Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (25 page)

The man she had loved, lying
drunk in a dirty gutter full of cigarette ends, greasy papers, vomit, and empty lager cans. She would never forget it.

She bent her head, hair falling over her face.

Edward’s grip had tightened
even more. He longed to grab her in his arms, scoop her up, carry her away, wrap himself around her and protect her so that nothing could ever hurt her again. No, no, not yet, instinct warned. He’d made a big enough mess of things last Sunday. Softly softly. Gently he reached out and brushed the tears from her cold cheeks. She stiffened. His heart ached.

‘There was something else.’

Two things, actually. But she would never tell anyone about the second.

She bowed her head
again, as though ashamed.

‘A couple of weeks afterwards, he tried to contact me. I couldn’t even bear to hear his voice, told him it was no use, everything was over. But he kept on. Ringing me.’

She had picked up at first, wondering what he could possibly have to say. She soon found out. First it was accusations. Then justifications. Then abject apologies. And finally, threats. She had changed her number.

As the nights of autumn fell she sat in her flat, doors locked, often in the dark. She tried to keep a grip on her sanity, reason with herself. The cracks had been there already, for quite a time, if she was honest. Twenty-twenty hindsight. Never, no matter how hard she tried, would she have become the sort of person Liam was looking for. On a subconscious level, she supposed, she had realised this early on in the relationship, just refused to admit it to herself. She had wanted love, romance, the wedding and the family albums.
The log fires, the sleeping dog, the sound of Chopin. She only had to make a few changes, try harder, stop being less this, start being more that. He was quite specific, even down to the style of clothes she had to wear. But it was never enough. Would never have been enough.

But it was hard to
convince herself of that when she’d got into the habit of thinking it was all her fault. And harder still to make sense of this new situation, where, by ending things, she had suddenly become an object of desire. Liam wanted her back. She was his Caroline. They were made to be together. The idea terrified her.

Now, trying to explain
all this to Edward, choosing her words carefully, she saw his face grow thunderous.

‘He stalked you.’

‘No. Honestly Edward, he didn’t. It wasn’t as bad as that. It was just, I didn’t know how to handle it. I couldn’t tell Aunt Margaret. I felt so lonely. Finally I went to stay with my friend Jill. And in the end, he got the message.’

Now was not the time to lose it, he thought, fighting for that icy control he imposed on himself at the start of a
competition, at the start of a business negotiation. He needed the right words. Not pity, she was too proud for that. Not a justification of her behaviour, it was obvious on one level she was still blaming herself. Not the way he felt about her either. The last thing she needed was another man telling her they belonged together. The British side. That was it. He needed to call on his British side. Tact, diplomacy, fair words.

‘Caroline. Look at me.’

She turned to face him, silent tears falling.

‘
Thank you for telling me this. I feel honoured. And you know, I have a story too, about the first time I lost my heart. I’d love to tell you about it, one day. Just be sure to have a big handkerchief with you.’

He was rewarded by the trace of a smile, a question starting in her eyes.
He felt his pulse accelerate, his blood stir. He pushed a strand of hair back from her face, ran his thumb gently across her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

‘I just want to say one
more thing. This Liam bloke.’

‘Yes?’

He drew in a deep breath.

‘The fucking bastard. If I ever meet him, he’ll be lying in the gutter again.’

Caroline gasped, gave a laugh that was part hiccup. She had never, ever, heard Edward swear. Looking at his scowling face, black as thunder, the laugh became a giggle, she bent over, hiccupping, giggling, the tears streaming down her face.

Well done, Rayburn, that was very cool Britannia. As cool as a hot Basque pepper.
What was it about Caroline that made him lose control? Luckily for him, he thought, hearing her giggles, it had been alright. By some miracle or other, the hot Basque hadn’t blown it again.

He
fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. Helped her get to her feet. Gave her a small hug. The sort of hug that said ‘Hey I’m your buddy, you can count on me.’ Not the sort of hug he really wanted to give her.

He
got a smile and a small hug in return. They walked back along the seafront, hand in hand, in a companionable silence. The receding tide had left an untidy straggle of flotsam, deflated seaweed, broken branches.

‘It looks as though the storm is blowing out.’

Caroline nodded. She seemed calm, relaxed even. Matching his stride to hers, he felt happy. She was starting to trust him. And he…
ma petite Caroline,
he thought,
je t’ai vraiment dans la peau.
You have really really got under my skin, into my head, into all of my fantasies, and I just want to throw you down on a rock and ravish you and give you lots of babies and a thatched cottage.

His conscience pricked him.
‘It is Fate!’ Yvette had cried, that evening in London. One day, he would have to confess. To both Caroline and Yvette. The way he had given Fate a nudge, picked up the telephone and talked to Margaret at Willowdale. Margaret, who had greeted him with a cry of pleasure. How were things in Toulouse? He’d be at Ravensfield next weekend? No, she was so sorry, Caroline wouldn’t be down that weekend, she was going to London. But she had added a few helpful details. Caroline was staying with some friends of Margaret’s, the Delormes. They were French. Did Edward by any chance know them?

And that was where Fate did indeed lend a hand. Fate, and the fact that Airbus was looking for some worthy dignitaries to stand on the dais at the roll out of the new plane. All he had to do was pick up the phone again and call ex-Ambassador Jacques Delorme. The stars were aligned. He just had to p
erfect his acting skills so that when he saw Caroline that Saturday evening he could appear as astonished as his hosts. In the end, he didn’t even have to act. His breath had caught in his throat the moment he saw her walk into the room, still hesitant, still fawn-like, but this time a woman, an incredibly desirable woman.

Remember Rayburn he told himself. Softly, very softly.
No more Basque peppers. No more tweaking Fate. Just be there for her. The way was clear. Holding hands in the moonlight. A gentle stroke of her hair. Maybe a tender kiss or two. And a hell of a lot of cold showers.

As they left the beach and started to make their way up through the town their reflections came to meet them from a shop window, hers narrow-hipped in navy jeans and sweater, his bulkier
, taller, his yellow waterproof blowing in the wind.

Half-way up the hill, Caroline stopped in front of a jeweller’s shop, struck by the unusual necklaces displayed in the window.

‘That’s pretty,’ she said pointing. ‘Is it a Basque cross? I might get it for Auntie Margaret.’

Edward stared at the cross
on its slender gold chain, the inscription also in Basque.

‘I don’t really know if it would be appropriate.’

Caroline glanced at him.

‘
Maita nezazu maité zaitutan bezala
.’

He read out the words.

‘What does that mean?’

‘
Aime-moi comme moi je t’aime
. Love me as I love you.’

‘Oh.’

Caroline stared at the necklace.

‘Maybe not.’

Over the next few days the villa seemed to regain some of its early harmonious atmosphere.

First, there was a surprise. When Edward and Caroline got back from their walk on Friday there were two large bouquets of flowers waiting, one addressed to Claudie, the other to
Caroline.

The cards inside were identical.

‘I am so sorry,
vraiment désolée.
Please please forgive me and come for a drink at
Le Grand Palais
this evening. Love Annabel XOX’

‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Claudie.

What was even nicer was that Annabel and Julian had gone shopping, and, according to a note on the kitchen table, were going to prepare ‘a sumptuous meal’ for later, when they got back from the
Grand Palais
.

‘Maybe Julian is not such a little
toutou
as all that,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘In fact he sounded more like a Rottweiler when he took Annabel upstairs.’

Caroline was looking relieved.

‘If I know my sister, she’ll be mortified at the thought she’s in everyone’s bad books. We’re in for a few days of Sweet Annabel. Prepare your requests. She’ll be ready to paint your toenails, give you an Indian head massage, a relaxation séance with crystals, you name it.’

‘Toenails, definitely,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘In
Basque green.’

‘Well Caro,’ said Claudie.
‘Important decisions. Cocktails at
Le Grand Palais
. What do we wear?’

The two of them headed upstairs to inspect each other’s wardrobes.

***

By Friday evening, a
s Edward had forecast, the storm had blown itself out. The sky was a clear pale blue as they walked towards
Le Grand Palais
. He was giving them a potted history lesson as they turned through the towering iron gates.

‘
Emperor Napoleon III, that’s the nephew of Napoleon the first, or just Napoleon as we know him—’

‘The one that Nelson defeated at Waterloo,’ added Julian helpfully.

‘Yes, Courtenay, that one, don’t forget I’m half-English myself, anyway, Napoleon III as I was saying became Emperor in 1853—’

‘1852 in fact,’ said Jean-Paul.

‘Am I telling this story or not?’

‘Cool, cousin, cool.’

‘Right. So in 1852, as I was saying, Napoleon became Emperor. But as in all good stories,
cherchez la femme
. Eugénie was a Spanish beauty who caught the eye, and heart, of our Emperor. He was so enamoured of her that he built her a little summer house by the sea.’

They had all stopped half way up the drive and were admiring the palatial building in front of them, shaped like the letter E.

‘Now that,’ said Claudie, ‘is my idea of a nice wedding gift.’

‘Yes, well,
as you know
chère cousine
the original building burned down. What we’re looking at is a restoration. Pretty impressive, all the same.’

They nodded their agreement as they walked
up to the hotel. A magnificent glass and metal canopy, a
‘marquise’
Edward told them, spread like a crinoline above their heads as they stepped through the door.

The
Bar Imperial
was a long rectangular room between the reception area and the Michelin-starred dining room. The panelled walls rose to a white and gold coffered ceiling. Five huge chandeliers cast a sparkling light over the room, which was reflected ad infinitum in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors at each end. Draped curtains and white and gold pillars separated the bar area from the dining room, a graceful semi-circle with stunning views over the sea. The Imperial crest and eagle were everywhere, picked out in bronze and accompanied by ornately worked representations of hunting bows and quivers of arrows. The thick green carpet underfoot bore the initials N and E.

‘Wow.’

Caroline stopped short, trying to take it all in. The maitre d’ came to meet them with a smile and a greeting.

‘I once saw Cathé
rine Deneuve here,’ said Claudie as they were seated. ‘The real one. Not the one cutting up lamb in the market.’

She explained to the others, doing a wickedly accurate imitation of
la patronne
and her boning knife.

‘What have you two got on the menu for us tonight?’ asked Jean-Paul.

They had been told not to go into the kitchen on pain of death.

‘A surprise,’ said Annabel. ‘Now
have you all decided what you’d like to drink? I don’t want to sound stereotyped, but I really think the girls should order the Empress
cocktail while the men go for the Emperor. Then we can all change for the second round. That’s a pretty dress Claudie, by the way.’

Everyone had
pulled out the stops for the occasion. Claudie was in a scarlet figure-hugging dress with a plunging back. Caroline had on the lace sheath she had worn at the Delormes. She saw Edward looking at it. He gave her a quick, complicit smile.

Annabel was admiring the glittering chandeliers and the ornate plasterwork thrown into relief by concealed lighting.

‘I wouldn’t mind a little holiday here,’ she said to Julian, adding hastily ‘Of course it’s not as nice as the Villa Julia!’

Everyone laughed.

‘I’ll bring you here for our honeymoon,’ Julian replied, leaning across to take her hand.

Caroline saw a violet flash appear and disappear before Annabel dropped her eyes and picked up her glass.

‘That would be perfect darling,’ she said sweetly. ‘You’ve got two years to save up. Cheers everyone.’

Claudie was talking about Sissi, Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who was a frequent visitor
to the
Grand Palais
when Napoleon and Eugénie were hosting their dazzling parties.

‘Have any of you seen the film about her? It
’s an old one, made in the 1950s, but it is a real classic, like ‘Gone With the Wind’. They’re always showing it on television. The star was Romy Schneider, have you heard of her in Britain?’

‘Romy Schneider,’ said Julian. ‘I remember her. Mother was a huge fan. She married Alain Delon, didn’t she?’

Annabel’s eyes were glazing, a sure sign she was losing interest, thought Caroline, wondering how to change the subject. But Claudie prattled on.

‘Yes, they were the most glamorous couple of
France. Alain Delon and Romy Schneider. A whirlpool romance. He was so handsome and sexy, and she was so beautiful, in fact she looked a bit like you, Annabel.’

Claudie
lowered her eyes and took a sip of her drink. Annabel gave a small smile.

Ouf
! Another point for Claudie. So far, thought Caroline, the two of them were evenly matched on the compliments front.

‘Yes, then they divorced, she got married again, maybe two, three times. But she was always fighting the depression, and drugs and alcohol. When she died she was only
, how old, Edward? Forty-two, forty- three?’

‘Forty
-two. She died the year the year after I was born. I must have watched her films hundreds of times. I was in love with her, the beautiful tragic older woman, with the husky voice and bewitching German accent.’

‘German accent! How on earth can a German accent be bewitching?’

Annabel’s shoulders had tightened.

Jean-Paul banged his glass down on the table.

‘Vot? Ve make you pay for zis disrespect,
fraulein
!’

Even Annabel joined in the laughter at
the terrible imitation. Caroline met Edward’s eye and a message flashed between them ‘Crisis averted! Crisis averted!’

She had to bend down and rummage in her handbag to stop herself from laughing.

‘Ready for more drinks?’ asked Julian, signalling for the waiter.

A pianist had come into the bar, a small Japanese woman, dressed in black and white. She lifted the lid of the grand piano and ran her hand lightly over the keys.
As she began the first piece, Caroline recognised a variation on the theme from ‘Black Orpheus’
.
Leaning back in her chair, remembering the lyrics, she decided this was her idea of heaven. ‘Carnival time is here, magical time of year...’ Meeting Edward’s eye again, heaven just got even better.

Th
anks to swift and skilful conversational tactics on the part of Jean-Paul and Edward, the evening passed without a wrinkle. Back at the villa, Annabel and Julian served seafood, platters of oysters, lobster, shrimp and crayfish piled high on beds of ice. There were bottles of Cristal champagne (‘over-priced, but still,’ murmured Claudie in Caroline’s ear).

It
had been a meal that didn’t require much culinary skill, apart from opening the oysters, thought Caroline, climbing the stairs to her room later that night, but it had been delicious. And the evening had gone well. She hesitated when she reached the third floor, and looked back. There had been a moment, as everyone was getting ready to turn in, when she had noticed Edward look in her direction, and take a step towards her. Her heart rate had accelerated, then Julian had drawn him on one side and the moment had passed.

Friday evening seemed to
usher in a new atmosphere in the villa. Over the weekend everyone was relaxed and in a good mood. The temperatures were ideal, not the suffocating heat of mid-week but a hot sun tempered by a soft sea-breeze. Maybe it was a sign, thought Caroline. Clear skies ahead for her last week at the Villa.

They fell into an easy routine, going to the beach for an early swim, followed by a couple of hours sunbathing. Only Caroline refused to put a toe in the water, in spite of Jean-Paul’s encouragement. Propped on her arms, she watched the others. Annabel and Claudie stayed fairly close to the shore but Edward, Jean-Paul and Julian dived headfirst through the waves and were soon out in the open water.

‘There are dangerous currents on this coast,’ Claudie told Caroline, coming back to her towel and stretching out. ‘The bay is protected by the rocks but if you’re not used to it you can soon get carried out.’

Caroline nodded, watching the lifeguards who scanned the water with binoculars, blowing their whistles and beckoning to anyone they thought was venturing too far.

‘When it first became popular, people came to Biarritz because the water here was supposed to have special properties. It was a good cure for people suffering from hysteria, apparently. Calmed them down.’

Caroline glanced over at Claudie, who
had a little smile on her face as she watched Annabel splash about in the waves.

Most days l
unch was eaten at the back of the house, in the dense shade of the fig tree outside the kitchen. Afterwards, everyone wandered off to do their own thing, have a snooze, read a book and then, late afternoon, they would congregate at the pool where Jean-Paul had an endless list of absurd games involving plastic bags and blow-up crocodiles and his favourites, the water pistols. He and Edward were indefatigable, always in motion, swimming, playing ball, shooting hoops in the basket attached to the back wall of the villa.

Julian and Annabel were like honeymooners.

Yes, thought Caroline, it was all very hassle-free. A real holiday. And she and Edward too had fallen into a comfortable easy-going mode, even if her heart did start doing backward somersaults every time he touched her. And he did touch her, throwing an arm round her shoulders, giving her hugs and squeezes, playing with her hair, tickling her neck, playing with her toes.

Though, she had to admit, he tended to be demonstrative to everyone.
That was just the way he was. But there was something a little bit different, a little bit special and complicit, in the way he touched her. He would hug her just that extra bit close, let his hand linger on her knee as he leaned across to grab the newspaper. When she climbed out of the pool, soaked after a water fight, he would wrap a huge towel round her and pull her towards him, rubbing until she was warm.

And yet
, somehow or other, they never seemed to find themselves alone together.

‘What do you think, Dr Figgy?’ she asked.

The cat had got into the habit of sleeping on her bed. Caroline didn’t mind, she liked hearing his deep rumbling purr as she slid her fingers through his thick fur.

She’d found him in the bathroom a couple of times, on the edge of the bathtub, tail twitching, little mewing noises coming from his mouth,
staring through the skylight at the birds in the pine tree.

‘Not a chance,’ she told him
. ‘Better stick to the lizards in the garden. Only one more week. Then it’s back to the kitchen chair for you. Hear that Fig?’

She sighed. The days were rushing past.
Though she had an extra week before starting work again, she found herself wishing she could spend the time here, prolong this sunny, peaceful existence, the long days and lively nights.