Croissants and Jam by Lynda Renham

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