Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Oh this sodding, stupid antique car.’

  ‘Is that gratitude for bringing you all the way back to get your handbag?’

  I punch in Simon’s number and get his voicemail. Bugger it. I don’t want to leave a message while I am with Mr Pain-in-the-arse. Why did he ask me what’s happening and then turn his phone off? I fight back my tears and fumble around for the buttons to open the window.

  ‘Look, I am sorry if I have destroyed your life. If it is any comfort it was not intentional. In fact if I could go back a few hours and just rearrange that life-changing moment when I asked you to join me for coffee, trust me, I would. But I can’t, so here we are. Live with it,’ he responds sharply and swerves around a lorry. Meanwhile, I shove my foot onto my imaginary brake again and wonder how long it will be before I am tempted to pull on the handbrake. What a maniac. I fumble in my bag for tissues. God, I feel so weepy. It will be hours before we get to Rome and I will never make it in time for the dinner now. Simon is annoyed, and I imagine his parents must be too. This could not be a worse start to my wedding. Marc Jacob jumper is fiddling with the radio and I take the opportunity to phone Simon again, only to get his voicemail. I send a text explaining I missed the connecting flight but it all sounds terribly feeble.

  ‘Look, why don’t we try and get on with each other. We have music, the sun is shining and we are in a classic Citroën. All seems pretty cool to me.’ He sways to the music and I just stare at him.

  ‘Yes, except the bloody windows don’t open,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  He rolls his eyes at me, leans across me and quickly clips back the window. Honestly, this bloody car must be older than my sodding grandmother. I have never, in my entire life, met such an arrogant, reckless man. I mean, who seriously just buys a car on a whim when in a foreign country, and one without proper windows as well? Simon would be appalled. Thank God, I am marrying a sensible man. Never, in a million years would Simon have been so reckless with money, even if he did have it. No, Simon most definitely is not an impulse buyer. I feel confident that financially Simon will always be cautious. Of course, I do wonder if Simon is just a little over cautious. Perhaps consulting Which? magazine before every large purchase is a bit extreme. Still, I would rather he was over cautious than irresponsible like this guy. I did put my foot down when he started looking at the irons in the Which? guide. But, at least, he doesn’t have debts. This guy, however, probably has credit card debts galore. Oh how I pity Claudine. What is he going to tell her? I suppose she is used to his extravagance. Thank God, I will be free of him when we get to Rome. The thought of Rome reminds me of my luggage and I grab my phone and again try Simon. Damn, bloody voicemail. Okay, I will try Kaz, she surely must answer. Shit, another voicemail. Where the hell is everyone? I look up and see that we are heading onto the A39. Christ that was quick. I sit rigid in my seat as we approach another lorry and overtake it at what seems great speed.

  ‘Jesus, this is not Top Gear, you know,’ I shout above the music.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said… Jesus, why are you driving so fast?’

  The cool air whizzes past my ear and of course, unlike him, I do not have a warm jumper. I fumble with the sunroof, a useless bloody thing that it is. Honestly, how could he buy a bloody car that doesn’t have an automatic sunroof? He seems lost in thought. I take the opportunity to study him while he is unaware. The breeze is ruffling his thick brown wavy hair, which I can see now has been expertly cut. Another extravagance he probably can’t afford. One hand is lightly holding the steering wheel while the other is on the gearstick. I remember I used to drive like that until Simon told me off. A driver who has one hand on the gears is a bad driver. Always remember that, Annabel, he had said. I follow my companion’s hand up to his shoulder and can see his rippling muscles. God, he fancies himself. He most likely has membership to some very exclusive health club too, which he probably cannot afford. I have to admit, though, he looks good and is unbelievably relaxed, unlike me. I pull a scrunch from my bag, wind my hair into it and check my phone one more time. Damn, damn, why doesn’t Simon phone me back?

  ‘Do you have the map?’

  I jump at the sound of his voice. Meekly, I open the map and want to cry when his phone goes. As always, it is his sodding phone. Where are all the people who love and care about me? He hands it to me without a word. Bloody hell, am I his secretary now? I give him a dirty look.

  ‘Okay, fine. Hang onto the steering wheel will you?’ he says calmly and removes his hand from the wheel and begins to tap into his phone.

  ‘Shit, what are you doing you stupid wanker? I’ll do it,’ I yell and go to grab the phone but knock it out of his hand in my haste. It rings persistently, somewhere on the floor near his feet.

  ‘You really are disaster on two legs aren’t you? Can’t you just swallow all that rescue stuff and fall asleep?’ I can hear the restrained anger in his voice. I swallow back an apology and undo my seat belt.

  ‘Oh no, what are you doing now?’ he says fearfully. Oh yes, be afraid, be very afraid. I feel his legs tense as I bend across him to reach for the phone.

  ‘Look, just leave it, really it isn’t that important,’ he says nervously.

  No way Jose, I am sick of your insults. I purposefully bang his knee as I feel around the floor by his feet. Christ, the floor of the car is filthy. My hand touches something soft and wet and I scream and grab the edge of his seat. What the hell?

  ‘Oh my God what is that? Oh Jesus there is something alive in the car,’ I scream hysterically.

  He yelps and I feel my hand being pulled from the seat.

  ‘What are you doing? Move, move, I can’t find the brake,’ he roars.

  I see my hand is tightly squeezing his thigh. I jump back with a start and am then thrown forward with a jolt as he brakes sharply and my head hits the dashboard with a thud.

  ‘Oh great, well done. I am in the wrong lane and there is a police car behind us, they probably think you were giving me oral sex or something,’ he snaps.

  ‘In your dreams,’ I scoff.

  My head feels numb and I moan softly. Did he say the police? Maybe they can help me get to Rome and I can escape this lunatic. I turn to see him staring at my breasts and shaking his head. I follow his gaze to the front of my blouse where a button has popped off and my Victoria Secret bra is on show. My face gets hot and I know it is turning scarlet.

  ‘Classic,’ he mumbles as the policeman approaches the car.

  ‘Do me one big favour, please do not open your mouth, not even to take a breath. Got it?’ he instructs.

  I nod meekly and clutch my blouse. I feel totally deflated. I have never looked so awful in my whole life. Oh God why? Why are you doing this to me? I look down at the gaping hole in my tights. Shitty shit. The policeman approaches the driver side and Mr Marc Jacob jumper opens the door and hands something to him. I gasp, my God is that money? I strain to see, but it is impossible. They converse in French and then Marc Jacob jumper gets out of the car and then they are pointing and laughing at me. Bloody nerve, well I don’t need to put up with this. Before I can speak the door is opened and my companion pokes his head in and winks.

  ‘Honey, could you step out of the car for a second.’

  Honey, what the hell. I open the door and walk round attempting a grin as I do so. Marc Jacob jumper gives me a funny look as I hobble towards them like an incontinent woman. The policeman is looking at my breasts too now. I quickly remember the gap and pull it together. Marc Jacob rolls his eyes and mouths, ‘Why are you walking like that?’ I nod down to the hole in my tights and smile warmly at the policeman.

  ‘Hello officer, I am hoping you….’

  ‘Honey, try not to talk too much. The officer understands and we just need to show him your medication,’ he interrupts rudely, grabbing my hand and holding it tightly while smiling at the officer.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I pull my hand away.

  He continues to smile
at the policeman and shrugs apologetically.

  ‘Come along sweetie, where is the special rescue medication.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I retort and walk back to the car.

  ‘Over my dead body huh, darling. I see the language hasn’t improved,’ he snarls still smiling.

  I take the Rescue Remedy from my handbag and throw it to him. I can feel the tears welling up. Oh, I look such a mess. My forehead is red, my hair is a tangled mess and my blouse is torn and stained and I have no other clothes and everything is his fault and worse still I have no idea what he is telling the police about me. I drop my head onto my chest and then see his phone. Gingerly, I lean down and grasp it. He is still talking to the policeman. I scroll into the messages and quickly read them. One is from someone called Josh and the missed calls were him too. Oh my God, it looks like Mr Marc Jacob jumper is a builder. Well, there is mention of building work being alive and well in Manhattan, so what else can it mean? His name is Christian it seems. Blimey, a bit posh for a loser like him isn’t it? I check the other text which, yes, is from Claudine and she is calling him an arse, well I have to agree. So he is a builder. Say no more then. Well, he can drop those airs and graces with me. The policeman is waving to me and I cheerfully wave back. Marc Jacob, no, correction, Christian the builder, climbs back into the car. He is grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘He loved the Lemon,’ he says proudly, handing me my Rescue Remedy.

  ‘Did he indeed, how fortunate,’ I say caustically.

  He starts the engine.

  ‘Yes, but what really got us off was my telling him that you were my fiancée and you kind of have these jerks when you don’t take your medication…’

  ‘Jerks!’ I explode. ‘What do you mean jerks? The only jerk around here is you, and I most defiantly am not your fiancée, thank God.’

  ‘No, but you are certainly someone’s, poor chap,’ he mumbles.

  I feel my blood boil.

  ‘And how would you know that?’ I demand, fighting back an impulse to slap him.

  ‘Well, the ring is a bit of a giveaway. Oh, and by the way, the wet soft alive thing was a sponge,’ he huffs and pulls the car back onto the road. I am stupidly speechless. An arse indeed, Claudine was right about that. I don’t imagine this guy has lasted more than a week in a proper functional relationship. Simon will be so appalled when I tell him about this loser. He hates builders with a passion.

  Oh I bet, Mr Christian, the builder, makes them wait and wait and spends much of his life handing out great estimates with much sucking in of breath. I bet he bleeds them dry and then spends it like water. He is probably on his way to Rome now while about three customers are going frantic waiting for him to turn up. I throw his phone into his lap.

  ‘Claudine says not to be such an arse, rather impossible for you, I would have thought.’

  He simply yawns and peers at the petrol gauge.

  ‘Right, the Lemon needs some juice.’ He glances quickly at me. ‘And you, well you need everything don’t you?’

  If I hadn’t been so thirsty I would have protested that I just wanted to go straight to Rome. Instead, I meekly nod. Hopefully there will be some clothes shops. The thought of buying some nice designer clothes cheers me up.

  ‘Okay, I shall veer off at the next slip road and see where it takes us. We are not likely to get lost, right? All roads lead to Rome after all,’ he laughs.

  I respond with a dirty look.

  ‘God, you are one sour woman,’ he laughs again.

  I bite my lip. Now is not the right time but the time will come and when it does, oh, I will relish it.

  Chapter Six

  Christian

  What a bonus. The car is a gem, an absolute classic. I practically robbed the guy. Of course, it needs a good overhaul and the clutch is knackered, but all the same it drives like a dream considering. Not that madam appreciates it, of course. Jesus, she never stops complaining, and her language is atrocious. She certainly wouldn’t be out of place on a construction site. In fact, I actually thought I was getting rid of her at one point when she stated she couldn’t possibly arrive in Rome in my so-called rust bucket. What a blooming cheek. There was one highlight, when she said she couldn’t possibly get into it. There was me thinking I had finally got rid of her when she goes and changes her mind again. Oh well, she is a diversion, albeit an irritating one. I glance at her to see if she is reading the map but surprise, surprise, she isn’t. She has that glazed look on her face again. A little friendly jolt is in order then.

  ‘Okay, I can see a sign for the A39. I think we can relax once we are on that.’

  ‘I can’t have a baby yet.’

  What the hell? Who mentioned babies? Who even mentioned sex? Surely that comes before babies doesn’t it? My God, she isn’t going to scream rape is she? Oh hell, this is all I need. I knew she was a bit dotty but I didn’t for one minute seriously think she was completely and utterly mad. Keep calm. The best thing is to humour her.

  ‘What? How did we get from the A39 to a baby? Did I miss something?’

  Like you screaming the word rape? And demanding money? But no, instead her face crumples and she blurts out that she has left her handbag at the airport with her contraceptive pill inside. I mean, is this really my problem? She then promptly bursts into tears. It’s my problem. I’m beginning to think a Polar Icecap expedition would be easier than travelling to Rome with her. In fact, I actually think I would enjoy it. At least I could be sure of getting there. I really cannot bring myself to talk to her on the journey back to the airport and thankfully she manages to keep her mouth shut, although not for long unfortunately. I am relieved when she climbs back into the Lemon armed with the said handbag, and with, I assume, her pills safely ensconced inside. Everything would have been fine had she not opened that offensive mouth of hers. After fiddling with her phone she accuses me of destroying her life and insults the Lemon, calling it ‘a sodding stupid antique car’. I fight the overwhelming desire to put my hands around her throat and bite back a stinging retort. I’m beginning to think a job as Colonel Gaddafi’s chauffeur would be a walk in the park compared to chauffeuring Madam Kiss-my-arse-I-think-I’m-Victoria-Beckham. What an ungrateful cow. If that ring on her finger is anything to go by then some guy has actually chosen to be with her. He has obviously had a lobotomy at some point. He must be a bit of a strange guy though, because he hasn’t phoned her once. I bet an evening with them is a bundle of laughs. Well, seeing as we are late now we may as well stop off for something to eat. That won’t please her. I ought to phone Claudine. Women. They are all the same, a pain in the jacksie.

  Chapter Seven

  It is almost twenty minutes before we see any shops and in that whole time Simon does not phone or text. I feel a churning in my stomach. I just can’t understand it.

  ‘Hey, I can see what looks like a very big supermarket, which means there has to be a garage nearby,’ says Christian the builder.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Please God, let there be some decent shops here. Since our encounter with the police I have barely spoken to him. My thoughts have been focused on Simon and the wedding. I feel sure if I don’t marry him, I probably won’t marry anyone now. I keep trying to picture Simon with children, but it just doesn’t happen. The only picture I get is of him in big business meetings and fancy lunches. I do want children don’t I? Christ, I am driving myself mad with all this thinking. Of course I want children, why am I even asking myself such a stupid question? As long as I don’t end up like my friend Maz. I mean, she was normal until she had kids and now she sits at dinner parties like a zombie and only seems to come alive when nappies or milk formulas are mentioned. Worse of all though is how a phone conversation with her is interspersed with sentences like. ‘Shake little pee wee, that’s a good boy.’ Or ‘Mummy is just talking to that nice Belsey Welsey,’ which makes me sound like a face-dropping disease or something. I don’t want to end up like that. Not with a face-dropping disease, I don’t mean, obvi
ously. But talking like a retard to my children.

  I check the time on my mobile and want to cry. I have missed the dinner for sure. How the hell do I explain Christian the builder as well? What if they all think there is more to it? Oh shit. After all, it is a bit unusual to travel across the country with someone I hardly know. Simon’s parents will think I have no morals and certainly won’t consider me good enough for their son, with his soon-to-be own business. The problem is I have no other sodding way of getting to Rome.

  ‘Are you coming? Here you had better wear this,’ he says casually and pulls a jacket from his hand luggage. I take it cautiously.

  ‘It’s fine, I got all the fleas off,’ he jokes as I wrinkle my nose.

  I wrap the jacket around me, grateful for its warmth. The soft smell of an aftershave I can’t quite place soothes me. I find it hard to thank him so just nod. He locks the Lemon and strokes the roof lovingly.

  ‘Jesus,’ I mumble.

  ‘You called,’ he laughs, walking ahead of me.

  Arrogant bugger and to think for just a minute I almost liked him. Ahead of us is the entrance to a large supermarket and an underground mall. I make a mental note of all the things I need and pray there are some decent designer shops. As we enter the market my Blackberry shrills. It is Simon. I answer it and watch as Christian the builder walks ahead of me into the store. He chats to an assistant and seems to point downstairs.

  ‘Oh darling, thank God you phoned,’ I say, pleased to hear Simon’s voice.

  ‘Annabel, where are you? Your flight will be landing soon but evidently you are not on it unless the rule regarding phones on planes has changed.’

  Oh God, he is very angry. Well, I can’t blame him. Christian is holding up the most obnoxious blouse and nodding at me. I shake my head and pull a face.

  ‘Annabel, are you there?’ fumes Simon.

  Why does he always have to sound like my father? Why can’t he call me Bels like all my friends? How many times do I have to tell him that only my father calls me Annabel? I turn my back on Christian the builder and try to picture Simon. You know, Simon on a good day, when he is very loving, sweet and kind. I remember the Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut in my handbag and break off a piece which I eagerly devour. I feel my blood sugar level rise and run a finger over my pimple.