Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (17 page)

Annabel was taking off her sunglasses as she climbed out of a rather battered
-looking Renault. She and Caroline had not met since Margaret’s birthday in May. Seeing her sister her eyes widened.

‘Darling!’ her surprise was evident.

As they kissed each other, Caroline caught a flash in those hyacinth eyes, a look of—was it envy? It was gone in a moment. Annabel straightened and said:

‘So darling you arrived safely! Is that a new skirt? Not to mention the new hair do. Very chic.’

She raised a hand instinctively to smooth her own ruffled locks. Suddenly she remembered her fiancé.

‘How was the drive my pet?’ she asked, turning her head to one side to offer him a cheek.

‘Good to see you again Caroline.’

Caroline literally jumped. She had been absorbed in her contemplation of Annabel and Julian, her sister’s rather cool greeting, Julian’s disappointment. She turned, and her eyes widened. An unfamiliar Edward stood in fron
t of her, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his arms and legs darkly tanned. His hair was longer than she remembered it, curling down his neck, bleached almost white by the sun. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, his jaw was covered in a dark blonde stubble. There was something else about him too, a sort of foreignness she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was a reflex, to blend into his surroundings, his French side coming out now that he was with his family. Whatever the reason she suddenly felt quite shy, as though being introduced to a stranger. Edward was looking at her with similar bemusement.

‘You look marvellous.’

He leaned forward to kiss her. Then, still holding her arms, he took a step back and smiled at her with such frank admiration that she blushed.

‘Thank you. It was our shopping trip. You know, with Yvette.’

‘Yes. You were wearing a stunning little lace number that evening if I remember rightly.’

Caroline realised they were staring at each other and hastened to add:

‘The villa is lovely. And the garden. The photos didn’t do it justice.’

‘Really?’ He was still holding her arms. ‘I’m so glad you like it. Are you all settled in? Did the twins look after you? What time did you arrive?’

‘Everyone’s been wonderful. Julian was at the airport, Claudie showed me my lovely bedroom and we’ve all been sitting outside, watching the sun go down and sampling one of Jean-Paul’s cocktails. I feel as though I’ve been on holiday for a week.’

‘How was the fiesta?’ Julian interrupted their exchange.

Edward let go of Caroline and slung an arm round Julian’s shoulders.

‘The party’s still in full swing. I had a job dragging your fiancée away. It’s due to last all weekend, you know. We were thinking we might go over tomorrow evening, join in with the fun?
Unless you’re too tired?’

He turned to Caroline solicitously.

‘Oh! I feel great! I’d love to go. What is it exactly?’

‘It’s the
Feria de Bayonne
. An excuse to go mad, drink, dance, sing, get into a fight. Fall in love with a beautiful Basque temptress. There are processions, floats, bands, you name it, they’re doing it!’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ said Julian. ‘I hope you didn’t overdo it darling?’

He slipped a protective arm round Annabel’s waist.

‘OK everyone,
à table
!’

Claudie’s shout came from the terrace where the table was set and candles lit.

Annabel insisted she had to run upstairs and freshen up ‘just two minutes.’ Jean-Paul checked the thermometer and gave a little whistle.
‘Going up. Twenty-seven,’ he said with a grin.

As they
sat down, the pines filled the air with their evening fragrance. The underwater lights had been switched on in the swimming pool, and it shimmered like an aquamarine at the foot of the steps. Solar lights appeared one by one like fireflies among the trees further down the garden. The air was balmy, not a breath of wind.

Annabel re-appeared in low cut white dress just as Claudie was putting the food on the table. As they ate, she regaled them with a high-spirited account of the afternoon in Bayonne, the procession of floats, the music, the lively crowds filling the streets. Caroline watched her sister,
noting with relief her good mood, the effortless ease with which she captivated her audience, the life and vitality which sparkled in her eyes. This was the Annabel she loved, the person who made everyone feel part of the conversation. The Annabel of infinite charm. She felt herself relaxing more and more as they ate. They were drinking a delicious Basque wine, an Irouleguy. Caroline had never heard of it.

‘Igou-rou-gely?’

Everyone laughed.

‘Legy, Legy. Iroulegy.’

She had difficulty getting her tongue round the syllables.

Claudette’s dish had been greeted with whistles of admiration. She had prepared a roast of veal stuffed with olives, served with a version of ratatouille which she said she’d thrown together ‘from the inspiration of the market’.

‘Told you, Queen of the Veggies,’ said Julian. ‘And the roast veal. And the olives. If I wasn’t already engaged, Claudie, I’d be forced to drop to one knee.’

‘And I would accept,’ said Claudie,
blowing him a kiss.

Ahem
, thought Caroline noticing her sister’s face, time to change the subject.

‘This is absolutely wonderful
Claudette. I’d love the recipe.’

Caroline had fallen like a starving woman on the
tender pink veal, the fresh southern vegetables with their spicy sauce enhanced with Espelette pepper. Her eyes lit up at the platter of local cheeses, the yellow plate of fat juicy peaches and nectarines which bore no resemblance to their pale English counterparts.

‘Caro darling
.’

Her sister made a dabbing motion at her chin.

‘Sorry.’ Caroline pulled a face and mopped up the dribble of peach juice. ‘Didn’t have much lunch,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘I was a bit nervous on the flight. But I’ll do the shopping tomorrow. And cook. And put extra money in the kitty.’

‘Caroline only eats once a month
,’ said Edward. ‘I saw her do the same thing with a plate of mussels.’

Jean-Paul was nodding approvingly.

‘Our competition is going to become a fight to the death Caroline.’

He sharpened his knife and speared a hunk of goat’s cheese, with a ‘Beat that!’ look that set everyone laughing.

The evening settled round them, more lights appeared under the trees. Against a distant hum of traffic, the sounds of nature asserted themselves. Crickets chirped their song of summer and somewhere in the distance a chorus of frogs started up. Figaro chased moths.

‘Not a chance
mon vieux
,’ said Edward with a hoot of laughter as the cat made a particularly ungraceful leap and almost fell off the terrace. ‘Too fat. Jean-Paul is taking you jogging tomorrow.’

Figaro slunk under a chair to sulk.

‘It’s so warm,’ said Caroline. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Yep. Summer has finally arrived.’

Edward leaned forward to re-fill her glass as he spoke. His arm brushed against hers. His skin was deeply tanned, the hairs a pale gold. His muscles rippled as he tilted the bottle. She caught a faint smell of sun oil. She got that melting feeling inside, felt dizzy. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking, she thought, but lifted her glass all the same.

‘OK?’ He was staring at
her, eyes a smoky blue.

She
gave a breathless laugh.

‘Jet lag, Ryanair
, and all this!’ she waved a hand extravagantly at the surroundings. ‘Maybe I’d better lay off the wine.’

‘Nonsense. You’re on holiday.’ He grinned and raised his glass.

‘To your arrival!’

The
image flashed into her mind, the Savoy, Edward gazing at her sister. Her smile faltered. Edward narrowed his eyes, noticing the change. He was just about to say something when Jean-Paul broke in:

‘Last one in the water clears the table!’

Then, with an ear-splitting cowboy yodel, he pushed back his chair, ripped off his T shirt and charged towards the pool, ignoring the cries of protest from the others.

‘What is it about me and animals? Is it my scent? Is that it, Figaro? You like the way I smell? Or is this a cunning attempt to make me get up and open a tin of cat food?’

Figaro’s green eyes gazed at Caroline with adoration as she scratched between his ears. His purr became a deafening rumble, and he started to knead the quilt with dedication.

‘Hey now Figgy stop that, you’ll pull the stitching.’

Caroline sat up with a groan and lifted the cat on to the sheet where he promptly cocked up one leg and began a
vigorous washing of his nether regions.

‘Ugh’.

She sank back against the pillows. Her head resounded with a thousand hammers, her face felt puffed up like an air balloon. I am never going to drink again, she told herself. That Ilouregy. Iroulegy. And I am not, definitely not, becoming a member of the women’s team for water fights. Or any team.

There had been a vigorous, drenching battle in the pool as she, Annabel and Claudie had taken on the men’s team. And lost. She had got so much water up her nose her insides were
probably chlorine white. Her lovely hair style had turned into a Medusa head. They had all been soaked, yelling and squirting water pistols. It must have been at least one in the morning before they’d straggled up to bed. She had a hazy memory of kicking off her wet swimsuit in the bathroom before she hit the bed like a stone.

What time was it? She squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Eight o’clock.

‘Oh Figaro you absolute pest,’ she told him. ‘It’s Sunday
morning. I could have slept for at least another two hours.’

Figaro paused in mid-lick and threw her a look of disdain.

From her third-floor room Caroline couldn’t hear a sound. The house was silent, everyone except her presumably still slumbering blissfully. Her mouth was dry. The thought of a long cold glass of orange juice followed by a strong black coffee was too much.

Pushing herself out of bed she made her way to the bathroom, suppressing a shriek at her reflection. One side of her face was creased like an old apple where it been scrunched against the pillow. On the same side as the creases, her hair was standing up like a tsunami. The other half of her face looked relatively normal, except for the puffy eyes and the mascara streaks framed by straggling ropes of flat hair stuck to her head. Marcel would have a fit. She splashed a lot of cold water about, tried to flatten the tsunami
by dint of tugging and pulling, gave up and decided nothing would work except a long hot shower. But that was after the enormous frosted glass of tangy orange juice, with six ice cubes. She almost cried at the thought of that orange juice.

Pulling on a dressing gown she crept down past closed doors until she reached the foot of the stairs. Silence. A clock ticked. She tiptoed towards the kitchen.

‘Oh!’

‘Ah!’

Edward was sitting at the kitchen table eating half a
baguette
covered in butter and apricot jam. He paused in mid-chew, a look of shock on his face.

Caroline clutched her dressing gown tighter and swivelled sideways to hide the withered-apple-with-tsunami side. She heard a choking sound which could have been a smothered laugh or alternatively a piece of
baguette
going down the wrong way. She risked a look. Edward had tears in his eyes. Was she that bad?

‘Sorry Caro, didn’t hear you.’

He pushed his plate to one side and headed for the stove.

‘Coffee?’

Were his shoulders heaving or was that her imagination?

Mustering her dignity she decided to go for the ‘everything’s normal’ approach.

‘Coffee would be great. Is it OK if I help myself to orange juice?’

Her eyes were riveted on a large carton which was standing on the table next to the half
-eaten
baguette
. No glass. He’d been swigging it straight from the carton which was just what she wanted to do.

‘Sure. Help yourself. Glasses in the cupboard over there. You’ll find your way around after a couple of days.’

Caroline drained the first glass, poured another. Never mind the ice cubes. It was divine just on its own. And a heavenly smell of coffee was beginning to fill the kitchen.

‘
Coucou? Quelqu’un est debout
?’

The kitchen door swung open and a small lady marched in. She was wearing a matching skirt and jacket, high heels, and a hat. A shopping basket hung over one arm.

‘Ah, Madame Martin, entrez, entrez.’

But Madame Martin had
stopped short, her face wearing the same expression of shock as Edward’s had done.

‘Oh excuse me, let me introduce you.’

Edward was speaking in French. He gave Madame Martin a kiss on both cheeks, took her by the arm and led her gently across the kitchen.

‘This is Caroline, from England. Annabel’s sister. You met Annabel the other day.’

‘
Bonjour madame
,’ Caroline managed to stammer a greeting and hold out her hand.
‘Excusez mon...mon...’
how did she say appearance? State of wreckage?

‘The swimming
pool,
dans la piscine,
last night—’ she broke off and cast a look of appeal at Edward whose shoulders were shaking again. A snort escaped from his nose and he dropped into the chair, laughing like an idiot.

Madame Martin turned her attention in his direction, with a laser look that said clearly ‘don’t play games with me young man I have known you since you were in nappies and you are not too old for a slap.’

‘
Désolé, désolé, asseyez-vous Madame Martin
, I can explain everything,’ said Edward, getting up to fetch the coffee pot and three cups.

Five minutes later the story of the epic water-fight
, terminating in a resounding win for the men’s team,
naturellement
, had been recounted in minute detail. Madame Martin allowed herself a chuckle and several ‘
C’est pas vrai!
’s and ‘
Non! Non, non
!’s and finally turned to Caroline with a look of sympathy and a burst of rapid French which Caroline took to mean that she was firmly on the side of the women’s team and didn’t know how they all managed to put up with Edward and Jean-Paul who had been naughty boys ever since they could walk.

As soon as she could reasonably excuse herself Caroline headed for the door, saying she was going to take a shower and then she would be back to ‘help Madame Martin in the kitchen’ a remark which won her another approving look. Edward said he was off to join Jean-Paul who was already at the beach with the other S
unday morning surfers.

Thirty minutes later Caroline was back in the kitchen. She’d showered, washed her hair, chased Figaro off the bed and practised her French in muttered phrases as she got ready.

‘What can I do to help, Madame Martin? Shall I sweep the terrace?’ What was the verb for ‘sweep’, wasn’t it
balayer
? ‘Would you like me to wash the lettuce Madame Martin? Turn a few humble radishes into Japanese water-lilies?’

She was determined to redeem her earlier impression and come out of this with some Brownie points. Hadn’t Jean-Paul said that Madame Martin was the real chief of Villa Julia? By the time Claudie wandered into the kitchen just before ten o’clock, Caroline and Madame Martin were firm friends.

***

‘Just smell that air!’

Claudie and Caroline were making their way down to the
Côte des Basques
to watch the surfers. Claudie had said she had the hangover from Hell and needed a walk. Madame Martin had said they were both under her feet, and that ‘
Mademoiselle Caroline’
was on holiday and shouldn’t be washing lettuces.

It was a brilliant day. Yesterday’s green ocean had turned to cobalt, under a cloudless sky. Gulls screamed and dived and as they drew near the beach the sound of pounding surf met their ears.

Claudie was telling Caroline that the
Côte des Basques
had some of the finest surfing beaches in Europe and that fans from all over the world came to try the Atlantic breakers.

‘Look, there’s Jean-Paul! And Edward.’

There was a group of four surfers not far from the shore, waist deep in the water, wearing red and black wetsuits and holding their blue surfboards in front of them. Further out huge rollers broke. They looked like a snow-capped mountain range, dazzling against the sky advancing to crush the puny figures in their rubber suits.

Caroline drew in her breath.

‘They’re not going to actually dive into that, are they?’

‘That?
’ said Claudie. ‘
Pouf!
that is nothing Wait till we get a big storm.’

‘Do you do any surfing
?’ asked Caroline, noticing that there were several women with boards standing on the beach or out paddling in the water.

Claudie rolled her eyes.

‘Me?’ she flexed her slender arm, showing the ghost of a muscle. ‘Do I look like a sporty girl? The swimming pool is fine for me. With a sun lounger and a barman.’

They sat down on a rock.

Edward, Jean-Paul and their friends had swum out now into the deep water and were lying on the boards, waiting for the right wave.

‘Oh, I think I see Dominique,’ said Claudie, sitting up straight and squinting into the dazzle. Something in her tone made Caroline’s ears prick up.

‘Dominique?’

Claudie sat back with a pleased smile.

‘Dominique and I, how do you say it in English? It’s a long time we are with us.’

‘You go back a long way?’

‘Yes, a long long way. He is my summer lover. We usually meet when I am here on holiday. Sometimes he’s between girls, sometimes not.’

She switched
to rapid French.

‘As a matter of fact he was my first. I was fifteen.’

She grinned at the memory.

‘It was on the beach. One evening, back there in the dunes. He was older than me, with a lot of experience. I’d been flirting with him for ages, teasing him. Finally he cracked. So it was a good introduction
for me. What do you say in English? About moving earth?’

‘
The earth moved. Wow. Some initiation, Claudie. It didn’t last?’

‘Oh no, he is in Biarritz, I am in Paris, I have my other boyfriends.
My winter lover, a big cuddly bear. A nice middle-aged businessman. He rubs my back, takes me out for expensive meals so I can see what the big chefs are up to. Then Bernard, he is an intellectual. He says he is trying to sharpen my brain but I know his mind is on other things. Also, he has a beard. I’m not sure about the beard. Yannick, my fun lover, he’s my favourite, really really hot. But unfortunately married. I always think one man cannot give a complex woman everything she needs, don’t you?’

‘
Uh huh, well, I hadn’t really thought about it like that.’

‘And in any case, Dominique
—’ she waved a hand in the direction of the sea, ‘he is a born womaniser, I think one day he could make a nice husband but for the moment he is busy with his harem. About twelve of them. He is, how do you say it in English? A hot rabbit?’

Caroline laughed.

‘I haven’t heard that one before but I think I get your meaning.’

Well, she was certainly seeing life in a new way. The French way, maybe. She scrunched up her eyes and tried to get a look at the hot rabbit, but he was too far out. They had been switching back and forth between English and French, sometimes a mixture of both. Caroline found bits of her French were coming back. Claudie
was keen to practise her English ‘for my ow-ful exams’ she told Caroline.

Oral English exams were part of her hotel catering course
, and, she confessed to Caroline, she always got marked down on ‘Pronunciation.’

‘My examiners say I have a too strong accent, me I say, the customers like it. Look at Raymond Blanc, I tell them. But they are strict old-fashioned examiners, from the last century. And they are not even English, they are just part of the French system, so they are always trying to prove they are superior.’

‘I agree with you. I love Raymond Blanc. And your English is very good.’

‘
Now you are being nice. I should speak more English with Edward, but I am lazy. How do you find my cousin, Caroline?’

‘How...do you mean how did we meet?’

‘No, I mean, what do you think about him? He’s a sexy guy, no?’

‘Well, yes, he is
. Pretty sexy.’

Claudie’s straightforward approach was causing Caroline to do a lot of
rapid re-adjusting. Sex in the dunes. Winter lovers, summer lovers, hot rabbits. It was a different world out there. Out here. She couldn’t help thinking her friend Jill would feel right at home.