Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (34 page)

‘First, the lunch at the Savoy. Yes, don’t look surprised, I was there, I saw you together.’

She was ticking the points off on her fingers.

‘Then, the business at the coffee stand, when she was drunk. We both heard her, me and Jean-Paul. ‘You promised to take care of me Edward.’ That’s what she said. You can ask Jean-Paul. And anyone can see you’re attracted to her, the way you touch her, rubbing sun cream all over her...’

Edward’s eyes had narrowed.

‘You’re jealous. Jealous of your sister. This is what it’s all about.’

His shoulders had relaxed a fraction.
A little smile was appearing at the corners of his mouth. Damn him, he was pleased! He thought she was jealous of Annabel, and that made him smile! She was choking with rage. But now Edward was holding up his hand, imitating her, ticking off points on his fingers.

‘
Right. Let’s start with the lunch. Yes, I took her for lunch. Just the two of us. Why? Because I find her charming? Because I want to flirt with her? Wrong, Caroline, wrong. I took her to lunch because Julian asked me to. That’s right, look scornful, it suits you. But you see, whatever crazy idea you’ve got in your head, Julian
is
my best friend and, unfortunately for him, he happens to be madly in love with your sister. Your cold-hearted, spoiled little sister! Julian was away that weekend. He asked me to take her out. He didn’t, quote unquote, ‘want her to be lonely’. Lonely! I spent two hours singing his praises, telling her what a great person he was, eternally loyal, devoted in friendship, generous, thoughtful—’ Edward choked. ‘Two hours, during which poor lonely Annabel fluttered her eyelashes, accidentally brushed my leg under the table at least fifty times, and showed so much cleavage I thought her bloody boobs were going to end up in the Caesar salad!’

A giggle escaped from Caroline’s lips. Horrified she put a hand to her mouth
. Her mind was struggling to make sense of what he had just told her, to adjust her memory of what she’d seen to fit with Edward’s account of the situation but all she could think of were Annabel’s boobs falling into her salad.

‘Point two.’ Edward waggled a finger in front of her.
‘The other night. When she was drunk. Let me tell you how things really went after you and JP went back. OK, here’s faithful buddy Edward.’

He threw himself into a pose.

‘Annabel old thing now that you’ve thrown up all over my favourite Nikes can I just say a word? Please stop treating my best mate Julian like a dog. He’s feeling low, you’re the reason, and your response is to chop him in the balls. It doesn’t help.’

Edward was getting into full theatre mode. Rather like Margaret, thought Caroline, before she could stop herself.

‘OK, now, this is Lonely Little Annabel: ‘Eddie darling you know I don’t mean it, but I’m in such a mess, my emotions, my hormones, and you know what Julian thinks about it all, and I’ve no one else to turn to, you did promise to help me, I just can’t afford it , these clinics are so expensive—’ he suddenly broke off, horrified. They looked at one another. The wind had gone out of his sails.

‘I know,’ said Caroline.

‘When did she tell you?’

‘She didn’t. It was the landlady of the hotel.’

‘Oh sweetheart, what a way to find out. After everything else, I’m so sorry.’

She almost went to him
then. But she remembered her sister’s words, her look, and pulled herself back sharply.

‘OK Edward. I accept that I misinterpreted a couple of things. But you see, there’s something I can’t forgive. You just said it again, Julian’s your best friend. So you encourage his
fiancée to abort their baby, encourage her to split up with him, and then, when the time is right, you step in and take over where he left off. It was a good performance, Edward, in fact it was brilliant. I’ve never seen you act before. All this scheming Annabel stuff, all this ‘I’ve got you under my skin Caro.’ But I know Annabel. Whatever she wants she gets. That’s something I didn’t tell you about Liam. Oh she thinks I don’t know. But he told me. Left me a nice little message on my answering machine, at work as a matter of fact. Good job I came in early that day, before the others. Otherwise they’d all have known, about my fiancé and my sister and their sordid affair. And now it’s your turn. And do you know how I know this time? Because Annabel has just thrown it in my face! She’s just told me! All your little talks, your discussions, your secrets, how to deal with the ‘complications’. You’ve got it all planned.’

She turned on her heel and marched towards the door.

‘So that’s it.’

Something in Edward’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘That’s what all this is about? It’s taken you, what? Ten, fifteen minutes to tell me what’s really bothering you? Whereas, my dear, if you’d come right out with it at the beginning, I could have set you straight in two minutes. Yes, I have been talking to Annabel, at some length. About having the abortion, about splitting up with Julian. You really think I’m going to stand by and see his life ruined? She’d break his heart, take his child, and screw every last penny out of him. Maybe you disagree, think I’ve behaved wrongly. You’re perfectly entitled to your opinion. But as for the rest of it–well. You’re so wrapped up in jealousy and self-pity you can’t even see the end of your nose. Annabel gets everything, including that stupid prick Liam. Good luck, they deserve each other, and meantime poor little Caroline gets nothing. I can’t believe the things you’ve said to me tonight, some utterly despicable things. There’s just one thing wrong with your logic, and if you were the person I thought you were, you’d have seen it straight away.’

He had caught up with her, grabbed her arm
, turned her to face him.

‘
I wouldn’t touch Annabel if she was served up naked on a platter of whipped cream. Do you hear? She’s just told you, has she? Well now, I’m telling you. Your sister is lying, Caroline, lying! You know what she’s like! Pure and utter invention, the world according to Annabel. She’s a mythomaniac! All you had to do was come to me, ask me. All you had to do was believe me. But you never gave me a chance.’

Edward pushed past her out of the room.

The sun was warm on Caroline’s shoulders as she got to her feet, pushing aside a strand of hair that fell across a cheek still sunburned from her days on the beach. She dusted off her hands and surveyed the fruits of her labours with bitter satisfaction. Before her the flower bed spread out in a wide curve to embrace the lawn. Tall clumps of marguerites, hollyhocks and foxgloves stood on guard at the back, heads nodding slightly, overlooking the smaller flowers, the marigolds, lavender and black-eyed daisies that crowded at the edge of the grass. It was a picture. At her feet a bucket of weeds overflowed. She rubbed her back, glad for the ache, the physical pain, staring out across the lawn to the remaining elm trees in the lane which led to the village. They were lone survivors of the Dutch elm disease which had ravaged so many of England’s parks and gardens. Their foliage wore the faded dusty look of leaves past their best, awaiting the inexorable turn towards autumn that would follow in another month.

Another month
Another autumn. Another birthday, thirty this time. And then winter, with its long dark days and chilly winds. Her thoughts kept returning to another place, a villa, a cliff, black rocks and pounding waves.

After that last terrible evening
with Edward she had been unable to sleep. She’d tossed and turned, thought at one point she heard the front door open and close. Finally, at five o’clock she got up and finished her packing. She couldn’t face seeing the others, she was too ashamed. Taking the coward’s way out, she left a note on the kitchen table, saying she had to return suddenly to Willowdale, Margaret was ill. She promised to be in touch as soon as things calmed down. She thanked them for their hospitality and the wonderful time she had spent at Villa Julia. And apologised for any inconvenience caused by her abrupt departure. Sent her love, all her love.

As the taxi pulled away she had looked back for the last time at the place where she had spent such
memorable days, and where she had thrown away a chance for love through her own fault. Edward’s words had hit home with cruel accuracy. How could she have doubted him, believed Annabel? Because she had been stupid, blinded by prejudice, by jealousy. She’d judged him and found him guilty without even giving him a chance to speak. He was right. The early morning sun was just touching the branches of the big cedar, turning its sombre depths to a gold flecked mist. Behind shutters the house slept, unaware of her departure.

Her plane didn’t leave until the afternoon. In spite of herself she kept glancing towards the entrance to the terminal, hoping she would see him running through the doors, calling her name, telling her all was forgiven.
Giving her a chance, one she didn’t deserve. But life wasn’t a romantic novel.

Inside the sitting room at Willowdale
Margaret MacDonald turned from the window, shaking her head. Her niece looked a picture of health with her brown arms and her hair bleached the colour of a cockleshell. It was only when you looked into her eyes that you could see the sadness. She turned to Birdie with a frown. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know what really happened in Biarritz.’

Birdie, who had heard the muffled sobbing in the room across the hall, shook her head.

‘Would you like a sherry Margaret? Sit down. I’ll get the glasses.’

Birdie had been anxious about her friend ever since Caroline’s return, and then, yesterday, with the phone call from Annabel, she wondered just how Margaret was coping.

They had all been watching television, some programme or other about the Antarctic that none of them was really paying attention to.

Birdie had picked up.

‘Annabel! How are you my dear? And Julian?’

She had listened for a couple of minutes, nodding her head.

‘Good, good. So you’re planning to leave France tomorrow? Are you sure Julian is up to it? I see, putting the car on the train, yes, that’s handy.’

More nodding, then:

‘Yes dear of course. Hold on.’

She handed the phone to
Margaret. Caroline had got up and was standing looking out across the garden. Whatever had gone on that had upset Caroline, thought Birdie, her sister had surely played her part. She could imagine the stress of having Julian in hospital, Annabel nowhere to be found, really, there were times when she felt like sitting down with Annabel and giving her a piece of her mind. Not that it would do the slightest good.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an exclamation from Margaret.

‘Married! But that’s...well no, it’s wonderful news my dear. You’ve just got me a bit flustered, we weren’t really expecting a wedding so soon.’

Caroline had turned from the window, her face white under the tan. She sank down into a chair. Birdie too, found her legs giving way and just made it to the sofa.

‘Yes, yes,’ A frown was appearing on Margaret’s face as she tried to take it all in. ‘Julian? Of course I understand, it’s just, but as you say, with Julian’s new commitments...yes, of course we will, so what are the arrangements exactly?’

In a dream Caroline heard her Aunt’s voice, exclaiming, repeating, asking questions. When she finally ended the call, her face was a picture. Not a word was spoken until Birdie had opened the cupboard, brought out The Macallan, and poured them all a stiff dose.

‘Thank you Birdie.’

Margaret took a sip, then put down her glass.

‘Well, you heard. She’s getting married. The first Saturday in August. In a registry office. We’re all invited.’

She took another sip.

‘And next year we’re all going to Acapulco.’

‘Acapulco?’ Birdie’s voice was faint.

‘Courtesy of Julian. A planeful of us. For another ceremony. On top of a cliff with an Aztec holy man. It’s all the rage, apparently.’

It was
so absurd and yet so predictable that Caroline felt quite calm. She tried to imagine the discussions that had gone on between her sister and Julian, then gave up. It was, she thought, one of those situations where you either gave up, or went mad.

‘And there’s one other thing,’ said Margaret, her voice as calm as Caroline’s thoughts. ‘We’re to expect a little Courtenay, sometime around Christmas. Won’t that be nice?’

That evening, Caroline had summoned her courage and phoned Claudie. She had been ecstatic to hear from her. But the mood at the villa was sombre. The suitcases were packed, they were all on the point of leaving. All apart from Edward, who once again had been called back to Toulouse on urgent business and had said his goodbyes on Monday. The atmosphere, said Claudie, had been ‘ow-ful’, like a ‘mortuary’. And then yesterday evening Julian and Annabel had made their announcement. Julian had taken his fiancée out for dinner and Claudie and Jean-Paul had got drunk on the terrace. They were both missing Caroline ‘cruelly’ and worrying about her, and worrying about Aunt Margaret. Would Caroline come over to Paris for a weekend in September, when things had settled down? They had spoken for over an hour, and both ended up in tears. There had been no further mention of Edward.

That night Caroline had cried herself to sleep once again.
The following morning she had attacked the garden like a mad thing. Weeds were wrenched out, flowers were dead-headed, the wheelbarrow was piled high.

Inside the house Margaret and Birdie were sitting at the table by the window, sipping
their sherry.

‘She’s going to wear herself out.’

Birdie nodded.

‘S
he just doesn’t seem able to relax. And the phone call yesterday didn’t help.’

‘I just wish
, I know this sounds terrible, Margaret, but I just wish it was Caroline’s wedding we were going to in August.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. And as for this Aztec business, every time I think about it I can feel my blood pressure rocketing. What’s wrong with the parish church at Ravensfield? It was good enough for her parents. And her grandparents.
I like to think I’m broad-minded, but really, there are limits.’

The ringing of the doorbell made them both jump.

‘I hope this isn’t another surprise. My nerves won’t take it.’

Birdie went off to answer the door. Margaret heard muffled voices, then the door closed.

‘Who is it?’ she called, but Birdie seemed to have vanished. She glanced outside again, took another sip of her sherry and let her eyes close. She hadn’t slept a wink all night.

The flowers were fully out on the honeysuckle bower.
Caroline pressed her face into them and inhaled. The smells of an English garden, cool and green. The memory of the blue cedar with its tangy scent came and went in a flash of pain along with the dry odour of sun bleached grass and the fragrance that wafted from the heart of the pines on warm summer nights.

She felt a movement at her side.

‘Hello Titus old boy. Come for a stroke?’

She petted the old Lab, scratching his ears. What was Figaro doing now, she wondered? Had he abandoned her bedroom,
Great-Grandmother Julia’s quilt? Was he lying on the terrace, watching the butterflies for the last time? Claudie had told her he was going back to Paris with her for the winter. At least she’d be able to see him if she went over.

And Edward. What was Edward doing? She pictured him in an office, shirt-sleeves rolled up, surrounded by drawings of his beloved planes,
pacing up and down, talking to his colleagues, running his hands through his hair, trying to figure out a problem. Was he going out that evening, maybe to a restaurant with friends? Maybe one special friend?

She buried her face deeper into the foliage,
heart-sick. Titus, seeming to sense her mood, gave a small bark.

‘Caroline…’

A tremor ran through her entire body, her heart stopped its beat, her lungs ceased to breathe. That voice, so real, inside her head. Almost as if he was there beside her, had heard her silent questions. She looked up, as if the sky could give her an answer.

‘Caroline.’

She swung round, disbelieving. The sun was in her eyes, she could only see his form, outlined in black. And the intense fire of blue eyes blazing from the shadows of his face.

Was it really him?
He was holding something towards her. As if in a spell she put out her hand to take the small packet. It was wrapped in black paper with a silver ribbon. She undid the bow, slowly, her fingers moving of their own accord. The paper rustled. A box, plain white with a name on the cover. Michaud et Ferraud, Biarritz. The memory returned, a vivid flash, the day she had walked with him along the beach. They had turned up the hill to the villa and stopped in front of a shop window. A jeweller’s.

Carefully
she lifted the lid. Against the pale satin lining it flashed in the sunlight, making her blink. She stared down at the slender gold chain on which hung the strange-shaped cross, emblem of the Basque country. The engraving. With shaking fingers she lifted it out and held it in the palm of her hand.

‘
Maita nezazu maité zaitutan bezala.
’

Edwards’s voice, the strange words.

‘Do you remember what it means?’

Without raising her head, she nodded. Around them the garden noises seemed to have stopped. Like the very first time they had met, under the chestnut tree.
Edward continued, his voice scarcely audible.

‘
Aime-moi comme moi je t’aime
. Do you, Caroline? Do you love me as I love you?’

She
lifted her head, slowly, unbelieving. The pain in his eyes changed. She saw a tentative then startling happiness.

‘Oh Edward!’

She was against his chest, the cross clasped tight in her fingers, breathing in the warm familiar smell of him. He held her very tightly, without a word, rocking her gently like a child. Locked together in silence they forgot everything, the hateful words, the terrible accusations, lifted high on a wave of almost unbearable joy. A thousand years passed.

He finally let go, and tilted her face toward him.

‘Is it true then?’

Staring into those dark, liquid eyes, reflecting a myriad of tiny suns, he had his answer.

***

‘Margaret! Wake up! Look!’

Margaret MacDonald came out of a dream, a happy dream, where she was back in Aden, back with the only man she had ever loved. Reluctantly she pushed herself up and looked out of the window where Birdie was pointing.

They were coming across the lawn, arms entwined, bodies pressed close. Edward stopped, bent his head towards Caroline who looked up at him with an expression that Margaret recognised from a candle-lit ballroom, sixty years ago.

She groped for a handkerchief, started to say something.

Birdie interrupted, patting her old friend on the shoulder.

‘It’s alright. It’s in the fridge. The last bottle of the Pol Roger Millésimé. I was keeping it, you know. Just in case. For our Caroline.’

The End