Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Ouch. That would be lovely dear,’ she replies in a strangled voice.

  My father comes lumbering in carrying a very wet Candice. I watched horrified as the dog drips onto the lounge carpet.

  ‘I just gave her a nice bubble bath and hosed her down. She loved it,’ smiles Dad.

  I look at the shivering Candice and grimace as her tongue lolls from her panting mouth.

  ‘Please don’t let her drip all the over the floor, dear,’ gasps Mother as Petra yanks another sheet of wax.

  ‘Good Lord, Kitty, whatever you do, don't look out of the window, people will think it is Halloween,’ says Dad flatly as he walks into the kitchen. Candice flops wearily onto the kitchen floor. I step over her and fill the kettle. Petra comes out and quietly mixes together a green powder with warm water in one of my mother’s best dishes. Dad and I exchange wary glances but don’t say a word until she leaves.

  ‘Good God, what was that?’ I say laughing.

  ‘Every week for the past three years she has mixed that stuff and your mother never looks any different. Never have understood paying fifty pounds for agony you could just as easily inflict on yourself. I did offer to put grapefruit on her eyelids but it would not be the same, she said.’

  I stifle my laughter and take in the tea for my mother, who is now having her left leg waxed.

  ‘But France,’ she repeats. ‘Why would you want to go there? Especially after the terrible journey you had in France to get to your wedding? Oh good God, you’re not going to see that Christopher are you?’

  She gasps as Petra yanks at the wax strips.

  ‘Be a dear, Petra, could you do my nails while I talk to Bels?’

  I hand her tissues and she dabs at her watery eyes.

  ‘I understand why you shave,’ she whispers and we both quickly smile at Petra.

  ‘His name is Christian, and no, of course I am not going to see him, he is in New York,’ I say shoving a custard cream into my mouth.

  Mother holds an elegant hand out to a gum-chewing Petra, who proceeds to paint the nails in a blood-red polish. I pull a face.

  ‘Is it too dark?’ asks Mother worriedly.

  ‘Matches your Halloween look,’ comments my father turning on the television.

  ‘Not now dear, we are talking,’ sighs Mother.

  He calmly turns it off and walks back out into the garden. I explain how Olivia needed someone to house-sit. I do not mention that I had been there before but gush at how lovely the house is and how spectacular the views are. By the time I have finished with my graphic details, Mother is as excited as I am. I show her the dress and top I had bought in Monsoon and the new earrings from Camden market. Mother instructs me to phone at least three times a week and to send photos via email.

  ‘We will phone if Alex goes into labour,’ my mother shouts, as I climb into a cab.

  ‘You’ll probably hear the screams in France,’ smiles Dad.

  I wave enthusiastically before collapsing in the back of the taxi. Now is the time to get into holiday mode.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I decide to think French. On the way home from my parents I stop off at Virgin records and browse the French artists, finally buying a box-set of popular French albums and four French films. This time, I decide, I will be better equipped and look through the French language courses in Borders. After all, this time I won’t have Christian to depend on. I finally choose French for Dummies as they are out of stock of French for Idiots and Morons. Later that evening, while listening to one of the new CDs, I tell myself, it is time to start thinking about romance again. After all, I am going to romantic France aren’t I? I spend a leisurely amount of time in the shower, shaving my legs, and bikini line. I will forget Christian, after all he has obviously forgotten about me. Yes, I will go to France and hopefully make everyone happy by returning with a handsome beau in tow, although personally I would like to give men up for Lent, even though Lent is nine months away. I slowly dry my hair so it falls in gentle waves around my shoulders and then pack my suitcase and hand luggage. Finally, sitting with a hot mug of cocoa, I text Jack, apologising for not getting back to him sooner. I thank him for a lovely evening and the beautiful flowers but explain that I don’t think we are quite suited and that it is probably me still smarting from the break up with Simon. I figure a small lie does not hurt in the grand scheme of things. Everything now ready, I pull my legs under me and settle back to watch the film Moulin Rouge, thinking that this time tomorrow night I will be watching a French film at Treetops, and swallow some Quiet Life to ease the excitement.

  ***

  The taxi driver hoots and I wave quickly from my widow. I do a quick flat check and then lug my bags downstairs.

  ‘All right darling, where you off to then?’

  ‘France,’ I say airily, climbing into the back of the taxi. I fumble in my bag for my Blackberry and sigh heavily when I can’t find it. The cab driver goes to speak to me, but I hold up my hand.

  ‘Sorry, I have to make a phone call. Straight to the airport please,’ I say quickly and grab my phone which I dropped on the seat.

  He shrugs and climbs into the driver’s seat. I pretend to punch a number into my phone. I mean, don’t you just hate chatty cab drivers? They always talk nine-to-the-dozen, and you can never get a word in. Of course, while they are doing so they take you all around the houses and of course you don’t notice, because you are so busy chatting away about your holiday or your love life, that when they present you with the bill, you feel terrible mentioning how high it is, especially as they had been so nice and everything. Oh yes, I was not born on a banana boat, as my father says. I begin a pretend conversation on my phone.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful Gina, tell me all about it. Oh no it’s fine. I am in a cab on my way to the airport. We’ve got about twenty-five minutes, thirty tops.’ I quickly check the driver has heard me. I continue my pretend conversation for the full thirty minutes and end the call when I see the airport signs. The driver looks at me through his rear view mirror. Throwing the phone into my bag I run my fingers through my hair.

  ‘Oh good, we are here,’ I say, feigning surprise.

  He swerves into a parking space, switches off the engine and turns in his seat.

  ‘That was an impressive phone call.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘This is yours; you dropped it as you got in the cab. I tried to tell you, but…’ he says with a smile, gently throwing my phone into my lap.

  ‘Oh bugger. Whose phone did I just use then?’

  I feel myself blush as I pull the stranger’s Blackberry out of my bag, and hand it to him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  ‘It’s not a problem. I’m just impressed you made a thirty-minute call on a phone with a dead battery.’

  Shit, shit, shit. I hand him a twenty pound note, and waltz with my head held high into the airport. Feeling very cross with myself, I march to the check-in desk and swallow some Quiet Life as I queue. This time I have packed my creams and perfumes in my suitcase. I have no intention of giving more away to Jade and Tracey. My handbag is tidy this time around, and I find my passport easily. I glide through passport control and within minutes am standing back in the departure lounge where I first saw Christian. Unwillingly I find myself walking towards the Sushi bar stupidly thinking I will see him, dressed in the Marc Jacob jumper and stuffing his mouth full of Sushi. Of course, I don’t. In fact, the bar is practically empty compared to the day when I had first set eyes on him, and I begin to wonder if my journey across France in the Lemon had been a dream. I blink rapidly. I really must try and forget about him. Is the man ever going to leave my thoughts? I check the flight board. I see I have forty minutes before boarding and decide to go to the Internet café to Google Christian for the last time. As I type his name into the search bar, I tell myself that once I step on the aeroplane I will not think of him ever again. ‘News for Christian Lloyd’ pops up and I click again. A new post stares at me and I click
into it with a thudding heart. Oh God, has he married Claudine at last? I stare in frustration at the photo and short caption which is in German. I stare at a picture of a demolished building and then a photo of Christian, which I had seen on other sites. It would have to be in German wouldn’t it? I spend half of last night, learning sodding French, and when I desperately need to know another language it turns out to be bloody German. Would you believe it? I check the time on my Blackberry and then quickly copy the text and paste it into Google fish. I stare with fascinated horror. Oh my God this surely cannot be right.

  ‘In Munich today the building ‘Grampian house’ collapsed on Christian Lloyd as he donates thousands of euros to the school. Mr Lloyd was driven to the hospital in Munich.’

  I feel sure my heart will stop. Without a second’s thought, I scroll to Simon’s number in my Blackberry and wait with my hands clenched for him to answer, but his answerphone clicks on. Oh no, he is probably at the hospital in Munich with his parents. I leave a short message asking him to phone me as soon as possible. Oh my God, oh my God, I have to get to Munich. I print the page so that I can take the address of the accident with me and race to the information desk and garble my plight to the assistant.

  ‘Sorry, madam, did you say someone had died?’ she enquires frowning.

  ‘Oh God, they may have done. I am just praying you can get me on a flight to Munich. The building has collapsed,’ I sob, fumbling for my Rescue Remedy.

  ‘One moment, let me get you some water,’ she says softly.

  ‘No,’ I cry, ‘I don’t need water, just a flight to Munich.’

  I swallow five drops of Recue Remedy and wait for it to take effect. I watch impatiently as she looks on her computer.

  ‘I really don’t think we can offer you anything today…’ she says hesitantly.

  I let out a small sob, and she looks pityingly at me.

  ‘However, if it is an emergency, I should be able to find an airline with a flight.’

  ‘Oh it is, it is, a building has collapsed on my friend. It’s on the Internet, look, I have a copy of the page here.’

  I wave the printout at the clerk. Oh God, it sounds so tragic when I say it out loud. The passengers behind me gasp and one lays a comforting arm on my shoulder.

  ‘May I read the article?’ asks one man in the queue. I nod, feeling wretched.

  ‘His name is Christian Lloyd. The news is in German, it happened in Munich you see. You will have to Google fish the article.’

  He smiles kindly at me.

  ‘I speak German. Let me see.’ He reads silently and then looks quizzically at me. Oh no, what is it?

  ‘What does it say?’ I ask, holding my breath.

  ‘You Google fished this?’

  I nod. Oh God, is it worse than I first thought? He shakes his head. I feel faint.

  ‘Here it says, and I’ll translate for you, ‘In Munich today the building Grampian house was demolished as Christian Lloyd donates thousands of euros to the new school being built, on the site, to his specifications. I can’t see where the building fell on him. Google fish probably mixed the words up and picked the word collapsed for demolition.’

  Oh What! I stare with my mouth open as he reads on.

  ‘Ah, here, further down, is slightly more. Building demolished as Christian Lloyd donates thousands. Mr Lloyd made a generous donation to the children’s hospital in Munich, in addition to other charitable giving to the arts foundation for much needed restoration work.’

  ‘He is fine,’ he smiles.

  I continue staring at him. Oh buggety bugger, what an idiot. My phone rings, I mumble a thank you and turn away to take Simon’s call. Shit, shit.

  ‘Hello?’ I say softly, feeling the other passenger’s eyes on me.

  ‘Annabel, what’s wrong? You sounded frantic on my voicemail.’

  Oh shit and double shit, what the hell do I say?

  ‘I’m at the airport, on my way to France, and I suddenly got worried….’ I say flapping around in my head for an excuse.

  ‘Worried? What are you worried about?’ he replies, doubt in his voice.

  ‘I think I left the cooker on, can you get my mum to check? I can’t get hold of her,’ I lie and hear a woman snigger behind me. Oh, this has to be the most embarrassing thing ever. Simon scoffs.

  ‘You hardly use the thing, so I doubt you’ve left it on and…’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say loudly. ‘I must go, they’re calling my flight.’

  I hang up, throw the phone into my bag and race to the flight board. Jesus, the gate is about to close. I run to the boarding gate like an Olympic sprinter and arrive panting and with perspiration running down my face. I hand over my boarding pass and get on the plane where I am greeted by hostile stares from the other passengers. I quickly take my seat and hunch down. Note to self: have nothing to do with men while on holiday and never ever think of Christian Lloyd again. The man is having a whale of a time, knocking down buildings, erecting new ones, donating money to all and sundry and probably planning a wedding. I don’t imagine he has given me a second thought. What a bastard. I decide from this day forth I shall dislike him intensely and I will not give him the time of day if he should contact me. Depressingly, however, I have to admit that the chances of him ever contacting me are decidedly slim. I look enviously at the Hello magazine that the girl next to me is reading and miserably pull out the in-flight magazine from the holder in front of me. Right, it is time to start my holiday with some duty-free perfume, a glass of wine and some peanuts, and oh yes, up yours Christian Lloyd.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I arrive in France feeling quite heady. Being back at an airport that looks uncannily like the airport at Chatillon-Sur-Seine where I had seen Christian eating croissants and jam makes me feel very strange indeed. I stop close to a café and inhale the coffee aroma that emanates from it. I imagine I hear his mocking laugh but when I open my eyes I see it is a stranger walking out of the café with his girlfriend. I realise he does not sound in the least like Christian. With my head dizzy from memories I contemplate my holiday. Two whole weeks in Côte d'Azur and I find myself feeling rather nervous. The thought of eating alone in the French restaurants is a bit daunting, but as I leave the airport and walk outside into the sunshine I feel better. Claude meets me with a smile and a warm handshake, and I am greatly relieved when he speaks to me in English.

  ‘Welcome to Côte d'Azur, you have been to France before, oui?’

  I allow him to take my laptop and hand luggage, and lead me to the small Fiat in the car park.

  ‘I came to France when I was a child, but I passed through Côte d'Azur a few weeks ago,’ I answer, while squeezing into the Fiat as elegantly as I can. Claude starts the car, and we shoot off immediately. I grasp the side of my seat tightly while fumbling to fasten my seat belt with my other hand. I quickly check there are airbags.

  ‘I need to fasten my… Oh God,’ I scream as the car mounts the pavement to avoid a cyclist. An old man walking his dog shakes his fist at us. I jump as Claude hits the horn. Feeling myself start to sweat, I hastily click the seat belt on and grasp my seat with both hands. I fight an impulse to squeal each time he overtakes. I allow myself a quick glance at the speedometer and feel quite faint.

  ‘You like shopping?’ he asks, pushing his hand onto the car’s horn again. I jump at the sound and he smiles.

  ‘You very nervous,’ he observes.

  Christ, did he say nervous? The man is a lunatic, and I am scared shitless.

  ‘Erm, yes,’ I reply, not taking my eyes off the road. ‘I like shopping. I like driving slow too, so I can look at all the sights.’

  He obviously does not hear the driving slow comment as the car picks up speed as we join the main road. I fight an overwhelming urge to scream.

  ‘I hate cities, they make me, and how you say in English, claustrophobic? I get out as quick as I can.’

  Oh isn’t that just my luck.

  ‘I give you my daughter number.
She knows the best shops for clothes and will enjoy taking you.’

  Taking one hand off the steering wheel he leans forward to the dashboard for his mobile phone. I gasp as a pheasant runs out in front of us. He swerves expertly while glancing at the phone.

  ‘Here, you write it down. Her name is Camille.’ He passes the phone to me. I reach out for it without taking my eyes off the road. Finally, he takes a sharp left and slows down. I let out a very audible sigh of relief. The scenery looks familiar and my stomach somersaults as I remember the Lemon travelling along these roads. I find myself wondering what happened to the Lemon. Did it get repaired, or did Christian just abandon it? I shake the thoughts from my head and copy Camille’s number into my Blackberry. The views are stunning, and as we are driving at a more sedate pace I can enjoy them without my stomach churning. It takes close on fifty minutes to reach Treetops. Hard as I try not to remember my visit with Christian, the memory flashes with crystal clarity into my head. We pull up sharply and I am thrown forward, banging my hand on the dashboard. Claude retrieves my bags from the boot while I fetch the key. It is exactly where Olivia said it would be. I replace the lid on the jar and walk towards the house where Claude is waiting. The house is even more magnificent in the daytime and I decide to marvel at it after Claude has left. He carefully places my bags in the hall and hands me a small card.

  ‘My phone number, you phone if you need anything, okay? The town, Côte d'Azur, is twenty minute from here. You have map?’

  I nod enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh yes, I brought one with me. Thank you.’

  I stand outside and stare in awe at the house. It really is a giant-sized tree house and to think I thought Christian was a builder. Oh what an insult that had been. Now, I cannot even tell him what a great architect he is. I shake my head and walk into the house. Lumbering upstairs with my luggage I avoid the room Christian and I had stayed in and head for the master bedroom as Olivia had instructed. A four-poster bed dominates the room and I resist the urge to dive straight onto it. I study the artwork on the walls and understand why Olivia and Robin were nervous to leave the house empty. A note lies on the bed which is addressed to me. It is from Olivia. ‘Bels, welcome. We hope your flight was good. We have left two bottles of wine in the kitchen for you and fresh bread in the bread bin. Enjoy and have a wonderful stay, all our love Olivia and Robin.’ I check there is a lock on the bedroom door and sigh. I shall feel very safe in this room. I unpack, and then go downstairs to look around. I open the fridge for a peek inside.