by Lynda Renham
‘Sorry, excuse me, I am not pushing in, I just want to see my friend, well he is not actually my friend, he is more, erm …’ I say apologetically, realising I am rambling.
He turns angrily on me and barks something in French. Good Lord, can the French wonder that so many Brits dislike them, I mean, come on a bit of politeness doesn’t hurt anyone. I then see Christian. Oh for goodness sake he is sitting on the floor too. I give up. The man is seriously deranged. Anything for attention it seems. His eyes meet mine and I open my mouth to speak. He gestures to the man in the hoodie.
‘Sit on the floor, he wants you to sit on the floor,’ his voice shakes and I feel my heart skip a beat.
‘You have to be joking. I have just changed my clothes. I am not sitting on this filthy floor,’ I reply uncertainly.
The man in the hoodie, who strangely enough is not sitting on the floor, seems to get agitated and starts to shout at me again. Oh, dear, I am starting to get a bad feeling about this. Why is it everywhere Christian the builder goes trouble seems to inevitably follow? I stupidly stare at the people who are either lying or sitting on the floor. Suddenly the hoodie points a gun at me. Jesus it’s a bloody gun.
‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ I scream.
I only wanted the sodding loo for pity’s sake. What the hell is going on? Surely we have not walked into the middle of a robbery? Classic or what? I mean, Jesus.
‘Bels do whatever I tell you,’ shouts Christian. Even with all the mayhem around me, I wonder, is that concern in his voice?
Oh Jesus, oh God.
‘But what if I don’t understand him,’ I squeal. ‘Oh my God is he going to kill us?’
‘Think positive.’
Think positive, think positive, has he gone bloody mad? How positive is a man pointing a gun in my face? I close my eyes and feel my body tremble. Oh please God, let me get to Rome and marry Simon. I promise to be the best wife he has ever had. Please God, let Simon have the chance to have a wife. I promise not to think about Christian the builder ever again, except in a bad way. Just please please God, let us all live.
‘Why did you bring us here,’ I say through trembling lips.
The hoodie is in front of me and waving the gun menacingly. A woman on the floor screams again. I put my fingers in my ears in preparation for a gun shot.
‘Oh please don’t scream,’ I wail.
‘Will you do what I tell you to do, damn it? He is robbing the place. Do what I tell you and we will all be okay.’ I hear Christian’s voice as if from a distance and can only think of my lovely charmed life back in London and so much want to be there. Why couldn’t we have married there? None of this would be happening. Oh Simon why are you not here? Instead, I am with this lunatic, Christian the builder, or is it Christian the robber. Oh my God. The gunman prods me in the back and I am propelled forward.
‘Bels, please do as I tell you. He wants you to go to the till.’ Christian translates with exasperation in his voice.
Bollocks, bollocks.
‘No, not bloody likely,’ I respond stubbornly and scream as the hoodie waves his gun again in my face.
‘Oh my God, oh Jesus,’ I sob, hoping Christian will jokingly respond with you called, but of course he doesn’t, instead he says,
‘Just do it Bels. Just go to the till.’
I walk slowly towards the till and hear the man bark again and Christian responds in French.
‘Okay, get a carrier bag from behind the counter and put all the money in it.’
Does he have to sound so bloody casual?
‘Am I robbing a bloody garage now? I can’t do this. Why doesn’t he do it?’ I snap looking crossly at the hoodie.
Christian puts his head into his hands.
‘Jesus, woman, please do as I tell you. Why do you argue so much?’
I don’t argue that much, what is he talking about? I look at all the other frightened women and quickly punch the buttons on the till. My hands are shaking. Maybe I won’t make it to Rome after all. Perhaps I will get shot in the middle of a stupid robbery. I was right about this mad Christian. He will end up getting me killed. I yank a carrier bag off a large bundle hanging behind the counter and begin throwing the money in. The hoodie is standing close to Christian and talking again. I so wish I had paid more attention in Miss Boursin’s French class at school. As it is right now I have no idea if Christian the builder is even telling me the truth. I don’t even know the guy. He could be in on the robbery for all I know. Although I have to admit he does not look like Christian the robber. Although, of course I have no real idea how robbers actually do look. Apart from The Godfather I can’t say I have watched many gangster movies. Let’s be honest, if all gangsters looked like Al Pacino, who would mind having a gun waved in front of their face? The hoodie is now fidgeting and pointing the gun at me. He yells at me angrily in French.
‘I don’t know what you’re saying,’ I say, looking at Christian for help.
‘He said you are slow.’
‘Well, I don’t exactly do this every day do I?’ I retort. Shit, my whole body is shaking and my teeth chattering.
The hoodie shouts again, and I thank God one of us knows French, or else he most likely would have shot me by now. What am I saying, us? When did ‘we’ become ‘us’? For Christ’s sake Bels, you are not a bloody couple.
‘He wants cigarettes,’ Christian translates.
What? I look at the packets of cigarettes. There are loads of them.
‘Which brand?’ I ask stupidly. Oh sod it. I throw the whole lot in. Hopefully the shagging robbing bastard will smoke himself to death.
‘Throw those chocolate bars in too,’ orders Christian and now I seriously do wonder if he is involved. I give him a sidelong glance and drop the chocolate bars into the bag. The hoodie, seemingly satisfied, points to the people on the floor. I look to Christian who attempts a weak smile.
‘You’re doing great. He wants everyone’s purse and wallet.’
I slowly go from one person to another, apologising each time I take a purse or wallet and throw it into my carrier bag. I approach a young woman who is giving me a filthy look.
‘Well, I am not giving you my purse, you will have to beat it off me,’ she spits in what my mother would term a common accent.
‘You’re English?’ I say feeling stupidly happy.
She purses her tight lips.
‘Yes and I know exactly what you and your boyfriend are up to, and you are not getting my purse.’ She clasps her bag to her chest. ‘I know you’re both in on it.’
The hoodie shouts at me again. I turn angrily.
‘Okay, for Christ’s sake, will you stop shouting at me?’
I lean down to the woman.
‘I don’t know what you mean…’
‘Oh, you know what I am talking about, you and your boyfriend here, trying to pretend that you are innocent, well I know better,’ she snarls.
‘He isn’t my boyfriend,’ I insist hotly feeling myself flush.
The hoodie pushes me from behind and yells angrily.
‘Just give me your purse,’ I plead.
‘No way lady, if you want it, you come and take it.’
I let out a sigh and turn to Christian.
‘Well, Clyde, any great ideas?’
He bites his lip and looks at the hoodie.
‘He has a gun just don’t forget that, either of you.’
Great advice, I don’t think. Butch Cassidy he certainly isn’t.
‘Right, lady I am not getting bloody shot because of you, so give me your sodding purse, now,’ I snap, pushing her onto her back and grabbing the bag.
‘You thieving bitch,’ she hisses and kicks me in the shin. Bloody hell, is this the bit where I slap her round the face? Christ almighty, whatever next? At that moment Bruno Mars sings in my handbag. Kaz. It is the ringtone I have for her. I turn to my bag which hoodie is now holding.
‘Kaz, Kaz,’ I scream, ‘We are being robbed.’
I see C
hristian roll his eyes. Hoodie moves towards me and attempts to snatch the carrier bag and, for some stupid reason, I struggle with him in an attempt to grab my Blackberry. He pushes me to the floor and in the struggle we exchange bags. He jumps up with the carrier in his hand and in his haste to escape, he falls over my leg and crashes to the floor, the gun slipping from his hand and landing directly in front of me. His eyes meet mine and then he is up, scrambling to get the carrier bag again before running outside. I quickly grab the gun and see it is a fake. I turn to Christian who ducks.
‘Bels, for pity’s sake put that down,’ he yells panic-stricken.
The woman next to him screams and holds up her hands.
‘Oh my God she’s a psycho,’ screams the British woman.
I look at her with disdain.
‘Oh purleese, it’s not even real,’ I mumble and watch fearfully as Christian and another man race outside to chase the robber. The woman in the atrocious top jumps up and plonks a wet kiss on my cheek.
‘Oh, merci beaucoup,’ she cries hugging me.
I gently push her to one side grab my bag and race after Christian. The man who had gone with him has managed to retrieve the money. With shaking legs I walk to the Lemon and lean against it. The men walk towards me.
‘Are you okay?’ Christian asks gently.
I feel like crying, ‘No I am not alright. I just want to get to Rome and to Simon and to feel safe again.’ But instead I say, ‘Can we just get going please?’
He looks hesitant.
‘We probably should wait for the police but I guess as they got the money back… That woman is telling everyone you are involved though.’
‘What woman?’ I yell looking around me.
‘The British woman, she is ranting a bit.’
I look pleadingly at him. He turns to the other man and says something in French and again I curse for not taking more notice in my French classes at school. He tells me it will be fine, and motions to me to get into the car. I close my eyes. Thank God. I make a decision not to move from the car until we are in Rome and also not to look at, or think about Christian anymore. I am on my way to get married, and in a few days I will be Mrs Annabel Lloyd and I cannot wait. I offer to drive and he accepts. I hand him the map and we set off again. Of course, I have no idea that the British woman will later tell the police that I was the one behind the robbery and have probably kidnapped Christian at knifepoint. I ask you, who would believe that?
Chapter Eight
I drive for about two hours while Christian the builder sleeps. In fact, I am beginning to think that sleeping and eating is what he does best. The Lemon is a bugger to drive and thankfully he sleeps through my gear grinding and cursing. The roads are deserted and I cruise along admiring the scenery, passing fields of lavender and sunflowers. Golden rays of evening sunlight pierce the tree-lined road. I pass an old stone farmhouse with faded green shutters and spy an elderly couple sharing a bottle of wine in the shade of an olive tree, and try to picture Simon and myself doing something similar in years to come. Of course the vision fails to materialise somehow and I feel quite mournful. I really cannot believe I lied so easily to him. That really can’t be right can it? What if I am only marrying him because I seriously cannot bear the thought of being left on the shelf? No, that isn’t true. I care about Simon, I know I do. Yes, but of course, the question is, am I in love with him? Oh dear, I am driving myself mad with all this thinking. Of course, I am in love with him otherwise I wouldn’t have got engaged to him would I? Then again I suppose I would, if I was afraid of being left on the shelf. As the sky starts to change and dusk starts to fall I begin to feel a little like Thelma out of the film Thelma and Louise. Well, I was kind of involved in a crime so it does seem fitting. I pop square after square of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut chocolate into my mouth and feel like quite a rebel. I have been a reformed chocoholic for the past few weeks after Kaz had told me that every square was equivalent to one inch on my hips. I stop once to check my phone only to find the battery has died, which explains why no one has called. Christian’s phone goes off several times but he does not wake up. I resist the impulse to look at his sleeping face. I have no idea what the time is but it is getting dark. I hear him stir and then let out a loud groan. He stretches beside me and hits me in the ribs.
‘Ah, sorry, there is not a lot of room in this car is there?’ he says lazily and yawns.
I move slightly so our knees do not touch. I see him check his watch from the corner of my eye. He yawns again, looks at his phone and then asks me the question I had been dreading he would ask.
‘Where are we?’
‘No idea,’ I answer honestly and wait for him to explode.
He stops reading his text and stares at me. I continue looking ahead unblinking. Okay, so I should have woken him and I did try. I called his name several times but he didn’t respond and there was no way I was going to touch him. I vaguely remembered him saying that the road I had been driving on was the one we needed, so I presumed it was fine. He fiddles with his iPhone and looks at the map. Don’t you dare shout at me, I think aggressively, just don’t you dare.
‘How long have you been on this road Bels?’ he asks softly but I sense he is trying to control his annoyance.
I shake my head.
‘What does that mean?’ he snaps.
I see a lay-by ahead and pull into it.
‘It means I have no idea,’ I shoot back.
There is a stunned silence. He struggles to turn the overhead light on and then strains to see the map.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ he asks, reaching into the back and producing a chocolate éclair. I pop the last square of chocolate into my mouth.
‘I did try to wake you. It just seemed like you needed to sleep.’
I look at his éclair and lick my lips. He says he will continue driving so I slide out of the Lemon while he climbs over the seat. I walk round to the passenger side and get back in to see a thunderous expression on his face.
‘I can’t believe you drove for three hours and didn’t look at the petrol gauge, this car drinks petrol, and it’s almost empty,’ he groans.
I peek across him at the petrol gauge. It was half full, I know it was. I point to the gauge.
‘Look I did keep an eye on it. Why do you keep having a go at me? There is half a tank,’ I say crossly.
He shakes his head.
‘Bels, that is the temperature gauge,’ he says, and I hear the despair in his voice.
I gasp. Shit, shit.
‘Oh, I am so sorry it’s just in my car the petrol gauge is on the other side. I got confused,’ I whisper apologetically. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
How can I have been so stupid? Oh my God, now we could be stuck here forever. I look at him hopefully.
‘Do you think there will be a garage in the next town?’ I ask, optimistically.
He nods and my spirit soars, and then he ruins it all by casually saying,
‘Except the next town is about twenty miles away and we will never make it.’
A small sob escapes me. I can’t believe I was so stupid. I look again at the petrol gauge as though by looking hard enough I can make the needle move upwards. He sighs and looks at the map.
‘Right,’ he mumbles.
Right what? How can he be so casual about everything?
‘Aren’t you worried? I mean, we can’t just stay here,’ I say irritably.
He gives me a sidelong glance.
‘Will worrying make the car go further? If you were that worried why didn’t you keep a proper check on it?’
Headlights dazzle me as a car races past and I consider jumping out and stopping the next one. Maybe they could give us a lift? I suggest this to Christian who just gives me an odd look. My heart sinks. I feel I am destined not to get to Rome. Is this fate telling me that Simon is not Mr Right?
‘Okay, by chance I happen to have a friend who lives about ten kilometres from here, we may just make it.’
‘Don’t get too excited because I have no idea if he is at home. I should phone. Signal is bad here.’
I clasp my hands together and find myself willing his friend to be home. I strain to see him as he walks down a short lane and am tempted to put the headlights on so I can see him better. After a few minutes he gets back in the car and hands me the map.
‘Is he home?’ I ask hopefully.
He rests his neck in his hands and stretches backwards. The Marc Jacob jumper stretches with him and a small amount of his chest is exposed. I look away quickly. He yawns again and combs his hair back from his face with his hand.
‘They’re home, but there is a slight complication.’
He groans lightly and I feel my heart sink. I try to think what the complication could be. I attempt to work out all the scenarios but not one seems to be a problem. If they are home and he is their friend what on earth can the complication be? I realise he is looking at me and the penny drops.
‘I’m the complication?’ I stammer.
He exhales.
‘Well, yes and no. I, without thinking, told them that we had broken down and they just presumed that I meant Claudine and me.’
