by Jane Holland
‘Of course.’
Under cover of rummaging for my sunglasses, I reach into my bag for my mobile. There’s only one bar visible, all the way out here. A weak signal, but enough for a text.
I text Robin.
Off to St Tropez with my aunt. Want to meet there for dinner?
A few minutes pass. Then my phone buzzes faintly.
I glance at Aunt Tamsin, but she’s covered her face with the wide brim of a sunhat and appears to be sleeping.
I check the reply.
Sounds like a plan. I’ll organise some wheels. 7pm on the quay?
It’s hard not to smile. I’ll organise some wheels. Like something out of a seventies’ film. I text him a smiley face, then put on my sunglasses and lie back, watching a seabird as it follows the wake of the yacht, circling lazily overhead.
But I can’t relax. Something is playing on my mind.
‘Aunt Tamsin?’ I turn to her again, unable to let it go. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your nap, but I have to know … Was Emily alone the night she drowned?’
She pushes back the woven brim of her sunhat and stares at me groggily. Her mouth works without words. What is she afraid of? Or have I merely woken her from a doze?
‘Was she?’ I press her.
‘Yes,’ she says faintly, after a long hesitation, ‘of course my poor Emily was alone.’
‘So Pierre wasn’t with her?’
She looks shocked. ‘Pierre? Good God, of course not. What a thing to say.’ She sits up, a sudden dull flush in her cheeks. Her voice has become agitated. ‘You must never say that again. Do you understand? If Pierre knew what you were suggesting …’
‘If I knew what?’
We both look round, surprised by Pierre’s smooth tones. He must have up the ladder so silently, neither of us heard his approach. He joins us on the upper deck, smiling at me as he ducks his head under the blue-and-white fabric canopy shading us.
‘Come on, out with it,’ he says. ‘What are you suggesting, Caitlin?’
‘A swim,’ I say brightly, ignoring my aunt’s terrible stillness, and stand up as though to indicate restlessness. ‘I’m so hot, and the water looks wonderfully refreshing. When can we swim?’
There’s an awkward pause.
His eyebrows are raised, and remain so. ‘As soon as we drop anchor,’ Pierre says calmly. But he glances at Tamsin, then back to me, a quick narrowed flick of his eyes, and it’s clear he knows that wasn’t what I was planning to say. ‘We can swim before lunch, if you like.’
‘I do like,’ I say, my manner deliberately flirtatious.
I don’t really know why, but it feels important to distract him from our conversation about Emily. I sit down again, crossing one bare leg over the other, and catch his gaze on my legs.
Pierre looks up at my face and smiles.
I smile back.
There’s no point making an enemy of the man, especially when Tamsin seems to think the world of him. But behind our easy exchange of smiles, my mind is working furiously. Though in what direction, and why, I can hardly tell yet.
Did Pierre look at Emily like that too, I wonder? And did the two of them used to swim together off the coast? Skinny-dipping under cover of darkness after a hot night’s clubbing, perhaps?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Once Tamsin has been collected by a grumpy Lucille in the Rolls Royce, and I’ve waved farewell to Pierre and his crew, I wander back along the quayside at St Tropez, admiring the lavish white yachts berthed there. Robin meets me at seven o’clock, as arranged, near a group of popular artists selling their paintings of the famous harbour and the arid, dusty countryside along the peninsular, all sunlit fields and vineyards and long open roads.
I’m surprised by how delighted I am to see him again. Robin’s only been back in my life such a short spell of time. Yet already that old curious magic is working in my veins.
He’s wearing tight black jeans and a black leather jacket hanging open over a white T-shirt, and looks like the sort of man I would sidestep at home because he’s simply too attractive. Having to beat off potential love rivals is a stress I’ve always avoided, and with good reason. I realise this when several young women study him with interest in passing, and then look at me through narrowed eyes.
That was one reason I never thought of returning here once I was an adult. At the back of my mind I always assumed he and Emily would become a couple, and the pain of witnessing that as a reality would have been too much to bear.
‘Caitlin.’
We embrace, and again I feel that tug of desire. A desire left over from our teenage years. It ought to have died by now. Instead though, it’s stronger than ever. The kind that leaves me sweating at night, waking from some dark, explicit dream.
Is Robin aware of it? He must be, surely.
There’s nothing knowing about his smile though. ‘Thanks for your call,’ he says, meeting my gaze with an openness that makes me feel guilty. ‘I had nothing planned for tonight but a very dull meal of sardines and salad. So thanks for saving me from that.’ He glances at the yachts in the marina, their hulls bright in the sunlight. ‘I love this place.’
‘Me too.’
We look around the quay, which is still busy even at this hour. There’s very little breeze, despite the proximity of the sea, and St Tropez is sultry. Most people are in short sleeves and sandals. Tourists eat dinner in the open-air restaurants facing the water, or stroll along the broad quayside, admiring the rows of elegant, gently-bobbing yachts or studying the artists at work. Some are still sketching in the warm glow of a late afternoon sun, but many are now starting to pack away their easels and paintings for the day.
I notice that the berth where the Emily was moored earlier is empty now. Pierre has already left, on his way around the coast to Marseille, he told us on parting. But he promised to call later in the week, and maybe take us out again. Tamsin seemed exhausted by the time we disembarked though. I’m not sure another outing on Pierre’s yacht would be a good idea. Anyway, I have no idea when I’ll be leaving.
The thought of leaving France fills me with unspeakable gloom. Yet I know my dad needs me back home, and soon. He didn’t sound well when I spoke to him on the phone last night, constantly coughing. And my job as a tour guide won’t wait forever, however relaxed they are. It’s the summer season, and I should be there.
Guilt strikes at me. Am I staying out of a genuine wish to help my aunt through her grief? Or so I can keep seeing Robin?
The heart is such a deceitful organ.
Robin glances at me sideways. His eyes narrow on my face as though he’s aware of my sudden discomfort. ‘Your hair looks damp. Been swimming?’
I nod.
His smile is lopsided. ‘From the yacht, I suppose. How very old school of you. Like something Emily would have done.’
‘You know Pierre?’
‘Barely.’ He cocks his head to one side, watching me. There was something hostile in his reply, an undercurrent that leaves my skin prickling. ‘We’ve met a couple of times at parties. Bit of a rich prick, if you ask me. Spoilt, trust fund boy. Emily had a soft spot for him at one stage. Didn’t last, of course. Not her sort.’
That more or less fits with what Pierre said too.
‘I suppose you were more her sort,’ I say lightly, teasing him.
But Robin doesn’t take the bait. Instead he looks past me, gazing restlessly around the quayside, his brow furrowed.
‘So where’s Tante Tamsin?’
He does love to call her that, I think. Like a pet name.
‘On her way home by now, I should expect. They were going shopping in the market after I left them.’
‘They?’
‘Lucille. She drove down in the Rolls to get us, but I managed to bail and meet you instead. Pierre couldn’t take my aunt back to Cannes himself. He’s sailing on round the coast to –’
He interrupts me, his brows rising steeply. ‘A Rolls Royce?’
‘I know.’ I gri
n at his surprise. ‘I’m not sure how on earth Aunt Tamsin can even afford a car like that. But it looks rather elderly, and she does like to keep up appearances.’
Robin smiles drily. ‘That sounds like Tamsin.’
Something in his voice.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. My text message …’ I hear the sudden crack behind the words, and stop myself. He didn’t come all this way on my account. Who am I trying to kid? ‘You were expecting to have dinner with both of us, weren’t you? With Tamsin as well?’
‘No, no.’ He grabs my arm as I turn away, making a face. ‘Nothing like that. I did wonder, of course … But I’m glad it’s just you and me.’ I look into his eyes. I want to believe him. ‘Honestly,’ he adds, ‘I’m not trying to get to Tamsin through you, Caitlin.’ His frown darkens when I say nothing.’ Is that what you think of me? Really?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
Robin touches my cheek. Only a gentle caress, but I flinch away.
‘Hey,’ he says.
People are looking at us. The back of my neck prickles. I hate public scenes. My mother and father were forever arguing in public when I was a kid.
‘My mistake.’ I pull away from him, forcing a light note into my voice. ‘Come on, forget it. Let’s walk along the quay. Find somewhere to eat before all the tables are taken.’
He follows me, catching hold of my hand so we can walk together along the crowded quayside, weaving our way between other wandering couples and artists’ easels. We smile at each other, the mini-row pushed adroitly aside, as happened so often in the past too. But I can see he’s unhappy; wounded by the suggestion that he’s using this relationship to find a way to Emily’s mother. Not that I said that. Or even thought it. But some fleeting insecurity must have shown in my face.
‘You okay, Caitlin?’
‘Sure, just a bit restless, that’s all.’
‘I know how that feels.’
We smile at each other, and again I feel that delicious frisson of desire. I desperately want to know how he feels about me, but dare not ask. Not after the way he broke down at Emily’s grave.
Should I read anything into us holding hands? Or is this just a local tic he’s adopted, like the way French friends kiss each other on the cheek in greeting? Every now and then, I catch a little inflection in his voice, a Gallic lilt behind the American accent. Like he’s been in this country so long, his Los Angeles roots are gradually being eroded, something he swore would never happen.
It’s rather endearing.
‘I meant to ask, are you able to give me a lift home?’ I ask suddenly. ‘I know it’s a long way, I’m sorry. But I do love eating out in St Tropez.’
‘Fond memories?’
‘Something like that.’
When I was here before, we used to trek out en masse to ‘St Trop,’ all of us kids from the Cap, in a convoy of flashy, open-top sports cars. After a long day on the private nudist beach at La Pampelonne, we’d spend the night in the town centre, dancing and drinking in the riotous bars and boîtes de nuit, as the French call the night clubs, before trailing home pale and exhausted at dawn.
I was never supposed to go to the night clubs, being younger than the rest. But Tamsin never seemed to care what I did, so I kept my mouth shut and always hoped make-up and the daring outfits borrowed from Emily would make me look old enough to get past the bouncers.
‘In response to your question, yes, I can definitely take you home.’ Robin grins at me. ‘Though perhaps we should buy you a jacket before the tourist shops close.’
‘I don’t need a jacket,’ I say automatically. The evening is still warm enough to be a touch uncomfortable.
‘You will on a motorbike going sixty miles an hour.’
I gape at him, and he laughs.
‘Sorry, that was all I could get at short notice. I don’t keep a car down here anymore.’
I don’t know what to say. But the thought of riding pillion behind Robin, holding onto his waist for miles, leaning into his body, fills me with a strange excitement.
‘I hope you’re not scared,’ he says.
I shake my head.
‘Good.’ Robin smiles and pulls me closer. ‘Let’s find a clothes shop that’s still open. It’s a long ride back to the Cap, and it can get cold at night.’
‘But …’
‘Don’t worry, I brought two helmets.’
We find a quayside restaurant where they serve mussels in white wine and garlic, served in gigantic earthenware tureens, with a basket of bread on the side. Dusk falls, but we stay where we are, drinking coffee and sparkling water – I want to order wine, but Robin reminds me he’s taking me back on the motorbike, so I stay sober to keep him company – talking about the old days while it gets dark around us. St Tropez comes noisily to life after about eleven o’clock, rock music pumping from the night clubs, people spilling out of the bars and into the streets, having fun.
Robin summons a waiter and pays the bill. ‘Shall we drop into one of the clubs?’ he suggests. ‘For old times’ sake?’
Almost by instinct, we weave through the crowds on the quay and slip down a side street to one of our old haunts. It’s busy, but we queue up to get inside, Robin keeping me warm with the new jacket he bought me. He grins as we finally make it into the club.
‘If Emily had been here, she would never have waited.’
‘God, no She would have pushed to the front of the queue.’
He pretends to throw back a mane of hair, imitating her plummy British accent, ‘Out of my way, peasants! Don’t you know why I am?’
We both burst into laughter, squeezing past the disapproving bouncer. But I see Robin’s expression grow serious.
‘Poor Emily.’
‘Yes.’
We look around. It’s incredibly hot. Under the swirling multi-coloured disco lights, the club is heaving with people. The dance floor is packed, the queue at the bar five or six deep. There are no vacant tables.
‘I wish Emily was here tonight.’
‘Yes,’ I say again.
‘Then all this would be perfect.’
I slip the jacket off my shoulders, suddenly over-heating. It’s hard to know what to say in response to that. Robin seems to have been very deeply in love with my cousin. So deeply in love that I might as well be invisible to him.
The realisation hurts.
‘Why didn’t the two of you run away together?’ I ask in frustrated irritation. ‘Why not tell the world to go to hell, and do what you felt? Was it because of Pierre?’ I catch my breath. ‘Was she with Pierre the night she drowned?’
The music in the club is very loud. I can barely hear myself speak, though I can feel how hard my heart is beating.
Robin turns and frowns at me. His eyes are very dark. For a moment I think I’ve pushed it too far. That he’s angry with me for suggesting such a thing.
Then he leans closer. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
I bite back the words. I don’t want Emily between us again. Not tonight.
‘Nothing, not important.’
Robin smiles, and tucks my hand warmly in his.
They seem to have turned the music up. I can feel the relentless thud-thud-thud of the beat in every vein. Our bodies are touching, we’re so close now. Christ, I think, I’m so hot, I could almost faint. Now that would be embarrassing.
‘What do you want to drink?’ he shouts, near my ear. ‘You wait here, I’ll get it.’
‘No, it’ll take hours. I’m not standing here on my own.’
‘Then come with me.’
I grin. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s dance.’
‘I can’t dance, honestly.’
‘Rubbish. Everyone can dance.’ I look him in the eye. ‘Come on, stop being so modest.’
He’s still reluctant, but lets me drag him out onto the dance floor. We have to elbow our way between wildly swaying couples and groups just to find a space. We dance for about ten minutes, hot and sweaty, roughly half
an arms’ length apart, trying not to touch or to catch each other’s eye.
Perhaps he wasn’t being modest about his dancing. Robin looks out of place on the dance floor, tall and lean, yet somehow uncomfortable, as though what happened so naturally when we were kids is no longer working for him. I feel slightly ludicrous too. Perhaps we made a mistake coming here, I think. The club is full of teenagers and pretty young things, with the odd middle-aged executive still trying to rock it in his forties.
Then someone hits the strobe light, and the place goes crazy. People move jerkily, faces almost sinister under the eerie white flashes of light. The crush intensifies.
A fight breaks out behind us. People scatter on all sides.
I hear male shouts in French, then feel myself being shoved violently in the back.
Robin drags me backwards out of the heaving fray, suddenly alarmed. He ends up with his back against a pillar, cradling me in both arms like a precious package. My heart is racing, and for a moment I think we may be in trouble. There’s danger in Robin’s face: his eyes are narrowed, his face tense. But then the bouncers move in, chasing the fighters away. The dance floor fills up again, and the music thumps on inexorably.
He looks down at me. ‘You hurt?’
‘No,’ I say, half laughing. But it’s not funny. Not anymore. I look up into his face, and can see he feels it too. I’m shaking. ‘Shit.’
‘It’s okay, you’re safe now.’
‘Thank you.’
His body is pressing hotly against mine. Our eyes meet.
‘Caitlin,’ he says hoarsely.
Then he bends his head, I stretch on tiptoe to meet him halfway, and suddenly we’re kissing, just like before. As though the intervening years never happened.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
You come upstairs with him, hand-in-hand, silent as conspirators. The house is quiet tonight, everyone out at a party on the other side of the Cap. But the servants are in bed on the mezzanine floor, so you still cross the room as quietly as possible, pointing out the creaking floorboard with a cautious grin.
You throw open the shutters and push the window wide to let in the moonlight.
