Croissants and Jam (33 page)

    ‘Welcome to Côte d'Azur, you have been to France before, oui?’

I allow him to take my laptop and hand luggage, and lead me to the small Fiat in the car park.

    ‘I came to France when I was a child, but I passed through Côte d'Azur a few weeks ago,’ I answer, while squeezing into the Fiat as elegantly as I can. Claude starts the car, and we shoot off immediately. I grasp the side of my seat tightly while fumbling to fasten my seat belt with my other hand. I quickly check there are airbags.

    ‘I need to fasten my… Oh God,’ I scream as the car mounts the pavement to avoid a cyclist. An old man walking his dog shakes his fist at us. I jump as Claude hits the horn. Feeling myself start to sweat, I hastily click the seat belt on and grasp my seat with both hands. I fight an impulse to squeal each time he overtakes. I allow myself a quick glance at the speedometer and feel quite faint.

    ‘You like shopping?’ he asks, pushing his hand onto the car’s horn again. I jump at the sound and he smiles.

    ‘You very nervous,’ he observes.

Christ, did he say nervous? The man is a lunatic, and I am scared shitless.

    ‘Erm, yes,’ I reply, not taking my eyes off the road. ‘I like shopping. I like driving slow too, so I can look at all the sights.’

He obviously does not hear the driving slow comment as the car picks up speed as we join the main road. I fight an overwhelming urge to scream.

    ‘I hate cities, they make me, and how you say in English, claustrophobic? I get out as quick as I can.’

Oh isn’t that just my luck.

    ‘I give you my daughter number. She knows the best shops for clothes and will enjoy taking you.’

Taking one hand off the steering wheel he leans forward to the dashboard for his mobile phone. I gasp as a pheasant runs out in front of us. He swerves expertly while glancing at the phone.

    ‘Here, you write it down. Her name is Camille.’ He passes the phone to me. I reach out for it without taking my eyes off the road. Finally, he takes a sharp left and slows down. I let out a very audible sigh of relief. The scenery looks familiar and my stomach somersaults as I remember the Lemon travelling along these roads. I find myself wondering what happened to the Lemon. Did it get repaired, or did Christian just abandon it? I shake the thoughts from my head and copy Camille’s number into my Blackberry. The views are stunning, and as we are driving at a more sedate pace I can enjoy them without my stomach churning. It takes close on fifty minutes to reach Treetops. Hard as I try not to remember my visit with Christian, the memory flashes with crystal clarity into my head. We pull up sharply and I am thrown forward, banging my hand on the dashboard. Claude retrieves my bags from the boot while I fetch the key. It is exactly where Olivia said it would be. I replace the lid on the jar and walk towards the house where Claude is waiting. The house is even more magnificent in the daytime and I decide to marvel at it after Claude has left. He carefully places my bags in the hall and hands me a small card.

    ‘My phone number, you phone if you need anything, okay? The town, Côte d'Azur, is twenty minute from here. You have map?’

I nod enthusiastically.

    ‘Oh yes, I brought one with me. Thank you.’

I stand outside and stare in awe at the house.
It really is a giant-sized tree house and to think I thought Christian was a builder. Oh what an insult that had been. Now, I cannot even tell him what a great architect he is. I shake my head and walk into the house. Lumbering upstairs with my luggage I avoid the room Christian and I had stayed in and head for the master bedroom as Olivia had instructed. A four-poster bed dominates the room and I resist the urge to dive straight onto it. I study the artwork on the walls and understand why Olivia and Robin were nervous to leave the house empty. A note lies on the bed which is addressed to me. It is from Olivia.
‘Bels, welcome. We hope your flight was good. We have left two bottles of wine in the kitchen for you and fresh bread in the bread bin. Enjoy and have a wonderful stay, all our love Olivia and Robin.’
I check there is a lock on the bedroom door and sigh. I shall feel very safe in this room. I unpack, and then go downstairs to look around. I open the fridge for a peek inside.

    ‘
Those who indulge bulge
,’ shouts a voice.

I jump and spin round.

    ‘Jesus Christ, who was that?’

I slam the fridge door shut.

    ‘Naughty pickers wear big knickers.’

What the hell? I am beginning to feel like a naughty girl who has been caught with her fingers in the cookie jar. A large flashing
Diet Decision Maker
cupcake is winking at me from the fridge door. Blimey O’Riley, Olivia has a deterrent fridge magnet that gives a verbal equivalent of a slap on the wrist whenever you are tempted. Is this the secret to Olivia’s slim figure I wonder? I turn away with a smile and make myself a cup of tea and sit outside on the balcony to enjoy the stunning view. Any hope of putting Christian out of my mind is impossible. Everywhere I look there are reminders of him. I open the fridge for milk and inside are the cheese and olives that he loved so much. On the kitchen counter are the chocolate biscuits that he ate so many of. After drinking my tea, I decide to drive into the town for some shopping. Olivia’s Peugeot, I am thrilled to see, is automatic, so armed with my map, I set off to the town.
The sun is shining and I find I feel quite happy. Stopping at a lay-by, I check the map. I take the next left and follow the quiet country road. A man waves at me and I wave back. I sigh contentedly until a car zooms around the corner. I scream when I realise the maniac is coming straight towards me.

    ‘Get out of the way, you maniac,’ I shout in a shaky voice.

He swerves around me shaking his fist. I exhale as I see him disappear around a bend and lift my foot slightly off the accelerator. My God, the French are bloody mad drivers. Following the sign to the town I turn right at the lights only to have another maniac come towards me. I see a pedestrian waving frantically at me. Oh Jesus Christ, it’s not them, it’s me. I am on the wrong side of the bloody road. I swerve the car sharply to get it onto the right side, forgetting the cars that are already there. They all sound their horns at once and I scream as the car mounts the kerb.

    ‘Stupide femme,’ a driver shouts at me and I blush. I have no idea what the insult is, but an insult I am sure it was. How dare he? After all, I am British, so in theory he is in the wrong and I am in fact driving on the right side of the road. Well, I would be if I were in England, I assure myself as I park the car in what I hope is a car park. I look around for a ticket machine, but there isn’t one. I debate whether to leave the car or move it when I see a lady walking towards me.

    ‘Oh, bon petite senora,’ I stutter, thinking it doesn’t sound right at all. Oh why did I not learn French properly at school? I always was pants at languages. She looks at me quizzically and then behind her and then back to me.

    ‘Can I park here?’ I say loudly and clearly.

She shakes her head and then shrugs. I point to the Peugeot.

    ‘I stop car here,’ I say nodding at her.

She shrugs again. Oh sod it. I thank her and walk to the shops. Olivia told me to use the general store as they speak English. The smell of freshly baked bread hits my nostrils as I walk in and instantly my stomach rumbles. I approach the assistant, an elderly lady who wears an apron and has her hair tied back severely.

    ‘Bon petite senora…’ I begin and then realise it is most certainly wrong.

    ‘Shit, sorry, that’s Spanish, bon petite madam.’

The girl stacking the shelves sniggers and I feel myself blush.

    ‘Bonjour madame, how can I help you?’ answers the elderly woman pleasantly.

Oh shit, shit, of course its bonjour, Oh bugger, bugger. I feel the blush suffuse my body.

    ‘I’m staying at Treetops and I need some provisions, would you be able to help me?’

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Provisions? Am I in the Wild West now? I’ll be asking where the nearest saloon is next. It was so much easier when I was with Christian. Oh bugger, why do I keep thinking of him?

    ‘Ah yes, Olivia told us about you.’

The young girl sniggers again and I wonder what on earth Olivia told them about me.

    ‘I am Rosa. My daughter owns ‘Clarisse’ the restaurant. You will be dining there tonight?’

I shake my head and then wonder if it was a question or more of a statement. It did sound a little Gestapo.
You vill be dining there tonight.

    ‘Oh no, not tonight but tomorrow I vill, I mean will,’ I reply and bite my lip.

    ‘I book table for tomorrow, eight o’clock good for you? We have nice British man who eats with us every night. I sit you with him?’

    ‘Oh no,’ I shout and quickly look behind me to see if anyone has heard me.

She raises her eyebrows.

    ‘I thought you look for a new man, and he is English just like you, and no girlfriend.’

Good Lord, do I look that desperate that I would dine with a stranger on my second night?

    ‘That’s very kind of you but don’t you think you should ask him first? Actually, I will eat alone and about six thirty, if that is okay?’

Good heavens, I have not been here five minutes and matchmaking is in progress. I would really prefer to see what this man looks like before sitting down to dinner with him. What kind of man is he anyway if he agrees to eat with a woman he has never met, and who might look like the back of a bus for all he knows. A desperate man, that’s what, and a desperate man is probably an ugly man. Unless, of course, he knows nothing about this matchmaking malarkey, in which case it would be dead embarrassing all round.

    ‘I am sure he will not mind. He comes most nights to eat and chats to everyone. I think he would like the company at dinner.’

I cough uncomfortably.

    ‘Well, I would prefer to get to know him first, but thank you.’

I thank my lucky stars for the escape and allow myself to be guided to the cheese counter. My mouth waters at the sight of the succulent meats and assorted cheeses. I purchase a selection along with some freshly baked bread and olives and, of course, Christian enters my head again. Oh this is ridiculous. The whole country reminds me of him. The girl wraps the cheese and points to a poster on the wall.

    ‘You would like it, and there will be men too,’ she says nodding excitedly.

Good Lord, what on earth did Olivia tell them about me? One hour in France and it seems I am already known as the ‘man-eating English woman’. They will be locking up their men before you know it.

    ‘Lovely,’ I remark, looking at the poster and not understanding a word.

    ‘It is a cheese tasting with wine. You will like it. It is in French of course, but we will pair you with someone who speaks English as well as French. I will put your name down,’ says Rosa, pulling out a pad and scribbling in it.

Heavens, these French women are pushy.

    ‘But, when is it?’ I ask hesitantly, not wanting them to think that their idea of finding me a man is not appreciated.

    ‘Wednesday evening. That is good for you? Ah…’ She puts a finger to her head. ‘Claude is helping you, I remember, he can bring you, and you can drink some wine. That’s good.’

I go to protest but she wags her finger at me and I know it is pointless.

    ‘Great, that sounds really great,’ I say, attempting to sound enthusiastic and moving quickly to the door.

    ‘Bon Jovi,’ I say exiting quickly and cringe. Bon Jovi? What am I saying?

I trudge back to the car with my purchases and am piling them into the boot while trying to think of an excuse to get me out of the cheese evening when a yellow Citroën zooms past.
It couldn’t have been the Lemon, surely?
After all, isn’t Christian in Munich? Or if not in Munich then
in New York, but most definitely not in Côte d'Azur. Anyway, I am supposed to be forgetting him aren’t I and meeting someone new? Perhaps I should have dinner with the British man, after all he may be decidedly handsome for all I know. No, what am I thinking? No men for a while. I put the Citroën out of my mind, switch on the engine, check what side of the road I should be on and pull out slowly. Visions of a large glass of red wine, a warm bath and my French language programme push all thoughts of Christian from my mind. My first day getting to know the locals has gone very well, I think. I drive slowly on the wrong side of the road. Well, it is in fact the right side but it certainly does not feel like it. My mind travels to Christian and something occurs to me. I turn into the driveway leading to Treetops, park with a screech and dive out of the car. I race upstairs to Robin’s office where I had dumped my laptop. I open it and Google
‘Christian and French home’. It takes almost ten minutes before I have
the information I need. There is a small photo of him wearing a hard hat, and a very unglamorous jacket, but to me, he still looks sexy. The caption below reads
Celebrity architect builds his own home in France
. I read the article and clap my hands in glee. This is exactly what I suspected.

   
Christian Lloyd, the celebrity architect has bought a home in Europe. Born in Surrey, England, Mr Lloyd has often voiced a desire to build a home in France. It is thought that Mr Lloyd paid an estimated half a million euros for land which is deep in the French countryside in the village of Carte d’Or, close to the town of Côte d'Azur.

I jump up and do a little dance and then realise my phone is ringing downstairs. It must be him. I fly down the stairs almost falling down the last two. He must have seen me in the town also. I grab my Blackberry and stare mesmerised as Simon’s name shows on the screen. Oh good God, what now?

    ‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.

    ‘Annabel?’

For Christ’s sake, if he phoned me, it must be me mustn’t it, so why does he ask such a question? And why in heaven’s name
doesn’t he call me Bels like everyone else, sod it.

    ‘Simon, hello.’ I attempt to sound less cautious this time, but I can’t help wondering why the hell he is phoning.