Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (21 page)

Annabel had slept in all morning, then had lunch. Two Bloody Marys and a handful of paracetamol. Her stomach was all over the place and her head was pounding. She didn’t know how Claudio was managing, hardly getting any sleep at night, then stuck in meetings all day. He was probably on something. She was beginning to see the logic.

She checked in her bag for Susie’s little envelope. One pill left. Better save it for later, damn, if only she’d known she could have got Susie to give her more. It would have to be another vodka pick-me-up. She glanced at her watch. God, was that the time? She needed to get over to North London for the dress fitting, maybe it would be faster to use the Tube. She grabbed her jacket and rushed out of the flat.

When she arrived, late, for her appointment with Creara Wade, she was still more than a little tipsy. Or hung-over. And hot and bothered and rumpled after her close encounter with London public transport.

The meeting did not go well.

This was the woman used by all the
beau monde
. Annabel had practically had to beg on bended knees last summer when she had approached with her request. They had gone over the whole event, the theme–exotic, sea, nature–the way the outdoor ‘chapel’ would be decorated, the magnificent gardens and hacienda where the reception would be held. Creara had been making preliminary sketches as Annabel spoke.

‘What do you think?’

Annabel had clapped her hands in excitement as she looked at the sketch and Creara explained.

A stunning silk dress. A strapless, draped bodice, tight to the waist, decorated with a flower and seashell motif in encrusted crystals which started at the top of bodice on the left, then ran down to circle the waist. The skirt fell close to the hips then widened into something more fluid, slightly transparent, dropping to a divine scalloped hem which echoed the shell theme. It was all quite modest, not much flesh on display, but there were clever erotic hints created by the cut of the material, the slight transparency, which would be highlighted as Annabel moved. Virginal, but sexy, promising virgin. It had been just what Annabel wanted.

Creara had agreed with her idea of a pre-Raphaelite hair style. If Annabel let her hair grow long, had it coloured a pale reddish gold, styled in a loose plait falling over one shoulder, with tendrils framing the face, all she would need instead of a veil and head-dress was a simple circlet of roses.

The early fittings for the dress had been over-generous as Annabel had been pregnant with Joshua at the time, so the appointment today was to check for necessary adjustments. She’d promised Creara to get over earlier in the year, April, May, but with one thing and another she’d kept putting it off.

Now, looking at her reflection in the mirror, Annabel was less than thrilled.

Instead of the breath-takingly innocent beauty she’d pictured in her mind, Venus in her pearly shell but with a dress on, she saw an older, still beautiful but definitely more mature woman, who after all had gone through the rigours of childbirth. Was this the Annabel of today? Scrutinising herself she realised that what she would feel more at home in was something more modern, more daring, more...Italian.

Creara was standing back, head on one side.

‘It’s very nice Creara.’

Creara’s head snapped back and her eyes narrowed.

‘What’s the problem Annabel?’

‘Oh...’ Annabel gave a little laugh, which she intended to be self-deprecating and came out as a whinny.

‘I was just thinking Creara, so much in my life has changed since we first thought about things. I mean, I am a mother now, practically an old married matron, I’m just worried this looks a bit...’

‘Virginal?’

Creara’s voice was like a whip crack.

The two women stared at each other. Creara was the first to break the silence.

‘Well, it’s up to you, you’re the bride. But I have to tell you Annabel, that according to the terms of our contract, there is no way I can wave a magic wand and transform this dress into something for a dowager duchess. If you remember, I did ask you to come and see me earlier. And if you’ve changed your mind, and this is not the dress you want, I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for it all the same. And another thing I can tell you is that you haven’t a hope in hell of getting another top designer to do something for you in time for the wedding. So if you want another dress, you’d better walk out of this door, hit the shops and hope you can find something more suitable for your current non-virginal state.’

Annabel had gasped, but managed to keep her temper in check. She still wasn’t sure of her plans, what she wanted. And of course there was the bloody bridesmaid dress. Caroline had been for her final fitting in May. It was now finished, hanging there in the atelier like a reproach, a vaporous creation in off-white.

She’d left the premises hands clenching and unclenching. That cow Creara, how dare she talk to her like that? She was only a dressmaker, when all was said and done. Some East End upstart who knew how to use a needle and work a sewing machine. Imagine throwing an artistic tantrum as though she was Coco Chanel come back from the grave to stamp her foot. The way she had spoken to Annabel, it was like the Queen reprimanding a servant who’d put out the wrong hat to wear to the royal wedding.

It really was too much. Here she was, having to organise everything on her own while Julian was lying in the sun in Biarritz. She was in two minds whether to cancel the whole thing right there and then, the dress, the cake, the reception, the invitations, the wedding, everything. That would show him.

She spotted a taxi, flagged it down.

‘Where to love?’

She gave the driver a malevolent look. She hated these familiar cabbies with their ‘loves’ and ‘darlings’. With their stupid jangling prayer beads and Madonnas and St Christopher charms wound round the rear view mirror, it was a wonder they could see who was behind them. And the car stank of cheap air-freshener, she could feel her stomach lurch uneasily.

‘When you’re ready darling...’

Now the moron was trying to be ironic.

She gave him her most icy stare.

‘The Ritz.’

The last couple of days had been one long nightmare. She needed a drink. She needed civilised surroundings. She needed some ‘me’ time, some time to think, to weigh her options. She slipped the last pill out of the envelope, swallowed it.

‘He’s going to be the best-dressed diner in the place, aren’t you handsome? Joshua Bond, I presume?’

Jill leaned down and nuzzled Joshua, suitably attired for his night out in the outfit that Caroline had bought him. With his little painted bowtie and dark jacket, he looked irresistibly cute and irresistibly funny. All the adults hanging admiringly over his Sweet Pea were unanimous.

‘Babies these days,’ said Edward. ‘The world is their oyster. I’m sure my mother never bought me a dinner jacket when I was six months old, how about you Jules?’

‘Mine used to dress me up in a sort of frock as far as I can tell from the photographs,’ said Julian. ‘I had a lot of curls, looked like Shirley Temple. She was very keen on Shirley Temple, my mother. Very impressed by all the Hollywood stars from that era, the age of glamour she used to call it. Think she would have preferred a girl first. It all got itself sorted out when Sukey was born, thank God. Then I got packed off to school, out of the way. ’

‘You’ve been keeping that under wraps, Shirl,’ said Edward, earning a laugh.

He and Caroline exchanged a look. It was nice to see Julian so relaxed.

They’d had a lazy couple of days lounging round the villa, eating, drinking, going out for walks. Plus the daily swimming lessons for Joshua. Jill joined in with them during the day, and disappeared each night in a swish of skirts and a cloud of Chanel No 5.

Tonight was a special occasion. Dinner at the Arantxa family restaurant. Antoine’s parents had known Edward since he was a boy. He, Antony and the Parisian cousins got fussed over like members of the family. Everyone was looking forward to it, even Jill, in spite of misgivings at the thought of meeting the entire Arantxa clan for the first time.

‘It’s going to be loud,’ said Edward. ‘Do you think Baby J is going to be OK?’

‘Oh he sleeps like a log when it’s noisy,’ said Julian. ‘It’s when it’s quiet he wakens up. I say, you look nice, Nadia.’

Julian had turned and stood up as Nadia came out on to the terrace.

Edward turned as well.

Jill and Caroline exchanged a high-five. Everything was set for a perfect evening.

Annabel was ensconced in a comfortable chair at the Ritz. It was such a relief to be in elegant surroundings after all her frustrations with Creara. The taxi drive had taken ages, if she’d not felt so tired she’d have told the stupid driver to let her out, and walked the rest of the way.

But now, feeling the effects of a couple of her favourite cocktails on top of Susie’s magic pill, she felt her shoulders relax. The bar was filling up with the evening crowd, the atmosphere was becoming animated. Glamorous women perched on bar stools, Annabel had spotted a divine handbag she’d earmarked for her ‘must-have’ list, a Marc Jacobs. A sense of anticipation was building as couples met and embraced, looks were exchanged, the ballet of seduction starting its opening moves, the promise of the evening lying ahead.

This would be her fifth night with Claudio. Decision time was looming. It was a bit like roulette, really. She had two options. Stay with Julian, that was the safe bet. She repeated her mantra: money, situation, prestige. Julian had money, a high flying job, the Courtenay name could open doors, the family were in Debretts. They were bores, but aristocratic bores, with a huge estate in Bucks. And she had produced the first heir, male, to boot.

Germany...well she hadn’t really been looking forward to the move, but she had to admit it was almost as exciting as being in London. A different set, older for the most part, but into different things. More exciting things. Dangerous things. She gave a little shiver.

That brought her to the long shot. Claudio.

Money? Oodles.

Situation? No doubts on that score.

Prestige...that was the tricky one. He was certainly part of a high-flying, high-rolling European set. But she didn’t know a thing about his background, his family, only that he was divorced. Did he have children? She really needed to find out more, she should have looked on the internet, maybe even hired someone to investigate, but it was too late now, time was running out, she may not get another opportunity like this week.

Also, while she knew that she could twist Julian around her little finger, Claudio was proving to be a more difficult challenge. What did he really think of her? He murmured all sorts of stuff while they were locked together, panting and gasping, but he’d always managed to avoid discussing the future. Their future. Did he want her to leave Julian? In the throes of passion he now appeared to be as hooked by her as she was by him. They had both reached the stage where being together was an all-consuming obsession. They were like two junkies sharing the same needle.

But they rarely had time to talk, it was all physical, even when they were at the restaurant together the focus was on seduction, on the build up to what inevitably came later. And during the day she had no time to think, catching up on her sleep, going through the motions for the wedding, while all the time at the back of her mind one thing possessed her–the next encounter with Claudio. What would she wear, how would she act, how long could she make him wait, how much could she make him burn? For the moment, he was still the victor. But each time she was bending him a little more to her will, pushing him that bit further, feeling her power increase.

She ordered another drink, felt the alcohol heat her stomach, felt her rationalisations drift, as they had been doing for days, into erotic daydreams. She didn’t want to have to think, to have to make decisions. She wanted to enjoy. To be with Claudio, her Claudio. She wanted that kick, that unsurpassable thrill, that sick feeling of being out of control, that moment at the top of the roller-coaster...

A burst of noise brought her out of her reverie. She looked up, caught a glimpse of a famous singer passing through the foyer. Flashbulbs were popping. What was her name, something South American, she could hear the photographers ‘This way darling! That’s it, a nice smile now!’

Really the Ritz was getting quite vulgar.

She glanced at her watch. She wondered what time Claudio finished his meeting. She’d better be getting back to the flat, give herself time to take a long hot bath, maybe catch a little sleep, before getting ready for tonight. Their rendezvous was at ten. She would wear white tonight. White satin. Like a bride.

She smiled, signalled for the bill, took out her credit card. Thank God Julian never complained about how much she spent. That at least was one thing in his favour.

The press was still hanging round as she walked through the lobby. She found herself blocked, changed direction. The ping of an elevator distracted her, she glanced across the foyer. Two people, a man and a woman, were standing side by side in the elevator as the doors opened. They just had time to pull apart, there had been the briefest glimpse of an embrace, then a hasty movement away from each other. But the body language, the look on their faces said it all.

Annabel’s heart seemed to stop. Rooted to the spot she saw them step out, the smiling man politely ushering the woman, who turned to smile her thanks. Their eyes locked, their smiles changed subtly, they moved a fraction closer to each other. It was palpable. The complicity of lovers who have just spent the afternoon in bed together. She could almost smell them from where she stood.

The woman. It wasn’t possible. Annabel’s eyes refused to believe what she was seeing. But the man, oh there was no doubt who the man was. Claudio.

With a jerk, Annabel’s heart resumed its beat at the same time as heat rushed to her face, and her entire body flooded with adrenalin-fuelled rage. As she flew towards the smiling couple, she vaguely heard a shout from one of the photographers, but the roaring in her ears drowned out the sound of popping flashbulbs.