Green Beans and Summer Dreams

And again in July when my leek crop failed.

But now the beautiful golden onions I harvested in October and stored in the garage (a cool, dark place, the article said) have all rotted away. I kept cutting into them and they were all black and slimy in the middle. Every single one. So now, instead of a lovely crop that will last me through to spring, I’ve got a box of horrors not fit to feed to Old MacDonald’s pigs.

I’m normally calm and rational. I faced a classroom of hormonal teenagers every day of my working life, for God’s sake, and hardly ever ran out of patience.

But seriously, I want to cry with frustration.

Later

I’ve decided to be philosophical about the onions. Gardeners learn by trowel and error, after all. Next time, I’ll make sure I dry them thoroughly before I box them up.

Right now, it’s freezing outside and sleet is turning the already wet soil to mud. But I’m feeling surprisingly content, sitting in my favourite old chair in the warm, lamp-lit kitchen planning the coming year (a large gin and tonic close by). I can’t believe how enthused I get these days, looking at pictures of seed packets. Truly, give me a seed catalogue over a copy of Vogue any day of the week.

Oh Lord, what has my life come to?

Chapter Four

‘Thanks guys. Drinks are on me. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

I hold the pub door wide and everyone trudges in, glad to exchange the raw November night for a seat and a chance to thaw out.

‘It’s so exciting.’ Jess squeezes my arm. ‘Just think of all those people reading your leaflet when they get in from work.’

I grin. ‘Or chucking it in the bin with all the other junk mail.’

I’m trying to stay calm but my insides are more jumpy than Mr Motivator overdosing on blue Smarties. We’ve trudged along every street in Fieldstone, posting my little flyer through letterboxes, and all but a handful are gone.

Peter offers to get the drinks in and I push money gratefully into his hand. The bar is two-deep in people waiting to be served. It’s been a long day. All I want to do is collapse into a seat and wait for the feeling to come back into my feet.

Peter and Anna head for the bar, squabbling good-naturedly about something. Anna aims a fake punch at his stomach, which he nimbly avoids. Then he grabs her and she rests her head for a moment on his shoulder.

I feel a stab of loneliness. Whatever else was wrong with our relationship, Jamie and I could always make each other laugh.

Jess goes off to the ladies and I’m left alone with her fiancé.

Wesley is director of a small IT company that is struggling to establish itself in the industry, and he works extremely long hours. Anna refers to him as The Lesser-Spotted-Wes because a sighting of him at a social occasion is as rare as clapping eyes on a golden eagle flying up Bond Street.

Now, he mutters something that sounds like ‘table’ and strides off, possibly in search of one.

I follow him and sink gratefully onto a banquette. ‘Thanks for helping, Wesley. I’m so grateful.’

‘No problem.’ He glares at his beer mat. ‘If you ask me, there should be a hell of a lot more support available for small businesses. But then, what can you expect with this shower in office?’ He shakes his head at the carpet, thoroughly aggrieved.

‘Mmm, yes,’ I murmur, trying to think of a response that won’t betray my total lack of interest in politics. I can’t come up with anything, so I say cheerily, ‘Well, I’m determined to give it a go. Nothing ventured and all that.’

He meets my eye and gives a stern nod, and for the life of me I can’t think of a single thing to say. So we both focus on our beer mats.

Wesley is average height with a wiry frame and lots of bristly dark hair that sprouts above his shirt collar, creeps over the backs of his hands and unites to form one long mono-brow. He would be quite handsome if he smiled more and didn’t look permanently vexed. His other passion, aside from Jess and his IT company, is photography. He drives Jess all over the country taking artistic shots of stained glass windows and church pews, and the resulting photographs dominate the walls in their modern, three-bed semi.

Jess returns and sits down next to him, shuffling her chair closer, and Wesley loops his arm around her waist. He’s clearly mad about her and more than happy to indulge her plans to turn their big day into a fairytale extravaganza.

Jess is leaving no harpist or lake with swans unturned in her quest for wedding day perfection. She has relaxed her policy of not mentioning her nuptials to me and I’m now kept abreast of every single detail. We’ve discussed in depth where best to seat her two old school friends who hate each other with a passion. And which auntie is robust enough to handle Wesley’s cousin, Graham, who apparently considers it his charitable duty to grope older ladies at weddings to boost their self-esteem.

Wesley hitches up his trouser leg and glares at his sock. ‘Bloody soaking. Stepped in a bloody great pothole. The state of the roads these days.’

Jess and I shake our heads sadly.

Wesley’s favourite topic is the parlous state of Britain.

I brace myself for a stern monologue on local government spending cuts. But luckily, Anna and Peter return at that moment with the drinks.

Peter raises his glass at me. ‘To Veg-R-Us!’

Anna snorts. ‘I prefer “Izzy’s Organics”.’

‘Hey, there’s plenty more where that came from, girl.’

I laugh. ‘Go on, then.’

Peter clears his throat. ‘Twenty-Four Carrot Deliveries. Eh? How about that? You should have asked me for a name.’

Peter has this lovely Welsh lilt that becomes more pronounced when he’s fooling around, which seems to be most of the time. It’s hard to believe he’s a solicitor, specialising in commercial property sales.

A mobile phone rings and Jess dives into her bag.

She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and mimes, wedding planner. Turning away, she presses a finger to her other ear.

Jess has these intense conversations with her wedding planner on a daily basis.

Wesley leans towards her but she brushes him off, listening intently. ‘Baby pink? I thought it was cerise … yes… right … but won’t that clash?’

Anna leans over and murmurs to me, ‘Hope that’s not the bridesmaids’ dresses.’ She holds out a length of red hair. ‘Pink with my colouring? I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe it’s Wesley’s outfit,’ I whisper in a ‘gottle-o-gear’ kind of way.

‘Ooh, you bitch. Now, if I ever get married—’

‘Hell will freeze over?’

Anna grins. ‘Only after the booze has all gone. No, if I ever get married, which I won’t, there will be no fuss at all. Just me and him and some witnesses we’ve dragged in off the street. Saves all that cash and stress.’

Jess hangs up, looking flushed, and Peter says, ‘So it’s all coming together for July?’

Jess smiles. ‘I think so.’ She pulls out a well-thumbed bridal magazine and it falls open at a picture of a horse-drawn carriage.

‘I wanted us to ride to the reception on a white stallion,’ she says wistfully, showing the magazine around. ‘But we had to shelve it.’

Peter nods. ‘Too impractical?’

‘Well, no. It’s Wesley. He has a problem with heights.’

We all look at Wesley, who shrugs philosophically.

Sensing a captive audience, Jess whips out a large pink ring-binder. ‘I simply can’t make up my mind which invitation to choose. There’s this design…’ A card with silver hearts and pink flowers is flashed before us. ‘And this one.’ A second card appears, decorated with almost identical silver hearts and pink flowers. ‘What do you think?’

As they chat, my mind wanders away.

I’ve worked hard preparing for this day: designing the flyer; kitting out the garden shed with a workbench and some old-fashioned weighing scales I found in a charity shop; and turning a guest bedroom into Izzy’s Organics HQ. I’ve spent endless hours phoning packaging supply companies to get the best deal on boxes and brown tape; and I’ve finally tracked down a company based in London that is willing to deliver organic fruit and vegetables right to my door.

As I planned and talked on the phone and made lists, it somehow felt as if I was only playing at setting up a business. Like doing a school project.

But now that the leaflets have gone out, everything feels different.

It’s real now.

There’s no going back.

‘I’d better go, guys.’ I shrug into my coat. ‘You never know, I might have a dozen orders already.’

I’m at the door when Peter shouts over, ‘Taking a Leek? A Turnip for the Books? The French Bean Connection?’

‘You’re a genius,’ I call back. ‘But I think I’ll stick with Izzy’s Organics.’

As I leave, Peter is tickling Anna and she’s begging for mercy.

Driving home with only my thoughts for company, my nerves ratchet up a million percent. What if there really are orders on my answer machine? Suddenly aware I’m haring along at twice the speed limit, I slow down and tell myself it’s perfectly fine if there aren’t any messages when I get back. It would be silly to expect such a swift response. People will need to digest the idea. Talk it over with their other half. It could be days before they get around to phoning.

All the same, my heart is beating fast as I let myself into the house. Without taking off my coat, I run upstairs to the office and press the button on my ancient answer machine.

You have no new messages.

Despite the pep talk to myself, I feel ridiculously disappointed.

I spend the evening trying to relax. But part of me must be on high alert the whole time because when the phone rings at ten past nine, I practically jump into next week. A man with a broad Scottish accent says, ‘Can I speak to Cammy, please?’ and when I say he must have the wrong number, he hangs up immediately.

I slump back on the sofa, close to tears.

What am I going to do if all my hard work has been for nothing?

Chapter Five

It’s market day in Fieldstone and as usual, parking is a nightmare.

Bunting, strung between lampposts, flaps in a stiff November breeze, dancing in perfect rhythm to the triumphal choral music filling the car.

‘What’s this one?’ I ask Jess, scanning every side street for a space.

She frowns. ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.’

‘It’s nice. Sort of jolly.’ I’m not sure this is the right response. Perhaps wedding music should lean towards the sombre and serious, reflecting the life-changing nature of the occasion.

Jess stares glumly out of the window. ‘He didn’t bring me tea. He always brings me tea in bed in the morning.’

She and Wesley have fallen out over who should photograph the wedding. Jess booked a company recommended by her wedding planner, not realising Wesley already had someone in mind.

‘Wesley is the photography expert,’ I murmur.

‘I know.’ She heaves a sigh. ‘But if we cancel, we’ll lose the deposit.’

The market, when we finally get parked, is an odd mix of quality country produce and cheap tack. The smell of gourmet sausages frying makes me feel hungry.

‘Where’s Mrs P’s patch?’ Jess asks, as we amble past a stall selling T-shirts with ‘witty’ slogans.

‘Over there.’ I point at a stall with a large hand-written sign above it that reads ‘Oldies But Goodies’ in spidery black capital letters. Whoever wrote it ran out of space and the last few letters are all squashed up together.

‘It’s popular,’ Jess says, looking at the people, mostly women, who are crowding round the stall. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised. Their cakes are scrummy.’

‘I know. And it’s so kind of her to let me put my leaflets on her stall.’

I’m grateful for any advertising that will help get the business off the ground. The money from my shares has given me some breathing space but it won’t last long.

Jess nudges me. ‘Stall holders get sexier every day.’

A man in well-worn blue jeans and a pale green sweatshirt is standing behind Mrs P’s stall, rolling an oblong package from one hand to the other. ‘Last Battenburg. Only one left.’ His tanned face breaks into a smile as he scans the crowd.

Someone claims the cake and money changes hands.

‘Now, these little smashers’ – he picks up another package – ‘they’re my all-time favourites. What do you think, ladies? Date and walnut buns?’

I study him curiously. He’s average height but fairly broad. A fit, outdoors type who should be hauling himself up a rock face or snowboarding off-piste. Not standing behind a stall talking up a date and walnut bun.

He holds the package aloft. ‘Can I tempt anyone?’

‘Not half,’ says a woman near us in a comically suggestive tone.

I snort loudly and he swings in my direction. Feeling myself redden, I’m relieved when a customer diverts his attention.

But when he’s served her, he glances back at me, a hint of a smile on his lips.

I’m the first to drop my eyes.

‘Not only delicious but good for you too.’ He’s right back into his patter, holding up a pavlova, full of fresh fruit and cream, and more shoppers pause by the stall.

What exotic destination has given him tanned forearms in November, I wonder. An Alpine ski resort, perhaps? Or snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef?

‘Organising a family is just like running a business,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s a constant battle keeping the house clean, the bills paid and the kids fed. And in an ideal world that food would be home-cooked. But who’s got time these days for home-baking?’

I look around at the rapt faces and almost laugh. He has the crowd exactly where he wants them. Has he rehearsed this or does flattering women just come naturally? I strongly suspect the latter.

Jess, beside me, is mesmerised.

‘So why not get ahead of the game?’ He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘Forget trying to be Superwoman—’

‘And what would you know about that?’ shouts a stout, middle-aged woman. ‘You’re just a man! And I’d bet my bingo money you haven’t got no kids to wear you out!’ She folds her arms and challenges him with a stony glare. Several people laugh and I exchange an interested glance with Jess.

Mr Alpine Skier looks winsomely thrown. ‘Fair point. And yes, you’re right. I’m not fortunate enough to have children…’ He glances in my direction when he says this. Flustered, I turn to see who he’s talking to. ‘I may be just a man, but I’ve been enjoying my grandma’s incredible cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper.’

‘Is that “incredible” or “inedible”?’ barks the woman.

As the crowd titters, a realisation hits me. No, he couldn’t be. Could he…?

‘What’s your name, Madam?’ he asks the bolshie woman.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

‘Erik.’ He gives her the benefit of those very white teeth.

Bloody hell, it is him. Mrs P’s grandson. But this is no gangly college boy just out of his teens. He’s a mature student, probably about the same age as me.

Wait a minute, has Mrs P set me up?

Erik leaps athletically over the side of the stall. ‘Rose. What a lovely name.’ He presents her with a lemon drizzle cake. ‘Look at that. Beautiful. Made from natural, wholesome ingredients. Not a preservative in sight.’ He puts his arm round her shoulders and leans closer. ‘If you served me this, Rose, I’d definitely be coming for tea.’

Rose purses her lips but you can see she’s charmed.

‘What a load of old bollocks,’ I mutter in Jess’s ear, and she hisses back, ‘Yes, but it’s good bollocks. And he’s gorgeous.’

‘If you like that sun-kissed beach boy look. Let’s just leave the leaflets and go.’

Jess looks at me, startled, as I ease through to the front and drop the pile of flyers on the corner of the stall. I turn to say, ‘Let’s go,’ but before I can get the words out, my wrist is gripped by firm, warm fingers.

‘You’re Izzy, right?’

I spin round and that wolfish smile nearly knocks me off my feet.

I nod and make some pathetic attempts at getting my arm back. Up close I notice his eyes are an unusual shade of green, flecked with gold.

And he’s not letting go.

I paste on a fake smile, hating being the focus of attention. ‘Your gran said I could leave these flyers on the stall.’

‘I know. She told me all about you.’ His tone makes me blush from head to toe. ‘And she was right about that incredible hair.’

‘See, I said you were right to grow it longer,’ Jess pipes up.

I shoot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not growing it longer. I just can’t afford to get it cut.’

‘Stay there. Don’t move,’ Erik commands.

He lets go of my wrist and holds up one of my flyers.

‘Fruit and veg!’ He addresses the crowd but keeps one eye on me, presumably in case I attempt another vanishing act. ‘Home-grown and delicious. Guaranteed fresh and organic.’ He flicks the leaflet with the back of his other hand. ‘And delivered right to your door.’

He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, am I doing OK?

Feeling foolish, I shrug.

‘And we have the woman herself right here!’

Oh no you don’t! I clutch Jess’s arm, but he’s propelling me forward and for some reason my legs are obliging him.

‘This is Isobel.’ His tongue rolls provocatively over my name. ‘And she’ll answer all your questions. Go ahead.’

A dozen pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

‘How does it work?’ someone shouts. ‘Do you get to choose what you want in the box?’

‘Well … not exactly.’ My cheeks feel hot enough to fry eggs. ‘You pay a fixed price for a box of the best fruit and veg available that week.’

‘But my family hates celery. Must we have it?’

I shake my head. ‘You tell us your likes and dislikes and we make sure we tailor the box to suit you.’

‘What size are the boxes?’ asks the woman called Rose. ‘There’s only me and my son, and he won’t eat fruit.’ I pass her a leaflet explaining the sizes and prices, then find myself putting them into other outstretched hands.

‘I’ve been looking for a box scheme.’ A young woman smiles at me and pats her baby bump. ‘I’m determined to eat organic for junior’s sake.’

I smile back, my confidence growing. This isn’t so bad after all. If only Erik wasn’t standing there, arms folded, listening to every single word. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning from ear to ear.

‘Do you grow it all yourself?’ someone asks.

I shake my head. ‘There isn’t enough variety in an English garden – especially during the winter. And I couldn’t grow the volume I need. So I use a company that imports fruit and vegetables from all over the world.’

‘But I don’t want broccoli that’s clocked up more air miles than a British Airways pilot,’ is the stern response. ‘How can you justify that?’

‘I … erm …’ I rub my nose. ‘I know what you’re saying and it’s something I’ve considered. But the thing is… I swallow. The inside of my head is suddenly as deserted as the Marie Celeste. My brain cells have clocked off early and gone down the pub.

In the expectant silence, a mobile phone vibrates on mute.

Erik steps in. ‘I think what Isobel wants to say is that in an ideal world we’d eat produce from local farms all year round. But sadly, that’s not a realistic proposition.’

I shoot him a grateful look.

During a lull in customers, I go over and thank him for coming to my rescue.

All but three of the two dozen leaflets have gone. I can’t quite believe it.

‘Hey, no problem. Tea?’ He produces a flask, and pours some into a mug. I take a sip and shudder.

‘Too sweet, right? Gran’s a great believer in sugar for energy. Beats me how she stays as thin as a whippet.’ He hands a cup to Jess.

‘So do you do this for a living?’ she asks. ‘Are you a market trader?’

He laughs. ‘God, no. I’m just helping out for the day.’

‘But you honestly look as if you’ve been doing it all your life,’ she says admiringly.

He downs his tea. ‘First time actually. I was a solicitor for a while but it was too much like hard work.’ He glances at me, almost apologetically. ‘So I chucked it in and applied to drama college.’

‘Wow,’ breathes Jess. ‘Do you want to be an actor, then?’

He grins. ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

‘Gosh! You might be famous one day. Can I have your autograph just in case?’

I check her expression for any trace of sarcasm.

Nope. She’s beaming like a loony.

I have to get her away before she decides she’s not marrying Wesley after all.

‘Well, thanks.’ I hand back the cup. ‘It’s been …’ I tail off and go pink.

‘It was a pleasure,’ he says seriously. ‘And if you need any more help just let Gran know and she’ll pass on your message.’

‘Er, right. Excellent.’

He gives me another knee-trembler smile.

‘Well, someone has an admirer,’ Jess remarks on our way back to the car.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was only being friendly.’

‘Well, there’s friendly. And then there’s friendly. If you know what I mean.’

Driving home after dropping Jess off, I find myself thinking about Erik, and about Jess saying he fancies me. It’s rubbish, of course. He was being nice because I’m Mrs P’s friend, that’s all.

I’m not even thinking about the business as I go upstairs to the office.

So when I see the answer machine is flashing with three messages, I nearly faint with shock.

First is my mother with a long-winded tale about some boxes that need to go in the loft. ‘I cleared out your bedroom, Isobel, because let’s face it you’re so rarely here and I need a dining room. But now I’ve got these boxes of books in the hallway that I keep tripping over. And I can’t possibly ask Bill Next Door to help because he already puts my bins out every second Tuesday, bless him. You know the silly man has a crush on me and I really can’t afford to rub Vanessa up the wrong way. That’s his wife. She used to be a weightlifter, apparently. Or a wrestler, I can’t remember which. But she’s quite gone to seed and you know my opinions on fat people.’ She pauses for a fraction of a second. ‘But anyway, I expect you’re busy so I won’t keep you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

The second message is from a woman wanting a taxi.

And the third is Jess. ‘Just called to wish you luck. Bet you’ve had dozens of orders already!’

End of messages.

Sighing I pull my diary over and resign myself to a weekend at my mother’s.

Then I go down to the kitchen and make cheese on toast, trying to ignore the spiteful voice in my head that’s hissing, See! You were a fool to think you could make it work!

Sinking down in Midge’s chair, I stare out at the flat, grey November sky. Life is hard and exhausting and I have no answers. I close my eyes and start to drift off to the steady ticking of the kitchen clock. And in that space between wakefulness and sleep, I hear Midge’s voice, as clear as if she’s sitting on the arm of my chair. ‘Get out for a run, my love. It’ll mend your spirits.’

Long-distance running is something I’ve done on and off since schooldays. Getting back to it feels like coming home. I’d forgotten how good it makes me feel.

At school I was an awkward, skinny kid; painfully shy, with masses of red-brown hair that made me the butt of many a joke. My hair was healthy and shiny, but it stuck out wildly no matter how I tried to manhandle it with hair grips. I wanted to cut it all off but my mother wouldn’t let me. She used to say my hair was my crowning glory and one day I’d be glad it was glossy and I had so much of it.