Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (25 page)

‘Both launching attacks on their cheating lovers.’

‘Oh Jill, no.’

Caroline put down her glass.

‘You cannot possibly believe for one minute that Antoine would cheat on you. Think about it, seriously.’

‘So what was it all about? You saw him this morning didn’t you?’

Her tone was challenging. Caroline flushed.

‘He rang me, yes, he wanted to explain.’

‘He couldn’t ring me? Explain to me?’

‘Jill. Be reasonable. His English isn’t good enough. And if he’d tried to explain in French, you’d never have understood half the story.’

‘So there was a story?’

‘A complicated one, I only managed to get part of it because Edward rang but from what he was telling me, this Melodie’s a real piece of work.’

‘Did he have an affair with her, is that it?’

‘Of course not! Well not like you mean...’

Caroline’s voice trailed off.

What had Antoine been going to say, about an even bigger mess? She tried another tack.

‘I know Antoine. And I know he’s fallen for you. Hard. Anyone can see it. You can see it, if you’re honest. What were you telling me about all his plans for the future, the holidays together, what was all that about?’

Jill lowered her eyes, took another sip of wine.

‘Maybe he was spinning me a line. Maybe he didn’t mean a word. Maybe it was all a game. There are men like that, you know it. They promise you the moon and forget you in a heartbeat.’

She cut off Caroline’s protest.

‘This woman, how does she fit in? The way he was looking at her, the way she threw herself at him, he’d never mentioned her to me, we’d talked a bit about previous relationships, but Caro you were there, you saw it, he’s obviously got something going on with her.’

‘Had. Had something going on with her.’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Well no actually, he didn’t, I told you we were interrupted, he was in the middle of some lurid story about her getting beaten up in his flat–’

‘Beaten up? In his flat? Is that what she meant by the police coming round? He’d beaten her up?’

Jill’s eyes were wide with shock. She pushed back her chair and stared at Caroline

‘Not Antoine, her boyfriend. And not in his flat, oh Lord, this is all coming out wrong, I’m sorry Jill, I’m so worked up about Annabel, I can’t speak coherently.’

Two tears rolled down Jill’s cheeks.

Caroline rushed round the table to hug her friend.

‘Come on, honey, things will work out, it’s just a misunderstanding, you know how hard it is sometimes to communicate, even when two people are speaking the same language, it happens all the time! Men are from Mars, remember? And when it’s a foreign language, well, sometimes it’s a disaster.’

Jill disentangled herself, groped for a tissue.

‘Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’ve misunderstood everything, right from the beginning. But as usual, I’ve behaved like an idiot, leaped in there, guns blazing, thinking ‘this is it!’ I hardly know the guy, you said so yourself. Why can I never play it cool? I should just have let myself be content with a sweet holiday romance, no commitments, one of those Shirley Valentine things. But no, O’Toole doesn’t do cool and sweet, she does head over heels. Thinks she knows it all and she knows nothing.’

‘But Antoine’s the same! He’s a boiling hot Basque! The same horse that kicked you kicked him! Just because some stupid bimbo totters into his restaurant and throws a huge wobbly, that doesn’t mean he was playing you along!’

Jill raised a doubtful face to Caroline.

‘I thought he cared, I really did, I know the way we talk to each other, well it’s a joke isn’t it, you all end up laughing like hyenas, but there’s other ways to tell, other signs, you know, the way he looks at me, and the way he is with me when we’re...’

She broke off blushing.

‘You see! Just trust your instincts Jill.’

‘I want to. But I can’t forget what happened. What I saw. And what she said. The police at his door.’

She paused and her face darkened.

‘And another thing. She called me a slut, didn’t she?
Une pute
. A whore. We had a teacher at school, a French assistant, poor guy, the only way he could control our class of hormonal teenagers was to teach us dirty words. I’ve got a whole list I’ve never had a chance to use.’

She gave a small hard laugh.

‘Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s what Antoine goes for. And that’s what I am. A slut. The way I’ve been carrying on these last few days.’

‘Oh Jill, stop it. That woman knows nothing. She didn’t even know it was you! If you could only have seen yourself these last days, Edward and I we both saw it, a beautiful woman shining with happiness and enjoying life with a man who was shining as well, his face lit up like a beacon every time he saw you.’

‘Yeah, but let’s face it, I hardly know him, and suddenly there’s this woman coming up to him and practically humping him in the middle of the restaurant! In front of his mother! The whole family knew what was going on, look how they reacted, they were so embarrassed, and now all that stuff about her getting beaten up and calling the police, and going on about sluts, now I don’t know what to think’

She jumped up, knocking over her chair.

‘Yes I do. I’ve been an idiot, chasing rainbows, getting my hopes up, flinging myself at a bloke then whingeing when he lets me down. Haven’t I learned anything about life, anything about men? I’m pathetic, sitting here snivelling like a teenager and full of self-pity while there’s poor old Julian upstairs who’s got a genuine reason to cry his heart out. Well that’s it, enough with the snivelling, that bloody hot Basque can go back to his mad Monkeywoman and drive her off into the sunset, right off the end of the bloody pier in his bloody Harley Davidsonofabitch!’

Out in the garden, Edward was sitting on the grass, gazing out at the ocean and thinking about friendship. He turned his head as a door banged from inside the house, then looked out again at the vast Atlantic. His face was sombre. He’d known Julian since they were boys at school. They’d confided in each other, hesitantly at first, then stood up for each other, then savoured the joy of growing trust and camaraderie. Their paths had diverged at times, but their friendship had only deepened with the passing of the years. Twenty years.

He got to his feet, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

There was a flight leaving for London that evening and he would be on it.

He took the stairs two at a time, knocked on Julian’s door.

***

‘Today!’

Caroline sat down abruptly and stared at her fiancé.

‘I thought...I mean, what about Julian, don’t you think he should be the one to go?’

One look at Edward’s face was enough.

‘OK, sorry, that was stupid, he’s obviously in no state to deal with things at the moment. But maybe in a couple of days?’

‘We may not have a couple of days. Who knows what she’s going to do next? We can’t just sit back, pretend that nothing has happened and wait for the next explosion.’

‘But where are you going to go? We don’t know where she is! She could be in a hotel, or with this Claudio, for all we know she may not even be in London, she might have gone back to Frankfurt.’

‘Then I’ll fly to Frankfurt. When I’ve been to London. Chances are she’s holed up in the Docklands plotting her next move.’

Caroline winced.

She watched Edward’s practised movements as he packed a small case. He zipped it shut, stuffed his e-ticket and passport into the front pocket, slipped his wallet and credit cards into his jacket.

‘So? Are you going to drop me at the airport, or should I call a taxi?’

His tone was so abrupt that Caroline jumped.

‘Of course I’ll take you to the airport. You know I will. Please don’t let’s fight.’

Edward sighed, sat down on the bed and put his arm round her, hugging her close.

‘Sorry I snapped. But you heard what Jill said, Jules needs space, his head’s in a mess. We’ve agreed to keep in touch by phone. But, like I said, something needs to be done fast, Annabel’s a wild card. I won’t hide it from you Caroline, this last thing has really got me worried. She looked completely unhinged in the photo. Have you tried calling her again?’

Caroline nodded, pulled a face.

He jumped up, began pacing around the room, running his hands through his hair.

‘It’s damage limitation sweetheart. Somebody has got to see her, try to talk some sense into her, stop her from doing anything else that’s going to hurt Julian even more, hurt you, Margaret...’

‘What are you thinking of? What could she do that’s worse?’

He stopped pacing and looked at her.

‘What are the other options? If you can think of a better idea, tell me.’

The question silenced her. She’d been so focused on the here and now, the shock of seeing the newspaper, the shock of what Annabel had done and the effect it was having on Julian that she hadn’t thought about the next step. What happens next? What were the options?

She’d tried half a dozen times to get hold of her sister. Edward was right. Someone needed to speak to her, handle things face to face. If that were at all possible.

She tried to imagine what was going on in Annabel’s head. Where was she, what was she thinking after that awful scene? Maybe she was covered in remorse, hiding even, too ashamed to show her face after seeing the newspaper. That would have been Caroline’s reaction. But her sister was different, and there was, as Edward said, another possibility. What if she did something even more drastic?

‘How many times have we said it? There’s only one thing we can predict for certain about your sister and that is–she’s unpredictable.’

Seeing Caroline’s miserable face Edward grabbed her and hugged her close.

She looked up at him.

‘So when you find her, if you find her, what exactly are you going to do?’

He gave a mirthless laugh.

‘That, my sweet, is the question. A question to which I have no clear answer at the moment. Throw her in chains and lock her in a cellar somewhere. Buy her off with a fat cheque. God knows. I’ll just have to play it by ear, see what sort of a state she’s in, try to get as much information about what’s been going on between her and this Claudio. Start the negotiations.’

‘Negotiations?’

‘Yes. I’m going to see GG. Our friend from Cambridge, remember? The lawyer? What Julian’s thinking, insofar as he’s capable of rational thought, is a negotiated legal solution. One that’s acceptable to both of them. It’s either that or do it the hard way. A battle in the courts, blood on the carpet. There’s no way of going back.’

‘But, if she’s genuinely sorry, if there was some other way, wouldn’t it be best for Joshua?’

Edward pulled away and looked at Caroline. She dropped her eyes.

‘Stupid question.’

‘You know, even if Annabel wanted to kiss and make up, which frankly, I doubt, I know my friend. You can forget the way he was behaving last summer. That was Julian in love. He’s changed over the last year. Had to change. He’s become a father. Joshua is his number one priority now. He knows it would never work out for them as a family. This time...’ he paused, shook his head, ‘this time, your sister has blown it.’

Annabel was lying on the long leather settee that looked out directly through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows in the sitting room. London was just lighting up. The river snaked away into the distance, streetlamps coming on along the banks, colours moving and shining in the water.

She couldn’t be bothered to switch on the lamps. She continued to lie there as dusk fell, occasionally reaching down for the glass that stood on the floor next to her.

How many drinks had she had? She couldn’t even remember. Didn’t want to remember. She just wanted to enjoy the nice, soft blur induced by the alcohol. Or maybe eat more. She had been gorging on pasta, with a rich cream sauce. Plate after plate until she felt like vomiting. Then she’d slow down, stick to the booze, doze, wake up, wander into the kitchen for another bottle.

Well at least it’s not the hard stuff she thought, with a little giggle. I’ve kept off the gin! Ha! Just a glass of red vino, everybody knew it was good for you, there was something in it, she forgot what it was called but she’d read it in a magazine. There were magazines strewn across the sofa, and on the floor. She’d bought them when she arrived in London, hungry for glimpses of her old life.

Klass, the magazine she’d worked for until they moved to Germany. Tears came into her eyes, she reached for it, leafed through it, threw it on the floor again. She missed it, her friends, the buzz of the office, the constant activity, spilling out of the glass doors after work arm in arm with Gloria and Viv, heading for their favourite pub. Those were the days. She’d been young, carefree, able to do what she liked, go where her fancy took her. No ties, just a stream of escorts, she was never short of boyfriends who were always ready to come and pick her up, take her for a meal, buy her cigarettes, lend her fifty quid if she was short of cash. And of course she was short of cash, almost constantly it seemed, but somehow or another she scraped by. As a last resort she could always ask big sister, or Aunt Margaret, they might scold and tell her she had to learn to manage her budget but in the end they always came up with enough to tide her over till the next paycheque.

And of course Gloria had always been generous, her family were loaded, something to do with the Great Great Grandfather, and shipping. Probably slavery, if you looked closely but no one ever mentioned the details. Gloria kept Annabel supplied with clothes, sometimes her castoffs, hardly worn, all with designer labels, sometimes brand new things she’d buy on a whim for her best friend. And they had been best friends. They had got up to some pranks at school, she remembered Margaret and Birdie tearing their hair out, chasing round in Margaret’s little Honda, peering into the amusement arcades trying to find them while Gloria and Annabel hid at the back giggling, egged on by the local youths. God, those locals, they’d been a pathetic bunch, spotty, bad breath, greasy jeans, but always ready to give her and Gloria free cigarettes and cans of lager in return for a quick squeeze or fumble in the alley behind the arcade.

Gloria. She had lost touch with her after the move to Germany, the pregnancy. She missed Gloria. Gloria had been her only real friend. She felt tears of misery come into her eyes and threw back the rest of the wine in one gulp. She’d have to get up and find another bottle. Julian would have a fit when he saw how many of his precious bottles she’d got through. She started to giggle again. Some of them were
très
posh, even she knew you didn’t go necking down a Château Margaux just like that, but she’d needed it, let’s face it, after everything that had happened.

The tears started flowing afresh. That bastard Claudio. How could he? After the night they had spent together, a night where he had taken her to heights of passion she’d never imagined. She only had to step through the door of his suite and it was like stepping into a dream world where anything could happen, where reason and logic didn’t exist. He’d had her on the floor, at his knees, begging for more, her body aflame, every nerve ending screaming to be satisfied, she’d prostrated herself before him, like a slave while he stood, legs apart, like some dark Roman deity, his magnificent muscled body, with its dark whorls of hair, towering over her. Every part of her body ached, she felt sure she couldn’t go on, but the minute he took her, the minute he entered her, she would melt, vanish, lose herself in sensations she had never imagined, never dreamed of. And when it was over she’d be panting for more, but telling herself this was what he wanted too, that little by little, she was winning. Oh he’d been annoyed last night, when she’d turned up all dressed in black, with black nails and black lips. Turned up thirty minutes late. But he’d soon changed his tune. When he started to remonstrate she’d torn off one of the long black satin gloves she was wearing and slapped him across the face with it. A corner had hit him in the eye, he’d blinked back tears. And then, slowly, he’d smiled. And then it had begun.

She hurled her glass across the room. It hit the teak floorboards and shattered into little pieces.
Au revoir
Mummy and Daddy Courtenay’s Waterford, one of their wedding presents last year.

She had nobody to turn to. It was her own fault, she knew that on one level, but some defiant part of her still insisted it wasn’t fair, she shouldn’t have to be here, all alone, with no one to share her misery, to lend a sympathetic ear. She had no friends in London. Gloria had moved on, she was with another crowd now. Her sister was in France, but even if she’d been in England the two of them were barely speaking. Well sod that.

She pushed herself up, fetched another bottle of wine from the kitchen, another glass. What was this one? She peered at the label. Château Haut-Brion. Good old Château O’Brian. She raised a glass, toasted herself. She was Annabel MacDonald Courtenay. She didn’t need anybody. She could do what the hell she wanted.

She slumped back against the cushions. Oops, bit of O’Brian got splashed on that nice champagne leather. Champagne, that’s what she needed. She’d open a bottle later. That was the stuff for toasts. She remembered her first bottle of champagne. It had been at Gloria’s house, they’d filched it from her father’s wine cellar, there was so much stuff in there, he’d never miss it, Gloria had told Annabel, giggling. They’d had a job opening it, then the cork popped and they’d got foam all over the two of them. She remembered they had been in fits, licking each other, shaking the bottle again, getting it all over them. The two of them, sprawled out on Gloria’s queen size bed with its lacy quilt and heaps of pillows, drunk and laughing like drains.

What was it Gloria used to say? Something about Annabel suffering emotional loss as a child. Gloria, even in her early teens, was an avid magazine reader. She would buy everything from ‘Seventeen’ to ‘Vanity Fair’, devour every article. No wonder she’d succeeded in her career at Klass. Annabel would lie back on the big bed, arms flung open and listen as Gloria read out bits she thought were interesting.

‘It’s because your mother died when you were two,’ Gloria had told her one afternoon as they had been reading about childhood traumas. ‘Subconsciously you’ve never got over that feeling of abandonment. It’s like she left you on purpose. Of course she didn’t leave you, she was killed in the accident. But you couldn’t understand that, at two years old, children don’t have a clear notion of what death is.’

Annabel could remember screaming for her mother, not understanding why she didn’t come. And Daddy, where was he? But it was her Mummy she wanted, she had always been Mummy’s precious girl, picked up, cuddled, fussed over. Mummy, with her shiny blonde hair and wide blue eyes, who smelled so sweet, whose lips were as soft as rose petals.

After the accident, there was just Caroline, her big sister. She loved Caroline, but Caroline wasn’t Mummy, and she wanted Mummy.

‘So deep down, you know,’ Gloria had said, full of the importance of her newfound psychological wisdom, ‘you are always going to be suspicious of people, you’re always going to suspect that one day they’ll just disappear and leave you. That means–’ she tapped the article ‘–that you’ll have commitment issues.’

Annabel hadn’t even been sure what commitment issues meant. But what Gloria was saying rang a bell. Somewhere deep down, she had the feeling that no-one could be trusted, that one day she’d wake up and whoever had been there for her, Caroline, Margaret, Birdie, they would all be gone. Better not to let herself get too attached. Better to be the one who walked away than the one who was left behind.

And that, she thought with a fresh burst of tears, was what had happened with Claudio. She had let herself get attached, more than attached, hooked, dependent, unable to do without him. He had infected her like a virus, her body needed him, ached for him. And look where that had left her.

She had been pushing the scene at the Ritz to the back of her mind, but now the memory of it rushed back in full force. The lift doors opening, the two of them stepping out, the mist of rage that had descended like a veil before her eyes and her sudden headlong rush towards Claudio, hands outstretched, nails reaching for his eyes, she wanted to claw them from their sockets those dark burning eyes that had looked into her very soul, that turned her into a quivering wreck, that fixed stare that held her mesmerised as he told her what to do in such a soft silky voice.

She had scarcely realised what was happening around them, she had been so focused on her attack. Dimly, she was aware that a woman screamed, a man had thrust a camera in her face, people were shouting. Then somebody had hold of her, was pulling her away. She had fallen to the floor, her dress had ridden up, one shoe had come off, she remembered seeing her legs splayed out in an ungainly fashion, wondered how that had happened, then someone was helping her up, leading her away, a woman was talking to her, pressing her bag into her hand, taking her through a corridor, towards another entrance to the hotel. Then there was a taxi, and she had arrived back at Julian’s flat. The woman had patted Annabel’s shoulder as she got into the taxi, told her to get home, try to rest. The woman had been kind.

How long ago was all that? Was it only yesterday?

Annabel’s tears started anew.

***

Edward switched on his phone as he came out of the terminal. There were three messages, all from Julian. He made his way to the taxi rank, listening to his answering machine. The three messages were basically the same, insisting that Edward call before he saw Annabel.

‘Where to, mate?’

Edward gave the Docklands address, sat back and dialled Julian’s number.

‘Eddie? Thank God. Where are you?’

Julian sounded agitated.

‘In a taxi. I’m on my way to the flat. What’s happened? Are you alright?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, well I’m not fine, but that’s not the point. I need to tell you something before you speak to Annabel, I wasn’t thinking straight earlier, I forgot to mention it. There’s... there’s something you don’t know.’

Edward sat up straight. His friend’s voice sounded strange, a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment.

‘I’m listening.’

‘I was too upset to say anything when we saw the photo. It was all such a shock, then I felt mixed up, horrified, furious, oh, just...it was all beyond me.’

‘You mean about Annabel and this Claudio bloke?’

‘Yes that, obviously, but not just that. It was the other person in the picture.’

Edward blinked trying to recall the third person in the photo, the other woman.

‘The woman?’

‘Yes. God, I don’t know if he’s seen it or what. Every time the phone rings I’m dreading it’s him.’

‘Who, Jules? What are you talking about?’

‘The woman in the picture. She’s married to Klaus, my partner in Bonn. Susie. She’s Klaus’s wife.’

Edward sat back against the seat. Klaus’s wife? And Julian’s wife?

‘Eddie?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Shit, Jules. What a total bloody mess.’

Julian gave a bitter laugh.

‘You’ve said it. Makes you wonder how many other women the bastard was shagging while their husbands were toiling away at the office.’

They continued to talk. How was Edward going to play it? Julian asked. They discussed various possibilities.

‘The only thing that counts, whatever you have to offer her to get it, the only thing that means anything to me is Joshua. She can have everything else. The flat, money, whatever it takes. But I don’t want her getting her hands on him. Do what you have to do.’

Julian’s voice had become hard.

‘The cost isn’t important. You were right to ring GG.
He’s the best. And he’s a friend. He’ll work out the details. It’s tomorrow afternoon you’re seeing him, right? The sooner we get this sorted the better. I don’t want
her
coming over here, trying to take Josh. I know the way her mind works.’

When he disconnected, Edward’s face was grim. So there was another poor sod in Germany who sooner or later was going to have a newspaper thrust in his face by a well-meaning colleague and come face to face with his wife coming out of a lift with another man.

He opened the zipper compartment of his case, took out the print of the photo they’d seen on the internet. There she was, Annabel, like one of the Furies, caught in mid-flight. Argiro rearing back, clutching at his face. And, to one side, wearing a look of total horror, a striking woman in her forties with long dark hair. Susie, wife of Julian’s partner. Edward’s murderous impulses now had two targets. Annabel, and that slimy son of a bitch Claudio Agiro. If he could just lay his hands on the bastard for five minutes...