Bordeaux Airport was busy. School vacations had begun, and the race to get to France’s holiday homes, gites and hotels was underway. In the bustling arrivals terminal, travellers waited to collect luggage and pass through immigration. Weary from their journey, they were suddenly energised by the mechanical sound of the luggage carousel beginning to rotate.
Caroline Carrington felt that she was melting. There had been no breeze when she’d left her Kensington home in the early hours, and the oppressive heat that hung like a cloud over the streets of London felt even hotter on her arrival in France. She fanned her face, hoping that the coming week was worth the expense and remembered the previous day when Stanley, her soon-to-be ex-husband, had yelled at her.
‘Dear Lord, Caro!’ Stanley exploded as he stared at the banking app on his phone, eyes wide. ‘A luxury holiday at Quinta do Lago would be far less than the price of this wretched cookery course you insist on joining.’ Stanley’s complexion was puce as he shook his unruly mop of thick blond hair.
Caroline ignored Stanley’s rant. There was no likelihood of them ever taking a holiday together again. ‘Do calm down,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have heartburn if you carry on.’
‘Heartburn is the least of my worries if you insist on spending money we simply do not have.’ Stanley grunted. He reached into their wine fridge to uncork a Chateau Montelena Cabernet Sauvignon 2015 and, pouring a large glass, guzzled it down.
Caroline refrained from reminding Stanley that a regular delivery of expensive Napa Valley wines was one of the reasons that their bank account was constantly overdrawn.
Now, as she waited for her luggage, Bordeaux Airport felt hot and uncomfortable and she mopped her brow, shaking her head to rid all thoughts of Stanley. Pleased to be out of the poisonous atmosphere at home, Caroline watched cases of all shapes and sizes teeter precariously on the moving carousel. Remembering how carefully she’d packed for this trip, she wondered if her broken heart was parcelled into the tissued layers of designer clothing. She certainly hadn’t left it in Kensington, just anger and confusion in her wake. Unable to live up to her husband’s expectations over the years, the end of her marriage was painful and Caroline needed space to think.
Stanley hadn’t stirred when she moved noisily around the house, slamming cupboards, and raising the volume on the kitchen radio. His snores rumbled from behind the door of his bedroom. At least he was home, she thought as she saw her Samsonite suitcase burst onto the carousel, and not out till all hours doing goodness knows what. Securing her Louis Vuitton monogrammed bag onto her shoulder, Caroline braced herself and reached out to grab the handle of her case.
‘Don’t mind me, dear!’ a voice called out.
Caroline felt a hot hand on her arm, causing her to stumble and let go of her case. ‘Really!’ she exclaimed in frustration and, as her luggage was transported away, she turned to see who the voice belonged to.
‘Ah, that’s a shame. You’ll get it next time round.’ A rotund woman in orange slacks and a matching T-shirt stood before Caroline. Her lips were as orange as her outfit, and Caroline noticed lipstick staining her teeth.
‘Be a darlin’ and grab my holdall.’ The woman nudged Caroline and nodded as a vast canvas bag that had seen better days wobbled towards them.
Caroline gritted her teeth and was tempted to move away, but remembering her manners bent forward and, with considerable effort, grabbed the woman’s heavy bag and heaved it off the moving belt.
‘Thank you, duckie,’ the woman said, ‘that’s very kind, and I’m sure your bag will be along soon. Now, where’s the lav? I’m desperate to spend a penny.’
‘Duckie?’ Caroline muttered, clenching her jaw as she watched the orange vision trudge away.
* * *
A short while later, with her case by her side, Caroline left the arrivals hall and headed out to Bordeaux’s brilliant sunshine. Squinting through Dior sunglasses, she searched for her transport to La Maison du Paradis.
A young man stepped forward and held out a sign. ‘Bonjour. Hello? Are you going to Poutaloux-Beauvoir to the cookery school at La Maison du Paradis?’ he asked and beamed when Caroline nodded her head. He held a clipboard and ticked her name from a list, then took her case. ‘Please, this way.’
Caroline followed and soon stepped into an air-conditioned minibus. She sighed with relief as she chose a seat and sat down on the soft upholstery. Escorted by the young man, other guests emerged from arrivals and joined Caroline. Polite nods were exchanged as everyone made themselves comfortable in readiness for the journey ahead.
Caroline noted two identical women travelling together and a woman on her own. The latter had a page-boy hairstyle, the locks dark and shiny. Short and well-padded in stature, she was emphatic that the driver was careful with her cases.
‘Last one!’ the young man called out and turned to assist the final passenger who lumbered into the vehicle and levered themselves onto a seat beside Caroline.
Caroline froze. Her travel companion was the woman who’d barged into her at the airport! Tensing, she gripped her bag to her knee.
‘Hello.’ The woman grinned and wriggled her bulk alongside Caroline’s knees. ‘We meet again.’
‘How. Do. You. Do.’ Caroline stared straight ahead. Had she travelled all this way and spent an astronomical amount on a cookery holiday, only to be imprisoned with this wretched woman, who smelt of cheap perfume and whose body heat seared the skin beneath Caroline’s immaculately cut linen trousers. She grimaced at the woman’s tawdry outfit and tacky bag, then stared out of the window at the crowds setting off on excursions to make memories of their own. She took a deep breath and remembered her mindfulness class, mentally removing herself from the situation. Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes.
‘Care for a jelly baby?’
A podgy elbow nudged Caroline’s toned arm. Opening her eyes, she saw a fist hovering over her lap, gripping a bag of sticky sweets.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, go on.’ The elbow nudged again. ‘One of these will stop you feeling sick.’
Caroline’s fingers tentatively dipped into the bag. If she went along with the woman, it might silence her for the rest of the journey.
‘You must have been up early like me?’ the woman asked. ‘I travelled from Manchester, did you?’
‘Gatwick.’ Caroline was curt.
‘Fancy the flights arriving together.’ She chuckled. ‘Do you think the cookery school fixed it so that guests got here at the same time?’
‘It would be a sensible arrangement.’ The jelly baby had begun to soften, and as the first taste of sugar melted in a mouth that hadn’t chewed a sweet in forty years, Caroline shuddered.
‘Sticky little buggers, aren’t they?’ the woman continued. Her tongue rolled around the inside of her cheek, and Caroline winced as she heard sucking noises.
Shuffling in her seat, the woman looked around at the other passengers. ‘I do hope that it’s not just us girls on the course.’ She lowered her voice and tilted her head. ‘We need a few fellas to keep us in line.’ She thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Francesca, by the way. A posh name for a Lancashire lass born and bred in Blackpool. My mam thought it might make me better myself.’
‘Caroline.’ Caroline’s reply was brusque. She wanted to add that Francesca’s mother had been overly optimistic.
‘Oh, that’s a lovely name, can I shorten it to Caro? You can call me Fran, everyone else does.’
‘I prefer Caroline, thank you.’ Caroline stared out of the window. Only Stanley called her Caro, and she hated it.
As their transport left the city and took the slip road heading north to join the autoroute, the driver announced that his name was Tomas, and he estimated that they would arrive at La Maison du Paradis by mid-afternoon.
‘Toe-mah,’ Fran said and nudged Caroline again. ‘I love his accent, and he’s a handsome young man.’
‘Tomas,’ Caroline corrected. ‘He’s French.’
‘Get away.’ Fran folded her arms. ‘I’d never have guessed.’ She smiled and closed her eyes.
In moments, to Caroline’s relief, Fran was sound asleep.
Caroline watched the rolling French countryside speed by as they drove past characterful villages and towns. As Fran’s snores rumbled, Caroline stared at an opulent Baroque chateau and admired the architectural style. The building was magnificent with its high slate roof and central dome. It was set back from the road, and she studied the sunny terraces that led down to acres of manicured gardens, wondering if the holiday would include visiting such a chateau. The brochure had promised outings to local places of interest. Caroline thought how much Stanley would enjoy being in an area surrounded by vineyards, especially Saint-Émilion and the grand crus that he adored. But it was no use thinking of Stanley. Her husband had made it clear that there was no hope of a future together and as the miles sped on, she wondered what on her earth was in store in the weeks and months to come.
The jelly baby dissolved, and Caroline longed to scrub the sugary substance from her brilliant white implants. Taking a small canister from her bag, she sprayed her mouth with peppermint freshener. She found hand gel and rubbed it over her fingers. Fran had slumped to one side. Brassy auburn hair fell from a clip and to Caroline’s dismay, Fran heaved a sigh, and her head rolled onto Caroline’s shoulder. She tried to push her off, but Fran was too heavy and released a loud snore. Horrified, Caroline glanced around, praying other passengers didn’t think the wheeze was hers.
In the opposite seat, the identical ladies, clearly twin sisters, sat forward and smiled. ‘Bless her,’ they said, their grey heads bobbing in unison.
Bless her? Caroline was incredulous. I’d like to throttle her, she thought. But, assuming it would take a bomb under the unconscious body to wake her sleeping companion, she gave up. If she couldn’t move Fran, she might as well join her. Closing her eyes, Caroline began to count imaginary chateaus.
In no time, she was sound asleep too.