Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 by Laurette Long Page A

keep your back straight, tummy up, feel those tummy muscles working.’
    Oh they were working alright. By the time she’d done two sets of eight Jill was puffing and panting like a steam engine. Around her the grannies carried on, scissoring fit to cut a rug, flashing their false teeth at Lycra-woman.
    ‘That’s wonderful Gladys! Keep going! Excellent Phyllis, those legs are really straight.’
    But if she’d thought the scissors thing was bad, by the time they got to the abdo curls Jill was sure she was going to die. Not only that, either she kept drifting into other people’s ‘space’ or they kept drifting into hers, causing a lot of collisions and submersions and hissed insults.
    As the lesson finally drew to a close Jill watched them emerge slowly from the buoyant water, totter up the steps like newborns, arms and legs like sticks, and putter off to the showers like arthritic tortoises. She could scarcely believe this bunch of pathetic creatures were the same lot of beasts she’d spent the last forty minutes with, exchanging sly kicks and punches under the water. She was going to be black and blue tomorrow. And her stomach muscles were on fire.
    ‘Ouch!’
    She was hauling herself out of the water and up the steps when she felt a pinch on her bottom. A decided, deliberate, old-fashioned, good-handful-of-flesh pinch. She turned round, outraged, ready to sock this fighting gran right out of her rose-covered bonnet.
    Grandad was grinning up at her, gap-toothed, gold chain glinting in his grey chest hairs.
    ‘Welcome to wor class, lassie. Fair got a wee stiffie on me just watching yer do them jumps!’
    He gave a leer and a wink as she shot up the final steps and made for the showers. What could she do, report him for sexual harassment? He must be at least a hundred and four. He’d never make it to the police station.
     
     
     

6 WILLOWDALE, ENGLAND. MAY
     
    ‘OK darling. See you soon. Drive carefully, je t’aime.’
    Caroline put down the phone in her aunt’s living room.
    Edward had caught the early flight from Toulouse, all had gone smoothly, he’d picked up the car from the rental agency and was on his way.
    This weekend they were celebrating Margaret’s birthday. One year ago, Caroline had come down to Willowdale for her aunt’s eightieth. And there, she had met Edward.
    For a moment she stood immobile, staring out of the window, caught up in a rush of memories.
    The sound of Birdie clattering in the kitchen brought her back to reality. She gave herself a mental shake, and headed off to help with the lunch preparations.
    ‘I know it’s very traditional, Caroline. Shrimp cocktail, Beef Wellington with Madeira sauce. But they’re Margaret’s favourites and it is her day after all.’
    Caroline had agreed. She had picked up the fillet of beef on her way down to Willowdale yesterday, specially prepared by the Ravensfield butcher to strict specifications from Birdie. ‘I do not want any old inferior bit of cow, Mr Hodges. This is for Margaret’s birthday.’
    Mr Hodges had been trained over the years like Pavlov’s dog. The words ‘for Margaret’ had him racing into the inner sanctum where the best cuts were kept. The word ‘birthday’ had him gift-wrapping the choice morsel and adding a nice discount ‘just a little token of my esteem for our dear Miss MacDonald’.
    The pastry was chilling in the fridge. The shrimp were sitting in elegant stemmed glass bowls on a bed of chopped lettuce. Caroline had rebelled at the last minute and abandoned the traditional Marie Rose dressing for a home-made mayonnaise verte , with chopped chives, parsley and spring onions. Wafer-thin slices of melba toast stood ready for a final five minutes in the oven just before serving.
    Also ready for a final warm up were Birdie’s carrots, glazed in butter with a touch of orange juice.
    ‘I always think that dash of bright orange just throws into relief the rich dark colour of the Madeira sauce, don’t you