Croissants and Jam Read Free Page B

and stare at my face in the mirror with dismay. The pimple is redder. Hurriedly I wash and apply cream to the spot. I pull off my blouse and bra and give myself a quick scrub, and roll the deodorant everywhere. God, this is turning into the flight from hell. Oh I so wish I had a change of clothes. Just a simple Marks and Spencer black dress would do, and then my newly cut hair would look so much better. I apply a thin layer of foundation and smooth some blusher onto my cheeks. I appraise my appearance and nod contentedly at myself. My eyes are shining and my hair falls over my shoulders in gentle waves. I slowly make my way back and look for my seat. To my disappointment I find myself sandwiched between an academic with a tatty book twice the size of War and Peace on his lap, and a middle-aged, overweight, red-faced businessman, whose neck seems imprisoned in his tight shirt collar. The academic acknowledges me over the thick dark-rimmed glasses which hover on his beaky nose. I climb over his Clapham Market Rules carrier bag and try to ignore the tattered rustic jumper that covers his lanky frame. C&A is still alive and well in Clapham it seems. I fall into my seat and lean my thumping temples against the headrest. The businessman is tapping away furiously on a laptop. I give him a sideways glance. He seems to sigh heavily each time he hits the space bar.
        ‘Miss Annabel Lewis?’
    I jump at the sound of my name and look up to see a poker-faced stewardess looking at me. Don’t tell me that Tracey and her friend have reported me.
        ‘Oh God, what is it now? Here, search it search it, bloody war on terror.’ I shove my handbag past the face of Mr Academic.
        ‘Actually, it should be war on terrorism really, I mean, war on terror, that can’t be grammatically correct can it?’ I ask Mr Academic. ‘That’s right isn’t it? You should know.’
        ‘Why should I know, I’m a mathematician,’ he says irritably, pushing back his seat so I can lean across him. Oh shut the hell up Bels. I try to ignore the shocked look on the stewardess’s face when she is confronted with my handbag and with a cringe accept the bra she is handing me.
        ‘I think you left this in the toilet,’ she says softly.
        ‘Right, yes, thank you. Sorry about the terrorist stuff, bit nervous of flying,’ I mutter.
    Mr Academic passes my handbag back to me.
        ‘I know karate,’ he says without looking at me. I find myself attempting to visualise his lanky body performing a karate move and fail miserably. I slide down in my seat.
        ‘Cool, always good to know karate,’ I respond, carefully removing my book. The plane is starting to fill up now and I begin to relax. In just over two hours I will be in Rome, and heading to the restaurant. The overweight businessmanis fidgeting in his seat and sighing. I take another deep breath and close my eyes.
        ‘For pity’s sake,’ he mumbles.
    I turn to see him looking at his watch.
        ‘Are you all right?’ I ask politely.
        ‘I would be if the plane took off. It is fifteen minutes late now. I have a business meeting in Rome. For God’s sake, why can’t they get these things off on time?’
    I feel my heart lurch. I can’t be late. As it is I have just an hour to freshen up before dinner. I cannot spare any more time. I was even hoping to quickly retrieve my Donna Karan dress from the suitcase.
        ‘Ladies and gentlemen thank you for flying with Easyair. I am afraid we have a bit of a delay…’
    The man beside me sighs heavily and I see perspiration running down his temples.
        ‘We are still awaiting one remaining passenger who is joining us from a connecting flight.’
    I tap my fingers on the armrest.
        ‘Lady, are you trying to turn me into a nervous wreck? What is it with the tapping? I am trying to chill here,’ quips Mr Academic.
    Bloody hell, do I need Mr socially inept and badly in need of a haircut and