Free Croissants and Jam by Lynda Renham

bother?’ I ask, really not wanting to hear the answer.
        ‘Well, you can bother. I guess it depends whether your plan was to buy designer clothes or get your hair cut, or indeed have a back massage. Of course if it is great sex you want, then down there,’ he points with his thumb, ‘is the best place, oh yes indeed,’ he finishes.
    I feel myself blush.
        ‘You really are an obnoxious person, do you know that?’ I say, grabbing a top and holding it against me, God, it is gross.
        ‘I am just telling you. Is it my fault the ground floor has sex shops and massage parlours? That looks good on you by the way, you should get that.’
    I roll my eyes at him.
        ‘Oh purleese,’ I scoff, throwing it back on the shelf.
    He shrugs and dons a baseball cap.
        ‘Cool, I’ll get one of these.’
    I look into the shopping trolley. It is a quarter full already with tops, pants, socks, biscuits, soft drinks, wine, glasses and a pair of jeans.
        ‘You should try on some of these things,’ he suggests, offering me a crisp from the now open packet.
        ‘Shouldn’t we pay first?’ I say horrified. I have never in my whole life eaten anything in a supermarket before paying, well maybe a grape, but that doesn’t really count does it?
        ‘Oh purleese,’ he mimics, uncapping the top from a bottle of Coca–Cola.
    I grab the bottle off him and take a long gulp.
        ‘You rebel.’ He wags a finger at me.
    I flinch as he places a baseball cap on my head.
        ‘Come on let’s check the food,’ he smiles pushing the trolley forward. Why am I not surprised we are heading to the food counters? I yawn and shuffle my feet as he peruses the shelves.
        ‘Do you like marzipan?’ he asks, studying a box.
    I shrug feigning indifference but my eyes have honed in onto the nougat. Oh, this is terrible. A few hours ago I would not have given a Hobnob the time of day and now I am studying the sweets like an uncontrolled addict. He sees me looking at the nougat and with a wink throws four boxes into the trolley.
        ‘Right, let’s get the petits fours as well. Oh yes.’ He smacks his lips on seeing an array of them at the patisserie counter. ‘Oh yes, what shall we get?’
    He points to the Marzipan Cream Pyramids.
        ‘Ah, if you like marzipan, you will love these.’ He smiles and buys six. I watch astonished as he adds a dozen Nutella Ganache Tartlets and pushes one into my mouth. My eyes roll as the rich chocolate hits my tongue and he laughs.
        ‘Fabulous, aren’t they? Now we must have some opera squares and cream puffs.’
    Bloody hell, I am supposed to be losing weight. I attempt to protest but he is already pointing to the colourful tray of macaroons.
        ‘Choose a colour, any colour,’ he encourages, and against my better judgement I find myself laughing.
    We purchase six macaroons, twelve chocolate truffles, six chocolate éclairs and six coffee éclairs as well as biscuits, pain au chocolat, and crisps.
        ‘Right, cheese, olives and some bread I think.’
    He pushes the trolley to the cold-meat counter and I meekly follow my stomach rumbling. Fifteen minutes later he has talked me into trying on some of the worst-made clothes I have ever seen. I feel myself inwardly cringe as I pull the dresses over my head but I have to arrive in something other than a torn and stained Yves Saint Laurent blouse and laddered tights. Each time I pop out of the changing room something new is in the trolley. The shop assistant attempts to help, and thinking that Christian is my boyfriend, gets him a chair so he has pride of place in front of the changing room. He grins, eats all the crisps and gives me thumbs up for just about everything I try on, except for a long black cardigan and a shawl. A long flowery skirt and silk shirt gets two thumbs up, while a pair of high-heeled strapped sandals receives a wrinkled nose. I feel quite depressed to think I am