Croissants and Jam by Lynda Renham Page B

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.
        ‘Rome. You are a bit off track old boy, Are you on a driving holiday then?’ He laughs, and I can’t help liking him. He is very like Christian and with a sudden punch to my stomach I realise that I am not missing Simon at all.
        ‘Not exactly, we kind of missed our flight and, anyway, we bought a car,’ finishes Christian and looks at me with a shrug.
    Robin rushes to the end of the balcony and strains to see the Lemon.
        ‘Yeah I saw the car, it’s amazingly cool. Where on earth did you find it?’
    Christian holds his hands up in mock protest.
        ‘Not in front of Claudine, it’s a sore subject,’ he says between mouthfuls of flan. I watch with veiled disgust as he spoons more olives onto his plate.
        ‘Brilliant car, you must take me for a spin. There is a garage in the next town but that won’t be open till the morning.’ He looks towards Olivia who is smiling at us.
        ‘We have a spare can of petrol in the garage and we can use that to get down there in the morning, in the meantime, bottoms up.’ He chinks glasses with Christian.
    I am still hearing the words tomorrow morning! Oh please say he is joking.
        ‘Tomorrow,’ I say aloud and quickly bite my lip.
        ‘It’s fine, we have a spare room.’ Olivia smiles warmly at me.
    Spare room? Oh my God this is just getting worse. I look imploringly at Christian who avoids my eyes. I excuse myself and wander upstairs to the bathroom, which is the size of my parents lounge. I sit with a puff onto the toilet seat and admire the photographs. The wall is totally covered in Robin’s brilliant photography. I realise that all the photos are of Treetops in its varying stages of development, and Christian is in several of them. I wander over to the one of him in a hard hat posing by the swimming pool and sigh. So, he is an upper-class builder. Someone who helps rich toffs build their homes. Ah, that explains the bad press comment. God, what an inflated ego he has, he probably needs all that food to feed it. Dad would never approve of someone like him. I fiddle with the assortment of perfumes that sit on the shelf above the sink. What am I going to do? This is just getting worse. I have already eaten far too much that I feel seriously certain I must have gained a whole dress size. I should not have eaten those smoked salmon flans. I plead with God to deliver up a calorie-free dinner, or at least as calorie free as possible. I check my reflection in the mirror and do not drop dead from the shock. The pimple has almost gone and when I release the scrunch my hair falls in gentle waves. But what do I do now? This is a terrible situation. We were supposed to get a can of petrol and leave. Now, I am stuck here and probably for the night too. Still, I assure myself, I am obviously safe as Christian the builder obviously wants nothing to jeopardise his romance with Claudine. Whichever way it goes it is better than sleeping in the Lemon I suppose. Oh bloody Claudine and bloody Simon. I tell you I am beginning to hate both of them. If it weren’t for them we would not be in this situation. Honestly, when I remember the pressure I was put under to get to that sodding dinner and now I am having dinner here instead. I decide to make the most of it and quickly tidy myself up before heading back downstairs. After all these are my last days of freedom, so I may as well enjoy them. I can refuse the dessert easily enough. With a feeling of total abandonment I go back