Croissants and Jam (10 page)

He gives me a sidelong glance.

    ‘Will worrying make the car go further? If you were that worried why didn’t you keep a proper check on it?’

Headlights dazzle me as a car races past and I consider jumping out and stopping the next one. Maybe they could give us a lift? I suggest this to Christian who just gives me an odd look. My heart sinks. I feel I am destined not to get to Rome. Is this fate telling me that Simon is not Mr Right?

    ‘Okay, by chance I happen to have a friend who lives about ten kilometres from here, we may just make it.’

I clap my hands with joy, but he shakes his head.

    ‘Don’t get too excited because I have no idea if he is at home. I should phone. Signal is bad here.’

I clasp my hands together and find myself willing his friend to be home. I strain to see him as he walks down a short lane and am tempted to put the headlights on so I can see him better. After a few minutes he gets back in the car and hands me the map.

    ‘Is he home?’ I ask hopefully.

He rests his neck in his hands and stretches backwards. The Marc Jacob jumper stretches with him and a small amount of his chest is exposed. I look away quickly. He yawns again and combs his hair back from his face with his hand.

    ‘They’re home, but there is a slight complication.’

He groans lightly and I feel my heart sink. I try to think what the complication could be. I attempt to work out all the scenarios but not one seems to be a problem. If they are home and he is their friend what on earth can the complication be? I realise he is looking at me and the penny drops.

    ‘I’m the complication?’ I stammer.

He exhales.

    ‘Well, yes and no. I, without thinking, told them that we had broken down and they just presumed that I meant Claudine and me.’

I gasp.

    ‘Oh,’ I expect more to pass my lips, but no, oh is all I can muster.

He looks at his watch. I try to make sense of what he is telling me.

    ‘Did you explain I wasn’t Claudine?’ I ask hesitantly.

He rubs his nose and I curse.

    ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ I moan and reach behind me. I remember the sangria and glasses. I place two plastic glasses on the dashboard and grab a pain au chocolat from the back. Jesus, I will look like Dawn French by the time I arrive for the wedding. I clean the glasses with a tissue and avoid looking at him. I sense his discomfort.

    ‘They have family there for dinner so I’m hoping they will give us a can of petrol. Hopefully, you won’t even have to get out of the car,’ he says optimistically taking the glass of sangria I offer, along with half of the pain au chocolat.

    ‘We’ll just tell them the truth,’ I say biting into the pastry and savouring the buttery chocolate taste. I must have eaten the equivalent of two packets of hobnobs in just the past hour. He throws the sangria back in one hit and coughs.

    ‘Phew, that tastes like petrol; we should put it in the car,’ he splutters.

I put my glass back deciding that I really do not need the Dutch courage after all.

    ‘Just what is the truth Bels? We met at the airport, missed our flight and then decided to hire a car and travel together to Rome? This is not even mentioning the fact that we each have a fiancé, yet I haven’t told Claudine I am travelling with you, and I am presuming you haven’t told your fiancé about me?’

I feel my heart flutter every time he uses my name. I gulp. Oh my God. Of course he is quite right. How can we expect anyone to see this whole thing as purely innocent when we are both acting guilty? I shake my head miserably.

    ‘Only because it didn’t come up,’ I say.

Yes, well, of course it didn’t come up. I mean, how exactly would something like that come up in conversation? Not that Simon and I have had much in the way of conversation so far.

    ‘If either of them found out, do you think they would believe us now? Besides rumours have a way of spreading and in my line of work bad press is the last thing I need.’

Bad press, in his line of business, what the hell is he talking about. Christ, it isn’t like we are Posh and Becks. But then again, on reflection, he probably thinks he is the building world’s equivalent to David Beckham. I groan and he nods while handing me the sangria.

    ‘Just knock it back,’ he encourages.

I throw it back in one hit and cough.

    ‘Jesus, that is…’

    ‘Lethal,’ he responds.

I nod. He pours more into the glasses and chinks mine.

    ‘One for the road?’

I am starting to wish I had told Simon about Christian the builder. At least I wouldn’t be feeling so guilty if I had. The knowledge that we are both lying to our future spouses makes me shudder. I decide there and then that I will tell Simon everything the next time we speak. I throw back the sangria and try not to think of the calories. He hands me the map marking the road we need with a pen. We drive for some time and I feel that everything will be fine until the empty fuel light comes on.

    ‘Oh no,’ I say feeling totally helpless.

I feel myself getting tense as we drive, and keep expecting the car to conk out. I spot the road he marked on the map. We bump off the main road and snake round a narrow tree-lined country lane. I feel my heart sink. There are no houses, just trees and fields.

    ‘Okay, this looks right. Look for a house called Treetops. It will be in English.’

I cannot face telling him that we have obviously gone wrong as there are no houses. We travel for some way before he turns into an uphill driveway. I see the Treetops sign but no house. Slowly we climb higher and higher until I can see the cars on the main road.

    ‘This can’t be right,’ I mumble.

    ‘It’s a real tree house, it is on stilts actually. You will love it,’ he says enthusiastically.

I will? Why would he think that? Even more interesting is how he knows these people. I see the house and take a sharp intake of breath. It is amazing. A real tree house and it is huge. Best of all, the lights are on. I want to sing with relief. It is the most welcome sight. Set back from the road and encircled by trees it is a real haven. The house is surrounded by small candles which wink at us like Christmas lights. I see someone sitting on a large balcony and, at the sound of our car they rise and walk into the house. Christian parks the Lemon next to two other cars that sit in the driveway and nods at me with a smile.

    ‘By the way, how are you with American accents?’

    ‘What?’ Surely he does not think I am that dim. Obviously, I understand an American accent when I hear one.

    ‘Claudine is from Texas.’

Oh shittity shit.

He is out of the car before I can speak and shaking hands with the man who has opened the front door. I stay in the car and wait patiently for Christian to come back with the can of petrol. Jesus Christ, he surely isn’t expecting me to speak with an American accent is he?

    ‘Christian, what a surprise, what are you doing slumming in Provence then?’ laughs the man as he pushes a pair of spectacles onto his head. He sees me and waves. I wave back. A few minutes later Christian beckons me to step out of the car and my heart sinks. I slam the door shut and walk towards them.

    ‘Claudine,’ calls the man and I cringe. ‘Lovely to meet you.’ I am engulfed in his arms and fumble for the right words to say.

    ‘Hi,’ I say hollowly as I brush crumbs from the pain au chocolat off my clothes.

He smiles and nods.

    ‘You are not what I imagined, but it is great to put a face to the name. So, come in,’ he gestures to the house.

I look to Christian, who just shakes his head.

    ‘I just told Christian that even if the garage were open, which it is not by the way, we couldn’t possibly let you drop by and not have dinner with us.’

Oh yes, you could I want to shout. We really wouldn’t mind in the least.

    ‘Olivia, it’s Christian,’ he calls as we reach the front door.

I grab Christian the builder by his Marc Jacob jumper pulling him backwards.

    ‘I thought we weren’t going in,’ I whisper.

Christian shrugs.

    ‘Yes, well all best-laid plans and all that…’

    ‘You haven’t seen the house before, have you Claudine?’ says Christian’s friend proudly.

    ‘Actually, I’m not…’ I begin but a woman whom I presume to be Olivia, rushes out and I stare at her. I don’t normally stare at women you understand, but immediately I recognise her as a model we have used for the magazine, and not just any model. It had taken us close on a year to sign her for just one shoot and by the time I arrived at the studio it was over. Finally, I get to meet Olivia Hammond, one of Britain’s top models and I am speechless.

    ‘Christian,’ she cries giving him a hug. I wonder how the hell Christian the builder knows Olivia Hammond the model. She turns to me hesitantly.

    ‘He has brought Claudine,’ says her companion.

Christian smiles at me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. I attempt not to pull away and feel rather ashamed that I actually find it feels very nice. I blush slightly and am grateful it is dark.

    ‘Claudine, this is Robin, whom you’ve heard of, of course, and this is Olivia.’ He smiles releasing me and kissing her.

I open my mouth to speak but am saved by Robin.

    ‘Oh for goodness sake come into the house.’ He ushers us into the hallway of a most amazing house. I stand at the entrance of a long corridor and find myself surrounded by photos of Olivia. She looks embarrassed.

    ‘Claudine, you must think me very vain. These are Robin’s photos, as we go through the house you will see they are not all of me.’ She smiles and I am already on the verge of asking her for beauty tips. She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek.

    ‘Welcome to Treetops,’ she says breathlessly.

Robin leads us into the lounge where I just glimpse some wonderful photographs. Out on the balcony another couple, somewhat older, are sitting and drinking wine. I immediately see a striking resemblance to Olivia in the older woman. She holds her hand out to me.

    ‘Hello, I am Flora, Olivia’s mother. I hear you and your fiancé ran out of petrol.’

I find myself shiver. I look to Christian who is accepting a drink from Olivia.

    ‘Yes, very silly. I was driving and I got the temperature gauge mixed up with the petrol gauge,’ I say, attempting my best American accent and ending up sounding like a Brummie. Christian gives me an odd look which I try to ignore.

Another man waltzes into the room carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. I feel my mouth water and realise that it has been some time since I had eaten properly.

    ‘I just pulled these from the oven in case anyone is hungry,’ he says smiling at me.

He puts out a hand that is encased in an oven glove.

    ‘Nice to meet you, I am Olivia’s father, Gerard. You must be Claudine, whose car has broken down.’

I tell myself I only desperately want to be Claudine because it will mean I will not have to lie anymore and for no other reason, although if I were really honest I was already enjoying myself.

    ‘I did the same thing when we hired that car in Spain, do you remember darling? I got the gauges mixed up?’ Olivia smiles warmly at me.

Flora is wearing the most fantastic outfit. I recognise it immediately as Christian Dior and am impressed but resist the impulse to comment. She has finished it off with a lovely cashmere scarf and small pearl earrings. I do not know how aware Claudine is about fashion. In fact, I have very little knowledge about her at all and feel myself becoming very nervous. If we do not get petrol tonight what are we supposed to do? I start trying to think of ways to get Christian to one side so I can discuss this with him. Mushroom vol-au-vents and smoked salmon flans are thrust into my face. The smell is irresistible and I find myself filling the plate that Olivia has handed me.

    ‘Have an olive,’ offers Gerard, plonking several onto my plate and squeezing my arm affectionately. Oh dear, I really should tell them Christian is far from my fiancé, and show them the photos that are on my phone. The thought of my phone reminds me that the battery is as dead as a dodo.

    ‘Oh Olivia, do you think I could charge my mobile. I really should phone my fian… I mean my financial adviser.’ I bite my lip the minute the words are out.

Gerard laughs, spitting out bits of mushroom.

    ‘That’s impressive,’ smiles Robin.

Does he mean my accent, or the fact that I have acquired a financial adviser? Shit what a bloody mess. Why can’t I just be good old Bels, who stupidly missed her flight and is now late for her wedding?

    ‘For a minute I thought you were going to say fiancé,’ laughs Gerald.

    ‘Yes, I thought so too,’ I say forcing a laugh.

    ‘That’s novel. Although I can well believe it is the only way you get to speak to him. But let me tell you young man, work is no substitute for a good marriage.’ Gerard points knowingly at Christian and I try to hide my blushes. Christian nods earnestly.

Note to self: Try to remember that at least for tonight you are engaged to Christian.

    ‘I thought you would have an American accent,’ Robin says suddenly.

Oh God. What the hell accent does he think I have?

    ‘Oh no, no not at all, I’m British, but everyone thinks I am American,’ I blubber and blush again. Christian rolls his eyes and I wish the floor would open up and devour me. There is a second of silence and I make a determined effort not to speak just in case I end up sounding bloody Irish or something.

    ‘So, what are you guys doing here?’ Robin asks while uncorking another bottle of wine. ‘It is lovely to see you, but it’s a real surprise.’

I sit back and wait for Christian’s reply.

    ‘Well, we are actually on our way to Rome…’ he begins, accepting the flans. I watch with horror as he places four salmon flans on one side of his plate, several vol-au-vents on the other side and then a pile of olives in the middle. As his fiancée, I feel decidedly embarrassed.

Robin hands me a glass of wine which I take thankfully.