Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  ‘It really wouldn’t work,’ I hear myself say as I shake my head. ‘After all, you’ve got your life to live in New York and I have a life ahead of me, with Jack…’

  I trail off. A life with Jack, what am I talking about? As nice as Jack is, I would rather slash my wrists than sit at another dinner table with him. He salutes me playfully.

  ‘If you need any other monsters slain, I’m your man. Feel free to phone while you’re here.’

  Oh yes, of course. I’m sure Claudine would be delighted, not. I watch him walk through the doorway and it feels like my heart will break all over again. Why do I fall in love with men who only want me as a friend? The front door slams and I rush to the window to see him walking towards the Lemon. He waves.

  ‘Thank you,’ I call down.

  ‘It was my pleasure. Apart from your filthy temper and spiteful tongue it was actually nice seeing you again.’

  I think I hear wistfulness in his tone. Could I have it all wrong? Does he really like me? Oh my Lord, is he close to calling off his wedding too?

  ‘It was nice seeing you too,’ I say without thinking. He hesitates at the car. I sigh when he says,

  ‘If I remember correctly, you said that I wasn’t your type either. Sleep well.’

  He climbs into the Lemon and before I can blink, he is gone. I get back into bed and struggle to remember when I had said Christian was not my type. I recall my mother saying it but had I agreed? If I hadn’t meant it at the time does that mean he hadn’t either? I toss and turn for the rest of the night and finally doze off as the sun streams in through the crack in the curtains.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The bleeping of my phone wakes me and I squint at the clock. I groan when I see it is almost eleven. My head aches and my mouth feels like the inside of a sewer. I groan and roll over, taking the Blackberry with me. I bury my head under the pillow as memories of the night before hit me. The phone bleeps again and I reluctantly pull myself up and check it. There is a text from Justin and an email from my mother. I read Justin’s and decide to leave my mother’s email for later.

  ‘Hey you foxy lady, how are you doing? We landed the Rouge contract, thought you would like to know. Come back happy and refreshed.’

  Oh yes, of course, Justin. The only snag with that is that the man I love is marrying someone else today. I cannot believe I am not ecstatic about the Rouge contract. I groan and dive under the quilt. I lie there miserably for some time until my phone rings.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I moan miserably.

  It is Kaz, bright, cheerful and full of news.

  ‘We got the Rouge contract,’ she screams excitedly.

  ‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘Justin sent me a text.’

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased,’ she observes.

  I am thrilled, of course. Rouge is the biggest cosmetic company in the country and I had done everything but sleep with the director to win the contract, but it seems so insignificant compared to Christian’s wedding. I search through my handbag for the painkillers, figuring that if they are good enough for the pain in my foot then they will do perfectly well for my headache.

  ‘Where have you been anyway? I thought you might have phoned,’ she says accusingly.

  ‘I went to New York to have lunch with George Clooney, only got back an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’

  ‘Christian is here, in France and he is getting married to Claudine today. I want to kill her, but as I can’t, I might as well kill myself,’ I say dramatically, reaching for the water by the bed.

  ‘Are you sure? Only I would have thought Simon would have been going.’

  I choke on the water. What is she talking about?

  ‘He is going. Only the other day he told me, he had a wedding to go to in France, I mean, it is obvious it is Christian’s.’

  Although, of course, the way they are at each other’s throats it does seem a bit surprising, I have to admit.

  She clucks down the phone at me.

  ‘Bels, he’s going to Kieran’s wedding, remember Kieran? We all had invitations to this wedding six weeks ago, including you, and anyway it’s not until tomorrow. Don’t you remember I couldn’t go because of Mum and Dad’s anniversary party? Jetting off to New York and gallivanting with celebrities has scrambled your brain. Still, I expect it would mine too.’

  What? This doesn’t make sense. Surely Christian would have asked Simon. Oh sod a dog; don’t tell me, he is not getting married. Oh no, don’t tell me I said all that stuff about Jack, while all the time he was not even planning on marrying Claudine. But what about Claudine’s Facebook status update?

  ‘But, I read it on her…’

  I stop when I realise I never actually read she was getting married on her profile page, just that she had so many sleeps to go before the ‘big day’. So what was happening on the big day?

  ‘I have to go Kaz, I’ll phone you later.’

  I click the phone off and almost fall down the stairs in my rush to get to my laptop. How could I have made such a stupid mistake? Sitting in my nightie with an old cardigan slung around me, I open the laptop and my breath catches in my throat when I see Claudine’s profile picture. It is of a pink ribbon day skydiving event. I squint at her status, half of me wanting to see it and the other half knowing that I will slash my wrists if it does say what I dread.

  The big day, parachute jump, here I come!

  Parachute jump? I look again to check I have read it right. She is doing a parachute jump. I let out a huge groan and stamp my feet. Pain shoots through my foot and I bite my lip. What a stupid bloody idiot I am. And what the hell did I say last night? I cringe at the memory. Oh God, did I really say Jack was the right man for me? Not to mention the other things that came out of that vile mouth of mine. Oh damn, bugger and piss it. Why is that now I know he may no longer be with Claudine, do I feel he deserves the benefit of the doubt? I yank the fridge door open to the chorus of ‘A second on the lips is a lifetime on the hips’ and scoff two éclairs in front of the cupcake and slam the door to ‘Naughty pickers wear big knickers’, while giving it a two finger salute. With a large mug of black coffee in front of me I debate how on earth I can put things right and wonder what the hell he was celebrating tonight. A marquee, a bandstand, crikey it has to be something special, but what? I fiddle with my phone and finally call Georgia at the restaurant. Of course, it all makes perfect sense now. The kitchen finally finished, an Englishman eating every night at ‘Clarisse’s’ and the man without a girlfriend. Oh you stupid fool Bels. Here is the man of your dreams with all the right credentials, responsible, reliable, rich and very eligible it seems, so what do I do? I let him slip right through my fingers. Rosa answers the phone and after I explain who I am she fetches Georgia.

  ‘Is it to come for dinner this evening that you phone?’ she asks politely.

  I open the pantry door and remove a packet of biscuits, relieved not to be serenaded with the likes of ‘Those who indulge, bulge’.

  ‘No, I don’t need dinner tonight, I…’

  ‘That is good because we are not open this evening,’ she says bluntly.

  I perk up excitedly.

  ‘It’s about the Englishman who is having the petite reception, the one who comes to the restaurant, you know who I mean?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  Okay, time to ask the million-dollar question.

  ‘Is he getting married today?’

  There is silence for a moment.

  ‘Monsieur Lloyd?’ There is surprise in her voice. ‘Why would you say that?’

  I can’t believe Georgia knows Christian. I spent all that time searching for him, when all I had to do was ask her.

  ‘The petite reception he is having, is that not for his wedding or maybe a parachute jump?’ I ask feeling more stupid by the minute.

  ‘I think perhaps you should ask Monsieur Lloyd himself about his party,’ she replies sharply and hangs up. Shit, shit. I debate
whether to call her back but decide it would be a bad idea. Instead, I shower and throw on a pair of jeans and a black vest.

  I decide I need some fresh air to clear my head. After checking the weather, I grab a shawl and leave the house for a walk. I head down the driveway and cross over into a small country lane. It is deserted and I walk slowly. I force myself not to think of Christian but every lavender field I see reminds me of him. The lane is deserted and I savour the peace. I close my eyes and listen to the birds. Oh what a heavenly break this could have been, instead I will go home more of a wreck than when I came. The harmonious sound of the singing birds is broken by a babbling of French voices. I open my eyes to see hundreds of banana-in-hand pink ribbon walkers, heading towards me. Oh for pity’s sake, where is a woman supposed to go to get some peace. They are marching towards me and visions of being trampled to death by the pink army brigade look frighteningly real. These are women on a mission. There is nowhere for me to retreat to. Their long skinny legs bounce on new trainers, and their breasts strain against the pink material. My God, are they all wearing the same top? Manes of blonde hair and bright red-glossed lips engulf me. As they get closer the pink fuses into one big mass. Oh my God, how many of them are there? I’m all for Breast Cancer Awareness but not at the expense of being trampled to death, or even worse: breaking another toe by slipping on a banana skin. I look for an escape route. I see a gate ahead of me and vault over it. Amazingly, not one of the walkers seemed to notice me. I watch them march on, chatting and banana eating. Good Lord, for a second I thought I was going to be the ultimate sacrifice for the pink ribbon cause. That would have raised awareness all right. I am temporarily blinded by a sea of pink and dazed from the heavy scent of bananas for a minute or two. I remember Claudine’s parachute jump and feel slightly guilty that I am not doing anything for Breast Cancer Awareness and decide to buy a pink ribbon pin and a banana later. Blimey, I bet the old banana growers love this, not to mention the pink T-shirt manufacturers. As soon as the coast is clear I climb out of the field and walk slowly back to the house. I decide that I have to go to Christian’s party and spend the rest of the afternoon choosing an outfit and checking Claudine’s Facebook page. At four o’clock, there is a status update and I discover that Claudine is most definitely not marrying Christian.

  ‘One giant leap for womankind – done! See you all at Copacabana.’

  I let out a sigh of relief. While Christian is hosting what I now presume to be his house-warming party, Claudine will be dancing the night away at one of New York’s top nightclubs. I race back upstairs and look in desperation at the clothes that are strewn across Olivia’s king-size bed. I glance into her walk-in wardrobe and spy a pair of Jimmy Choo sling back sandals.

  ‘Ooh,’ I gasp.

  My eyes also land on a beautiful black dress, which I recognise as Chanel. I carefully part the scarves until I find one to match the dress. Oh, I would look spectacular if Olivia would let me borrow it. I text her and get an immediate response telling me to borrow whatever I like but she advises me to remember that Christian does not do classy. Oh no, now what do I do? I claw through my clothes which are strewn all over the room and spot the floral skirt and lemon top I had bought in the supermarket with him. He did say he liked them at the time. I put them on and study my reflection. Oh I so hope Olivia knows what she is talking about. I find some heated rollers and apply my make-up while the rollers get hot. I decide to keep it simple and brush a thin layer of mascara onto my lashes and stroke my cheeks with Bobbi Brown blusher. I put the rollers in with shaky hands and sit at the dressing table sniffing the assortment of perfume bottles. I finally decide to use one from my Jo Malone selection. Finally, as satisfied with my face as I can be, I pop in some pearl earrings and brush out the rollers. I slide my feet into the Jimmy Choo shoes, which are a little tight but bearable for one evening, and stare at myself in the mirror. With a nervous sigh, I nod appreciatively at myself, grab my clutch bag and walk slowly downstairs. A flashback of the night before haunts me. How could I have been so hateful? What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? I really don’t think he will give me many more chances. After all, why would he want to keep spending time with a woman who keeps abusing him? This may be my last chance to put things right so please God, don’t let me blow it. My stomach churns as doubt stabs me in the solar plexus. I can’t justify his behaviour towards his dad, I just can’t. How anyone could sue Edward is beyond me, but for his own son to do so is unforgivable surely? I pull my Blackberry from my bag and dial Simon. It really is time to ask him what this legal battle with Christian is all about. It disappointingly goes to his voice mail. Damn it. He is probably on his way to France. I throw the phone into my bag, take a deep breath and leave the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cars are everywhere. The small bit of confidence I had felt earlier has all evaporated. My toe is throbbing in the shoes and my heart is beating so fast I think I might be sick. I park the car behind a dozen others and sit listening to the faint sound of music that emanates from the house. I had not wanted to arrive too early but now it seems like I am too late. I check my reflection in the mirror and convince myself that I look awful. I let out a nervous sigh and wish I had brought my Quiet Life. I take several deep breaths and climb from the car. Okay, think super model, and ooze confidence. I hobble towards the front door attempting my best Claudia Schaefer impression and fail miserably when my foot wobbles and the heel goes under.

  ‘Shit,’ I mumble.

  ‘Are you all right,’ asks a soft voice in broken English.

  I turn and pain shoots through my foot causing me to grimace. I stare into the face of a very pretty woman who is wearing a black strapless dress in a way that I can only dream of. She throws a light pink shawl around her shoulders and looks warily at my foot. The will to live is slowly disappearing and I feel like I am the ugly duckling who has just bumped into Cinderella. I haven’t got a clue who the woman is, but feel almost sure she is romantically involved with Christian and feel a Fatal Attraction moment coming on. Does she have a pet rabbit that I can boil I wonder?

  ‘Did you hurt your foot?’ She smiles at me.

  People are walking around us, and I hobble to one side.

  ‘Actually, I hurt it a few days ago, and these shoes are now murdering it.’

  She laughs revealing white even teeth.

  ‘Take them off, no one will mind. I’m Maria by the way.’

  I take the hand she offers.

  ‘I’m Bels. I am here on holiday.’

  She slips her arm into mine.

  ‘Well, as my husband is late, why don’t we escort each other?’

  She’s married. Thank God. For a minute I was convinced she was Christian’s girlfriend. What if he does have a girlfriend? What if I have got it all wrong? Oh my God, what if she greets us? The thought of getting through the evening with a false smile on my lips is unbearable. There is no going back now, however, as Maria is leading me towards the house and another car has parked behind mine, making it impossible for me to leave. I attempt to ignore the pain that is now relentless and look ahead to the twinkling lights. The soft melodic tones of Norah Jones reach my ears. Loud raucous laughter makes me jump. I am as nervous as a kitten. In fact, if Maria was not leading by the arm, I would most certainly turn back and hide. We walk round the back of the house and the marquee comes into sight. The smell of a hog roast makes my stomach rumble. Fairy lights lead the way around the field and I follow Maria into the marquee. Groups of people stand around laughing and chatting with champagne flutes in their hand. To the right is a long table housing a mouth-watering buffet of roast duck on platters, surrounded by smaller plates of guinea fowl, French bread, cold meats, and egg segments. Further along the table are a number of bowls filled with different salads and sauces.

  ‘Hey, Maria, you made it. Where’s Jean-Paul?’ asks a man who I vaguely recognise and I try to remember where from.

  ‘Finishing that roof, where else do you thi
nk Monsieur? Bels, this is Alain, he laid all the floors in the house for Christian.’

  Of course, I had seen him at the house.

  ‘Yes, I saw you yesterday.’

  He smiles and salutes.

  ‘You probably did. Most of us here today have been doing something around the house the past few weeks. It has been hard work getting it done so quickly. It is great what Christian has done to show his, how do you say in English… gratitude?’

  I nod. Talking of Christian, just where was he? I glance around but there is no sign of him. Maria waves at someone and rushes away. Alain grins at me and leans behind to the table with champagne. I shake my head when he offers me a glass. I really feel I need to keep a clear head for once in my life.

  ‘You would prefer water perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He walks away and I toddle outside to where a group has congregated by the bandstand. I watch as the musicians mount the steps and I wait in anticipation for them to start. More people join and the excitement builds. I find myself forgetting Christian for a few moments and sway with the music. It is a jazz band and I find myself smiling. It is only when I feel chilly that I venture back into the marquee where many are sitting eating. I look around for Christian and begin to wonder if he is actually going to make an appearance at his own party. I see Maria waving to me from a table at the other end of the marquee. I wave back and walk towards her.

  ‘We saved you a seat. There will be the speeches soon. This is Jean-Paul, my husband, and this is Matt Rivers.’

  Jean-Paul is a small man with a big smile. His brown eyes twinkle at me. I shake his hand and accept his offer of food. Matt grins widely at me and leans forward to take me into a big bear hug.

  ‘Nice to meet you Bels. I’m always thrilled to welcome a fellow Brit. I don’t know about you but I can’t speak a word of French. These bastards, however, insist on speaking their lingo when around me.’ He laughs.

  ‘That is because we are talking about you most of the time,’ smiles Maria and begins talking in French to Jean-Paul.