For your festive enjoyment today we have an extract from 12 Days, a collection of stories inspired by 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'.
This is from Annabel Giles's contribution, Three French Hens.
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Christine had the distinct impression that everyone in the boulangerie was staring at her. Maybe it was because there weren’t many tourists around in December. ‘I’ll have that last pain au chocolat, s’il vous plaît.’ She was starving, it was lunchtime and she’d been too upset to eat the breakfast on the plane. ‘Oh, and one of those little tart thingies too.’
She handed over her euro note, and the baker’s face beamed back. It was an unusually forced grin, possibly the French version of the gurn. Did he remember her? Where was his pretty but arsey wife? Christine didn’t wait to find out, she got back into the waiting taxi, and through mouthfuls of delicious pastry, began to direct the driver through picture-postcard Tourettes sur Loup and along the Z-bend mountain road to the holiday villa ghetto beyond. It wasn’t until they’d driven too far to go back that she remembered she’d forgotten her change.
This morning had been a mad rush. When the line had gone dead, she’d headed for Heathrow immediately, and had just managed to get on the mid-morning flight by buying a Club Class ticket. But now that she was here, she wasn’t sure why she’d come. What could she do? Despite the ever-present South of France sun, it was a chilly December day; but that wasn’t why Christine shivered.
Julie realised she’d been standing at the kitchen sink for some time, staring out of the window at nothing in particular, although there was plenty to look at. The big space left by his car, for one thing. Which was now being filled by a local taxi.
A woman got out and took a moment for herself and her hair before walking towards the front door. Julie knew immediately that she wasn’t French, she was English – she was wearing the uniform of her class, the pale pink pashmina set. This was the sort of woman who ends up in Peter Jones. Christine!
For the first time Julie noticed the dainty little mirror hanging just above the kitchen sink – how typically chic, she thought – but she didn’t take a look as she wasn’t feeling chic, she was feeling shit. Not sure how much more she could take today, Julie took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘You must be the girlfriend,’ said the blonde, without a smile. ‘I’m the wife.’
Posted 09/12/2008 08:26:17 by The Little, Brown Santa with 0 comments.
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