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

Omigod. She stood in front of the washbasin, breathing hard. Condom. Did he have a condom? Don’t forget health and safety Jillian Benedicta just because the blood is being sucked straight from your brain into other parts of your anatomy. She opened the bathroom cabinet, took out one, then a second. Teeth, she’d just give her teeth a quick brush, though the amount they’d both drunk, he probably wouldn’t notice. Her head was whirling. Was she having a hot flush, surely she was too young to have a hot flush, she grabbed the bottle of Chanel, gave herself a spritz, put her hand on her heart. OK girl. You’re ready. Would she still remember how?

She took a deep breath and opened the door. Just outside the bathroom she paused, reached inside her dress and tugged the new bra up higher. Her cleavage wobbled dangerously over the neckline.

Right. She took a determined step forward, then froze.

There was someone in the flat. Someone muttering under their breath.

Please oh please let it not be her mother, on an uninvited visit. Again. That Kathleen O’Toole, ever since she’d retired and got her Senior Railcard, she’d kill her, never mind whatever excuse–

The muttering got louder, then was followed by a shuddering gasp and a low, horrid gurgle, like somebody having their throat cut. The hairs on her arms stood up. That was not Kathleen O’Toole.

Should she scream for Ken, dash into the bedroom?

Wait, it was coming from the bedroom. She panicked, trying to remember where she’d left her bag, her phone. In the bloody bedroom, that’s where. She just wanted to run out of the flat shrieking like a banshee but what about Ken? She’d lured him back here and now the poor bloke was being butchered by a knife-wielding maniac.

She yanked open the hall cupboard, scanned for a weapon. Sticking out from a box of junk were two horns. With a sob of relief she grabbed the teak dik-dik her youngest brother had thoughtfully brought back from his travels in Africa. The horns were small, but sharp.

The gasps and gurgles were intensifying. There was a crash as something hit the floor, a groan. Without pausing to think she flung open the door, dik-dik at the ready.

Was that—was that a snore?

She peered into the dim interior.

Her highland chieftain was flat on his back, arms flung wide, mouth open, out cold and snoring loud enough to shake the bedframe.

Caroline MacDonald raised her face to the sun and filled her lungs with soft balmy air that smelled of spring.

All around was the bustle of the city, business men hurrying past, phones clamped to one ear, smartly-dressed ladies with shopping baskets heading for the market, groups of schoolchildren, hunched under the weight of bookbags, huddling together as they walked, adolescent voices high and animated. From inside the café came the hiss of the espresso machine, the shouts of waiters.

Two weeks. She was here, on holiday, for two whole weeks. Of course she wasn’t really on holiday, she had work to do, exams to revise for, but even so. She stretched, smiled, and took another sip of the strong black coffee, savouring the caffeine kick. It had been a long night. A long, languorous night. She hadn’t seen her man for ten days and they had both fallen on each other like starving wolves the moment they got inside the flat yesterday.

It had been a different story this morning.

She grinned at the memory of Edward dragging himself out of bed groaning about hard-working men and cold-hearted women while she nestled further under the duvet. It was true, he was working particularly hard at the moment, but he’d promised they would take some time off to visit the beautiful countryside of the Midi-Pyrénées. She’d said ‘ooh, great’ but frankly she didn’t give a hoot if they stayed in Toulouse for the entire two weeks. She loved Edward’s giant comfy bed. She loved this pink brick city,
la ville rose
, loved the flat on the old quays, its light-flooded rooms, the red-tiled terrace looking down through the treetops and over the river. Loved hearing the sound of the ancient lift creaking up to the top floor, the turn of the key signalling her man was back.

Who would have believed so many things could happen in the space of a year? Not even a year, in fact. It had all started last May. A fairy godmother had swooped down in a nimbus of light, plucked her out of her mind-numbing job, her post break-up depression and lonely nights. With a wave of her tinsel wand she had deposited Caroline in the south of France, complete with gorgeous man and sparkling future. Ta Da!

Well, that was the storybook version. The real transformation process had been like giving birth to a baby giant in pre-epidural times. In fact the entire experience had involved more tremors than an earthquake and more ups and down than a roller-coaster ride. There had been wild joy and bitter pain. Tears, rages and betrayals. Passion.

There still was passion. More and more passion.

She blew out her breath. She had been so incredibly lucky.

Last summer.

It was late July when she and Edward had finally managed to struggle through all their emotional turmoil and emerge into a calm lagoon of bliss. They were madly in love. They wanted to spend every single minute of every single day and night in each other’s arms. They wanted to lie in bed and feed each other truffles and ripe strawberries. Throw a bag in the car and head off for a day on the beach. Hold hands at the opera, have snowball fights in the Alps, watch ‘Casablanca’ in front of a log fire.

Alas, real life had intervened. There was the little problem of work, for a start. They both had jobs to return to, one of them in France and the other in England. Decisions had to be made. And they were, mainly by The Man. He would switch countries. Airbus Industrie, where he worked, had links with British Aerospace in Bristol. Caroline would put in for a transfer from her government job near London. They would live happily ever after in Bristol, a lovely city, not too far from her family, Aunt Margaret and Birdie, and Edward’s family, Julie and Adam Rayburn.

But even as they started to put the plan into action, Caroline realised just how far Edward was prepared to go to make their relationship work, how much he was prepared to give up for her. The truth was that he adored his job in Toulouse, the project for the new plane he had worked on for so long, and which was now in its final stages. She, on the other hand, would samba her way out of the government office where she had had worked since graduating. Samba, with a basket of fruit on her head, blowing a whistle. Eight years of pure mindless stultification.

But The Man was stubborn. There it was. If Edward put his mind to something, he usually got what he wanted. When Caroline suggested she should look for a job in Toulouse, he was adamant. She had a good steady career, with job security. There would be no sacrifices.

‘Sacrifices?’

Caroline had thrown back the bedcovers and looked at him in amazement.

‘Starting a new life in the south of France with the man I’ve fallen in love with? You really think that would be a sacrifice?’

She was twisting his words. He hadn’t said that. Exactly.

He wasn’t listening. She hated her good steady career with job security, didn’t he get that?

After an hour of arguing Caroline had switched tactics, whipped up Edward’s favourite chocolate dessert and served it to him in bed with no clothes on.

When he finally caved in she sang a silent Hallelujah. She’d learned a lot this last year, about who she really was and what she really wanted. About the finer points of romantic negotiation.

And so, everything was agreed. She would samba out of her office, move to France, find a job.

Right. What job exactly? No way was the French Civil Service going to let a representative of perfidious Albion into their ranks. Not that perfidious Albion was interested, anyway. She’d had enough of dreary office blocks and fluorescent lighting. She was ready for a change. Something new and exciting. If only she could think what that might be...

Of course the twins, Edward’s cousins, had leaped at the idea and were full of suggestions. Jean-Paul was arguing for a high class flower-shop, ‘The English Rose’, Caroline dressed in Chanel and stilettos, wrapping bouquets for Friday night lovers.

Edward hadn’t been too keen on that suggestion.

‘It’s obvious!’

Claudie had thrown up her arms in a dramatic gesture and looked at them as though they were idiots who knew nothing.

‘A restaurant! Caroline must open a restaurant!’

They were sitting in a restaurant as it happened. A chic, ultra-modern place in Paris, a new must-try, in-place recommended by one of Claudie’s friends. It was a rainy evening in August. They were sipping an aperitif and nibbling delicious little
hors d’oeuvres
hot from the kitchen. The only problem with the little
hors d’oeuvres
was that they were very little indeed, miniatures really, and not very numerous on their bed of designer-wilted rocket. There were exactly eight of them in fact, two each. Jean-Paul and Edward were both eying the last survivor which by rights belonged to Claudie. Three hands shot out, but Claudie got there first.

Caroline had grinned. She had a very soft spot for Claudie. They hadn’t known each other long, had first met in July, when Caroline arrived at the Villa Julia. Claudie was easy to talk to and had a touch of the Grand Inquistor about her so she soon found out they both loved to cook. Of course it was natural for Claudie, she was training to go into the hotel trade while Caroline was just an enthusiastic amateur. They’d spent many happy hours in the kitchen, chopping and tasting, Claudie chattering on with irrepressible enthusiasm about her complicated love life while Caroline listened, speechless, trying to imagine the positions and not burn the sauce.

‘Oh Claudie, a restaurant, come on!’ Jean-Paul was stuffing wilted rocket leaves into his mouth like a man who hadn’t eaten for a month. ‘She might as well put a ball and chain round her neck. Up at the crack of dawn to go to the market, dragging herself home at midnight, you think that dear cousin Eddie’s going to put up with seeing his babe for a measly few hours a day? I mean night, they’d have to become vampires or something.’

‘Well obviously she’d hire a chef, dummy, Edward’s rolling in money, she’d have a team of minions slaving in the kitchen while she was the one in the little black dress masterminding it all and dimpling at the compliments. Toulouse! All that ambiance, those old cellars with pink brick walls, waiting to be converted–’

‘Er, Claudie, actually, it’s already been done–’

Edward’s attempt to get a word in edgewise having failed, he’d grabbed the bread basket and sunk his teeth into the last roasted poppy seed roll.

‘–just imagine a nice little place where lovers could meet, intimate, discreet alcoves, soft lighting, a sort of 50s Left Bank feel, Juliette Greco songs playing in the background, moody, sexy, why are you all laughing?’

‘I never realised you were such an old-fashioned girl, Sis, discreet alcoves, I love it, maybe a chap with an accordion and a beret?’

Claudie had given a toss of her long black hair and tried to look annoyed.

‘I tell you something,’ she’d said, fidgeting in her seat, ‘It would be nice to be sitting in a discreet alcove now. With big soft cushions. I don’t know why Freddie was so impressed with this place. All these black and white tiles, it’s like being in a
pissoir
. And this metal chair is freezing my
foufoune
.’

That had set Edward and Jean-Paul off again.

Caroline was familiar with
pissoirs,
those iconic Parisian toilets that featured on many a postcard, but she hadn’t come across
foufoune
in her vocabulary book. However, knowing Claudie’s penchant for not wearing underwear when she was dressed up for a night on the town–no visible panty lines for her–it was not hard to guess what part of her anatomy was being frozen.

‘Ah!’

The starters had arrived. For a few minutes there was silence as they all got down to business.

‘So.’ Jean-Paul had finished his three pieces of hand-cut lobster ravioli and was eyeing a crumb in the empty bread basket. ‘What else is new? How’s Acalpulco?’

Edward and Caroline had groaned in unison.

‘What? Did I say the wrong thing?’

Jean-Paul was grinning like a clown.

Claudie gave him a poke with her fork.

‘It’s not till next summer. A lot of things can happen before then.’

‘I hope not. I’m really looking forward to seeing Eddie in his sombrero.’

Edward, not deigning to reply, had merely given Jean-Paul his famous one-raised-eyebrow death stare.

They were all four on the guest list for the great media event scheduled for the following August, Annabel and Julian’s official wedding ceremony. On a cliff top in Acapulco, with an Aztec priest. Reformed, of course. Or was it a shaman healer? Caroline had repressed most of the details. Claudie and Jean-Paul would simply be sitting in the audience trying to keep a straight face. But Julian was Edward’s best friend, so naturally Edward was going to be best man. And Caroline was Annabel’s only sister, so naturally she was stuck with role of bridesmaid. And they would be dressed strictly in accordance with the bride’s wishes. ‘Themed’ was how she’d put it. ‘A joke!’ was Edward’s reaction, seeing the sketches from the impossibly expensive, impossibly chic London designer hired to do the job. He’d been on the phone to Julian right away.

‘She can’t really be serious old chap, the pair of us are going to look like we’re deserters from Che Guevara’s army. And what are those rug things we’re supposed to drape over our shoulders?’

Caroline, peering at the outfits for the bride and bridesmaid, had been equally appalled. Maybe her sister could pull off striding out onto the grass in her flowing robe looking like she was about to sacrifice a donkey. But Caroline hadn’t had a close encounter with muslin and flower petals since she was six years old and dressed up to go to a village maypole dance. For the first time she really understood the term fashion victim.

‘
Excusez-moi mademoiselle.’

With a jolt Caroline was jerked back from a hilltop in Acapulco to a café in the south of France. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. Not a shaman in sight.

The waiter was hovering by the table, looking pointedly at her empty coffee cup. She glanced at her watch as she paid the bill. The staff were busy removing cups and glasses and laying out paper placemats for the lunchtime crowd. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to do all her shopping.

Gathering her things, she paused, took a last look around. How lovely it was here. Spring was in the air, inviting, enticing. The leaves were unfurling, the delicate fragrance of pansies and primroses wafted from the flower beds. Her next stop was the market, where she planned to scour the stalls for delicacies to tempt her man when he got home from work. Friday night. They had the whole weekend free and clear. Maybe on her way back from the market she’d have time to detour via Rue Pargaminières, there was that wonderful little boutique that sold the most inventive lingerie...

She dropped some change on the table, pushed back her chair.

Do not think of August, she admonished herself. Do not think of the three awful ‘A’s, August, Acapulco and Annabel. Your life has changed. You have everything to look forward to. Your sister is not your problem.

But, said a little voice, what about the baby?

***

Half an hour later she was back at the flat, unwrapping her purchases. Shopping at the market always gave her a boost. There were two covered markets in the city, each a gourmet’s delight. Today she’d been to the Marché Victor Hugo. She wanted to start dinner with
foie gras
from the Maison Samaran, planning to serve it with homemade fig
confit
and a garnish of fresh salad leaves. Maybe a drizzle of raspberry vinegar? She would follow it with fish. In consultation with the fishmonger she had chosen a beauty from amongst a large shoal of gleaming sea bass. Bright-eyed, its scales an iridescent silver grey. He gutted and cleaned it for her but left on the scales, she was going to bake it in the oven in a crust of sea-salt and serve it with a simple lemon and butter sauce.