Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘I not know a Chris John,’ she says after thinking deeply.

  ‘No, Christian, it’s all one word,’ I correct.

  She shakes her head again. I wait while she asks several of the customers but no one has heard of him. I thank her and hobble up the step.

  ‘I can ask my father, he takes the post to everyone.’

  I stop with my hand on the door. Bingo, at last. Surely if Christian lives nearby, Greta’s father will know.

  ‘Does he deliver outside the hamlet?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Yes, it takes him all day.’

  I limp back down the step and offer her my phone number. Perhaps the yellow Citroën I saw yesterday was the Lemon, and perhaps Christian is in France and not building schools and hospitals in Munich after all, well it’s worth a try.

  ‘Please call me if he knows him. It is very important that I get in touch with Christian Lloyd.’

  She looks at the number keenly and smiles.

  ‘I’m sure if he lives here my father will know, but I don’t think he does. Maybe you have wrong town?’

  I think maybe I have the wrong country. She waves as I start the long walk back to the car.

  ‘Blind Date is on tonight, you watch it,’ she calls.

  I nod and walk miserably back to the car. What a fool I am. It most likely had not been the Lemon that I saw. It is obvious no one has ever heard of Christian. I drive back feeling decidedly fed up and very determined that I shall not allow men into my life for a very long time. I shall remain a spinster, read all Jane Austen’s novels and learn how to knit. I won’t have to worry about pleasing a man because there won’t be one. Of course, I think cheerfully, this means I can eat as much chocolate as I like. Hobnob overdose, the chocolate ones, here I come. I stop and buy several boxes of chocolates and a family bag of popcorn on the way home. After all, a little bit of comfort eating does one the world of good. Armed with the warm feeling my chocolate feast shop had produced, I step into Treetops saying the words ‘I don’t need a man’ over and over again. I open a bottle of wine, make myself a large cheese sandwich and peel an avocado. I huddle on one of the long couches, turn the TV on and surround myself with chocolate and wine. After the second glass I attempt to phone Christian, but hang up before it rings. Surely if he really wanted to talk to me, he would have phoned again. After all, he did say he would. Damn him, why did he even phone at all? I phone Justin instead, hiccupping and tearful.

  ‘Sweetie, what on earth is wrong?’ he asks anxiously.

  The first of a two-hour Blind Date marathon has begun and I am feeling more desolate than ever.

  ‘I thought I saw the Lemon, but it was just another Citroën,’ I hiccup with my mouth full of chocolate. ‘I came here to forget him, but everywhere I look I am reminded of him.’

  ‘Oh honey. It’s never too late you know, why don’t you phone Simon?’

  Simon? I am stunned into silence and all that can be heard is a dubbed Cilla, who doesn’t sound like Cilla at all. How can Greta possibly enjoy this rubbish? It’s bad enough when I know what is being said, but this is pitiful. All I can think of is that if Christian Lloyd was a croissant I would be the jam because I want to be all over him. A tear splashes into my wine and I sniff loudly.

  ‘Why does everyone talk about Simon? Why would I want to phone him?’

  I rack my brains to try and understand.

  ‘Ah, well, he was the one you were going to marry, so I just assumed… I’m gay darling, what the hell do I know?’

  ‘I wish I were gay,’ I mutter, studying the bruise on my toe.

  Justin laughs merrily.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I do too,’ I say rummaging through the chocolates for a praline, only to realise I have eaten them all and there are only the toffee ones left. ‘I wouldn’t have to worry about men anymore. I would have mad passionate sex with every woman I see and I wouldn’t even have to think about contraception.’

  I hug a cushion, knock back more of the wine and try to remember who I had phoned.

  ‘So, who are we talking about sweetie if it isn’t Simon?’

  God it’s hot in the house. I look to the window as though willing it to open.

  ‘I mean, he may have phoned but I wouldn’t know. He said he would, but he hasn’t. I can’t phone him can I? To make things worse they don’t have 1471 here, or if they do, it doesn’t work on this phone. I don’t normally like 1471 but it is awful when you haven’t got it, do you know what I mean?’ I lean over to turn the TV down, and almost fall off the couch. I put my Blackberry down for a second and punch 1471 into the house phone only to get an unavailable tone. I pick up the mobile again.

  ‘No, it does not work,’ I shout into the mouthpiece. ‘Perhaps I should try 141.’

  ‘No sweetie. That is when you don’t want people to know that you are calling them.’

  That doesn’t make sense.

  ‘But, why would I call them if I don’t want them to know I am calling them? That’s silly,’ I scoff.

  ‘Listen darling, if it’s not Simon we’re talking about, who is it?

  ‘Simon?’ I bellow. Why on earth does everyone keep talking about Simon?

  ‘It’s…’ I falter. Who the hell am I talking about? I close my eyes and the room spins. I snap them open and fumble for the chocolate.

  ‘Marc Jacob,’ I shrill excitedly, as the Sushi bar memory launches itself at me.

  I look at the window again and think it might be quite nice to hang my head out of it.

  ‘I need some air,’ I say struggling to get up and falling over my shoes.

  ‘Bels, is this about that guy, Christian?’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes.’

  The window is starting to resemble a prison break out and I fall exhausted back onto the couch.

  ‘He doesn’t love me either. He is probably snoozy woozying Claudine as we speak. No one loves me. Who am I going to have dinner with when I get home?’

  ‘What about that guy Johnnie that you were seeing last year? He seemed quite nice.’

  I snort.

  ‘Our whole romance became a series of twitter updates. I was nothing but a twit to him.’

  ‘I think you mean tweet darling,’ he laughs.

  ‘Bloody insult that is all I remember.’

  ‘Bels, why don’t you go to bed?’

  Hmmm, sounds like a good idea. I click the TV off.

  ‘I think I will, thanks for phoning Jus.’

  I click the Blackberry off and pile cushions on the couch. The window seems a million miles away, and I abandon all plans to open it and instead fall back with a sigh onto the cushions. I stare at my toenails and then my fingernails. Maybe, I will have a manicure tomorrow I think dreamily before sitting bolt upright. Oh hell, is that an age spot on my hand? I stare at the small brown mark on the back of my hand, willing it to go. Oh good God, this is absolutely dire. Never mind a manicure, it is probably a sodding facelift I need. I pull the small vanity mirror that Mother had bought me for Christmas from my bag and study my face for other brown marks. I breathe a sigh of relief after not finding any but feel somewhat alarmed at the sight of crow’s feet around my eyes. I throw my head back onto the cushions and sob. Oh Jesus, what am I to do? I am seriously close to my sell-by-date and shall soon be on the shelf and, let’s face it, who is ever interested in out of date goods? I guess this means I don’t have time to give up men. The brown spot beckons me and I study it again, realising it is chocolate. I lick it off, pop two painkillers with the wine and flop back on the cushions, thinking I really should phone Simon tomorrow. The last thing I remember is deleting Christian’s phone number and slumping onto the bed.

  Chapter Thirty

  I wake up the following morning with a strange craving for fish and chips which seems very odd, but make do with a bowl of muesli. I eat it with some very odd-flavoured yogurt and check the bottle that contains the painkillers and see that they should not be mixed with alcohol. Perhaps that explains
my strange memories of last night. I decide I will phone Simon after showering and overdosing on coffee in the hope that my head will be a bit clearer by then. Christ, how much did I drink last night? And what the hell did I say to Justin? Heavens, those pills must be strong. A very hazy memory of announcing that I wished I was gay haunts me. I now have nothing but an overwhelming urge to soak in a large bath full of lavender essential oil, with an ice pack on my head and a copy of Hello magazine, but have neither oil nor magazine. It is pissing down with rain to top it all, so I certainly won’t be sitting on the balcony this morning. Instead, I force myself into the shower and huddle over another cup of coffee while recovering from the exertion. My laptop sits open on the kitchen table and I lazily log into my Facebook account. I scroll down my profile page and almost faint.

  ‘Annabel Lewis and Claudine Williams are now friends’

  What! Claudine accepted my friend request? Oh God, I vaguely remember requesting it on my phone after my third glass of wine. My heart palpitates and I reach for the Rescue Remedy. I don’t click into her page until I have had almost half a bottle of the stuff. I stare at her profile picture and then read her status, which totally floors me.

  ‘Four sleeps to go and then the big day.’

  Oh my God, what big day? I scroll further down to read some of the messages on her wall.

  ‘Good luck Claudine, sorry we can’t be there but it will be great.’

  ‘Can’t wait to be with you on your big day.’

  ‘Don’t be nervous. Remember, it will be a once in a lifetime day.’

  I slam the laptop lid down and exhale. Oh my God, Oh my God, she is getting married. What else can it mean? What a lying, deceiving bastard. To think he even kissed me. My God, I ought to go there and stand up when they ask that question, you know the one, when you have to speak now or forever hold your peace and all that rubbish. He is a lying deceiving, two-timing, shagging bastard is what I will say. I lift the laptop lid and click into her photo albums and sigh with relief five minutes later when I do not find any of her with Christian. If she is marrying him then I have four days to stop it. Good Lord, what am I saying? Even Julia Roberts didn’t manage that in My Best Friend’s Wedding, so I’ve no chance. My phone pings, it is a text from Mum. Oh wonderful.

  Hello darling, your father and I are just off to a garden party at the Johnsons’. You remember them don’t you? You stole apples from their garden once when you were scrubbing. Their son just got divorced. His wife was one of those German Greer women, burning her bra and all sorts. Turns out she was a lesbian by all accounts, too awful for words. It must have been frightful for him. I think you would like him. Write soon. X

  Oh no, that’s all I need. I quickly answer.

  France is great apart from the rain. It’s Germaine Greer by the way and I was scrumping not scrubbing and I really don’t want to go out with someone who is emotionally scarred from having a lesbian wife thank you very much. Love you both. X

  I look again at Claudine’s profile, annoyed that she doesn’t say if she is in a relationship. I put the lid down and phone Simon. I tip out some Quiet Life while I wait for him to answer. Perhaps I will get his voicemail and I can offer to meet him when I get home.

  ‘Simon Lloyd,’ he barks making me jump and drop the Quiet Life bottle.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say meekly.

  ‘I’m in a meeting,’ he says brusquely.

  I feel myself go all timid and am about to stammer a reply when he speaks again.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll go outside.’

  I hear a murmur of voices and chew the inside of my lip nervously.

  ‘Did you see that I had called you?’ he asks gruffly a few seconds later.

  ‘I tried to call you back but signal is really bad here,’ I lie.

  ‘I just wanted to say that if you wanted to try again…’

  ‘Try again?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes, try again…’

  ‘Why would I want to try again when I have already tried?’ I ask, feeling like we are stuck in a maze.

  ‘Well, you phoned about leaving the cooker on,’ he says raising his voice slightly.

  ‘But I didn’t leave it on.’

  ‘I know, and I know that you know I know.’

  Jesus Christ, do I need a Peter Piper picked a pickled pepper conversation when nursing a hangover?

  ‘You know I know what?’ I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  He sighs.

  ‘That I know you know.’

  ‘I know you know that I know, sodding what though?’ I shout.

  ‘That you want us to get back together. I know that is why you phoned and pretended you had left the cooker on.’

  I drop my head in my hands and rub my eyes. Oh this surely is not happening. Why did I ever phone him in the first place?

  ‘Oh Simon, it really isn’t like that. I thought you liked Kaz.’

  There is silence and for a second I think we have been cut off.

  ‘But you sounded desperate to talk to me. The thing is I do like Kaz and I think she likes me but I feel I owe it to you to give it another shot if that is what you want…’

  ‘Simon,’ I try to break in.

  ‘I’m attending a wedding in France in a couple of days. We could chat then if you like?’

  Oh my God, so Christian is marrying Claudine, and here in France. What a bastard to get married when I am here. Honestly, like he hasn’t hurt me enough. Why have they suddenly decided to get married? I bet she’s pregnant. Oh no, this just gets worse.

  ‘I really did think I had left the cooker on,’ I lie.

  I can see him nodding in the way that he does.

  ‘You don’t mind me seeing Kaz?’

  I exhale.

  ‘No, I am very happy for you. Really I am.’

  I hear someone call his name.

  ‘Ah, I’m needed, I should go. Glad we got that sorted though. By the way, did you know that Christian is in France?’

  I struggle to stop my voice from shaking.

  ‘Oh really, no I didn’t know,’ I answer trying to sound casual.

  ‘He’s doing a place up in Provence. Kaz said you’re staying somewhere in Provence?’

  Ask him now for goodness sake, and put yourself out of this misery.

  ‘Your trip, is it for…’ I begin.

  ‘I’ve got to go, millions of dollars rest on it. You know how it is. Have a great holiday. I’m glad we had this chat.’

  Then he is gone and I never got to ask if it was Christian’s wedding he was attending. Damn it. What a disaster. I take a choc-ice from the freezer and devour it while driving to the patisserie in Cote de Mont. I will have lunch there and take a walk to see if I recognise anything. Christian’s house can’t be that far away. Surely, something will look familiar. Greta greets me with a wide smile. The patisserie is busy and the smell of coffee and warm bread makes me hungry.

  ‘I have news for you. I was going to phone you after lunch. Here you sit.’

  She pulls a chair out at a small table by the window. I sit down gratefully and study the menu. All around me are couples. Is everyone married but me? Even Christian is getting married it seems. I expect most of the women here are expecting babies, or have already punched out a couple while I plod along heading towards my forties, crashing into one dysfunctional relationship after another. God, I am falling apart. My ex is seeing my best friend and they will probably marry each other, and ask me to be maid of honour. The man I love is marrying someone else and has probably forgotten that I even exist. My mother is trying to match me up with every medallion man in sight and Justin thinks I want to be gay.

  ‘What would you like?’ Greta breaks into my thoughts.

  ‘I’ll have the chicken pesto pasta please. Could I have a coffee?’

  She sits opposite me with her pad.

  ‘I will bring a pastry with the coffee. A macaroon maybe, but first I have to tell you that I know the man you asked me about. Of course, I didn’t reali
se until I spoke to my father that you meant Chris.’

  ‘Chris,’ I echo and stare at her. She seems unaware of my stare and animatedly describes how she had asked her father about an Englishman named Christian Lloyd, and how for a moment even he did not know who she was talking about. She laughs loudly at this. I seem unable to find my voice. It seems I have finally discovered that Christian is here in France and I am stupidly struck dumb. She points to the hill opposite the patisserie.

  ‘We’ve been invited to the petite reception. I’m very excited.’

  ‘Reception,’ I echo finding my voice.

  ‘That is why you are here, isn’t it, for the party?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I answer forlornly as I remember Claudine’s Facebook status.

  I watch as she draws directions for me. I feel my stomach churn. Finally, I know where he is and I really don’t know if I have the courage to see him. I eat my chicken thoughtfully and with excitement rippling through my body, I pay the bill and climb into the car. I drive to the top of the hill and turn left and recognise the beautiful views. Lavender fields are on both sides and I inhale the fragrance deeply in the hope it will relax me but nothing seems to calm my quivering body. Pushing my sunglasses onto my head I open the window. The instructions tell me to take a sharp left and the driveway that Christian had walked me down comes into view. I gasp and brake suddenly. The house sits about a hundred yards from me and has been magically transformed. The porch he had so lovingly talked about now gleams in the sunlight. A rocking chair sways slightly in the breeze and a white cat stretches lazily and stares at my car with interest. The door squeaks open and I slide down in my seat. A middle-aged man in overalls steps out and, without looking at me, shakes a dustsheet. I wait until he goes back inside and then reverse the car back out of the driveway. Satisfied that I am out of view, I look back to the house. I am now facing the side of it and sigh when I see the Lemon parked there. It is cleaner than I remember and, even from this distance I can see the sunroof has been replaced. I am admiring the car when Christian walks from the house. I freeze. Damn it, I can’t bloody move. He doesn’t look my way but gets into the Lemon. I wait with my breath held for Claudine to follow him but there is no sign of her. Oh my God, is he coming this way? I look around desperately and realise I have nowhere to go. I bend over the passenger seat so that I can’t be seen. My heart thumps madly and I tighten my muscles as I hear him drive past. He does not slow up and I allow myself to relax. I wait until my racing heart has calmed down and then get out of the car. I walk gingerly to the porch, constantly glancing behind me. The cat stretches and begins to meow around my legs. I can hear banging from inside and am just about to knock, with no idea of what I will say to Claudine, when the door is opened by a grey-haired grim looking woman holding a saucer of fish heads. The woman jumps back and screams, throwing the saucer into the air. A fish head lands on my foot and I grimace.