Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2

by Laurette Long

  40 WILLOWDALE. ENGLAND. JUNE

  Margaret MacDonald put down the telephone. She removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes, put her glasses back on again and picked up the notebook where she had carefully written down everything that her old friend Bernard had told her. She then flicked back a few pages to the details of her conversation with Tessa the previous evening, and underlined a couple of phrases. Two good and faithful friends. She leaned back in her chair, stared out of the French windows on to the terrace, where ‘the honeysuckle and the rose entwined’.

  ‘Birdie? Are you there?’

  Her friend stepped in through the French doors holding a pair of secateurs. A couple of leaves nested in her hair. She bore a striking resemblance to Albert Einstein. Although Caroline and Edward had insisted on paying for a full-time gardener at Willowdale, Birdie still liked to get out into the garden, down on her knees, snipping, pruning, poking her head into shrubs and undergrowth, ‘just communing with nature, Margaret, so therapeutic in these stressful modern times’.

  ‘I seem to have been on that telephone all morning.’

  Margaret rubbed her ear.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the clinic. We have an appointment the day after tomorrow. I’ve also had a word with young Soames, he is going to drive us.’

  Birdie gave a little gasp.

  ‘Will we...are we allowed to see Annabel?’

  Margaret shrugged.

  ‘They very adroitly avoided giving me a direct answer to that question. Be that as it may, why don’t you ring Brenda and see if she can fit you in for a haircut tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh!’ Birdie’s hand flew to her head, found a leaf, which she removed and looked at with suspicion. ‘Can’t it wait till we get back, Margaret? I was just getting to grips with the irises.’

  ‘The irises can wait, they’re not going anywhere. Anyway, irises are as tough as old boots.’

  ‘Well yes, but there are the seedlings to plant out as well, I’ve been putting it off and really–’

  ‘Birdie. Let me put it another way. If we turn up at the clinic with you looking like that, they’ll think I’m bringing you in for treatment.’

  Margaret repressed a smirk at Birdie’s offended expression.

  ‘A joke, my dear. But we need to keep up appearances, look our best when we meet Dr Novak. First impressions always count. And you really do need a trim. And a shampoo and set, you know how nicely your hair comes up after Brenda has worked her magic. Now put down those secateurs and take a seat. I have something else to tell you. I’ll just get the coffee.’

  Birdie watched as her friend walked across the sitting room. The hip operation had transformed Margaret’s life. She still had problems with arthritis in one knee, but a further operation to remedy that was scheduled next year. She also had difficulty grasping things, her thumb just wouldn’t do what she told it to do, but, as she said often remarked, catching Birdie’s anxious look, ‘I’ll just have to ‘suck it up’, won’t I?’

  Margaret had picked up all sorts of unsuitable expressions from the TV shows they watched of an evening. Since their ‘windfall’ on the Lottery the previous year they had both spent many happy hours in front of an enormous, state of the art television that Caroline had helped them to choose and whose Dolby surround-sound was a wonderful remedy for their deafness. Both of them had become fascinated with what Margaret referred to as ‘oh goody another American cop series’. They were now experts on the finer points of American law, plea bargaining and the role of the DA. They could predict the results of blood spatter patterns before the CSI team had even packed their bags to set off for the crime scene.

  Blood spatter...Birdie sat down heavily in the nearest chair, suddenly feeling faint. She could smell the coffee percolating in the kitchen, and badly needed a cup. Hopefully Margaret had made it extra strong.

  When Edward had told them what had gone on in London, they had been shocked into silence. They had listened with growing dismay as he explained about Claudio, given them the real story behind the dreadful photograph in the newspaper. When it came to the scene in Julian’s flat, the struggle in the kitchen and the rush to the hospital, neither of them had been capable of uttering a word.

  ‘You really mustn’t worry, she’s fine, honestly. Well, not fine, obviously, but out of danger, stabilised, and Julian’s arranging for treatment.’

  Edward had sighed, blue eyes troubled.

  ‘We wanted to spare you the truth. But the more I thought about it, driving down here, the more I became convinced that honesty was the only way. The truth has a way of coming out, sooner or later.’

  He omitted to say that the truth they were hearing had been heavily sanitised and gift-wrapped.

  Margaret had come out of her trance, nodding slowly.

  ‘‘The truth will out’. The Merchant of Venice. ‘It is a wise father who knows his own child.’ Or, in this case, a wise aunt.’

  Edward had glanced sharply at Margaret, who had lapsed into silence again.

  ‘Caroline wanted to be the one to break the news,’ he continued, ‘but we finally decided it was better if she stayed in Biarritz to look after Joshua.’

  The mention of Joshua had roused both women.

  Edward had given a sigh of relief seeing Birdie get up and go to fetch The Macallan. The worst was over. They knew. The scotch hit his empty stomach with a welcome jolt. The three of them began to discuss what might or might not happen next. Especially as far as the baby was concerned.

  Just before six he’d stood up to take his leave, declining the offer of another drink, saying he had to get to his parents, break the news to them.

  ‘You poor boy. Stuck with the role of messenger. How much do they know?’

  ‘Not a thing. Fortunately they’re so wrapped up in the renovations, you know they’re building a ‘baby-wing’ at the side of the house? No pressure on Caro and me.’ He smiled. ‘They’ll probably want to come over and see you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Standing at the door, Margaret had taken his hand in both of hers.

  ‘Thank you Edward. For looking after things. For looking after Caroline. For thinking of us.’

  He’d hugged both of them, promised to ring every day.

  After Edward’s departure, Birdie had gone into the kitchen and embarked on a mammoth session of jam-making. The perfume of strawberries and raspberries bubbling in sugar had permeated even the remotest corners of the house.

  Margaret had taken out her address book and telephoned New York. After a long conversation with her old friend, Tessa, she hung up, then tried a London number, where she left a message on the answering machine. Something rather urgent had come up, she told Bernard’s machine, but he was not to worry. She would call back the following day.

  But it had been Bernard who had called back, at eight o’clock this morning, sounding concerned and asking what he could do. Thank heavens for true and trusted friends. Friends you could rely on, no matter how far away they were. She and Bernard had talked at length, then she had phoned the Clinic and made the appointment.

  Now, she thought, carrying the tray of coffee through into the sitting room, it was time to put Birdie in the picture.

  She poured two cups and handed one to Birdie, along with the cream and sugar.

  ‘Thank you Margaret. That smells heavenly. You always make a better cup than I do.’

  ‘Well, given the fact you’re the one who does all the cooking, it would be a pity if I couldn’t at least plug in a machine. Now, enough of culinary matters. Bernard called this morning, as you know.’

  She picked up her notebook, put on her reading glasses and scrutinised her notes.

  ‘The first thing to say is that both of them, Tessa and Bernard, know this Dr Novak. Know of him I mean. And approve. In fact, they spoke of him most highly.’

  ‘Ah!’ Birdie took a sip. Yes, good and strong. Relief flooded through her. Maybe it was going to be alright, if Tessa and Bernard approved. Neither of them practised any
longer, but in their day they had been eminent in their field. She and Margaret often used to stay with Tessa on their trips to New York. Tessa in fact, had been a friend of Robbie and Alexandra, Caroline and Annabel’s parents. Shortly after their deaths she had given up her London psychotherapy practice and moved to New York. Bernard they both knew from their days in the Diplomatic Corps. He had been involved in ground-breaking research into what later became known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

  ‘So did you ask them what they thought? About Annabel’s...’

  ‘Suicide attempt. Yes. I told them the whole story, the events leading up to it, the wretched Acapulco charade, her affair, her discovery that this Claudio person was cheating on her, getting her photo splashed across the front page of the papers, the lot. And in any case, Tessa has been a family friend for years, she knows what Annabel’s like. Bernard, on the other hand, hardly knows her. But what’s interesting is that they both said more or less the same thing.’

  She paused, took another sip of coffee.

  ‘They think it’s likely that Annabel is suffering what they called–’ she consulted her notes ‘–an ‘emotional collapse’. Well Tessa said ‘collapse’ and Bernard said ‘breakdown’. She’s been living a double life, a life of secrets and lies, and suddenly all of that was exposed to the public eye in a very dramatic way. They think she would have been overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and shame, and when Edward confronted her, all this escalated into a sensation of being trapped and powerless, hounded even. And the result, as we know, was to implode in a very dramatic way. To disintegrate.’

  Birdie had been listening carefully.

  ‘A double life. Yes. All that deception, those lies she had to tell about what she was doing, who she was with. It would have been bad enough without the wedding. But she’s been going around making arrangements as though everything’s perfectly normal. What must she have been thinking? Even Annabel, our Annabel, must have known that it was impossible to go through with the ceremony with Julian while she was carrying on a torrid affair with that–that gigolo! Something was bound to give.’

  ‘Yes, Tessa talked about ‘an inner conflict’, how that can result in irrational behaviour and reckless actions. I can’t imagine how she kept it all straight.’

  Birdie banged down her cup with unusual force.

  ‘That poor baby. Where does he fit in? Heavens know how long his mother has been neglecting him to carry on with another man. She must have known it was wrong.’ She leaped to her feet. ‘Honestly Margaret I could shake her until her teeth rattled!’

  Margaret blinked. Birdie sat down again abruptly.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. She’s paying for it all, now.’

  Was she though? The cynical little thought popped into Margaret’s head unbidden. Impossible Annabel. Charming, infuriating and immoral.

  ‘Do you know Birdie, I think I might have a glass of sherry. Will you join me?’

  She went to the decanter sitting on the sideboard and poured two healthy doses.

  ‘Chin chin.’

  ‘Do you think it’s all to do with love?’

  ‘What do you mean Birdie?’

  ‘Well I was just thinking the other day, when we were watching ‘Poirot’. About the Agatha Christie business. About the things people do when they’re in love.’

  As light relief from the blood, bullets and pounding music of their fascinating American series, Margaret and Birdie enjoyed exercising their little grey cells in the gentler ambience of English country manor houses, along with Agatha’s famous Belgian sleuth. They were both huge fans of David Suchet. And Birdie had read every one of Agatha Christie’s eighty detective novels.

  For Christmas, a couple of years previously, Margaret had bought her a biography of the famous writer. It was by Andrew Norman, a former doctor, and one of the most interesting aspects of the book had been his interpretation of what had happened on the night of December 3rd, 1926. At that time, Agatha was married to Archibald Christie, but the couple were having problems and Archie wanted a divorce so that he could marry his mistress, Nancy Neele. There was a quarrel, and that same evening Agatha drove off alone in her car. She did not return and the car was later found abandoned near a lake. Her disappearance provoked a nationwide manhunt. She was eventually found, eleven days later, staying at the Old Swan Hotel in Harrogate, hundreds of miles away, registered as Mrs Teresa Neele.

  Many theories were put forward as to what had really happened. Agatha herself remained vague about the incident.

  Birdie sat up straight and looked across at her friend.

  ‘Mr Norman’s conclusion, as a medical man, you know, was that it was a ‘fugue state’. I remember the exact term. Brought on by depression and stress. Her mother had died, but if you ask me, it was mainly to do with Archie’s affair. She was in love with him and she couldn’t bear the idea of him running off with Mrs Neele. So she did this amazingly reckless and irrational thing and simply disappeared.’

  ‘Leaving everyone to wonder if she’d killed herself, thanks to the abandoned car and everything.’

  ‘Yes. Can you imagine what it must have been like for her family? And her poor daughter?’

  ‘And all in the name of love. I think I shall call you Professor Bird, from now on.’

  Birdie tittered.

  ‘All I can say Margaret is–thank goodness I’m past it all! The ‘heyday of the blood is tame’.’

  Margaret looked at her friend, ensconced in her comfy chair, with her support stockings and sturdy brogues, her bushy eyebrows and Einstein hairdo and shook her head fondly.

  For a few moments the two women sipped their sherry, each lost in her own thoughts. Finally Birdie spoke.

  ‘Do you think...?’ she stopped, then continued, choosing her words carefully. ‘Do you think little Joshua will ever get to see his Mummy? After the divorce?’

  Margaret stiffened her spine.

  ‘My crystal ball is on strike Birdie. Who knows?’

  She drained her glass.

  ‘One thing at a time. What we have to concentrate on now is meeting this famous Dr Novak, then getting my impossible niece back on her feet and facing up to her responsibilities. Once that is done, we must do our best to make sure that Caroline, Edward, Julian and little Joshua can get on with their lives.’

  There were ways of doing things, and then there were Margaret’s ways of doing things. Birdie was in no doubt as to which method got the best results.

  She finished her drink in turn, and gazed outdoors, thinking wistfully of her irises and trying not to think about the visit to the clinic.

  Margaret too had turned to look out at the garden. Her hand, resting on her notebook, trembled slightly.

  They said that history repeats itself. She didn’t know whether she believed that or not. But sooner or later she would have to tell someone about Annabel’s mother.

  41 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE

  It had been a tearful goodbye at the airport in Anglet.

  ‘Thank you Caro for everything, really, I’ve had some of the best times of my life.’

  ‘I know, I know and listen I’m sure he’ll get in touch once he’s back! You did send him the text didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I checked it on my phone, it went off last night, after we’d talked.’

  It had taken them an hour of discussion and three pages of scribbling, not to mention a bottle of Iroulegy to get the exact wording. Something they were both satisfied with.

  ‘But I don’t know if he’s got it, do I? He may not have cell phone reception where he is. In fact I don’t even know where he is, exactly.’

  Nobody seemed to know where Antoine was, exactly. His sister had told Jill that he and Dominique had taken it into their heads to set off together. Dominique had some sort of ‘problem’ with an irate husband (Marielle had raised her eyes heavenwards) and poor Antoine...here Marielle had looked at Jill and shrugged helplessly. Their plan was to meet up with some old friends whose missio
n in life was to travel the world looking for the perfect wave. She hadn’t said if the old friends were male or female, or both. Only that the destination was ‘South America’. She wasn’t even sure which bit of South America, nor even how long they would be away. Maybe two weeks, maybe three? Their father had been pretty mad as the season was just getting into full swing, but he had seen that Antoine was suffering (here she’d given another helpless shrug) and her father had a soft heart so he’d arranged for a cousin to come and give them a hand during his absence.

  Caroline had put the car into short-term parking and insisted on waiting until Jill was checked in. The queue shuffled forward.

  ‘Two, three weeks, it isn’t so long really. Even if he doesn’t get your message while he’s away he’ll be able to read it when he gets back. Just think, by the end of July you could be in his arms again.’

  From the look on Jill’s face both the end of July and Antoine’s arms were mirages shimmering in the mists of an unattainable future. But she sighed and gave her friend a wan smile.

  ‘I suppose at least by the end of July he’ll have had time to think things over. Decide whether he’s still amoureuse or not. If he was ever amoureuse to start with. Maybe he’ll bump into the perfect babe while he’s looking for the perfect wave. I can just see him checking his phone when his plane lands, ‘Irish who? Oh yeah, that fat carrot-top friend of Caroline’s with the loud voice’...’

  ‘Jillian O’Toole. What did we say yesterday, about positive thinking?’

  ‘Sorry Caro. Just playing the drama queen. But you, how are you going to go on, with everything that’s happening? I wish I could stay.’

  ‘I wish you could as well, you don’t know how much I wish it. I’ll be in touch every day, let you know how things go. I’m hoping Edward will be back soon.’

  They had hugged, shed more tears, then Caroline had watched her friend head for security.

  ‘Jill!’

  Jill stopped, turned round.

  ‘At least you got those Prada slingbacks on sale in Galeries Lafayette –just hold that thought!’