Croissants and Jam by Lynda Renham Page A

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