Croissants and Jam (34 page)

    ‘You arrived there okay then?’

His voice sounds funny but I can’t work out in what way. My eye spots the bottle of wine that Olivia had left sitting on the kitchen counter and I then remember the shopping I had left in the car in my haste to get to my computer. I walk outside.

    ‘Yeah, I got here fine,’ I say pulling the car door open and retrieving my shopping.

    ‘I didn’t know whether to call you back or not but I figured you wanted me to.’

    ‘What!’ I shout, slamming the door on my foot and wincing.

    ‘Can you hear me?’ he shouts back.

Shit, what the arsing head and hole is he talking about? Why is he being so nice to me? What does he mean
he figured I wanted him too
? I limp to the lounge and drop the shopping bags and then myself onto the couch. I look down to my foot and wince. My toe is very red, and oh good God, very big.

    ‘Simon, I’d better say goodbye. I think I’ve broken my toe,’ I say, attempting to wriggle it.

    ‘Good God, how did you do that?’ he exclaims, surprise rather than concern in his voice.

I sigh and don’t bother to respond.

    ‘Do you want me to come to France to see you?’

    ‘What?’ Jesus Christ, is the only word I can utter, continually going to be
what
?

    ‘No no, I don’t think it’s anything serious.’

I stare longingly at the kitchen to where the wine sits and slowly ease myself up and begin to hobble towards it. Clicking my phone onto hands-free Simon’s voice booms out,

    ‘I wasn’t talking about your foot. It’s just I checked your flat and well, you hadn’t left the cooker on… the thing is…’

I look to my phone and see the battery has died. Oh God, what was he about to say? Surely he does not think I phoned with the pretext of leaving the cooker on as an excuse to talk? Oh bugger. I pull the cork out of the bottle and a wave of pain shoots through my foot. I fill a glass in the hope it will send me some kind of divine inspiration. I look at foot and groan in disgust. It is starting to turn a very nasty purple colour now and throbs like hell. I grab Claude’s card from the coffee table and limp to the house phone. He answers on the second ring.

    ‘Hello, Claude, sorry to bother you but I think I have broken my toe,’ I say flatly.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

    I wake up feeling quite happy until I move my foot. The agonising memory of the door slamming on my foot returns with alarming clarity. I grab my Blackberry which is now nicely charged and see I have missed two calls from Simon. Oh bugger it. Pulling the quilt off I stare at my now very large toe. Of course it is just a bad bruise. Claude’s wife came over last night and rubbed some atrocious smelling cream on the toe and gave me a bottle of strong painkillers. I was also equipped with a pair of crutches. The painkillers had knocked me out for the night. I can’t let a bruise stop me, I think courageously and forty minutes later cautiously test my bad foot on the pedals of the car. Feeling assured it would be okay I grab my bag, map, crutches and Blackberry and set off to an art exhibition that is being held in a church in the hamlet where Christian has his house. I considered looking for the house but remembered it was so well hidden that the chances of me finding it were very slim. No, the best idea is to go to the hamlet and ask questions, well
try
to ask questions. I hope that someone there will speak English. All through breakfast I had debated whether to phone Simon, finally deciding it was best not to. I will see him when I get back and by then he would have seen sense, hopefully. I edge the car out of the driveway and make sure I am on the right side of the road. I stop after thirty minutes to check the map and then continue for another thirty minutes until I see the sign for Carte d’Or. My toe is throbbing now, and I am delighted when I see a sign for car park in English and French. After manoeuvring the Peugeot into a space I lift my throbbing toe from the pedal. I am in the heart of the countryside, and the smell of lavender is divine. I close my eyes and listen to the birds singing and imagine that I am sitting in the Lemon with the sunroof off. After a short time I reluctantly open the door and step timidly from the car. Armed with my crutches I hobble down the cobbled pathway. I see people walking towards me and hope that they speak English, but not feeling very confident I pull out the notes I had made in French. I approach hesitantly.

    ‘Bon Jour Senorita, can you show me le eglise?’ I ask, drawing the shape of a church steeple with my hands.

They look at me blankly. Oh God, stupid bloody language course. I feel sure eglise is the French for church. I begin to wonder if maybe they speak some kind of French slang and so do not understand me. There must be regional accents here too.

    ‘You English, yes, I understand,’ says a woman smiling.

Oh Lord.

    ‘No, no, you don’t understand. I’m not English, well I am English but, oh dear…’

    ‘Ah, Swedish?’ she says.

Swedish! Do I look bloody Swedish? I didn’t recall having blonde hair and plaits the last time I looked. There suddenly seems to be a lot of shouting. Within minutes a mob has gathered and they are all staring at me expectantly. Good God, if I had been in the East End of London, I would not expect to get out alive.

    ‘Bon Jour, everyone,’ I say pleasantly, only to be met by a stony silence.

    ‘Ah, of course, I must use the plural as there are a lot of you. Bon journo,’ I repeat and this time, at least, they look at each other.

    ‘I want to go to le eglise. Yes?’ I pretend to pray and feel I am getting closer and closer to God by the minute.

    ‘Ah, eglise, yes,’ says one woman excitedly and my heart leaps until she starts firing directions at me in rapid French. Oh sod it. Obviously in this part of France they do not speak English or at least not very much. Another woman joins in and I attempt to write down the few words I understand, which are, turn right turn left and then turn right again. I spend five minutes writing things down and crossing them out, as they argue amongst themselves. Finally, armed with directions, I thank them kindly and make my escape. My foot throbs and my stomach feels decidedly acidic from the wine I had drunk the night before, and I could seriously murder a coffee. Hobbling away from the mob I try to follow their directions by using my small phrase book. God knows, the bloody Beginners French course has been totally useless so far. By the time I reach what few shops there are I am parched and in desperate need of my painkillers. I see an elderly man walking towards me and, although I am certain it will be a waste of time, I approach him.

    ‘Excuse me, can I get a coffee anywhere?’

He snorts, points to what looks like a corner shop and continues walking. Good Lord, friendly lot or what? I open the door of the coffee shop and fall down a step.

    ‘Shit, that’s a bit dangerous,’ I yelp, glaring at the pretty shop assistant who smiles kindly at me.

    ‘Are you all right,’ she asks in perfect English and I almost hug her.

    ‘You speak English,’ I say excitedly.

She nods.

    ‘I love the English language, I so much want to go to England and see Cilla Black.’

Well, that’s novel. Most people want to see Kate Middleton, and there was me thinking the French hated us.

    ‘Are you from Liverpool?’ she asks, her face brightening. I stare at her. Good God, do I sound like I am? I shake my head. How did I go from being Swedish to a Liverpudlian?

She rushes out the back and comes thumping back with a chair.

    ‘Here, you have to rest your feet.’

I discover her name is Greta and she loves everything English, especially re-runs of
Blind Date
. She makes me coffee and while I sit drinking it, she lists all her favourite British things, all of which are Cilla Black related. When I can finally get a word in, I ask her if she knows where Christian Lloyd lives but she looks blank.

    ‘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.’