Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (9 page)

The enormous Gothic villa, a castle really, on the outskirts of the city, was set well back from the road and shaded by densely planted pines. It was enclosed by a high wall, and the entrance was through monumental gates equipped with security cameras.

‘Oh wow.’

Annabel was impressed, peering through the dark trees to the floodlit turrets.

‘You like it? Looks positively sinister to me,’ said Julian, pressing the switch to close the window and moving forward as the gates swung open to let the car through. ‘I get the feeling I’m stepping into a particularly nasty fairy story by the Brothers Grimm.’

‘Oh darling, you’re so predictable. If it’s not a Tudor residence with half-timbering and rose gardens you immediately act snooty. We are in Germany you know. They don’t do Tudor. Or Regency. Or Victorian. I think it’s atmospheric.’

Julian raised his eyebrows and remained silent. They rolled into the enormous forecourt alongside Daimlers, Mercedes and a couple of Ferraris. A uniformed attendant stepped forward to open the door for Annabel. Julian noticed him eyeing her legs as she swivelled gracefully in her seat. Long, beautiful legs and a very short skirt. He got out of the car and handed the keys to the groom, thinking that at one time he’d have felt a surge of jealousy mixed with a surge of desire. Now all he could think of was the argument they’d had about Claudio’s invitation. Another argument, he thought wearily.

As they walked up to the entrance with its blazing lights and blast of loud music coming from inside, he could scarcely put one foot in front of the other. He needed a drink, preferably a large scotch.

‘Annabel my dear, you look simply ravishing!’ Claudio kissed her on both cheeks, stood back to gaze at her admiringly.

‘Julian, nice to see you.’

A servant dressed up like a Swiss guard
sans
helmet received their coats with a bow. Julian closed his eyes briefly then opened them again. Their host was ushering them in to a huge room that rose to a lofty ceiling. A minstrel’s gallery ran round three sides. Stags’ heads, boars’ heads and other parts of dead animals adorned the walls. In an immense fireplace that could easily have held half a dozen of the defunct creatures roasting over a spit, logs crackled and flared, giving off a resinous scent. It was like being on a set for ‘Game of Thrones’.

There must have been at least sixty people there already, thought Julian, walking over to say hello to Klaus, standing near the fireplace with another couple.

‘Find your way through the enchanted forest?’ Klaus gave him a conspiratorial grin.

‘Thank you.’ Julian took a glass from the tray offered by a waiter in black tie. Champagne. He really would have preferred a scotch, something to hit him in the gut, jolt him awake, but manners prevented him from asking if there was a choice.

‘Yes, I was saying to Annabel, it’s a bit brothers Grimm, don’t you think?’

‘Ah Claudio, he’s gone more native than the natives. You’d have thought a guy like him, a Milanese, would go for the glass and chrome and black leather. Not this...’ he waved his hand around the room ‘...kitsch. Stags’ heads, my God, and all this faux-Tyrolean stuff, I might have to break into a yodel.’

That got a laugh out of Julian. He’d already picked up on the vibe that Klaus was less than impressed with the new member of their group. His wife, Susie, was another matter altogether. In fact all of the wives did a universal swoon whenever Claudio stepped into a room. Thinking of wives, he looked around for Annabel. She was, naturally, in the little group of worshippers that stood near the host, arm in arm with Susie, giggling at some
bon mot
from the matinee idol in his impeccable dinner suit, face tanned, features impossibly chiselled, hair like polished jet. Looking at the circle of female admirers Julian had to admit that, although there were some good-looking women present, including Susie, Annabel knocked them all into a cocked hat. She had got her figure back since the birth of the baby. Tonight she was wearing a peacock-blue silk sheath that showed it off to perfection, daringly low cut, and with a slit up the back of the skirt. He hadn’t seen it before, must be something new she’d bought. She’d let her blonde hair grow long, it tumbled across her shoulders and down her back, rippling gold in the lamplight as she tossed her head.

He grabbed another glass from a passing waiter, knocked it back in one.

They hadn’t made love for months, long before Joshua was born.

But whose fault was that? he asked himself. The new job was more of a challenge than he’d thought, the constant flying back and forth to check on the London end of operations was taking its toll. And then the baby, sweet little Joshua. He still hadn’t managed a full night, and when his frail cry sounded from the nursery, it was Julian who pushed himself out of bed in the darkness, Julian who gave him his bottle. He loved it, loved the way his rosebud lips latched on to the teat, the contented murmurs as he sucked, the way he stared up at Julian with those big blue eyes, so like Annabel’s. Gradually they would start to close, the heavy lids would droop, and Julian would lay him gently back in his cot, adjusting the comforter, planting light little kisses on his downy head. He adored his Joshua, felt his heart squeeze with anguished love every time he held him.

But he was tired out. Knackered. Worn down. Running on empty. And the last thing he’d wanted to do this Friday evening was drive out into the forest for a party that would end at God knows what time in the morning. But Annabel had pouted and sulked and gone on and on and on. Always the same old refrain, her ‘I never wanted to come to Germany’ litany, he knew it by heart, could recite it backwards in his sleep. In the end it was easier to give in than listen to more of her complaints. And perhaps the fact that he’d capitulated would mean that she would let him have the weekend to recover, the first weekend in ages when he didn’t have to go to the office, when he hadn’t brought back a briefcase stuffed with papers, when they’d nothing planned for Saturday night.

He turned back to Klaus, who was saying something.

‘...not had a recent update. How is he, my friend, how is your beautiful son and heir?’

With a burst of enthusiasm, Julian started to tell him.

Dinner was served in another enormous room, a banqueting hall, Claudio informed them. ‘What, no serving wenches with unlaced chemises?’ Klaus had muttered in an undertone. Before they ate, their host had taken them on the obligatory tour of the ‘castle’. A ballroom, an indoor pool, a hothouse, where the pungent smell of lilies had Julian’s head reeling, innumerable bedrooms, all with four poster beds, dark panelled walls, and crimson curtains. It was, as Klaus had said, pure Hollywood. Pure, bad Hollywood.

The high point of the visit was the garage.

Inside the immense space, big enough for a fleet of cars, Claudio showed them his latest ‘baby’.

A Ferrari 458 Italia.

There were admiring whistles. Claudio patted the bonnet, smiled with his big white teeth.

‘562 horsepower. 0 to 100 kilometres in 3.3 seconds. Stratospheric.’

He rattled off the figures, pronouncing the word ‘stratospheric-a’, in his sexy Italian accent.

The men fell into a collective drool and moved in like a swarm of bees, peering inside, running their hands reverently over the sleek red silhouette. Claudio slipped into the driver’s seat and started the ignition.

The ear-shattering vroom vroom in the enclosed space was like a den of lions roaring and brought the women rushing in to see what was going on.

‘A woman magnet, my friend.’

Claudio winked at Julian from behind the steering wheel.

‘I can take my pick. You should treat yourself. I’ll make you a special price.’

Arrogant bastard, though Julian surprising himself by his animosity.

‘Yeah, and it’ll spend more time in the garage than on the road.’

Klaus had come up behind him and was watching the proceedings with a sardonic smile.

Julian caught the flicker of dislike in Claudio’s eyes before he smiled and winked at Klaus.

‘Eh, if it happens, I just take the Maserati my friend.’

It was well after midnight by the time dinner was over. The group split up, most of the men heading for the gloomy library which at least had real books in it, and decanters full of real spirits, and French windows that opened onto the terrace for the smokers. Music had started up in another room, the sound of laughter and screams mingled with the pop of champagne corks. Casting a glance inside, Julian saw a disc jockey at the far end, strobes flashing through the semi-darkness, gyrating bodies. He spotted Annabel, arms waving, hair tossing, and resigned himself to the fact that they were not going to get away for at least another hour. He wondered if he’d be too tired to drive. He would certainly be over the limit. They’d probably have to call a taxi.

On an impulse he pushed open a door at random and found himself in what must have been Claudio’s study. Here the décor was different. Efficient, hi-tech. Modern desk, sleek chair, an array of screens, phones, computers and other gadgets. A log fire, a large sofa. And, hidden in a dark recess by the window, looking blissfully inviting, a large leather armchair.

He hardly gave it a second thought, pushed the door closed behind him, headed across the room, sank down in the dimness, and within minutes was fast asleep.

He wasn’t sure what had woken him, maybe a door closing, maybe a man’s laugh. At first he didn’t remember where he was, disoriented after such a deep sleep. The room was in darkness, except for a few bars of light falling through the heavy curtains from the illuminated terrace outside and the glow of the dying fire. He was about to push himself up, wondering what time it was, when he realised he was not alone.

Muffled sounds came from the far side of the room, in the direction of the sofa. He couldn’t see what was going on, his view was blocked by its high back, but the urgent tone of the whispered words, the soft giggles, the rustle of clothing sent a shiver of alarm down his back. Oh God, some couple had come in here for a quick fumble. How was he going to get out without disturbing them? Should he act quickly, cough, stand up? The whispers were turning into moans, he could hear panting, more energetic movements, something fell to the floor. He was on tenterhooks, a trapped, unwilling listener as the moans increased in volume, the invisible bodies writhed and pushed against one another in a frenzy.

‘
Carissima
!’

Claudio’s voice. Jesus. His host.

Who was the woman?

It was over, he heard the sound of kissing, more murmurs, stifled laughter. He had to do something. He got to his feet, silently, measuring the distance. In a few swift strides he was outside, pulling the door closed behind him, loosening his tie, his heart pounding. He headed rapidly for the library, pushing into a group of people, excusing himself, heading for the windows and the cool air outside.

There, that was it. Boxes all packed, waiting for the removal people, flat sparkling. Caroline looked around with satisfaction. Everything was in perfect order. She had been fortunate, the agent had found her a year’s let with a couple of American academics who were in the UK on a sabbatical and wanted somewhere within easy reach of London. They’d looked at a few places, shuddered in transatlantic horror at the level of hygiene, then visited Caroline’s flat.

So, neatnik, she congratulated herself, your obsessive tidiness paid off in the end. Let’s hear it for Brillo pads and Dettol spray.

The pale fitted carpet and the two oriental rugs had been freshly cleaned. The comfortable sofa from John Lewis, her first acquisition as soon as she’d had enough money to invest in some proper furniture, looked just as good as it had done eight years ago. She had scoured antique shops and auction rooms, building up a nice collection of Victorian chests and a dining table and chairs. Fortunately for her, ‘brown’ furniture was out of fashion, which had allowed her to bid for some lovely pieces which she had burnished to a dark satin sheen with beeswax and elbow grease.

She went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. She’d left the Americans virtually all her crockery and cooking utensils. Edward’s flat was well-equipped and in any case she had her eye on some new stuff in a shop she’d seen near the
place de la Trinité
. The boxes now waiting to be shipped contained her books, CDs, clothes, and other personal items. She had taken some of her most precious things down to Willowdale, a collection of mismatched antique glasses she’d picked up over the years, a couple of original paintings she had treated herself to from an artist she liked.

Back in the living room she kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa with her tea, grateful for a chance to relax for the first time in what seemed like a two-month mad scramble. It was going to take a while for her to absorb the fact that this was it, the rush was over, tomorrow she’d walk out of the door of the place that had been her home for the past eight years.

A wave of tiredness hit her. She realised she’d eaten nothing since breakfast, but for the moment she was just too exhausted to drag herself back to the kitchen and make something. And in any case, she remembered, there was nothing in the fridge apart from some milk, she had cleared everything out. She’d have to take a trip down the road to the little supermarket, pick up a microwaved meal for tonight, a couple of rolls for tomorrow morning. But for the moment, she simply couldn’t summon the energy. She checked her watch. The removal men were due any minute. She’d have to galvanise herself into action when they arrived. Time to think about the shopping after they had left. And if she was really tired, she could always order a takeaway.

A feeling of melancholy suddenly enveloped her. Now where did that come from? Probably due to the tiredness. Maybe, as Geraldine had suggested, withdrawal symptoms as well. And also, she was forced to admit, the realisation she was leaving the first place she’d ever called her own.

That first year she’d spent her evenings and weekends visiting flats for sale. The ones she liked were always too expensive, the ones she could afford had a drawback, too far from work, too small, too much renovation needed. And then the agent had shown her this one, set back from the road, part of a large old house that had been recently converted into flats. It had ‘spoken’ to her as soon as she walked inside. Of course it wasn’t perfect, a little on the dark side, but it looked out over trees, was conveniently situated, was a good size. And it felt right. Following the agent’s advice, she’d made the sellers an offer, and they’d accepted. Excitement had mingled with trepidation as she signed the final papers, shook hands with the solicitor, and looked down at the keys she was holding. The realisation had hit her; she was now a property-owner, with her very own flat.

She sighed. She’d spent some happy moments here, some of them with Liam. And a lot of unhappy ones as well, most of them with Liam.

She checked her watch again. Edward would be at work for at least another three hours, he was getting as much done as possible before their escape to Biarritz. She’d phone him later. She let her head drop back against the cushions, thinking of the months ahead.

June, and the holiday at Villa Julia. With Jill and Edward. Bliss.

July, back to Toulouse, getting herself installed in Edward’s flat. Buying lots of nice things. Plants, dishes, shoes. More bliss.

September, that was when she would start her new job. She’d finally decided on the in-town business school, Edward was right, the hours were shorter, and she’d be able to walk to work through the city each day, through the beautiful medieval centre, across the parks and squares, enjoying the fresh air and the new sights and sounds as she passed the poor commuters stuck in buses and cars, nose-to-tail on the wide boulevards. Exciting.

August. She’d deliberately skipped August. Of course there was the big family reunion at Villa Julia, that would be so much fun. But first, Acapulco. The big black cloud of Acapulco. She suppressed a groan. Maybe she and Edward could contract a highly contagious but obviously not life-threatening virus which would force them to cancel. Sorry Annabel old thing, the doctor’s adamant, we’re sneezing non-stop, throwing up all over the place, covered in weeping sores, I know, I know, such a shame, we would have simply
loved
to be there with you on the hilltop with the shaman and the Andean flutes...

Weddings. She and Edward had scarcely had a minute to discuss their own. When, where. Personally she had a soft spot for the old parish church at Ravensfield, where her parents and grandparents had been married. Wearing the MacDonald tartan of course. Edward’s face when Margaret had mentioned a kilt...It was true, he had the most wonderful legs, long, lean, muscled, sexy. She raised her hand, wiggled her fingers so that the sapphire caught the light. A wedding. And, later, a baby, she hoped. Perhaps babies, plural.

But not yet, not just yet. All she wanted to do for the immediate future was enjoy being with Edward in their eyrie high above the river. Just the two of them.

The doorbell rang. Time to deal with the boxes. She heaved herself to her feet, wincing at a pain in her back, and went to meet the removal men.