Read Online Croissants and Jam by Lynda Renham - Free Book Online

‘I can’t have a baby yet.’
    What the hell? Who mentioned babies? Who even mentioned sex? Surely that comes before babies doesn’t it? My God, she isn’t going to scream rape is she? Oh hell, this is all I need. I knew she was a bit dotty but I didn’t for one minute seriously think she was completely and utterly mad. Keep calm. The best thing is to humour her.
        ‘What? How did we get from the A39 to a baby? Did I miss something?’
    Like you screaming the word rape? And demanding money? But no, instead her face crumples and she blurts out that she has left her handbag at the airport with her contraceptive pill inside. I mean, is this really my problem? She then promptly bursts into tears. It’s my problem. I’m beginning to think a Polar Icecap expedition would be easier than travelling to Rome with her. In fact, I actually think I would enjoy it. At least I could be sure of getting there. I really cannot bring myself to talk to heron the journey back to the airport and thankfully she manages to keep her mouth shut, although not for long unfortunately. I am relieved when she climbs back into the Lemon armed with the said handbag, and with, I assume, her pills safely ensconced inside. Everything would have been fine had she not opened that offensive mouth of hers. After fiddling with her phone she accuses me of destroying her life and insults the Lemon, calling it ‘a sodding stupid antique car’. I fight the overwhelming desire to put my hands around her throat and bite back a stinging retort. I’m beginning to think a job as Colonel Gaddafi’s chauffeur would be a walk in the park compared to chauffeuring Madam Kiss-my-arse-I-think-I’m-Victoria-Beckham . What an ungrateful cow. If that ring on her finger is anything to go by then some guy has actually chosen to be with her. He has obviously had a lobotomy at some point. He must be a bit of a strange guy though, because he hasn’t phoned her once. I bet an evening with them is a bundle of laughs. Well, seeing as we are late now we may as well stop off for something to eat. That won’t please her. I ought to phone Claudine. Women. They are all the same, a pain in the jacksie.
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
        It is almost twenty minutes before we see any shops and in that whole time Simondoes not phone or text. I feel a churning in my stomach. I just can’t understand it.    
        ‘Hey, I can see what looks like a very big supermarket, which means there has to be a garage nearby,’ says Christian the builder.
    I let out a sigh of relief. Please God, let there be some decent shops here. Since our encounter with the police I have barely spoken to him. My thoughts have been focused on Simon and the wedding. I feel sure if I don’t marry him, I probably won’t marry anyone now. I keep trying to picture Simon with children, but it just doesn’t happen. The only picture I get is of him in big business meetings and fancy lunches. I do want children don’t I? Christ, I am driving myself mad with all this thinking. Of course I want children, why am I even asking myself such a stupid question? As long as I don’t end up like my friend Maz. I mean, she was normal until she had kids and now she sits at dinner parties like a zombie and only seems to come alive when nappies or milk formulas are mentioned. Worse of all though is how a phone conversation with her is interspersed with sentences like. ‘Shake little pee wee, that’s a good boy.’ Or ‘Mummy is just talking to that nice Belsey Welsey,’ which makes me sound like a face-dropping disease or something. I don’t want to end up like that. Not with a face-dropping disease, I don’t mean, obviously. But talking like a retard to my children.
    I check the time on my mobile and want to cry. I have missed the dinner for sure. How the hell do I explain Christian the builder as well? What if they all think there is more to it? Oh shit. After all, it is a bit unusual to