Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (3 page)

She loved to work in Edward’s well laid-out kitchen. He’d gone for a
bistrot
look, mahogany cupboards complementing the marble worktops. A solid wooden
island stood in the middle of the room with a built-in chopping board. Dove grey tiles covered the walls, lifted by a frieze of Portuguese
azuelos
.

As she worked she looked out through the open window onto the red-tiled rooftops of neighbouring buildings, a tiny balcony set with two chairs and a minuscule table, window boxes overflowing with pansies. Finally, hands on hips she surveyed her ingredients, checked all was ready for the final stage of preparations. But that would be later, much later. She thought of the contents of the cream and blue packet lying on the bed. She’d deliberately dress down this evening, T-shirt and Bermudas. She imagined Edward’s fleeting look of disappointment when he opened the door, then the sparkle in his eyes as he hugged her ‘hello’ and slid his hands underneath her top...

Satisfied, she left the kitchen and wandered on to the terrace that opened out from the living room. The leaves of the plane trees were just coming out, a tender green. In the street five storeys below, the traffic was queuing up at the lights. On the other side of the road the banks sloped down to the footpath which bordered the River Garonne. It was running high today, the melt had started in the mountains, the snow ran into the small spring where the river had its source, fattening and feeding it until it became the wide river flowing before her, gathering in speed and size until it joined the Atlantic Ocean in Bordeaux. This was the river where Edward rowed with his club. She had watched him several times, training her binoculars on the boat, searching for that gleaming blond head, that familiar figure with its broad back and shoulders, the well-muscled arms.

They would have the aperitif out here tonight, it would be warm enough. The Man liked to take a shower and change when he got back from work. Most times she joined him in the large tiled shower room, letting him soap her skin, knead her shoulders, kiss her neck till she couldn’t stand it any longer. Then he would turn her round, wrap himself around her, the passion would build, the air full of fragrant steam, the hot jets beating down on them as he lifted her on to him. Afterwards, as he rubbed her dry, she would feel him becoming aroused again, she’d dawdle, tease, pretend she felt tired, then they’d be off again, just managing to make it to the bedroom and collapse on the bed, their bodies joined in the age-old rhythm, rocking, arching, never wanting to let go, murmuring their private words of love.

She could feel herself getting flushed, pulse quickening.

Cool down girl, there are things to do. Important things to do. Such as studying for your exams which are due to start in...she glanced at the calendar...just over two months time. Horror, horror, panic and sweaty palms. She hadn’t sat an exam for...nine years?

It was when she’d been trawling the internet last August that Caroline had finally found an answer to the job question. Clicking on a site for one of the big French Business Schools in Toulouse she’d found herself reading about teaching opportunities. Practically all subjects were now being taught in English. Her Business degree and work experience made her admirably qualified for such a job, except for one vital thing. The schools also required teachers who had a specialisation in language teaching, more precisely the Teaching of English as a Foreign Language. Otherwise known as TEFL.

Leaning back in her chair, staring at the screen, she had tried to imagine herself in a classroom. Would she like that? Interacting with young people who were starting a career in business studies? She’d thought how well she got on with Claudie and Jean-Paul, how Claudie was always moaning about her English lecturers at the Hotel School where she was training, how out of touch they were, ‘from the last century’. Surely Caroline could relate to the interests and aspirations of people in their early twenties? Leaning forward again, she’d read the description more carefully. OK. If she liked the idea, she needed to get a TEFL qualification. Feeling her excitement mount, she’d begun to click, to follow other links. The more she read, the more fired up she’d become. She had made notes, calculations. When she had finally pushed back her chair, she had a good feeling, a feeling that this was the way to go. But she’d have to move fast. The TEFL courses started mid-September. Tapping a pencil against her teeth, she’d taken the decision not to say anything to Edward just yet. In a couple of days he’d be over in the UK. They were going to spend the weekend with her Aunt and Birdie, at Willowdale. They’d also be seeing Edward’s parents, Julie and Adam Rayburn, who were neighbours. She would put the proposal to all of them, at the same time. If the Willowdale Approval Committee thought it was a good idea, she’d call the different Universities immediately about a September enrolment.

And then–her imagination had taken a giant leap forward–then, by this time next year she would have her certificate in hand. She would be a trained English teacher, fully qualified to teach in a Toulouse Business School. She’d be living with Edward in his city-centre flat.

A new life, a new career.

Caroline’s eyes re-focused on the calendar. The months had flown by. And now the day of reckoning was drawing nigh. Quick. She left the terrace and shot into the bedroom, ready to haul out books, laptop and course notes. It was time to start getting serious.

Annabel Courtenay stood on the balcony of the penthouse in Frankfurt, smoking a cigarette. She shivered and pulled her cashmere wrap more tightly round her shoulders. There was a biting wind up here, in spite of the pale blue skies and sunshine. She’d take a nice long bath before going out this evening. Their spacious bathroom, with its German hi-tech fittings, was like a luxury spa. Palatial shower, bath with hydro jet massage, gleaming Italian marble, an enormous heated towel rail running across an entire wall. The purple sofa which sat in one corner, flanked by a palmetto palm was so comfortable she often spent hours curled up on it, flicking through magazines, Vogue, Tatler, Cosmopolitan. Sometimes Klass, the magazine she’d worked for before they left London.

At first she’d really missed her job. The sheer kick of stepping in through the glass doors, walking out of the lift and feeling the instant buzz as editors conferred over articles and layouts, studied glossy photographs, seemingly oblivious to the juniors scurrying around, fetching coffee or boxes of sushi, checking there was plenty of white wine in the fridge, perching on desks, complaining about the latest boyfriend. Oh it had been a great atmosphere.

She tossed her cigarette carelessly over the balcony, frowned. She’d given up everything for Julian. Her job. Her friends. Everything. Sometimes she wondered if he really appreciated that, the wrench it had been to say goodbye, to leave the Docklands flat, to know she couldn’t just jump in a taxi and be at Harvey Nicks in minutes. Of course she’d been back several times, to sort out stuff for the wedding, to catch up with old friends, it was just a question of hopping on a plane and in no time at all she was there, pushing back the door to the penthouse, standing in front of the windows with their stunning views over the water.

In fact she’d probably have to go over again in the next couple of weeks. That would mean leaving the baby, more arguments with Julian. But she couldn’t be expected to race all over London meeting top class chefs and dressmakers with a baby hanging on her back like a papoose. And there was no way she wanted to take Nadia, the more-than-capable-holier-than-thou Nadia the Nanny. Frankly she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to put up with the girl, always cuddling Joshua and tickling his ribs and singing him silly little songs in Polish in a silly little high voice, casting looks of barely concealed reproach at his cruel unnatural mother. Ugh. And looks of adoration at his doting father, oh yes, Annabel had noticed.

She felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Deep down she supposed she ought to spend more time with her son, but really babies were so boring. Eating, sleeping, filling his nappy, eating, sleeping, that’s all Joshua seemed to do. He smelled nice just after his bath, Nadia rubbed baby oil into his skin and talcum powdered his bottom and he was starting to look quite attractive, he even waved his arms above his head, a little Mexican wave. But that was the total extent of his personality. That was the problem, babies just didn’t have any personality. Maybe when he was older, 18 months, 2 years, who knows, then she might be able to relate to him a bit more. But now he was only three months. Three months going on four. And in any case, to hell with the guilt, there were other mothers like her, you just had to open the magazines, women everywhere were owning up, admitting that motherhood sometimes wasn’t all it was made out to be, sometimes a real burden, a sacrifice, a cross to bear. Some of them got positively suicidal.

Well she’d done her bit. Produced the first Courtenay heir. The bloody parents were over the moon in their creepy pile in Bucks. Someone to continue the ancient Courtenay name. Now it was time to think of herself for a change after all those months of being a baby-carrier. She patted her stomach. Her abs were coming back. Her legs were re-toned. Thank God she’d met Susie.

She’d been dreading the social life out here. Germany. Did they even do social life? So it had been a very nice surprise when they’d first been invited to dinner by Klaus, Julian’s opposite number in the company that had given his firm the contract. She’d been expecting a fat man with a red face, but Klaus was suave and good-looking, wearing a beautifully-cut suit and greeting her in flawless English. And his wife Susie came from Bournemouth, how amazing was that? Well not particularly amazing once she’d stopped to think. Julian was an international high-flyer now, moving among other international high flyers. It was a cosmopolitan circle, Germans, English, French and Italians. The dinners were fabulous; at the evenings out, at concerts and the theatre, they were always in the best seats, drawing envious glances from the less fortunate mortals stuck near the back. And the clothes! She’d had to entirely re-think her wardrobe, long dresses, even furs, these bourgeois women seemed never to have heard the words conservation and animal rights.

And after the baby was born, Susie had known
the
personal trainer, the one you needed an introduction to before he’d even look at you. Annabel’s excess pounds had rolled off, her arms and legs had felt on fire as she sweated and contorted herself into the necessary positions guaranteed to get her back in shape. But it had all been worth it. And Annabel intended asking Susie who her cosmetic surgeon was. There was no way a woman of her age could have such a perfect face, not a sag nor a wrinkle in sight. She was quite a stunner, Susie.

If she was really honest she had to admit the attraction of London was fading. She had new friends now, a new social circle, new haunts in the chic five star hotels where the women would meet for champagne cocktails and tiny exquisite appetisers straight from the chef’s ovens, the manager bowing and hovering and snapping his fingers for white-jacketed menials whenever they wanted something.

She headed back into the bedroom, checked her tablet for messages. Damn. There was one from Creara, about the dress. Creara! What was her mother thinking of, saddling her with a name like Creara? But she was
the
person to go to when you needed
the
perfect wedding dress. Her stuff was always featured on the pages of Klass, that’s how Annabel had got to know her.

She flung herself on to the bed, counting on her fingers. April, May, June, July. And then it would be August, they would be in Acapulco for the wedding. There was so much to do! And just because she wasn’t working, Julian thought it was perfectly alright to leave everything to her. She had a baby for God’s sake. And a role, as Julian’s wife. There were so many things to sort out, flowers, linens, cake, why had she ever thought she could handle it on her own? But last summer, when she was full of energy, she’d taken the decision not to hire a wedding planner. Hell, she could
be
a wedding planner. She had the taste, the organisational skills, the flair, the contacts, it was a possible future career, she wouldn’t mind zipping round the world researching venues and caterers, hurrying on and off planes, BlackBerry in hand.
Pity Concorde was no longer in service.

She read the message again. Creara wanted her to come to London to discuss the dress, now that Annabel had got her figure back. She’d look at flights for next week, check there was nothing too fabulous on her social calendar. They’d already seen each other a couple of times, she’d even had the initial fittings for the dress that she’d really fallen for at the first meeting. Of course that was when she’d been pregnant, there was quite a lot of adjusting needed now she had her figure back. Creara really was one of the best, Annabel was forced to admit it. But she was so bossy, almost rude at times, chivvying Annabel along and reminding her she wasn’t the only client on her books. As though Annabel was some sort of common or garden WAG with a husband in the third league. And there was Julian’s outfit as well, they were still arguing over the damned thing. She wanted something with a Mexican touch, well they were getting married in Acapulco, it was all themed. Of course she wanted him to look chic as well as exotic, but the way he’d reacted you’d have thought she’d asked him to wear a bloody sombrero and strum a guitar. Really. She suspected Edward had been egging him on. Her eyes narrowed. Edward Rayburn. The turncoat.

And Caroline. And the bridesmaid’s dress. More bloody moans.

Caroline. Her expression hardened. She’d had no choice. No matter which way she looked at things, she couldn’t see an alternative. Caroline was her only sister ergo Caroline had to be the bridesmaid. She just hoped Caroline would have the nous to duck out of the hen party that Susie was organising for her. The last thing she needed was Holy Mother Caroline walking into the ladies room just as her friend was bent over the washbasin having a snort.

She hauled herself up, padded through to the living room, mixed herself a large gin and tonic, padded back into the bedroom again. The photographs from the company handling the
Acapulco end were spread out on her dressing table. It really did look fantastic, the sea was an impossible blue, the hotel was a dream. She’d spent hours on the internet and the phone last summer, checking out the most breathtaking venues, the most lavish hotels.

So why was she beginning to feel ambivalent about the whole thing? She took a gulp of her drink. On the one hand she wanted it to happen, wanted the pure thrill of satisfaction on hearing the guests gasp with admiration as the music started and the bride appeared in her stunning dress, the light falling on her gleaming hair and golden limbs, a goddess from ancient times. She’d visualised the entire
mise en scène,
the bridal bower, the guest list straight out of Tatler, the goddess-figure stepping out on to the cliff top, veil fluttering in the light breeze, the guests all clapping wildly as she walked barefoot across the rose-petal scattered grass. She wanted the magazine spread, wanted to see the looks of envy on her former workmates at Klass. Especially Gloria, the cow.

And of course Ma and Pa Courtenay nursing the baby in the front row and forking out for the lot.

So why the niggling doubt? She needed another drink. Glass in hand she stared moodily at the Frankfurt skyline, trying to ignore the nasty whining little voice in her head saying ‘Are you sure? Really sure?’

The first eighteen months after meeting Julian had been a social whirlwind. He was everything she wanted, rich, good-looking, impeccable taste, aristocratic family background. A status symbol, ready to fall at her feet. She’d got carried away, intoxicated at the idea that she had this man, this older man, wrapped round her little finger, ready to do anything for her. She’d told herself that the sex was just sex, she’d had enough experience to know that most men were the same, new and exciting at the beginning, then, as habit set in, the excitement wore off, the sex became routine. So why was it bothering her now? Her love life was no better than she’d expected. And during her pregnancy and in the weeks that followed Joshua’s birth, the last thing she’d wanted was a man heaving himself on top of her and grunting and drooling in her ear. In any case, Julian, once an enthusiastic lover, was so tired these days he quickly gave up attempts to initiate sex, preferring to turn over and fall asleep as soon as the lights were out.

She was practical, she was realistic, she’d decided on her priorities long ago when she was still a teenager. It was like the mantra for buying property, only three things to remember: Location, Location Location. Her three-thing mantra for acquiring a husband was: Money, Situation, and Prestige.

Those were the essentials. If hubby then turned out to be a hotshot in bed, well that would be an unexpected benefit.

So why the cold feet? What difference did it make if she went ahead with the wedding as planned? If things didn’t work out later, for one reason or another, she could look around, see if there were better offers on the market. There were always other options, always ways out. She was twenty-five, beautiful, sexy, provocative, charming. In another year or two, if she wasn’t satisfied with her lot, she would find a way to move on. Loads of women did it. There were other Julians out there. With added benefits. Higher up the ladder.

The problem was the timing. As things stood, she may not have a year or two; the next few months could well turn out to be crucial. She needed to be free to act, not overwhelmed with responsibilities that would hamper her movements. Something was happening that she hadn’t planned for, she sensed it, felt a shiver of premonition that she was on the brink of a new, unexpected chapter in her life, in which timing would be of the essence.

She walked into the bedroom, grabbed her tablet from the bed and clicked on the photo album. There. The evening at the concert. Julian, Klaus, Susie, the rest of the gang. And a new member, a recent arrival, a different face in their glittering circle. He was thirty-five, divorced, the chief executive of a car manufacturing company. But not just any old cars. Dream-mobiles, cars that made every man’s eyes light up like little boys in front of the Christmas tree. His clients were Hollywood stars and Arabian sheiks.

He was Italian and his dark sexy eyes had followed Annabel the whole evening. His name was Claudio.