Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (30 page)

Jill lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling sick. Her eyes were grainy, puffy. She turned her head. Six-forty a.m. So early, why had she woken up so early? The storm had passed, she had listened to the thunder crash and watched the lightning flashes for a good part of the night.

Then everything had fallen silent. She must have drifted off for a couple of hours. Now the sun was up, shining in through the shutters and birds were singing in the pine tree and a gentle breeze was wafting through the window and she felt like death.

Her flight left the following day. Back to Edinburgh, back to work. Back to internet dating and being set up with friends of friends, dinners and clubs and ‘hey why don’t you join this Highland dancing group? It looks just the thing for you Jill, who knows you might meet a man in a kilt.’ Right.

It had been a wonderful holiday. It had been a terrible holiday. Never did she imagine when Caroline started her matchmaking game that it would all end like this.

Like what, though? Why was she feeling such terrible pangs at the idea of never seeing Antoine again? Why couldn’t she eat? Why did she keep looking at that sketch she’d done, the one when they were in Guernica? Why did she lay awake at night, thinking about him? Why did she find her thoughts drifting off when she was with the others, scenes flashing through her mind, the day they went surfing, their trip to Bilbao, that special time, the first time, at the waterfall. The magic waterfall. She’d made her wish. She’d known then, if she was honest, only hours after they’d met.

Had she fallen in love with Antoine, was that it? A man she’d only known for a few hectic days, a man who was no saint, even though she was becoming more and more convinced that there was not another woman in his life at the moment, nor was he pining for a former love. She’d played the scene at the restaurant over and over in her mind until she’d ended up with a version that had Antoine as Helpless Victim and the Mad Monkey as a Bunny Boiler.

Love. She’d never been in love before, she was fairly sure of that. In lust, yes. She’d had her flings. There had been a couple of relationships, quite long relationships in fact where she’d felt a real pang of regret at parting, like saying goodbye to a close friend who’s emigrating to New Guinea as a missionary and you knew the odds on seeing them again were not brilliant even though the cannibals had all reformed and were singing hymns now. She’d even had a few panicky days after those relationships ended when she’d thought she’d made the wrong decision, almost caved in and begged for another chance.

But never anything like this, this sick, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. A feeling of disbelief that she’d never again hear Antoine’s warm voice murmuring in her ear, calling her his ‘Irish’, never feel those strong arms crushing her against him, never again tilt her head back and see his teeth flash white in a huge smile of pure delight. Her body felt drained, her heart ached. Why oh why had it all got so muddled up?

She’d over-reacted to the restaurant scene, she knew that now. And then she’d been thrown into even more turmoil by what she now thought of the ‘the Julian incident’. She regretted with all her heart the impulse that had sent her into Julian’s room the other night, even though, as she’d told Caroline in no uncertain terms, nothing had happened. Well, practically nothing. Her conscience was clear.

Or was it?

She re-played the scene again in her memory. She’d still been hurting from the shock of seeing Antoine with the Bunny Boiler, hearing the words she hurled at him, the police, the whore. She’d felt stunned, belittled, betrayed. All in public, in front of his family, in front of her friends. When she stepped into Julian’s room that night, the thought uppermost in her mind was that he was hurting too, that he’d gone through a similar public humiliation and that a few words of comfort from a fellow-sufferer might ease his pain.

She’d been taken completely by surprise at his kiss, really surprised, but...go on, admit it, Jillian Benedicta, she told herself. A part of her, a tiny little part, a selfish, base, despicable little part, had responded. A voice of revenge had maybe whispered in her ear that at least one man desired her, even if Antoine had been playing her for the fool.

And then of all things, that was the moment Caroline chose to pop up like a genie out of a bottle and witness a scene which should never have happened.

She pulled the pillow over her face and groaned.

Buried in the depths of her handbag, sitting on a shelf in the bathroom, her mobile rang, then stopped.

***

It was a subdued trio who gathered for lunch on the terrace. Joshua had gone down early, so they didn’t even have him as a distraction.

Caroline had made a seafood gratin, one of Jill’s favourite dishes. She’d been up early, at the market by eight, in the kitchen all morning making fish stock from scratch, fiddling about with the sauce, Madame Martin hovering behind her suggesting ‘a little more nutmeg perhaps’ and ‘do you think you’ve reduced that enough Mademoiselle Caroline?’ until she was ready to hit the worthy lady over the head with her wooden spoon.

All to no avail. The three of them picked at it. Nadia kept fidgeting and looking at her watch while Jill kept saying ‘thank you Caroline,’ and ‘it’s so delicious, really, you shouldn’t have taken the trouble’, all in a toneless voice.

‘Oh! Excuse me!’

Nadia’s phone was ringing.

She jumped up from the table, pressed the phone to her ear and moved towards the house.

Caroline heard snatches of a conversation in German, saw a happy smile dawn on Nadia’s face. Well, at least that’s one of us who’s feeling a bit better she thought, as Nadia disconnected and came back to the table, looking hopeful.

‘Hans?’ she asked, forcing a smile.

‘Yes, Hans. He has invited me to take a coffee. But I told him maybe it is not possible?’

Caroline shook her head.

‘No Nadia, not possible. We need you to clear the table, wash the dishes, do some ironing and make a chicken pie for dinner.’

Nadia’s face was a picture.

Caroline jumped up and gave her a hug.

‘My silly sense of humour. Of course you must go. Jill and I have got things covered here. Take the afternoon off, take the evening off, just enjoy yourself!’

Nadia left the terrace in an Olympic sprint.

‘Well, that’s one of us sorted.’ She poured another glass of wine for Jill and herself. ‘Just us two misery guts left now.’

She took a deep breath.

‘Before we get well and truly drunk on your last day at Villa Julia, can I say how sorry, how deeply truly sorry I am for meddling in your love life, introducing you to Antoine and then running off to tell tales about you that weren’t true. I haven’t slept a wink and I feel like the world’s lousiest friend. I don’t know what to say, what to do. Kill me.’

‘Oh Caro.’

Jill rushed round the table and the two hugged each other till their ribcages cracked.

‘Here,’ said Caroline, passing a packet of tissues to Jill when they finally broke the embrace. The pair of them wept and sniffed for a good ten minutes, then Jill said:

‘What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I’m going back tomorrow, I’ll never see him again!’

She put her arms on the table and sobbed in earnest.

The sky was a radiant blue. A faint breeze stirred the pine boughs. The swimming pool danced and sparkled.

Caroline came to a decision.

‘Sit up O’Toole, look at me. I’ll phone him. Tell him I got the whole thing wrong. Tell him...’

She looked across at her friend.

‘Tell him there’s a lady here who’s pining to death for her hot Basque. Who’s going to die if she can’t see her pirate before she leaves.’

Jill’s eyes were brimming with tears again.

‘It’s true. I am going to die. Bloody hell Caro, what’s wrong with me?’

Caroline put her head on one side.

‘Well. Speaking as a woman of experience, I’d say you’ve got it bad. Really really bad. Like ‘
amoureuse
’ bad.’

‘
Amoureuse
. I am
amoureuse
. In love. Hopelessly, mooningly, like a hormonal fifteen-year-old. I’ll be playing ‘Unchained Melody’ on repeat when I get back to Edinburgh. Oh God. Maybe I’ll be too sick to get on the plane. My stomach hurts. Everything hurts.’

‘OK. Good. That’s good, Jill, well done. The first step. You’ve admitted it. Second step, tell him. I’ll phone and ask him to come round and then I’ll make a discreet exit to see to some urgent flower arranging.’

Jill stood up.

‘I can’t tell him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because...because
he
might not be
amoureuse
. Then I’d feel a thousand times worse.’

‘I thought you told me your Dad used to be in the Royal Marines?
Avanti! Per mare et thingie ad astra.
Or something. Nothing ventured, nothing won. Faint heart never won fair lady. Or fair man, in this case. Oh for crying out loud, you only have to look at him to know he’s
amoureuse
as well! Actually,
amoureux
, he’s a man, so you have to use the masculine form of the adjective.
Amoureux.
’

‘I don’t need a bloody grammar lesson! I need–I need–’

‘Him. You need him.’

The two of them stared at each other. Caroline reached out, picked up her phone, keeping her eyes fixed on Jill.

‘Wait! Stop. You’re right. I am the daughter of a Marine. But I have to do it myself. I have to hear his voice. I’ll know the minute I hear his voice if he’s
amoureuse
or not. And if he’s not
amoureuse
, well...I’ll just commit hara-kiri.’

Caroline threw up her hands.

‘Is this the kid who learned to fight when she was five? Do it Jillian. Just do it.’

‘Right. Bag, where’s my bag?’

She hauled her giant tote on to the table and began hunting for her phone.

‘OK. Here we go. Do I need another drink? No. If he does come over, I mustn’t have alcohol breath. And I’ve got to be sober. Can’t–’

She broke off, frowned, tapped a couple of buttons furiously, staring at the screen.

‘What? What’s happened now? Is it a text? Is it Julian?’

Caroline got up and rushed round to Jill’s side of the table.

The message had been sent at 7 o’clock that morning.

‘Goodbye, Irish. I miss you. I regret you. You are my heart. I never forget my love.’

Annabel was sitting in a chair in her room at the clinic. It was called the Sirona Clinic. The walls were painted in a shade Annabel knew well. Breakfast Room Green. Farrow and Ball.
She’d chosen it for their Frankfurt dining room. The furniture was white French provincial. There was a brochure on the table explaining what the Sirona Clinic was.

She hadn’t looked at it.

Not long after she had arrived yesterday, Julian had appeared, her husband. He asked how she was feeling and explained that he had booked her into the clinic for a couple of weeks, time for Dr Novak to assess her and to give her the help she needed. She did understand that she needed help, didn’t she? And that Julian–here he had paused and turned his head away–was prepared to see that she got everything she needed.

She had turned her head away, too, looked out of the window where a groundsman was mowing the grass, in straight, perfect lines.

Julian had stayed a bit longer, asking her if she wanted anything, books to read, perhaps her MP3 player, for some music?

She had shaken her head, still watching the groundsman. Dark line, bright line.

Finally he’d left, saying that he would be back to see her and that he hoped she would start feeling better soon.

A woman in a white uniform had come in next. She’d asked how Annabel was feeling, and said that perhaps she would feel better after a shower and a change of clothes. She had helped Annabel to undress, taken her into the en suite bathroom and put a plastic bag over her arm.

‘Just so that the dressings don’t get wet. Nurse will be in to see you soon, and change them. You’ll feel more comfortable then. Can you manage on your own in the shower?’

Annabel had nodded, stepped into the shower. She had avoided looking in the mirror.

The woman in the white uniform had a name badge saying she was called Elaine. Elaine had helped Annabel to get dressed, chatting about what lovely weather they were having, and how the roses were particularly good this year.

Elaine had also towel-dried Annabel’s wet hair, and managed to get a comb through it. Her movements were gentle.

‘What beautiful hair you have Annabel. A lovely colour and a natural wave. Mine is as straight as rainwater. You’re probably feeling a bit tired, so maybe we’ll just let your hair dry naturally this time, is that OK? Now, someone will be bringing you a bite to eat, then you might want to lie down, sleep a little. Is that OK?’

Elaine had left, and another person bustled in, a small cheerful lady in a green uniform.

She had brought Annabel a tray on which there was a bowl of hot soup and a plate of chicken salad. Also some jam sponge and custard. Steam rose from the soup mixing with the smell of warm custard. Annabel’s gorge rose and she just made it into the bathroom in time.

When she had finished retching, Elaine was back, helping her to get up, helping her to rinse her face and mouth, saying it was OK, nothing to worry about.

Coming out of the bathroom she saw that the tray had been removed. There was just a bottle of mineral water and a glass. She drank and nodded yes to another. Elaine beamed and offered her a pill to swallow.

Annabel had gone to sleep then.

This morning, Elaine had been back with breakfast, opening the curtains, saying what another beautiful day it was, they seemed to be set for a run of fine weather.

After she had left, Annabel had felt very tired. She had stretched out on the bed, fallen into a doze. Something woke her, maybe a knock at the door, she saw the Breakfast Room Green walls, the white furniture, closed her eyes again.

Someone walked into the room, drew up a chair next to the bed and sat down. The person didn’t speak. But she could smell him. She opened her eyes.

A man was sitting at the bedside, looking at her intently. He wore a white coat and his cologne smelled foreign. She didn’t register any other details. Her eyes had found his and locked onto them.

They were very strange eyes. One was blue, and the other was brown.

He picked up her hand and said

‘Hello Annabel. I am Dr Novak.’