made in the general hugfest. Antoine’s father popped his head round the door and gave them a wave with a spatula, promising to join them ‘plus tard’. There were two Arantxa sisters, Marielle and Jojo, and two brothers, Hervé and Denis. Apart from all sharing the same Iberian good looks, they also shared the same manner of speaking which consisted of everyone interrupting everyone else, volleys of questions and exclamations, bursts of laughter, hand-waving and a lot of touching and kissing. Wow, thought Jill. Exuberance wasn’t the word.

  Naturally the baby was the star of the show, staring up at everyone solemn-eyed, occasionally breaking into one of his beaming smiles, blowing saliva bubbles, or giving enormous yawns, all of which were deemed to be signs of outstanding personality by the Arantxas. The proud father got his back thumped so hard by Hervé and Denis he had to sit down. Edward was next, wincing under the blows while Caroline showed off her ring. Jill had been hanging back, smiling and listening. Suddenly Antoine grabbed her and placed her in front of him, hands on her shoulders, explaining that this was his ‘amie irlandaise’, introduced by Caroline.

  Madame Arantxa gave her a warm hug, then stood back with an approving look on her face explaining that her sister Marie had told them all about her.

  ‘How did you enjoy your day in the Basque countryside, Jill?’

  A blush rose to Jill’s cheeks as she struggled for her best French.

  ‘La campagne, Madame, absolutamente marvellous, et avec Antoine, j’ai beaucoup beaucoup de pleasure…plaisir!’

  A reply which had everyone in stitches and caused Antoine to blush as deeply as Jill who had turned to Caroline, mortified, hissing:

  ‘What did I say? What did I say?’

  ‘I think they’ve all got the message that you and Antoine seem to be having a great deal of pleasure together.’

  Jill closed her eyes and her face turned the same shade as her hair.

  Finally they all managed to sit down, and several bottles and dishes of olives and sausage appeared on the table. Jill watched the family in action, fascinated. They seemed to dance rather than walk, springing lightly between the tables, arms held out to the side, piled with over-sized plates which they deposited deftly in front of the customers without spilling the least grain of rice or drop of sauce. Every few minutes they would interrupt the inter-table ballet and swirl over to the villa group.

  It was a good start to a good evening. The restaurant served typical Basque food, mainly fish. At the end of the bar, by
the doors to the kitchen, the different specimens were piled up on ice under a glass display. Sole, bream, sea bass. Gambas, squid, octopus. The air was redolent with the smell of olive oil and frying garlic, the spicy tang of the Espelette pepper.

  Marielle whirled up with the appetisers, wafer thin slices of Bayonne ham, red peppers in olive oil, tiny fried squid, razor clams on the half-shell.

  They ate like kings, fussed over by Antoine and his sisters, bottles appearing on the table like rabbits out of a magician’s hat, the empties whisked away, new baskets of freshly cut baguettes brought out from behind the bar for them to mop up the spicy delicious sauce. Conversation was impossible, they made do with shouted comments across the table.

  Edward leaned close and murmured in Caroline’s ear.

  ‘Well done, sweetheart, you and Jill and Nadia. Our Jules is a different man.’

  ‘Isn’t he? And Nadia’s coming out of her shell. She’s obviously got a crush on him.’

  ‘Poor kid. I hope she doesn’t get too attached.’

  Baby Joshua, after banging out a selection of bongo rhythms with a spoon, had fallen fast asleep and was dreaming happily in his carrycot, checked on every few minutes by an Arantxa female.

  Antoine paused from time to time, in between serving drinks, bending down to say something to Jill, hovering close, the pair of them flushed and bright-eyed and obviously having a hard time keeping their hands off one another.

  The evening passed quickly. Caroline, looking at her watch, was surprised to see that it was almost midnight. The restaurant was fairly empty now, things beginning to slacken off in the kitchen. Monsieur Arantxa came out and was congratulated on his excellent cuisine. Edward and Julian got bone-crushing hugs, the ladies a kiss on the hand. He returned to the kitchen to ‘check the boys were clearing up properly’, but promised to come out for a final glass with them before they left.

  Caroline was just leaning across to say something to Jill when she heard a noise at the door and looked up to see a late group coming in, four men and four women. They spilled inside reminding Caroline of a flock of dark winter birds and sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine.

  They’d obviously had a few drinks too many. More than a few she thought, as one of the women stumbled on the threshold and almost fell flat on her face. Her partner caught her at the last minute, laughing, swung her to her feet then bent her backwards to plant a sloppy kiss on her mouth. She was a petite brunette, hair in a pixie cut, wearing a very short lycra skirt and a leather bomber jacket in spite of the warm weather.

  Some instinct made Caroline glance towards the bar, where Antoine was pouring cognac into four glasses on a round tray. Seeing the new arrivals, his face changed, eyes narrowing and lips tightening. He paused, a few drops ran down the side of the bottle and dripped onto the tray. His gaze was fixed on the couple. Jill had noticed too. She looked at Antoine, then back again at the couple who were still kissing and giggling.

  Madame Arantxa came through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel and saying something over her shoulder. She turned, saw the newcomers, looked at Antoine, gave a small shake of the head, then moved across the room like a small tug heading out to confront a liner. Caroline couldn’t make out what she was saying but it obviously didn’t please them. They started to protest loudly, but Madame Arantxa stood her ground, shrugging her shoulders and gesturing towards the clock on the wall.

  The noise level rose, one of the men banged his fist on a table, and there was a sudden shift in atmosphere, a growing tension. Something seemed to change, casting a shadow over the brightly-lit restaurant. Caroline noticed that Edward had tensed in his chair. Then another man, with a nose ring and a sailor’s cap, threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust and shouted something about ‘going somewhere else’, and ‘shitty restaurant anyway, tourist crap’.

  Everyone turned to leave. Caroline felt her shoulders relax. She exhaled. An unpleasant scene had been avoided. Good old Madame A, she thought admiringly. Small, but brave. But then running a restaurant must give rise to this sort of problem from time to time; Madame was obviously a lady of experience.

  But just as Caroline reached for her glass there was a scuffle, the woman who had almost fallen when she came in broke away from the rest, pushed roughly past Madame Arantxa, and headed for the bar at speed. She was wearing very high heels and swaying like a tamarisk tree in a high wind. As she passed their table she staggered, almost fell, grabbed on to the back of the chair in which Julian was sitting. He started to get to his feet, but she heaved herself away and carried on, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Antoine. He was standing, hands on the bar, face impassive.

  ‘Alors,’ the girl was hissing the words, her voice slurred but comprehensible. ‘I hear you’ve got a new tart, a foreigner. Taken her for a ride on your bike, have you?’ She laughed unpleasantly. ‘Probably gave her the ride of her life.’ She pointed at Antoine. ‘So who is she? Some Eastern European slut ready to open her legs for the right price?’

  The colour drained from Antoine’s face.

  Several things happened at once.

  Edward was on his feet, pushing back his chair. The kitchen door swung open with a crash and Antoine’s sisters hurried out. Madame Arantxa and the man in the cap both rushed over to the bar. The man got there first, grabbed the girl by her arm.

  ‘Come on Melodie, leave it.’

  ‘Get off me!’

  She tried to shake loose from his grip. Her eyes were wild, mascara smeared down one cheek like a bruise.

  Antoine’s sisters had formed a line in front of the bar, arms folded, faces hostile.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ said Marielle contemptuously. ‘Don’t you have any pride?’

  ‘That’s right, defend baby brother, you stuck up bitch!’

  The kitchen door swung open again. Antoine’s father and brothers emerged, their faces darkening when they saw what was going on.

  ‘Enough!’

  Antoine’s voice was like thunder. He vaulted over the bar so fast that everyone gasped. He moved in front of his sisters, his face inches from the girl called Melodie.

  ‘That’s enough I said!’

  He turned to the man in disgust.

  ‘Get her out of here.’

  The man gave another tug but Melodie with a sudden wrench broke free and threw herself at Antoine, wailing.

  ‘No! Why are you doing this? Antoine, chéri!’

  In a surprising move, a sort of standing jump, she managed to get her arms and legs round Antoine, clinging to him like a monkey climbing a tree. Her skirt had ridden up almost to her waist. Antoine was trying to disentangle himself, the expression on his face so horror-stricken that it was almost comical.

  After a short tussle, the woman called Melodie was finally dragged off. The man with the nose ring had hold of her arm with one hand and the collar of her jacket by the other. He was propelling her towards the door, swearing as she kicked and flailed, but at the last moment she wriggled away and turned to hurl a last piece of abuse at Antoine.

  ‘She’ll find out what you’re like soon enough, your new slut. And then you’ll have the police on your doorstep again. You got away with it once, you and your mates, but next time you’ll pay! Bastard!’

  ***

  As the car turned into the drive of Villa Julia, the scene was still sharp in Caroline’s mind. They had all been taken completely by surprise, the ambience shattered with the suddenness of a glass hurled against a mirror.

  The group had swooped into the restaurant, ruined the evening and driven a wedge between Jill and Antoine. All in the space of minutes.

  After Melodie had screamed her final burst of abuse they had been startled by a cry from behind them, a frail faint wail at first and then a full-lunged sobbing.

  In unison, Julian and Nadia had swivelled round and rushed over to Joshua’s carrycot.

  ‘Oh baby boy, what’s the matter? Come to Daddy, come on, don’t cry, Daddy’s got you.’

 
Julian was holding the sobbing baby against his chest, patting his back. Nadia was muttering something in Polish, hunting frantically for his rabbit.

  Madame Arantxa, wringing her hands, had hurried over to see if she could help, while the rest of the family hovered indecisively between the door and the baby. The few remaining customers, who had also witnessed the spectacle, hurriedly paid their bill, waving away the cognacs that Antoine had poured for them.

  Antoine, a stricken look on his face, had hastened over to Julian, apologising profusely.

  ‘Oh man, I’ve upset him. I’ve woken him up, frightened him. Merde.’

  ‘Antoine, don’t worry, it’s not your fault, it was that lot, all their shouting. Look, he’s quietening down already. But who on earth was that woman? Are you OK?’

  Julian had patted Antoine’s shoulder distractedly while holding Joshua against his shoulder.

  Antoine had run his hand across his forehead, nodded wordlessly and turned to the others.

  ‘Oh, you guys I am so so sorry, what a mess, sit down, let me get you all a cognac.’

  His face was a picture of misery and confusion, his dark hair glistening with sweat. Edward, quickly assessing the situation, had put his arm round his friend’s shoulders and taken him on one side.

  ‘We’d better go, Antoine. With the baby and all that. Don’t worry mate, you did us proud, it was a really great evening, the final floor show was impressive. Only kidding. Listen don’t worry about it, we’ll talk tomorrow, it’s late now, and everyone’s tired. You going to be OK?’

  ‘Me, I’m fine, I’m fine, ah, the hell with it, I’m not fine at all, I’m so mad and embarrassed–’

  He’d broken off then, seeing that Jill was trying to inch her way out from behind the table.

  ‘Jill, wait!’

  But she’d just held up a hand, then, with a tremulous smile, turned to his parents.

  ‘Merci Madame et Monsieur. Le repas est excellent, really lovely meal, thank you all so much, merci beaucoup.’