Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Useful,’ I mumble.

  I look at the cashier’s miserable face.

  ‘You still need it do you?’ I ask politely.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ she replies through gritted teeth.

  ‘Doesn’t she have it Jade?’ calls her colleague from the other till.

  I drop a handful of coins, a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses, and a spoon onto the counter.

  ‘For my yogurt,’ I mumble. ‘No boarding pass. Make-up bag, bag within a bag, tissues, ah… what is this, bag with bills inside, I bet I put it in there.’

  ‘My God, I can’t imagine what is in your main luggage,’ utters the man behind me.

  ‘I am prepared for everything,’ I retort, placing my Rescue Remedy and my Along the Road Less Travelled book onto the ever-increasing pile.

  ‘Yes, except to pay for duty-free.’

  Really, some people are so rude. I continue emptying the bag until I finally pull out a mouldy packet of mints which are stuck to the elusive boarding pass.

  ‘You can’t take those on the flight,’ Jade says firmly. I look at the packet of mints wondering why not, but as I follow the cashier’s eyes I realise she is referring to a bottle of Clarins perfume and a jar of Jo Malone face cream.

  ‘I’ve already been through security,’ I reply, pushing my credit card at her again while trying to separate the mints from the boarding pass.

  ‘No, you can make a bomb with those,’ she replies indignantly, tossing back her thick mane of blonde hair and licking her pink lips.

  I burst out laughing. If I were chemically minded I would be more inclined to make a Botox mix as opposed to a Semtex one. Besides, do I look like a terrorist? Do I have a beard for Christ’s sake?

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Not to mention the spoon,’ quips the man behind me.

  The assistant eyes me up and down, and looks over to her colleague.

  ‘Tracey, how many mills can you take on a flight? She has enough here to make a bomb.’

  Christ, did she have to say it so loudly. Everyone turns to look at the potential terrorist. Tracey looks in horror at my perfume bottle.

  ‘Oh no, you can’t take those, you could make a bomb, Jade is right, you’re right Jade,’ she echoes.

  ‘You don’t say. Do I look like a terrorist to you?’ I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  They both give me a look which indicates they clearly think I do.

  ‘They don’t all carry holdalls and have beards you know,’ chips in the man behind me who is now pointing earnestly at the solitary tampon. ‘Your handbag is seriously worrying, and that is highly suspicious. You should get security to check that out.’ He wags his finger at the inoffensive tampon.

  ‘What are they saying?’ calls a woman from the back of the queue.

  ‘She is trying to blow the plane up,’ another replies loudly.

  ‘She tried to hide a bomb in a tampon.’

  ‘I thought she looked suspicious wandering around the perfumes.’

  Oh for God’s sake. Why don’t they body-search me and be done with it? Jade lifts the tampon and everyone gasps. I watch wide-eyed as she tosses it into a bin.

  ‘For goodness sake, my fiancé is a top solicitor,’ I say proudly.

  ‘They all say that,’ says the man nodding at me.

  ‘Can you please just take my credit card,’ I urge, throwing my things back into the bag.

  ‘I still need your boarding pass,’ she replies stubbornly, ‘preferably without the mints.’

  Perspiration is now trickling down my back. Great, I will arrive with a blackhead on my chin and smelling like a tramp. I remove the mints and hand the sticky boarding pass to her and take a deep breath. Okay, calm down. Plenty of time still.

  ‘Oh you’re flying to Rome, how lovely.’ She smiles, handing me the bag with my goods. ‘Didn’t they just call a flight to Rome?’

  She can’t be serious. I race outside and check the board. Shit, it is my flight. I look anxiously for a Boots chemist and feel myself perspire even more. The chemist is just ahead and I start to run, but stop with a skid when I see the queue at the till. I close my eyes, think of the plane and picture myself relaxing with my book. With a new surge of energy I dive in and grab a small can of dry-shampoo, some pimple ointment, face-cleansing tissues, deodorant and a small tin of Vaseline, and squeeze into the queue. Thankfully it moves quickly and I fly out of the store and aim for gate fifty-seven, with my heart beating like a drum. I crash into a buggy and drop my purchases. Horror-stricken, I watch my can of dry-shampoo roll into a Sushi bar. Bother. I follow it with my eye. The Sushi bar is heaving with people. I freeze. Good Lord, is that Simon? What is Simon doing here, and in a Sushi bar? He hates Sushi. Then, of course, I realise it isn’t him, it’s just some guy wearing the same Marc Jacob cashmere jumper that Simon’s mother had bought him for Christmas. I take a deep breath. I must be stressed because this guy doesn’t look in the least like Simon, now I come to think about it and absolutely nowhere near as good looking in the jumper. I watch fascinated as he fills his plate until it is brimming over. My God, the way he is piling it on you would think they were giving it away. I reach the can and quickly throw it into my bag.

  ‘Calling all passengers on flight 735 to Rome. You are advised that this flight is now boarding and the gate will close in fifteen minutes.’

  Damn, damn. I turn and knock over a chair where the Simon lookalike is casually eating from his overflowing plate. Shaking my head in disbelief I stride towards gate fifty-seven, loaded down with duty-free, a laptop, and an oversized handbag in which I fumble for my passport. I remember the Clarins which is still sitting with Tracey at duty-free, oh bloody hell. I dither, and decide it is not worth the hassle and possible arrest as a terrorist. Finally, I am at gate fifty-seven and boarding the plane. Once inside I squeeze along the gangway towards the loo, where I lock myself in and stare at my face in the mirror with dismay. The pimple is redder. Hurriedly I wash and apply cream to the spot. I pull off my blouse and bra and give myself a quick scrub, and roll the deodorant everywhere. God, this is turning into the flight from hell. Oh I so wish I had a change of clothes. Just a simple Marks and Spencer black dress would do, and then my newly cut hair would look so much better. I apply a thin layer of foundation and smooth some blusher onto my cheeks. I appraise my appearance and nod contentedly at myself. My eyes are shining and my hair falls over my shoulders in gentle waves. I slowly make my way back and look for my seat. To my disappointment I find myself sandwiched between an academic with a tatty book twice the size of War and Peace on his lap, and a middle-aged, overweight, red-faced businessman, whose neck seems imprisoned in his tight shirt collar. The academic acknowledges me over the thick dark-rimmed glasses which hover on his beaky nose. I climb over his Clapham Market Rules carrier bag and try to ignore the tattered rustic jumper that covers his lanky frame. C&A is still alive and well in Clapham it seems. I fall into my seat and lean my thumping temples against the headrest. The businessman is tapping away furiously on a laptop. I give him a sideways glance. He seems to sigh heavily each time he hits the space bar.

  ‘Miss Annabel Lewis?’

  I jump at the sound of my name and look up to see a poker-faced stewardess looking at me. Don’t tell me that Tracey and her friend have reported me.

  ‘Oh God, what is it now? Here, search it search it, bloody war on terror.’ I shove my handbag past the face of Mr Academic.

  ‘Actually, it should be war on terrorism really, I mean, war on terror, that can’t be grammatically correct can it?’ I ask Mr Academic. ‘That’s right isn’t it? You should know.’

  ‘Why should I know, I’m a mathematician,’ he says irritably, pushing back his seat so I can lean across him. Oh shut the hell up Bels. I try to ignore the shocked look on the stewardess’s face when she is confronted with my handbag and with a cringe accept the bra she is handing me.

  ‘I think you left this in the toilet,’ she says softly.
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  ‘Right, yes, thank you. Sorry about the terrorist stuff, bit nervous of flying,’ I mutter.

  Mr Academic passes my handbag back to me.

  ‘I know karate,’ he says without looking at me. I find myself attempting to visualise his lanky body performing a karate move and fail miserably. I slide down in my seat.

  ‘Cool, always good to know karate,’ I respond, carefully removing my book. The plane is starting to fill up now and I begin to relax. In just over two hours I will be in Rome, and heading to the restaurant. The overweight businessman is fidgeting in his seat and sighing. I take another deep breath and close my eyes.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ he mumbles.

  I turn to see him looking at his watch.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask politely.

  ‘I would be if the plane took off. It is fifteen minutes late now. I have a business meeting in Rome. For God’s sake, why can’t they get these things off on time?’

  I feel my heart lurch. I can’t be late. As it is I have just an hour to freshen up before dinner. I cannot spare any more time. I was even hoping to quickly retrieve my Donna Karan dress from the suitcase.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen thank you for flying with Easyair. I am afraid we have a bit of a delay…’

  The man beside me sighs heavily and I see perspiration running down his temples.

  ‘We are still awaiting one remaining passenger who is joining us from a connecting flight.’

  I tap my fingers on the armrest.

  ‘Lady, are you trying to turn me into a nervous wreck? What is it with the tapping? I am trying to chill here,’ quips Mr Academic.

  Bloody hell, do I need Mr socially inept and badly in need of a haircut and Mr stressed out get me to Rome yesterday, sitting in the same row as me.

  ‘And I am trying to get to Rome to get married, and I am supposed to be having dinner with my future in-laws, so I am a little nervous.’

  ‘Do I need to know this?’

  ‘Can someone please tell me who the fuck is holding up the plane?’ shouts Mr Businessman who is now on his feet and, oh Jesus, his face is very red. I can see the perspiration on the back of his pale blue shirt. He rubs his hands together nervously.

  ‘Please stay calm sir, we understand the passenger is on his way and will be boarding soon.’

  Oh thank God.

  ‘It’s not right to delay a flight for one passenger,’ he asserts.

  I nod emphatically.

  ‘Chill man,’ advises Mr Academic. ‘Statistically it is very improbable that we will arrive later than ten minutes after our scheduled landing time, in fact, statistics show that 90%...’

  ‘Oh shut up geek. What do you know? I don’t imagine you have ever had to be anywhere in a hurry. Whichever way it goes we are going to be late – so who gives a 90% shit,’ snaps Mr Businessman.

  Oh dear, this is not the best place to be. The stewardess seems to be greeting someone.

  ‘I think he is here. We will be going soon,’ I say, relief flooding through my body like a drug.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will be departing in a few minutes,’ announces the captain, sounding as relieved as I feel.

  Some passengers applaud while others sigh. As the stewardess is showing the late passenger to his seat I spot the Marc Jacob jumper. It’s the guy from the Sushi bar. What a sodding cheek, making us all wait while he has his bloody lunch. Well, I shall give him a piece of my mind. He casually walks past our row smiling, seemingly oblivious to the bad karma emanating from Mr Businessman, and then backtracks. My God, he is sitting in front of me. I watch as he squeezes into his seat. Connecting flight my arse, stuffing his bloody face with food more like. I attempt to push him from my mind and try again to relax.

  ‘I won’t make it, I know I won’t. Christ, this is an important contract too.’ I turn slowly to Mr Businessman and pretend I haven’t seen his now even redder face. He is fumbling with his seatbelt and his hands are shaking with anger. Oh dear, this is so not good.

  ‘We’ll be up soon,’ I say cheerfully, helping him

  ‘Not before bloody time, bloody connecting flights.’

  Together we clip the seatbelt on and I debate whether to mention the Sushi bar but decide on reflection it might be a bad idea. A terrible fight may ensue and someone might get knifed or shot or at the very least, punched and then I may never get to Rome, let alone to the sodding dinner. No, at times like this when violence is a probability, it is best to keep one’s mouth shut. The plane starts taxiing and I decide to push the Sushi guy from my mind and relax with my book. I will still make it, maybe a bit harassed but I am sure Simon’s parents will understand. I flex my feet and start reading. I feel a sinking in my stomach when the pilot announces we have missed our scheduled slot for departure thanks to the stuff as much as I can into my mouth late passenger. Obviously he doesn’t call him that but we all know he is the cause of the delay. I almost hope a lynch mob may descend on him but of course being British we just mumble swear words instead. The lady opposite me even offers her Revels around. I am sorely tempted but point to my waistline and roll my eyes and she seems to understand. Ah, the language of women. Mr Businessman fidgets in his seat and repeats the ‘F’ word several times.

  ‘Got any great numbers you want to offer, like whether he may kill someone before we even take off is like 95% probable?’ I ask Mr Academic.

  ‘Well, statistically speaking…’ he begins.

  ‘Yes, well, don’t worry about it,’ I interrupt as a load of paperwork spills into my lap. I hand the papers back to Mr Businessman, who I see from the headed paper is in fact a Mr Kevin Manning.

  ‘I need to get on another plane. Someone get me on another flight. My whole bloody business depends on this meeting. I shall never fly with this airline again.’

  Yes, well I think we all agree on that. I hand him the papers, along with a glass of water that the stewardess had given me. He snatches it, gulps it back in one hit, and fumbles with the papers.

  I am beginning to feel very tense and reach into my handbag for my Rescue Remedy. I throw my head back and let three drops fall onto my tongue and immediately feel better. I hear a throaty chuckle, jerk myself up and feel the remedy catch in my throat, making me choke. My eyes stream and I sneeze uncontrollably. God, I feel sure I am going to die. Jesus, Remedy Rescue, is that a joke? Mr Academic bangs me on the back just a bit harder than is needed. I struggle to get my breath.

  ‘That stuff will be the death of you.’ I barely hear the crystal clear voice over my choking. Looking up through watery eyes I spy the head above the Marc Jacob jumper. He is mocking me while handing a large white handkerchief over the back of his seat. I respond with an enormous sneeze and notice his bright blue smiling eyes and ruffled brown hair. God, he is handsome, rather like a Greek God where everything is perfection. He laughs again revealing white even teeth.

  ‘You surely don’t believe in that crap? I suppose you swallow Evening Primrose capsules too, and burn incense,’ he mocks me.

  I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. How dare he? Posh bugger. I am just recovering when the seat belt sign bings and the stewardess asks him to take his seat. Damn it, not even time for a sharp retort. I close my eyes as the plane shoots down the runway and force myself to think of the fashion show that I will be attending in Rome. We are up and I am finally on my way. I feel my shoulders relax and lean down into my handbag to retrieve my iPod. I am just about to sit back when he reclines his seat, knocking the iPod out of my hand. What an inconsiderate git. I shove it forward, harder than necessary, in a vain attempt to break his neck.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I say angrily.

  No response, typical. I fumble around Mr Academic’s leg trying to find the music player.

  ‘Hey. Easy tiger,’ he coos and winks at me.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can resist you, trust me. It is just by your I Love Clapham bag, can you reach it?’

  ‘Clapham Market Rules, actually. Here.’

  He kic
ks the iPod towards me. I settle again in my seat, open my book, and prepare for the third time to chill. I turn to Kevin and gasp at his pale face. My God, he looks awful.

  ‘Are you all right? Do you want some more water?’ I offer.

  Kevin shakes his head, the effort to speak seeming too much for him. I hold out my Rescue Remedy but he waves it away.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything,’ I offer as I push my earphones back in.

  Closing my eyes I drift with the music. I picture Simon and feel a warm sensation. Mum is quite right of course, this is the one. It is perfectly normal to have pre-wedding nerves. After all, it is going to be a big affair, although that had been Simon’s parents’ choice. The chapel I had chosen in London was considered too small by his mother and suddenly we are being married in a small church on the outskirts of their village and having our reception in the grounds of their villa. I still find it a bit disconcerting that just a few days before my own wedding I still have not seen where the ceremony is to be held. I push silly negative thoughts from my mind and attempt to read my book. The movement of the plane lulls me to sleep. The next thing I feel is Mr Academic waking me up, pulling me from a nice cosy dream. The stewardess is offering coffee and packets of nuts. I prick my ears up as the stewardess offers drinks to the row in front. I hear that clear voice again and feel instantly angry with myself when I feel my heart beating a bit faster. For God’s sake Bels, you are on your way to be married, what is wrong with you?

  ‘Do you have anything else apart from nuts? It is just I have an allergy you see,’ he asks politely.

  The stewardess looks thoughtful.

  ‘We have Toblerone, sir,’ she offers.

  ‘Yes, well that has nuts too doesn’t it?’

  She looks embarrassed.

  ‘I think we have a few snicker bars,’ she says helpfully.

  I stifle my laughter.

  ‘Yes, but that also has nuts doesn’t it?’ There is a hint of humour in his voice.

  ‘Oh yes, silly me,’ blushes the stewardess.