Croissants and Jam (8 page)

I roll my eyes at him.

    ‘Oh purleese,’ I scoff, throwing it back on the shelf.

He shrugs and dons a baseball cap.

    ‘Cool, I’ll get one of these.’

I look into the shopping trolley. It is a quarter full already with tops, pants, socks, biscuits, soft drinks, wine, glasses and a pair of jeans.

    ‘You should try on some of these things,’ he suggests, offering me a crisp from the now open packet.

    ‘Shouldn’t we pay first?’ I say horrified. I have never in my whole life eaten anything in a supermarket before paying, well maybe a grape, but that doesn’t really count does it?

    ‘Oh purleese,’ he mimics, uncapping the top from a bottle of Coca–Cola.

I grab the bottle off him and take a long gulp.

    ‘You rebel.’ He wags a finger at me.

I flinch as he places a baseball cap on my head.

    ‘Come on let’s check the food,’ he smiles pushing the trolley forward. Why am I not surprised we are heading to the food counters? I yawn and shuffle my feet as he peruses the shelves.

    ‘Do you like marzipan?’ he asks, studying a box.

I shrug feigning indifference but my eyes have honed in onto the nougat. Oh, this is terrible. A few hours ago I would not have given a Hobnob the time of day and now I am studying the sweets like an uncontrolled addict. He sees me looking at the nougat and with a wink throws four boxes into the trolley.

    ‘Right, let’s get the petits fours as well. Oh yes.’ He smacks his lips on seeing an array of them at the patisserie counter. ‘Oh yes, what shall we get?’

He points to the Marzipan Cream Pyramids.

    ‘Ah, if you like marzipan, you will love these.’ He smiles and buys six. I watch astonished as he adds a dozen Nutella Ganache Tartlets and pushes one into my mouth. My eyes roll as the rich chocolate hits my tongue and he laughs.

    ‘Fabulous, aren’t they? Now we must have some opera squares and cream puffs.’

Bloody hell, I am supposed to be losing weight. I attempt to protest but he is already pointing to the colourful tray of macaroons.

    ‘Choose a colour, any colour,’ he encourages, and against my better judgement I find myself laughing.

We purchase six macaroons, twelve chocolate truffles, six chocolate éclairs and six coffee éclairs as well as biscuits, pain au chocolat, and crisps.

    ‘Right, cheese, olives and some bread I think.’

He pushes the trolley to the cold-meat counter and I meekly follow my stomach rumbling. Fifteen minutes later he has talked me into trying on some of the worst-made clothes I have ever seen. I feel myself inwardly cringe as I pull the dresses over my head but I have to arrive in something other than a torn and stained Yves Saint Laurent blouse and laddered tights. Each time I pop out of the changing room something new is in the trolley. The shop assistant attempts to help, and thinking that Christian is my boyfriend, gets him a chair so he has pride of place in front of the changing room. He grins, eats all the crisps and gives me thumbs up for just about everything I try on, except for a long black cardigan and a shawl. A long flowery skirt and silk shirt gets two thumbs up, while a pair of high-heeled strapped sandals receives a wrinkled nose. I feel quite depressed to think I am spending even a small amount of money on such badly designed clothes. I try on one last blouse and step out for approval. He claps his hands in appreciation, proving he has no taste whatsoever.

    ‘Perfect, just as nice as the Yves Saint Laurent thing, which goes to prove it is not who makes it but who wears it,’ he observes knowingly while eating a biscuit.

I swig back some Coca-Cola with two Paracetamol. I am still fighting the desire to phone Simon again and tell him the truth. Oh yes, right Bels and just what do you intend to say?
Hi honey, just wanted to call back to say I actually lied about the couple I was travelling with. Actually, it is a guy, you know, just me and him. But it is fine, really, as he is an arrogant arse with an inflated wallet and a girlfriend.
I don’t think so. Pushing Simon from my mind, I rummage through the underwear section while Christian throws in a can of shaving cream and horror of horrors, a toothbrush. Without even glancing his way, I quickly grab one too and toss it in. I mean, I have to face the fact that the chances we will have to stop somewhere are becoming pretty real. Well, at least I have clothes. Not the best in the world but surprisingly they look quite good and considering I spent about a third less than I would normally, I feel quite pleased. I see Christian watching me in astonished silence as I total up the value of my goods and my half of the food bill and convert the euros to pounds. Admittedly, a year ago, I would not have even considered it, but it really is quite astounding how much you can spend when you have no real idea of the currency. A month ago when I had to fly to New York for work, Simon had bought me the converter and advised me to use it. I really thought it was a waste of time but actually it was fantastic. I knew exactly how much I had spent. Now, I can see from the corner of my eye that Christian is shaking his head. Yes, well, wanker, at least I will be able to pay my credit card bill without having to up some poor bloke’s building estimate to pay for my recklessness. I begin to separate the food so it is fairly shared between us when his hand slaps on mine.

    ‘Okay, I can cope with the currency crap, just, but not this crazy
one bag of crisps for me, one drink for you
. We will be here all night if you start that. You pay for your clothes and other bits okay? I’ll pay for the food, done,’ he says flatly cramming things onto the conveyer.

    ‘No, I can’t be in your debt,’ I insist firmly, whipping the cap from my head and throwing it onto the conveyer with the rest of my things. He huffs.

    ‘It’s a few bags of crisps, some chocolate, a few bottles of wine, whatever. Take my word for it, I don’t want your body in return. I am well aware it belongs to somebody else.’

I feel my face redden.

    ‘As in fact does mine, so there we are.’ He seems to add this as a quick afterthought and I let out an involuntary gasp.

    ‘It does?’ I say sounding like a dimwit.

He nods and hands over a credit card.

    ‘Yes, I have a fiancée, in New York, well she is in Rome right now.’

He stops packing the bags and looks at me.

    ‘I thought you were keen on sharing, we could like pack together.’

I shake myself and start throwing things into bags.

    ‘But, you are English,’ I say stupidly and blush again.

He looks thoughtful.

    ‘This is true, well spotted. And your point is?’

I shrug, carry on packing and pay my share. After transferring everything back into the trolley we make our way to the Lemon, where we silently pack the bags into the boot. I am about to climb in when he speaks.

    ‘Just for future insults, do you have a name?’ He winks, and I try not to smile.

I bite my lip and finally say,

    ‘Bels.’

He nods.

    ‘Ah ha, I thought that was a whisky.’

I sigh and fasten my seatbelt.

    ‘I’m Christian, but I am sure you have thought of better names for me,’ he grins.

I am struck dumb and take the biscuit he offers.

    ‘You may need to drive in a while, is that okay Bels?’

I feel a tingle caress my spine when he says my name. Oh, this is just terrible. There is no way I can be attracted to such a person. I remind myself, I am on my way to be married, and to a most wonderful man at that. I decide there and then that as soon as I see Simon I will explain about Christian and why I felt the need to travel with him. I know he will understand. After all, I did not have much choice did I?

    ‘Fine,’ I answer lightly.

    ‘Right, next stop is the garage then,’ he says cheerfully.

I sneak another look at him. He has donned his sunglasses and the radio is back on. Annoyingly, I find myself wondering what Claudine looks like. I somehow imagine he would like his women blonde, slim and brainless. Well, I tell myself firmly, that is you out of the running then, so stop being so stupid and anyway you don’t know that Claudine is brainless. In fact, maybe he does not even deserve her and perhaps she could do better than him. The man is a walking disaster. In just twenty-four hours he has spent an absolute fortune on total rubbish and not once phoned his girlfriend. The kind of man all women should avoid. The sun is quite hot now and the countryside is beautiful. I feel disappointed that we have to go on the motorway again. The green rolling hills and lavender fields are heavenly. The fresh air is a big change from smoggy London and for the first time since I left there I feel relaxed. I don’t have to worry about being somewhere for dinner and it is quite a relief. Simon knows I am on my way, and there is no pressure to reach Rome by a certain time now. I will get there for the wedding rehearsal and that is all that matters. But, somehow, I am wanting the journey to go on longer and longer so I don’t have to get there at all and that can’t be right can it? It certainly has nothing to do with Christian the builder but a lot to do with getting married. I so wish Kaz would phone just so I could chat to someone. The truth is I am a bit concerned about marrying Simon after only knowing him for seven months while at the same time worrying if I wait much longer there will be nobody. Now, here I am stupidly attracted to the most unlikely man in the world, who probably finds me stupid and pretentious. Oh God, am I? I suppose he must think me very shallow with my Yves Saint Laurent blouse. Yes, well, come on Bels, he is a bit shallow himself with this stupid car, you must admit? I am relieved when we stop at the garage and I am able to use the loo and change into something decent.

The loo is disgraceful and I pee carefully, avoiding all contact with the toilet seat. After all, it will be the last straw if I give Simon a dose of something. I slip into the flowery skirt I had bought, which looks as good as any of my Laura Ashley ones, and throw on a lemon top finishing it off with a beige cardigan. It is hard to see how I look through the cracked, foggy mirror but I feel a lot happier. I bin my tights and slip on my newly purchased sandals. I feel all ready for a summer holiday. I splash my face with cold water and reprimand my fragmented reflection. Okay Bels, now for goodness sake get your act together. In just a few hours you will be with Simon and all this will be behind you. Christian the builder will head off into the sunset with Claudine and continue his holiday, and you will go ahead with your wonderful Italian wedding and you will never see or hear from Mr Christian again. This is just a passing phase and probably happens to everyone who is just about to get married. It just doesn’t help that you are having doubts. Once you see Simon you will realise just how unattractive this Christian really is. I nod at myself confidently and make a note to self to get rid of Simon’s Marc Jacob jumper as soon as possible although I feel sure once I see Simon in it I will not need to. I close my eyes and try to picture Simon, but it doesn’t happen. I pull out my phone and scroll into the photos of us together and wait for that lovely warm feeling that always comes when I look at them. But, oh God, it doesn’t come. I stare for a bit longer until I realise I am running out of time. Damn it, damn Christian. I race back to the garage. The Lemon sits contentedly in the sun and there is no sign of Christian. I take a deep breath and walk inside the garage shop and almost fall over a woman who is sitting on the floor. Stopping abruptly, I look down at her. My God, she is wearing a bright orange vest with a long beige cardigan, what a combination. Some women have no dress-sense whatsoever, and honestly, to sit on such a filthy floor. She doesn’t even look up at me, or apologise, of course not that I would know she was apologising, but she surely does not have to look so serious. I suddenly realise she is not alone and see that there are several people on the floor in some kind of sit in. Great, I’ve walked in on some sort of a protest. I hope this isn’t affecting Christian paying. It then occurs to me, I should offer to pay something towards the travelling. How to approach him about that without him getting all sour, I do not know. He seems to enjoy spending money so much that I doubt he will accept anything from me. Perhaps I could offer to buy dinner later. Dinner, what am I thinking of? I look at my ring and sigh. What a sad state of affairs it is when I need to look at my ring to remind myself I am getting married. Sidestepping round the woman in front of me and stepping over the man sitting beside her I try to see the cashier. Honestly, what a carry on. Surely petrol prices aren’t that high that people need to protest in a garage. I look ahead of me trying to see Christian at the till and bump into a hoodie who I presume is waiting to pay.

    ‘Sorry, excuse me, I am not pushing in, I just want to see my friend, well he is not actually my friend, he is more, erm …’ I say apologetically, realising I am rambling.

He turns angrily on me and barks something in French. Good Lord, can the French wonder that so many Brits dislike them, I mean, come on a bit of politeness doesn’t hurt anyone. I then see Christian. Oh for goodness sake he is sitting on the floor too. I give up. The man is seriously deranged. Anything for attention it seems. His eyes meet mine and I open my mouth to speak. He gestures to the man in the hoodie.

    ‘Sit on the floor, he wants you to sit on the floor,’ his voice shakes and I feel my heart skip a beat.

    ‘You have to be joking. I have just changed my clothes. I am not sitting on this filthy floor,’ I reply uncertainly.

The man in the hoodie, who strangely enough is not sitting on the floor, seems to get agitated and starts to shout at me again. Oh, dear, I am starting to get a bad feeling about this. Why is it everywhere Christian the builder goes trouble seems to inevitably follow? I stupidly stare at the people who are either lying or sitting on the floor. Suddenly the hoodie points a gun at me. Jesus it’s a bloody gun.

    ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ I scream.

I only wanted the sodding loo for pity’s sake. What the hell is going on? Surely we have not walked into the middle of a robbery? Classic or what? I mean, Jesus.