Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Oh yes we did,’ I lie again. ‘We found a little bed and breakfast actually, very quaint.’

  ‘Really, whereabouts?’

  Whereabouts? What does he mean whereabouts?

  ‘In the Provence area,’ I say forcing a yawn.

  ‘Provence? What are you doing there, surely that’s a bit out of your way?’

  Oh sod it.

  ‘Oh, I’d better go, it’s my turn for the bathroom,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Oh right. Okay, good.’ He sounds flustered.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that Kaz is here and she said to tell you that the dress has been collected, and it’s all okay. What time do you think you will get here tomorrow?’

  I struggle to stop my speech from slurring.

  ‘I’m not sure. I will phone you when I get near.’

  He seems happy with this and, after a few minutes, I hang up and wander into the kitchen where Flora and Gerard are saying their goodbyes. After seeing them off Olivia shows us to our room.

  ‘I’ll fetch our bags darling,’ winks Christian. I stare at the king-size bed and look around for a couch. There isn’t one. How can Olivia and Robin have such a fantastic house with a fantastic spare bedroom, with an equally fantastic bed and not have a bloody fantastic couch?

  ‘How can there not be a couch,’ I moan, ‘I can’t sleep with him.’

  I turn to see Olivia at the door with the coffee. I bite my lip.

  ‘He snores when he has been drinking,’ I say quickly.

  Christian steps past us carrying the supermarket carrier bags.

  ‘Oh yes, like a pig I do. She always sleeps on the couch when I snore. I put our bits in these bags darling and left our suitcase in the car, is that okay?’ He drops the bag onto my feet and I stifle a groan. What a bastard. He takes the coffees gratefully. Olivia stands uncertainly in the doorway and Christian hugs her.

  ‘It will be fine,’ he laughs. ‘She snores louder than me when she is drunk.’

  I try to laugh. Olivia gently closes the door and I grab my toothbrush from the bag, and storm into the bathroom. I fumble around in the cupboard under the sink for some toothpaste.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve let this happen,’ I say while throwing things onto the floor.

  ‘What did you say?’ He has followed me into the bathroom. ‘By the way, you were awfully good when you were doing your Titanic charade. Better than Kate Winslet, I thought.’

  He hands me a travel-size tube of Colgate. Why am I not surprised he has come prepared?

  He pushes his toothbrush under the tap as I throw water at him.

  ‘Bog off.’

  ‘Ha, well I am in the right place to bog off. Now, as much as it pains me to do this, we have to share that bed.’

  I spit out the toothpaste.

  ‘We can’t,’ I stutter.

  ‘We have no choice.’

  I walk into the bedroom.

  ‘Of course if you were a gentleman you would let me have the bed.’

  He laughs and takes a petit four from a bag. Honestly does this man ever stop eating?

  ‘I wish you would stop eating. I feel like I gain weight just watching you,’ I say trying to cover my blushes.

  `‘Well, if you were a gentlewoman you would let me have the bed, and by the way, your karaoke… It was, how can I put it? It was… painful, oh it was so painful.’ He bites into a macaroon and grins.

  I quickly snatch it from him.

  ‘It has almonds in it, you can’t eat that.’

  He rushes to the bathroom and I shamefully finish the macaroon myself. Oh God, that’s another pound on my hips. I picture my wedding being billed as ‘My Big Fat Italian Wedding’ and shudder. He returns from the bathroom and suggests we put something in the middle of the bed. I am so tired I really don’t have the energy to argue with him. I rummage through the carrier bags for a T-shirt and dive back into the bathroom. I stare at my face in the mirror and realise I have to remove all my make-up. God, I can’t let him see me without my mascara. I debate which would be worse, with the mascara now and panda eyes in the morning, or bare eyes now and in the morning. Whichever way it goes they are both totally dire. I choose to remove it, and clean my face of all make-up. I don the T-shirt and cover it with the towelling robe that is hanging on the door. I return to the bedroom and look at him shyly. He takes one look at my face and makes a sign of the cross with his fingers.

  ‘Oh no, she is make-up-less.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I should have let you choke on that macaroon,’ I hiss, climbing into the bed which feels lovely. I pull the heavy quilt over me and smell lavender. To my alarm, the moment I lay flat my head spins. God, I am so drunk. I look to my clothes that I left scattered on the floor and wonder if should fold them. Before I can make a decision he is back from the bathroom with an armful of clothes which he throws on the floor next to mine. Images of Simon neatly folding his underpants flash through my mind. The mattress moves beneath me and I find myself shifting further from the middle of the bed. I have avoided all eye contact with him, in fact, when he emerged from the bathroom I kept my eyes focused on the painting opposite the bed as though studying it when the truth is I can barely see it as my vision is so blurred. I feel the pillows plonked at the side of me.

  ‘Right, how is that? I don’t think either one of us is in danger of rolling over and suffocating the other, do you?’

  ‘Suffocation is too good for you,’ I scoff as he pulls at the duvet.

  ‘Charming, it is actually thanks to me that you have got this far.’

  I sigh.

  ‘Yes, well, that is precisely my point.’

  He bangs his pillow several times, and I fight an urge to groan.

  ‘Yup, well goodnight. You were good fun tonight by the way.’

  The last remark is said so quietly I barely hear him and then he clicks off the bedside lamp and I am left in darkness with my thoughts. Oh God it is terrifying, worse than being alone with Freddy Kruger. Once I hear his steady breathing, I relax. Don’t you just hate night time? Every negative thought I have ever had I swear has come in the early hours of the morning. I force myself to think of Simon, and the wedding, but this makes my stomach churn. I concentrate on making my body relax by telling my muscles to relax and let go, but to no avail. After what feels like an eternity I am still awake. I try Mum’s deep-breathing technique but no luck. Christian’s steady breathing is beginning to irritate me. Bloody men, why is it they can always drop off to sleep so easily? I count sheep, I sing soothing songs in my head but nothing works. I am so tense that I feel I may spring from the bed at any given moment. I cannot possibly sleep in this bed with another man beside me. My whole marriage is at stake, my whole life in fact. I tense and then release each of the muscles in my body. This seems to have the desired effect. I feel myself becoming drowsy. I tighten my calf muscle and slowly release it and, oh God, I have cramp. Oh shit, the pain is excruciating.

  ‘Oh my God, shit, shit…’ I attempt to groan quietly and throw the quilt off. I am pulling frantically at my leg when he stirs. The pain is now unbearable.

  The light is snapped on and I am in so much agony I really couldn’t care what he sees.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I moan, kicking my leg out and hitting him on the shoulder. He yelps and jumps from the bed.

  ‘Pull,’ I cry.

  ‘Is this some bedtime ritual of yours?’ he snaps unsympathetically.

  I squint at his black and yellow Simpsons underpants.

  ‘Oh, your underpants are blinding me,’ I groan. ‘I’ve got cramp, oh God the pain.’

  I throw my leg wantonly towards him. He looks at it with distaste for a second and then pulls it. I sigh with grateful relief.

  ‘If it’s cramp shouldn’t you stand up and try to drink some water?’

  ‘Yes, great advice but for now can you just pull it a bit harder,’ I snap.

  To my horror he grabs my foot with both hands and yanks. He pulls it so bloody
hard that I feel myself slide down the bed and land with a thump onto the floor, my bottom stinging. I look to Christian who lies against the dressing table panting and I burst out laughing. He signals me to keep quiet and attempts to get up but loses his balance and falls down again, which sets me off laughing even more. I pull the sweatshirt over my knees and wipe my eyes with my hand. . ‘You said to pull,’ he says grinning.

  ‘Yes but not my bloody leg off,’ I reply blowing my nose and climbing back into the bed.

  He hands me a glass of water.

  ‘Here, drink. I really do not want to be manhandling your anatomy for the rest of the night.’

  ‘Huh, you should be so lucky,’ I retort and blush immediately.

  He turns off the light and within minutes he is sleeping soundly again.

  I let out a soft sigh and tell myself firmly that this man is not for me. I have a wonderful, sensible fiancé, and my days of being with bad men like Christian are well and truly over. I am now a level-headed thirty-year-old woman. I remind myself that Christian might be fun for the moment, but an on-going future with someone like him only spells trouble. I make a mental list of all the reasons why I should not be with such a man. First I must not forget he is just an upper-class builder with upper-class friends. He is probably in debt up to his eyeballs and who knows who he owes money to. He is reckless, dangerous and not in the least bit responsible. This is not serendipity, for goodness sake. On that final thought I fall asleep and dream of my fairy-tale wedding in Rome.

  I wake to the sound of birds singing and a ray of sunlight which has managed to push through a gap in the curtains. If I had not also woken up with the mother of all hangovers I may have enjoyed the lovely bright morning. I turn to Christian who has his head under a pillow and the duvet pulled up high. I climb quietly from the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. After all, the last thing we both need is any embarrassment and let’s face it men just can’t control what happens in the morning, now can they? I shudder at the thought and quickly dress. Olivia is tidying up when I enter the kitchen. She greets me with a smile and an offer of coffee which I accept gratefully. I offer to help with the clearing up but she refuses.

  ‘No, Martha our housekeeper will be here shortly. I just wanted a quick tidy up. So, you’re getting married soon?’ she says, taking me by surprise.

  I sigh.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow in fact.’

  She gasps and puts her cup down.

  ‘What? So soon, but I thought it was at the end of the year you were getting married.’

  Shit, of course, she obviously means Christian and Claudine. They are getting married? Hell, I hadn’t even really thought about that. I guess if they are engaged, they will be getting married. I open my mouth to correct my error, and before I know what I am doing I am blurting out the truth, and what a relief it feels.

  ‘Actually, I am not Claudine.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she says triumphantly.

  Oh my God, what does she mean? She puts a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Oh Lord, sorry about the bed. Was it all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, Christian was the perfect gentleman, but how did you guess?’

  ‘It was your American accent, or at least the lack of your American accent,’ she laughs. ‘Also, your ring gave it away. I said to Robin it just isn’t a Christian ring.’

  I try not to look crestfallen, and she puts her hand over mine.

  ‘Oh don’t misunderstand me. Your ring is just fantastic. It looks really brilliant, but I just knew it would not be the kind of ring that Christian would have gone for and that meant you couldn’t be the kind of woman he goes for. I knew it. Christian just wouldn’t buy a garish ring.’

  No, he probably couldn’t afford one, I think, trying to ignore my hurt feelings. My ring is garish? I look at the single solitaire in its white gold filigree encasing. Simon had had it made to his own specifications in Hatton Garden. Admittedly, it would have been nice to have chosen my own ring, but all my friends had said how romantic it was that Simon had chosen the ring for me, and what does she mean I am not the type of woman Christian goes for?

  ‘We both missed the flight and I need to get to Rome, for my wedding actually, and Christian has to be in Rome for… So we decided to travel together. So what kind of woman does he go for?’ I find myself asking and flush.

  She looks about to answer me when at that moment Robin bounces in. Talk about bad timing, although I hated myself for even asking. He hugs me warmly.

  ‘Morning Claudine. Did you sleep okay?’

  For so many reasons I want to be Claudine. I feel sad when I realise I will never see Robin and Olivia again. If I am totally truthful they are not the kind of people Simon would have for friends. Simon and I do not play twister, and we certainly do not sing along to a karaoke machine. Or perhaps I should say Simon doesn’t. I must stop thinking all these negative thoughts about my future husband, what is wrong with me? I actually hate karaoke and always cringe at those silly people who do it, and as for charades… I know if I had been sober I would not have gone within a foot of the karaoke. No, these people and Christian are all wrong for me. I accept the toast that Olivia is offering and reach out for the jam. I stop with my hand in mid-air. Stop, stop now, says an inner voice, your stomach will soon resemble a Michelin tyre if you continue eating like this. I ponder thoughts of a girdle and wonder if Mum is in Rome yet and whether she can pop out and get me a few items, like a pair of Bridget Jones hold-it-all-in-knickers, just so I can do up the dress. Oh shit, it will be just my luck that it won’t zip up. Well, maybe if the dress doesn’t fit I won’t have to get married. For God’s sake what is wrong with me? I have to get married. I have a joint mortgage now, and an appointment at the bank to arrange a joint account. Oh sod a dog I don’t want to be joint. I just want to be single. I reach out desperately for the Nutella and spoon a large dollop onto my toast and wonder what kind of clothes they sell in Evans, apart from the big ones, of course. I need a sugar boost I tell myself as I twist my ring round so that the offending stone cannot be seen.

  ‘Fine thanks,’ I answer Robin with a weak smile.

  ‘Is the old boy up?’ he asks and before I can answer he is bounding up the stairs calling Christian.

  ‘I didn’t choose the ring,’ I say defensively. ‘So what type of woman does he go for?’

  ‘Well…’ she begins but I cut her short.

  ‘No, I don’t want to know, I should not have even asked.’

  She smiles and walks round to give me a hug.

  ‘I will always be glad that Christian brought you and not Claudine, and I won’t say a word.’

  Robin bounces back in to the kitchen like an excited child.

  ‘We’re going for a spin in the Lemon.’

  He rushes out for the can of petrol, and I fight a desire to scream. The bloody Lemon will be the sodding death of me. That car has been nothing but trouble since we left the airport.

  ‘Christian wants you, he said there is something on the TV you would like.’ What? I hate TV, what is Christian up to now? I excuse myself and head back upstairs and open the door slowly, just in case he is naked, as that really would be the end, I don’t think I would survive that somehow.

  ‘Hello,’ I say loudly, while cautiously walking in. I stroll past the television and stand by the bathroom door where I can hear the sound of splashing water. I knock softly.

  ‘Are you decent?’ I ask quietly, not wanting Robin to hear me.

  ‘No, I don’t think I have ever been actually, but I am dressed if that’s what you mean.’

  I feel my blood boil and push the door open to see him shaving.

  ‘Ah, morning. Did you see Robin?’ he asks, casually leaning back for a towel. ‘You should look at the news, you’re all over it.’

  He yawns and then smiles at me, his eyes sparkling. I stare at him. He leads me back into the bedroom and sits me gently on the bed in front of the television where a video of me emptying the garage till and taking the
customers’ purses is splashed all over the screen.

  ‘You’re famous. They are calling you Madame Hood.’

  I fall back down onto the bed as my legs give way.

  ‘Oh my God, do something, phone someone. I can’t be a criminal.’

  He walks back into the bathroom.

  ‘It seems that the English tourist told the police you were some kind of female Robin Hood, you know, taking from the rich to give to the poor,’ he shouts. ‘The poor of France love you, but apparently you have kidnapped me, ha, now that is funny.’

  Oh goodness, this cannot be happening. I feel my head spin and feel sure I am going to faint.

  ‘I think I am going to pass out,’ I moan dropping my head into my hands.

  He walks back in smiling.

  ‘Oh you’re all right.’

  So much for the overdose on sympathy, I make a mental note not to go down with malaria while with him. I stare at the photos splashed across the screen.

  ‘I expect they will be all over the front page of the newspapers,’ he laughs and I fight the urge to hit him.

  ‘Oh God,’ I groan.

  He sits beside me and put his arm on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s not that bad. They just want to question you. It will probably soon blow over. The thing is, we could be held up for days if you do hand yourself in so to speak.’

  ‘Hand myself in, hand myself in, what are you saying? I haven’t done anything, in fact, you did more. You were the one telling me to fetch their wallets and purses. They should be photos of you,’ I explode pulling his hand off my shoulder. ‘Just because you spent the night with me, it does not mean you can touch me. Don’t touch me,’ I snap angrily.

  He holds both hands up.

  ‘Okay, okay, keep your knickers on. All I am saying is that we should try and cross into Italy soon as possible. That is all I am saying. The pictures won’t be on the front page, I was only joking about that.’

  I grit my teeth. To think just a few minutes ago I was asking what type of woman he goes for. He is nothing but a reckless irritating arsehole. I turn my face away from the television with another moan.