Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (11 page)

He ran the blade of grass down Caroline’s arm, a look of amused interrogation on his face. Her
treacherous body sprang to life. You stay at Willowdale, it told her. I want to live! I want to be tickled!

Screams and giggles were coming from the pool.

‘Not tempted to join your sister for a swim?’

Her skin was covered in goose
bumps. She sat up, looked towards the pool.

‘I’
m a hopeless swimmer. Terrified of the water. Annabel’s always been the one who was good at water sports.’

Her sister had slipped off her jeans and T
-shirt and waded further into the water. She was wearing a white bikini that showed off the slender grace of her figure. The sunlight falling through the leaves dappled her golden skin. One leg flexed, the other reaching out to test the temperature, she clung to Julian for support. A goddess, thought Caroline. Aphrodite in her seashell.

‘She’s very beautiful.’

Edward’s voice was low, his blue eyes troubled. Suddenly he turned to her as if waking from a dream.

‘You’re so different.’

The words struck her like a physical blow. Edward saw the blood leave her face and realised what he had said.

‘Oh
my God Caroline, I didn’t mean—Christ, what an idiot, you must think I’m bloody rude! I wasn’t talking about—’

Caroline cut him short.

‘That’s quite alright. Please don’t apologise.’

She scrambled up, made a show of looking at her watch

‘Sorry, just remembered, I have to go. Phone call. My mobile’s at the house.’

She turned, blood pounding in her ears, hoping her legs would not give way. By the time Edward had got to his feet, she was disappearing down the path, back straight and head high,
blinking back the sudden tears.

What a fool I am, she thought, what a stupid silly fool. Cupid’s arrow indeed.

‘But Aunt Margaret I don’t need any new things!’

Caroline’s voice hovered between exasperation and amusement.

In the enormous bed with its walnut headboard and dark red counterpane Margaret MacDonald lay propped up on a mound of pillows. In answer to her niece’s protestations she rapped her knuckles against the marble-topped table piled with books and pill boxes. She was scowling and her eyes gleamed with irritation and impatience. Caroline sighed. She knew that look. Margaret may be not well enough to get out of bed but she had more authority lying down than most people had standing on a podium. She looked, thought her niece, like some Russian Czarina giving orders to shoot any peasant who dared raise a finger in revolt.

‘Caroline, sometimes I wonder what you see when you look in the mirror! Birdie and I are, for once in our lives, in total agreement. You
simply cannot go off to France, to Biarritz, for heaven’s sake, with a suitcase packed full of—’ she gesticulated dramatically, then finished up triumphantly ‘overalls!’

Caroline was speechless. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror of the big old wardrobe on the other side of the room.
Jeans again. She had to admit that, apart from Margaret’s birthday dinner, she hadn’t made much of an effort to look her best over the weekend. But when she’d been packing to come down to Willowdale on the spur of the moment, clothes had been the last thing on her mind. Still, she had plenty of respectable outfits in her wardrobe back at the flat, hadn’t she?

‘Auntie M, I’m sorry, I do look a bit scruffy. But come on
, overalls? I don’t possess a single pair of overalls, not even for painting and decorating. I just feel more comfortable in a pair of jeans when I’m not at work. I get so fed up with skirts and jumpers or so-called business suits, it’s like wearing a uniform. And you know the sort of place I work in, you can’t just turn up wearing three inch heels and a chiffon mini-skirt!’

‘
My dear that’s exactly what I mean! You have a wardrobe full of work clothes so uninspiring they might as well be overalls, and the rest of your attire consists of faded old leftovers from your student days.’

She waved dismissively at her niece’s T
-shirt. It bore the emblem of The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and featured an extremely cute robin with its head on one side.

‘Dear child, you are going on holiday! You are going to the Villa Julia!
With its views over the bay, and even a glimpse of the
Grand Palais
itself, you saw the photographs. You need something light, summery, modern. I’m talking about daytime wear, of course, and then for the evening, something chic, tasteful, but with a hint of daring. To show off your figure, you know you have such a graceful figure, when one actually gets a chance to see it. I can’t remember how much money I poured into ballet lessons for you and Annabel, you used to walk about like a prima ballerina, such lovely posture,
and now you’re all scrunched up and huddled over in...those things. I might just as well not have bothered.’

Oops.
Get ready for ‘when I think of all the sacrifices I made for you...’ Caroline went for a cunning flanking manoeuvre, hoping to head Margaret off.

‘
Darling Auntie M, I know how much you’ve done for me, and for Annabel, I do really, and I know you’re having financial problems now, so listen, I’d really like to help, I’ve been thinking—’

‘Don’t try to change the subject Caroline. We both know where you d
o your shopping, Marks and Spencer’s, a good honest British store, I won’t hear a word against it. But my dear, you can’t wear a Marks and Spencer’s frock for an evening at the Casino!’

Caroline’s eyes widened. The
Grand Palais,
whatever that was, and now the Casino? Nobody had mentioned a Casino. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in her wardrobe that remotely resembled a Bond girl outfit. And in any case the way she’d been feeling all weekend she still hadn’t decided if she would do the cowardly thing and pull out of the holiday at the last moment, inventing a sudden case of swine flu. Every time she thought of her sister she had to fight back a flood of murderous impulses, every time she thought of Edward she felt weepy and dithery and hot and cold, and every time she thought of Julian, poor Julian, she felt racked by pity and guilt.

She tuned in to her Aunt’s relentless tirade.

‘...and I have let you have your own way long enough. When it comes to clothes, a girl needs someone to advise her. Very few people know instinctively just what suits them best. Now my dear I know this will be a bitter pill to swallow, you’re a very proud person, but quite frankly when it comes to choosing clothes—you have Very Poor Taste.’

Margaret rolled out the last few words
like Dame Judi Dench in full flow. Before Caroline could protest she held up a hand like a traffic policeman.

‘No
, don’t interrupt, I know what you’re going to say. If your poor mother had lived, things would have been different. Now there was a woman with taste. Not at all like your father and me, the MacDonalds have always felt that a good Scottish tweed was the epitome of glamour. With a dash of colour at the neck of course. But I have always admitted it. And now you must admit it too, Caroline. As far as clothes sense goes, you’re a MacDonald through and through. Annabel on the other hand, she’s just like your mother, knows what suits her instinctively, knows how to make the best of herself without having to be told. And the way she walks, like a model! In her case the ballet lessons paid off. But you!’

Caroline winced.

‘When I look at that pretty face, when I think how many girls would envy your slim figure, and all you do is scrape your hair back with an elastic band and slump about in overalls.’

Margaret fell back against the pillows with a theatrical sigh. Caroline folded her arms and gazed at her aunt in resignation. She was having one of her difficult days. And, when she got into this mood, there was nothing to do except humour her. Ever since the departure of Annabel and Julian on Saturday
afternoon, earlier than expected, much to Caroline’s relief, she had been particularly intractable. This morning she had flatly refused to leave her bed, insisting that her arthritis was killing her inch by inch.

The bedroom door opened. Birdie edged her way inside with exaggerated care.

‘How is she?’

‘Oh do stop whispering and hovering about!’ snapped Margaret. ‘Either come in or go out.’

Birdie and Caroline exchanged looks. Birdie came in, followed by Titus doing his best to be invisible.

‘It’s all planned,’ announced Margaret as Birdie perched carefully on the side of the bed. ‘You and Caroline are to go up to town and buy whatever’s necessary. I shall sign a cheque.’

‘But Aunt—’

‘No ‘buts’! It’s all arranged. I shall take it as a personal insult Caroline if you cannot indulge the whim of a person who has sacrificed the best years of her life to look after you and your sister.’

The violins soared. Exit left Russian Czarina, enter right Joan of Arc. Margaret proceeded to list the various trials and tribulations she had suffered bringing up two orphaned children until Caroline finally threw up her hands.

‘Alright I’ll go! I
, Caroline MacDonald, your ungrateful niece do solemnly swear that I will go up to town with Birdie and blow my hard-earned money on some entirely frivolous and unwanted clothes for my holiday in Villa Julia with its view of the
Grand Palais
!’

‘Caroline. There is no need to take that tone. In your heart of hearts you know I’m right.’

It was impossible to win a battle with Margaret. Through clenched teeth, Caroline felt herself beginning to smile, the smile turned into a laugh.

‘There, that’s much better,’ said Margaret innocently. ‘You have such a charming smile my dear. And excellent teeth, thanks to my insistence on regular visits to the dentist. Birdie I think it’s time for a medicinal glass of scotch. I’m quite worn out. Caroline never used to be this difficult.’

‘Caroline is here, in front of you, Auntie. You have won. But, just one thing, it’s very very generous of you to offer to treat me. But please, no, don’t argue, no cheque, I was joking about the hard earned money. And I know that you two—’ she hesitated, not wanting to spark off another argument ‘look, we all know how much the house is costing, it’s no good beating round the bush. We need to sit down and talk seriously about money. Very soon. It’s not fair that you two should have to meet all the expenses. I can help, I have savings, and in any case I was thinking about putting my flat on the market.’

She threw a glance at Birdie, an appeal for support. But Margaret and Birdie were exchanging looks.

‘My dear I appreciate your concern. I really do. It’s quite typical. I’ve never heard such nonsense, putting your flat on the market, next you’ll be selling your body. No,’ Margaret raised a hand as Caroline’s mouth fell open, ‘no, my dear, that’s all quite unnecessary.’

‘Aunt Margaret. You can’t afford to spend your money on clothes for me.
What about the roof? Come on, be reasonable.’

Birdie gave a little cough and fiddled with the counterpane. The two women exchanged another look, then Margaret announced majestically:

‘Currently, I am happy to announce that expense is no object.’

Caroline laughed.

‘What, you found £5000 in the secret drawer of the writing box?’

‘Y
es. Well, no, not in a secret drawer. And not in your delightful present. Also, ahem, quite a bit more than £5000. We were going to tell you yesterday, but then Annabel and Julian had to rush off.’

Margaret paused and put her head on one side, rather coyly.

‘We, that is to say Birdie and I, we have had a Win.’

Both women were studiously avoiding meeting her eyes.

‘Yes. Thanks to our numbers. My birthday, Birdie’s birthday, Titus’s birthday.’

‘You don’t mean—
’

‘Yes my dear, I do mean. We’ve been playing for years, it’s about time something came up.’

‘Are you...have you...you’re not telling me
—’

‘
Yes my dear we are telling you. The National Lottery, bless it.’

The two of them had been buying Lottery tickets ever since the scheme started. And they were not averse to a flutter on the horses, Caroline knew. Soames the gardener often g
ave them tips from his nephew who worked at Newbury. She stared at her aunt, speechless. They had actually had a win!

‘It was last Saturday. I have to say we couldn’t quite believe it. We had to check the numbers several times. Then we were so stunned we had to get the Macallan out, ended up getting quite tipsy, didn’t we Birdie? Oh it’s not millions. Just a nice few thousands. But I think we’re on a roll. Now Birdie, this calls for a little celebration, doesn’t it?’

‘As a matter of fact Margaret I brought up a bottle from the cellar
yesterday. Pol Roger Millesimé. I thought we could drink it last night when we announced our news, but what with Annabel and Julian leaving early I left it in the fridge.’

‘Quite right Birdie. It would have been nice to drink it all together
, such a pity they had to rush off, we really weren’t expecting that. But after all it is my 80
th
, and we have won the Lottery, and Caroline is going off for an exciting holiday in Biarritz. I think that justifies a few bubbles, don’t you? And from the look on Caroline’s face, she needs a stiff drink. You can close your mouth now, dear.’

‘
Would you give me a hand Caroline?’ Birdie was getting to her feet. ‘I can never seem to wrestle the cork out without getting the wretched stuff all over the kitchen.’

After the door had closed behind the two of them, Margaret tried to settle herself more comfortably in the bed. A sudden spasm contorted her features.
The pain in her hip began to throb in earnest. She reached for the packet of anti-inflammatories. She detested the things. They eased the pain, but they sent her stomach haywire. Still, she reflected, swallowing the tablet, on the whole it had been a very satisfactory morning.

Persuading Caroline hadn’t been easy
. The effort had left her exhausted but content. And she had seen her niece laugh, no giggle, for the first time this weekend. That alone was worth everything else. Her face, when she heard about the Lottery! She could hear her excited laughter coming from the kitchen. If only this holiday worked out well. She was beginning to seriously worry about Caroline. Too pale, too thin, constantly twisting her hands around. But it was not only the physical symptoms. Caroline, always neat and meticulous was becoming, what did they say nowadays? Over the top. That was it. Only yesterday, at lunch, the minute they had swallowed the last mouthful she had leapt to her feet and swept all the plates away before anyone could be offered a second helping! And personally Margaret would have liked a second helping of Birdie’s excellent apple crumble. The coffee had to be drunk at breakneck speed so that the table could be cleared, the flowers put back in the exact centre, even the crumbs swept up from the terrace instead of leaving them for the birds to peck at. It had worn Margaret out to watch her. Worn her out, and worried her desperately.