Croissants and Jam (2 page)

Mum gasps and Kaz whistles.

    ‘Geez Bels, thanks for that vote of confidence. You are evil do you know that? Actually, I was just phoning to let you know the dress is on its way to Rome. Are you still at your mum’s? Christ Bels, get to the airport. Love you and see you in two days.’

I throw the phone into my bag and hug my mother.

    ‘I’ve got to go Mum. Off to get married to Mr Right. Thanks for the chat, I feel loads better.’

The hell I did.

    ‘See you in Rome,’ I call back with a wave.

Rome here I come, and I just hope you’re ready for me because I certainly am
not
ready for you.

Chapter Two

    So here we are, or at least here I am, at the airport, trying to control the fluttering of my heart. Oh how I wish I had flown out two days ago with Simon. The thought of arriving in Rome, and going straight to dinner with my future in-laws is a bit daunting. I check the flight board and sigh with relief when I see my flight is on time. I pull my phone out and text Simon that all is on schedule. I take a deep breath, remind myself I had signed India Milano for our fashion shoot and let out a relieved sigh. I head for the loo to tidy up and after just one look at myself in the mirror I want to die. ‘Shit, shit,’ I mumble, as I spy a small red welt on my chin. Bugger, a pimple sprouting right now is not what I need. I comb my hair quickly and take a few seconds to admire my long flowing auburn locks before splashing my face with cold water and heading for duty-free to buy future in-law presents. My phone bleeps and I read Simon’s text. ‘
Great your flight is on time. Mum and Dad have booked a table at Mangiamo, for eight, you will love it, the place is always booked months in advance. Your flight lands at six so we will have to go straight there from the airport. Make yourself beautiful darling, but I know that is not hard for you to do.’

Oh God, why now the bloody pimple? God, what if Simon’s parents have high expectations? He is a solicitor after all and will soon be in charge of his father’s law firm once the contracts have been signed over, providing of course that Simon’s horrid brother doesn’t make a fuss. I don’t fancy meeting him much. He sounds a real arse. Simon says he is far too irresponsible to run a law firm and he is nothing but a trouble maker. Oh God, what if they expect me to be highly intelligent and all political? I’ll just tell them I didn’t believe there were WMDs and that Tony Blair was a prick. They are bound to be Conservatives, so I’ll just say good things about David Cameron. I wonder if I should buy
Politics for Dummies
but decide against it. They should love me for who I am. I dive into duty-free and wander around the perfumes for what seems forever. I finally buy myself some Chanel, a Fendi handbag for my future mother-in-law and two bottles of whisky. My mouth is now so dry that my lips are cracking, and my hair so static it is almost standing up on its own. I am so hot I feel sure I will spontaneously self-combust. Why are airports always so bloody hot? Oh what I would do for a shower. I hand over my credit card relieved that the present buying is over.

    ‘Boarding pass please.’ The cashier flutters her false eyelashes at me.

For a second I just stare at her bemused.

    ‘Sorry. What?’

    ‘I’ll need your boarding pass,’ she repeats with a smile, and I spot pink lipstick on her teeth. Oh I so hate that. I mean, how can that happen? Do women just miss their lips or are they just plain blind? What did I do with the bloody boarding pass? I push my hand into my new Anya Hindmarch handbag and fumble around. A useless fumbling really, as all I pull out is one grubby ear plug. I exhale loudly, but there is no response from the assistant. Right, if she is really going to persist then there is nothing else for it. I clear the counter and begin emptying my handbag. The assistant sighs heavily.

    ‘Right,’ I declare, ‘one mobile phone, one diary, one purse.’ I fumble in the purse but alas, no boarding pass.

    ‘What’s that?’ she shouts excitedly, pointing to a scrap of paper.

    ‘Ah, my to-do list,’ I cry triumphantly. ‘Now, where is the other to-do list that had ‘find to-do list’ on it? I lost the original you see,’ I explain, trying to ignore her bored expression. I am now a force to be reckoned with. I pull out a pack of contraceptive pills, a solitary tampon and, with a grimace, a bottle of black nail polish.

    ‘Yuk. I thought I had thrown that away. Do you want it?’ I offer.

She shakes her head.

    ‘I only bought it for Halloween,’ I explain to the man waiting behind me who yawns in response and averts his eyes.

    ‘Do you have the boarding pass?’ the assistant asks irritably.

A stupid question really as obviously I don’t. I give an apologetic look and shake my head as I slap more things on the counter. My hands touch on something hard and, with a sinking heart I pull out a Lovefilm DVD.

    ‘Bother. I should have posted that. Is there a post-box near here?’

She yawns and shakes her head. A family size bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut follows the DVD.

    ‘For a big night in,’ I joke.

I pull out a pair of knickers and cringe.

    ‘Not part of the big night in,’ I snort. ‘I assure you, they are clean.’ I laugh, but she doesn’t. I find a scribbled note which I struggle to decipher, then a tangerine, followed by a much bruised apple.

    ‘Useful,’ I mumble.

I look at the cashier’s miserable face.

    ‘You still need it do you?’ I ask politely.

    ‘I’m afraid so,’ she replies through gritted teeth.

    ‘Doesn’t she have it Jade?’ calls her colleague from the other till.

I drop a handful of coins, a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses, and a spoon onto the counter.

    ‘For my yogurt,’ I mumble. ‘No boarding pass. Make-up bag, bag within a bag, tissues, ah… what is this, bag with bills inside, I bet I put it in there.’

    ‘My God, I can’t imagine what is in your main luggage,’ utters the man behind me.

    ‘I am prepared for everything,’ I retort, placing my Rescue Remedy and my
Along the Road Less Travelled
book onto the ever-increasing pile.

    ‘Yes, except to pay for duty-free.’

Really, some people are so rude. I continue emptying the bag until I finally pull out a mouldy packet of mints which are stuck to the elusive boarding pass.

    ‘You can’t take those on the flight,’ Jade says firmly. I look at the packet of mints wondering why not, but as I follow the cashier’s eyes I realise she is referring to a bottle of Clarins perfume and a jar of Jo Malone face cream.

‘I’ve already been through security,’ I reply, pushing my credit card at her again while trying to separate the mints from the boarding pass.

    ‘No, you can make a bomb with those,’ she replies indignantly, tossing back her thick mane of blonde hair and licking her pink lips.

I burst out laughing. If I were chemically minded I would be more inclined to make a Botox mix as opposed to a Semtex one. Besides, do I look like a terrorist? Do I have a beard for Christ’s sake?

    ‘Is this a joke?’

    ‘Not to mention the spoon,’ quips the man behind me.

The assistant eyes me up and down, and looks over to her colleague.

    ‘Tracey, how many
mills
can you take on a flight? She has enough here to make a bomb.’

Christ, did she have to say it so loudly. Everyone turns to look at the potential terrorist. Tracey looks in horror at my perfume bottle.

    ‘Oh no, you can’t take those, you could make a bomb, Jade is right, you’re right Jade,’ she echoes.

    ‘You don’t say. Do I look like a terrorist to you?’ I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

They both give me a look which indicates they clearly think I do.

    ‘They don’t all carry holdalls and have beards you know,’ chips in the man behind me who is now pointing earnestly at the solitary tampon. ‘Your handbag is seriously worrying, and that is highly suspicious. You should get security to check that out.’ He wags his finger at the inoffensive tampon.

    ‘What are they saying?’ calls a woman from the back of the queue.

    ‘She is trying to blow the plane up,’ another replies loudly.

    ‘She tried to hide a bomb in a tampon.’

    ‘I thought she looked suspicious wandering around the perfumes.’

Oh for God’s sake. Why don’t they body-search me and be done with it? Jade lifts the tampon and everyone gasps. I watch wide-eyed as she tosses it into a bin.

    ‘For goodness sake, my fiancé is a top solicitor,’ I say proudly.

    ‘They all say that,’ says the man nodding at me.

    ‘Can you please just take my credit card,’ I urge, throwing my things back into the bag.

    ‘I still need your boarding pass,’ she replies stubbornly, ‘preferably without the mints.’

Perspiration is now trickling down my back. Great, I will arrive with a blackhead on my chin and smelling like a tramp. I remove the mints and hand the sticky boarding pass to her and take a deep breath. Okay, calm down. Plenty of time still.

    ‘Oh you’re flying to Rome, how lovely.’ She smiles, handing me the bag with my goods. ‘Didn’t they just call a flight to Rome?’

She can’t be serious. I race outside and check the board. Shit, it is my flight. I look anxiously for a Boots chemist and feel myself perspire even more. The chemist is just ahead and I start to run, but stop with a skid when I see the queue at the till. I close my eyes, think of the plane and picture myself relaxing with my book. With a new surge of energy I dive in and grab a small can of dry-shampoo, some pimple ointment, face-cleansing tissues, deodorant and a small tin of Vaseline, and squeeze into the queue. Thankfully it moves quickly and I fly out of the store and aim for gate fifty-seven, with my heart beating like a drum. I crash into a buggy and drop my purchases. Horror-stricken, I watch my can of dry-shampoo roll into a Sushi bar. Bother. I follow it with my eye. The Sushi bar is heaving with people. I freeze. Good Lord, is that Simon? What is Simon doing here, and in a Sushi bar? He hates Sushi. Then, of course, I realise it isn’t him, it’s just some guy wearing the same Marc Jacob cashmere jumper that Simon’s mother had bought him for Christmas. I take a deep breath. I must be stressed because this guy doesn’t look in the least like Simon, now I come to think about it and absolutely nowhere near as good looking in the jumper. I watch fascinated as he fills his plate until it is brimming over. My God, the way he is piling it on you would think they were giving it away. I reach the can and quickly throw it into my bag.

    ‘Calling all passengers on flight 735 to Rome. You are advised that this flight is now
boarding and the gate will close in fifteen minutes.’

Damn, damn. I turn and knock over a chair where the Simon lookalike is casually eating from his overflowing plate. Shaking my head in disbelief I stride towards gate fifty-seven, loaded down with duty-free, a laptop, and an oversized handbag in
which I fumble for my passport. I remember the Clarins which is still sitting with Tracey at duty-free, oh bloody hell. I dither, and decide it is not worth the hassle and possible arrest as a terrorist. Finally, I am at gate fifty-seven and boarding the plane. Once inside I squeeze along the gangway towards the loo, where I lock myself in and stare at my face in the mirror with dismay. The pimple is redder. Hurriedly I wash and apply cream to the spot. I pull off my blouse and bra and give myself a quick scrub, and roll the deodorant everywhere. God, this is turning into the flight from hell. Oh I so wish I had a change of clothes. Just a simple Marks and Spencer black dress would do, and then my newly cut hair would look so much better. I apply a thin layer of foundation and smooth some blusher onto my cheeks. I appraise my appearance and nod contentedly at myself. My eyes are shining and my hair falls over my shoulders in gentle waves. I slowly make my way back and look for my seat. To my disappointment I find myself sandwiched between an academic with a tatty book twice the size of
War and Peace
on his lap, and a middle-aged, overweight, red-faced businessman, whose neck seems imprisoned in his tight shirt collar. The academic acknowledges me over the thick dark-rimmed glasses which hover on his beaky nose. I climb over his
Clapham Market Rules
carrier bag and try to ignore the tattered rustic jumper that covers his lanky frame. C&A is still alive and well in Clapham it seems. I fall into my seat and lean my thumping temples against the headrest. The businessman is tapping away furiously on a laptop. I give him a sideways glance. He seems to sigh heavily each time he hits the space bar.

    ‘Miss Annabel Lewis?’

I jump at the sound of my name and look up to see a poker-faced stewardess looking at me. Don’t tell me that Tracey and her friend have reported me.

    ‘Oh God, what is it now? Here, search it search it, bloody war on terror.’ I shove my handbag past the face of Mr Academic.

    ‘Actually, it should be war on terrorism really, I mean, war on terror, that can’t be grammatically correct can it?’ I ask Mr Academic. ‘That’s right isn’t it? You should know.’

    ‘Why should I know, I’m a mathematician,’ he says irritably, pushing back his seat so I can lean across him. Oh shut the hell up Bels. I try to ignore the shocked look on the stewardess’s face when she is confronted with my handbag and with a cringe accept the bra she is handing me.

    ‘I think you left this in the toilet,’ she says softly.

    ‘Right, yes, thank you. Sorry about the terrorist stuff, bit nervous of flying,’ I mutter.

Mr Academic passes my handbag back to me.

    ‘I know karate,’ he says without looking at me. I find myself attempting to visualise his lanky body performing a karate move and fail miserably. I slide down in my seat.

    ‘Cool, always good to know karate,’ I respond, carefully removing my book. The plane is starting to fill up now and I begin to relax. In just over two hours I will be in Rome, and heading to the restaurant. The overweight businessman
is fidgeting in his seat and sighing. I take another deep breath and close my eyes.