Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (12 page)

If only things had worked out with Liam
. For the hundredth time Margaret wondered what had gone wrong. He had seemed a nice enough boy on the face of it. Maybe too full of himself at times, a bit lacking in a sense of humour. But nobody was perfect. And they’d been together a good while, Margaret was already making wedding plans in her head. It would be lovely to have a wedding at Willowdale. And then, all of a sudden, it was over. A stony-faced, dry-eyed Caroline, refusing to give any details. ‘Mutual consent’. ‘Just hadn’t worked out.’ ‘People change, grow apart.’ In vain had Margaret cajoled. Caroline had a stubborn streak. Once she decided to turn in on herself like a clam shrinking into a shell there was nothing to be done.

Margaret’s thoughts drifted to her niece’s forthcoming trip to town to buy new clothes. If only she were well enough to go with her. But this wretched pain in her hip. It was awful to grow old, to know that your mind was still that of a twenty-year-old but your body refused to do
what you told it. And Birdie, could Birdie really be trusted to push Caroline into the right purchases? Her clothes sense was almost as bad as Margaret’s. No, she’d have to come up with a better scheme. She’d had an idea the previous day, maybe there was a way after all. Reaching for the leather-bound address book which lay on the bedside table she ran her fingers through the numbers. Davidson, Duncan, there it was, Delorme, Yvette Delorme. Heaving herself upright with a sharp intake of breath at the pain she reached for the telephone.

The last time she had seen Yvette had been a couple of years ago for a family wedding, just before the arthritis had started to get really serious. She would have been well into her sixties by then, unbelievable though it seemed. Of course Yvette had always taken care of her figure
.Well, French women just do. She had been a wee bit plumper than when Margaret first met her all those years ago, but it was a plumpness that suited her, gave her face a youthful roundness. Unless of course Yvette had actually had some work done, collagen fillings or whatever they did these days. And she had always had the most wonderful hairdresser who knew just how to keep her thick dark hair looking as natural as it did in her twenties, without a hint of grey.

The phone was picked up and a voice with an English accent announced that she had reached the Delorme residence. One of the retainers, no doubt.

‘Hello? Could I speak to Madame Delorme please? This is Margaret MacDonald.’

There was a pause while the retainer went off to fetch the mistress of the house.

‘Margaret! What a lovely surprise! How are you my dear?’

Yvette’s voice had
kept that oh-so-charming accent. The two of them exchanged pleasantries then Margaret came briskly to the point.

‘Yvette my dear, I shan’t beat about the bush. I have the most enormous favour to ask…’

At the other end of the line, Yvette Delorme smiled. Margaret hadn’t changed. She listened, nodding occasionally and saying ‘Mmm’ while her friend explained.

‘Margaret. Do you really need to ask? I would be delighted. When would you like me to meet Caroline?’

They discussed possible dates, different rendezvous.

‘If she could come down early on the Saturday, that would be best. I’ll make her an appointment with Marcel.’

Margaret gave a smile of satisfaction. Marcel was the hairdresser.

‘We could have lunch in town afterwards, then the shops in the afternoon. It would be wonderful! Ever since Marie-Claire had been in the States I have really missed our shopping expeditions together, just mother and daughter, you know? It will be lovely to take Caroline round the boutiques
, Marie-Claire knows all the best ones, and of course the most expensive ones, unfortunately for her
maman
!’

Yvette rattled on for another ten minutes about her daughter’s new life in San Francisco.

‘Yvette my dear that’s so wonderful. I’ll get it all sorted out this end. Caroline will be down for her day of pampering. I’ll call you back to give you the final details.
Merci beaucoup,
dear Yvette, you are a true friend. Give your delightful husband a big kiss from me!’

With renewed expressions of affection and effusive greetings to Birdie, Yvette finally hung up and Margaret fell back against
the pillows, a smile on her face. Everything was arranged. All was now in the more than capable hands of Yvette. A hint of malice crept into her blue eyes. Poor Caroline, she almost felt sorry for her. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

Now, what about this Rayburn boy
?

‘Champagne!’ said Birdie and Caroline, bursting into the room.

Two weeks later on a fine
June morning Caroline stood on the doorstep of a house in Belgravia with trepidation in her heart. It had taken her a few minutes to gather the courage to pull the ornate brass bell gleaming on one side of the black painted door. She had stared desperately at the clipped bay tree standing in a smart tub near the step wondering if there was enough time to change her mind, escape down the street and hail a passing taxi. Her thoughts were interrupted by a maid in a starched white apron who greeted her and showed her inside. She had a confused notion of acres of blue carpet leading to the curve of a staircase, potted palms reflected in gilt framed mirrors before finding herself alone in a white-panelled
salon
hung with soft green drapes. An oriental carpet covered with intertwining flowers and foliage spread out before her. Through the open windows at the far end of the room she glimpsed a green courtyard where a fountain splashed.

‘Caroline my dear! Let me have a look at you!’

Caroline turned. The person who had entered the room was petite and curvaceous, stunningly elegant in a pink two piece suit with an oyster satin blouse. She didn’t look a day over forty-five, though Caroline knew this old friend of her aunt’s from the days of the Diplomatic Corps must now be well into her sixties.

‘How are you Madame Delorme?’

Yvette Delorme leaned forward to kiss Caroline’s cheek, then stepped back, her eyes narrowing in appraisal. Though she had made a particular effort with her dress that morning, Caroline felt provincial and dowdy next to Yvette’s Parisian chic. But she had no time to reflect on the shortcomings of her appearance. Yvette took her by the arm, chattering away, and ushered her into the vestibule where the maid waited by the door holding an oyster leather handbag and matching scarf.

‘We’ll have coffee
chez Marcel
. I’m sure you must be dying for a cup but we have a really full day ahead of us so,
en route
! It seems like an age since I last saw you Caroline! Let me see, was it Marie-Claire’s wedding? Good heavens! Time flies. Marie-Claire was married seven, no eight! years ago this August! Imagine! It seems like yesterday! And how is dear Margaret? What a shame about this arthritis of hers, she would have loved to be with us.’

Yvette was propelling Caroline down the steps towards a Bentley which waited by the kerb.

‘I thought it would be quicker if Rollins took us directly
chez le coiffeur
, then dropped us in Oxford Street. It’s so much easier than scrambling for taxis. Shopping in London has become a madness!’

Caroline scarcely felt the car move off. She sank back against the soft upholstery smelling of expensive leather and French perfume, her mind reeling.

‘I’ve arranged for Birdie to meet us at twelve-thirty, at the Savoy,’ Yvette continued. ‘We’ll have a quick cocktail, just to give us a little energy, you know, a light lunch, then in the afternoon, we attack the shops!’

She laughed in excitement and squeezed Caroline’s arm.

‘I’m so looking forward to our outing! Marie-Claire used to come to town once a month and we always had our day of shopping.’

Lunch at the Savoy. A quick cocktail. A chauffeur and a Bentley. Caroline didn’t know whether to giggle
like a madwoman or utter a long howl of panic.

‘Here we are, he’s only five minutes away, so convenient. Thank you Rollins, I’ll ring when we need picking up.’

Caroline accepted the hand offered by Rollins, stepped out of the car and gave an apprehensive look at the elegant facade with ‘
Chez Marcel’
written over the door in swirling gold letters. As they went inside Yvette laid a restraining hand on her arm.

‘By the way
chérie
I have the most strict instructions from your Aunt that you are not to open your purse once today, on pain of the most dire consequences, for both of us!’

Caroline opened her mouth to protest but Yvette cut her short.

‘She has arranged everything. I for one am in too much awe to disobey her. Now come and meet Marcel.’

Marcel was a tiny
intense Frenchman who smiled reassuringly at her reflection as she sat down.

‘So, you are
Caroline. I am Marcel. And today…’ he lifted up various strands of her hair, turning her one way and the other, scrutinising her profile, her neck, before swinging her round to face the mirror again.

‘Today, Caroline, I am going to
perform some magic. I am going—’ he snapped his fingers— ‘to transform you. To make you An Other. An Other, but...’ he tilted his head and studied her intently, ‘the Same. You understand what I am saying?’

Not a clue. She
nodded obediently.

‘Good. The True Caroline.
Still herself, yet also An Other. Will you let me do that?’

She
nodded again, mesmerised by Marcel’s piercing black eyes, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders.

‘Hmm, basically you know you have a not so bad colour, kind of dark blond. Maybe too dark. Maybe a bit mouse. I think we just change the mouse, no? Maybe
into a lion? A sun-kissed lion?’

The maestro snapped his fingers, and three assistants rushed to his side.

‘Now, while Marie prepares the colour, a little espresso, to give you courage, no? I see in your eyes you are thinking ‘what is this Marcel going to do with me?’ But Marcel is an artist. Do not worry. Anna please come with me, I think a base of
blond doré,
and for the highlights...’

Time passed in a blur. As she lay back with Marie or Anna or one of the other glamorous assistants massaging a sweet smelling conditioner into her hair with skilful hands
, Caroline felt the tension draining away. She thought of her last visit to the hairdresser’s, three years ago? Four? That was when she had worn her hair quite short.

Anna
blotted the moisture from her hair with a thick towel and led her over to the mirror. Four years ago… it was Liam who had persuaded her to let her hair grow long. And have it coloured a dark chestnut. He had loved to lean over and slowly unpin the piled up masses when she got back from work, letting her hair tumble free around her shoulders, spilling over the strict suit jackets he chose for her. And then, slowly, he would instruct her which items of clothes to remove, in which order.

‘That’s right my beauty. My Spanish-eyed beauty. Good girl.
Oh you good little girl, come here.’

She shivered.

Suddenly Marcel was behind her again, wielding scissors and clips.

With the speed and grace of a bullfighter he darted from one side to the other, lifting, snipping, shaping. Caroline winced as she saw long strands of hair falling to the floor.
She closed her eyes as Marcel attacked from the front, wondering what she would see when she dared to open them again.

‘Alright my dear?’

She felt a tap on her shoulder and was just in time to spot Yvonne sailing past. The salon was a scene of frenzied activity. Caroline glimpsed a couple of well-known faces, a TV news reader, an actress from a famous soap. Outside the draped windows long-nosed cars arrived, deposited their owners, and slid away again. In the chair next to Caroline a plump, bejewelled lady, her head covered in strips of aluminium foil, spoke non-stop into her cell phone in Russian.

Marcel picked up the dryer and gave her hair a blast, rubbing his fingers through the thick strands as he worked. As it began to dry, Caroline
glimpsed the sun-kissed lion. Her natural colour had been lifted to a clear honey, shot through by streaks of gold. Clipping up her hair once again Marcel started the styling, snapping his fingers for his assistant to hand him different-sized brushes. This time Caroline kept her eyes open. Little by little a natural fall of springy bouncing hair began to appear, thick and shimmering at the back, framing her face in soft layers which fell to her shoulders. A streaky half-fringe fell negligently across one eye, throwing into relief the dark lashes and brows, the even darker slanting eyes below.

‘
Voilà! La lionne
!’

He stepped back with a satisfied flourish.

‘So Caroline, what do you think?’

‘My dear, it’s,
well, I know the man is a genius, but really, Marcel, this time you have excelled yourself!’

Yvette was standing behind the chair nodding her head in admiration.

Marcel gave a modest shrug.

‘I must admit, the subject has a certain number of natural attributes
. See the length of the neck, like a flower, a swan, now we see it much better with this style, see, at the back, and she has a beautiful growth of the hair, the way it is planted on the head, thick yet silky, and those eyes, a gazelle!’

Caroline
was trying not to smile too widely. She was a lion, a swan, a gazelle. A flower. Wow. She was certainly An Other, that was for sure.

‘There’s Rollins! Come on my dear we must fly!’

Caroline stammered her thanks, promised Marcel ‘she’d be back’ and left the salon in a flurry of kisses and waves.
Noticing Rollin’s impassive face give way to a look of frank appreciation as she stepped into the car, she felt the smile stretch into a huge grin of delight.

‘Yvette, thank you
so very, very much. I am indeed… transformed into another me yet the same!’

Both women laughed.

‘Marcel has done a wonderful job. But he is right you know, even he cannot work miracles without the basic material!’

Yvette reached out and touched Caroline’s hair.

‘Ah it’s so lovely and thick. I’d give anything for your pretty hair. And the fringe, how it brings out that dark sparkle of your eyes, a real Andalusian! Those come from your father, a Scot with gipsy eyes. I was at the wedding, you know, of your parents. What a beautiful couple. Your father was wearing the tartan. And your mother—’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the accident. You poor darling.’

She gave Caroline’s hand a squeeze.

‘They would both be so proud of you, Caroline. And Margaret will be delighted when she sees you. Ah, here we are. Thank you Rollins.’

Birdie was sitting stiff-backed in a chair, a large gin and tonic at her side as Caroline and Yvette entered the cocktail lounge. She glanced at them, then her gaze travelled past them towards the door.

‘Birdie, sorry to keep you waiting.’

Caroline
, who had been feeling a bit wobbly since Yvette had talked of her parents, burst into laughter at Birdie’s double take. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

She was still speechless as they went through into the restaurant, Yvette in the middle, clutching the pair of them and giving a graphic account of Marcel’s prowess with the scissors.

‘Now, lunch is my treat,’ said Yvette as they were seated. ‘I haven’t had such fun in ages. And we haven’t even started on the clothes.’

Yvette and Caroline chose
sole au vin blanc
with tiny new potatoes. Birdie, with a sigh of contentment, went for the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

‘I remember when we used to come here with Margaret,’ said Birdie nostalgically, sipping her wine. ‘We were both attached to the London office at the time. The receptions we had to attend! I vowed at the time I’d never touch a slice of smoked salmon for the rest of my life. And strawberries and champagne. There always seemed to be fresh strawberries, even in December.’

Yvette laughed and nodded her head in agreement.

‘Times have changed. When Jacques was posted to Washington, our laundry bill alone would have kept a family of
four. Such extravagance! People are much more conscious of money these days.’

She smiled at Caroline’s raised eyebrow.

‘Oh I know. Here we are having lunch at the Savoy. But seriously this is quite a rare occasion for me. When Jacques and I eat out we go to a little place in Soho where the prices are reasonable and the cooking is excellent without being elaborate. In fact, I’ve reserved a table for us tonight,’ she added. ‘Jacques is seeing someone on business this afternoon so rather than arrange a meal at the house I thought it would be nice if we all went out for dinner.’

‘Yvette that’s lovely my dear but count me out, I would really prefer to get back to Margaret,’ said Birdie. ‘But Caro must stay. This is her day.’

They chose strawberries for dessert in spite of Birdie’s protestations.

‘For old time’s sake,’ she said, raising her spoon to attack.

Caroline wondered if she’d be able to face an afternoon’s shopping after everything she’d eaten and drunk.

‘A nice strong espresso, that’s the answer,’ said Yvette, divining her thoughts. ‘Tell me Birdie, has Margaret tried any supplements? Chondoitrin, glucosamine?’

As the two women began discussing Margaret’s various treatments, Caroline let her eyes wander round the dining room. It was her first time at the Savoy. Her gaze fell on a couple sitting several tables away and she stiffened in surprise, only just managing to bite back the exclamation that rose to her lips. Picking up her handbag she pretended to hunt for something, casting surreptitious glances across the room. Although partially screened by a table of ladies all wearing extravagant hats, her sister, with her beautiful profile, hair upswept in an elegant chignon, was unmistakeable. She was leaning forward, resting her chin on one hand, her face tilted slightly upwards. Opposite, his glass raised, Edward Rayburn was gazing into her eyes with a serious expression.