Книга - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

Green Beans and Summer Dreams
Catherine Ferguson


**The fabulous novel from ebook bestseller, Catherine Ferguson. As fresh and bubbly as a pint of homemade lemonade on a hot day, this is the only book you need this summer!**When Izzy Fraser’s long-term boyfriend walks out on her, she’s left in a bit of a pickle. Yes, she has the house of her dreams, but she now has a crippling mortgage to pay on her own.So she takes matters into her own hands and, having always been a keen gardener, decides to set up Izzy’s Organics, delivering crates of fresh fruit and vegetables to local villagers.Along the way she meets all sorts of characters, including the very handsome Erik and the very Grumpy Dan. But can Izzy sort the wheat from the chaff? And will her new business sow the seeds of change that she wants?A funny, heartwarming tale, full of the joys of summer. Perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan and Lucy Diamond.









Green Beans and Summer Dreams


CATHERINE FERGUSON






A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)


Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2015

Cover design © Debbie Clement

Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780008142216

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008142216

Version 2018-07-24


For Dave

The best friend a girl could have


Contents

Cover (#u43d1a0bf-9ce6-5690-b0d8-271c9088d439)

Title Page (#u639dfae3-f6bb-530f-8243-bf325d2adaed)

Copyright (#u88cc66f0-b3e7-5510-adf9-3e05943450c1)

Dedication (#uf34f4506-cf48-553e-9269-1c32860601b3)

SEPTEMBER (#uc68504c2-3f8d-53b6-a8b7-e931029513d0)

Chapter One (#u4fa17ccb-0a58-5980-b015-1de794d07c67)

OCTOBER (#uf2c1e249-47d5-5724-b9d7-f263a19b45d6)

Chapter Two (#u5c14eb99-0ff9-5e00-9a61-432b0b3f8e0a)

Chapter Three (#u3e0946fc-2301-5dab-933a-037e4a287823)

NOVEMBER (#u3e58c8c6-c2d5-5bac-bbff-93c4a7e5e936)



Chapter Four (#ud22f77fd-21ed-5707-8aad-3e968773b9f6)



Chapter Five (#u13743d63-f5ad-5e48-bb85-4869ca34f32d)



Chapter Six (#u5dcec5f8-4dfe-562a-9399-cf81384308da)



Chapter Seven (#u0151336c-9d6e-5ac5-a719-e797414f142b)



Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



DECEMBER (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



JANUARY (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



FEBRUARY (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



MARCH (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



APRIL (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



MAY (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



JUNE (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)



JULY (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



AUGUST (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



SEPTEMBER (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



OCTOBER (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)



NOVEMBER (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



DECEMBER (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)



JANUARY (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




SEPTEMBER (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


You can bury a lot of troubles, digging in the dirt.

When I braved the unseasonably cold weather this morning to dig over the vegetable garden for a new round of planting, I was in a grumpy old mood. The fresh breeze nipped at my ears so I was soon forced to retreat indoors in search of extra layers.

I caught my reflection in the mirror on the landing – lumpy clothes, no make-up, red bobble hat – and I burst out laughing. It was a far cry from my neat trouser suits and life in a centrally heated, north London classroom. A fake white beard and I could almost pass as a store Santa.

But, suitably clad, I went out and started on the digging. And after several hours of rhythmically turning over the earth with my gleaming new spade, I was feeling energised and much calmer.

I can’t believe I’ve lived at Farthing Cottage for almost two years now.

Like many people, I’d had vague thoughts of one day ‘giving it all up’ for the slower pace of country living. Moving here permanently in 1990 seemed auspicious somehow – it was not only the start of a new decade, but also the beginning of a brand new phase for me. Life would be tranquil, the bleat of a lamb after the roar of London.

Tranquil, my arse!

There’s as much conflict living in this house in deepest Surrey as there was in the classroom. It’s just that here my battles are waged against potato blight, carrot fly and large black slugs that munch their way through my yummy seedlings with no concern at all for the painstaking hours I’ve spent preparing their sodding feast!

But hey-ho. That’s life in the garden. Survival of the fittest. And pests, watch out! I am determined to bloody survive!

As a rule, I try not to think about London and the life I left behind. Although on days like this – with summer behind us and a long winter in prospect – I can’t help a pang or two.

Izzy is coming to stay for the half-term autumn break, though, and no-one can shake up my dull routine better than my lively, ten-year-old niece! Izzy adores helping me in the garden, especially if there are raspberries to pick, which there will be. (The autumn rasps are at their best in October.)

Today, lunching on the last of the tomato and basil soup, I came across a line in a magazine: ‘A gardener’s best tool is his memory of past seasons.’

I reflected on the truth of this and came to the conclusion that since there are goldfish with better memories than me, I had better start keeping a gardening diary …




Chapter One (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


When Hormonal Harriet gives a violent judder then plays dead a mile from the village, I react like any other normal, level-headed person. Thumping the steering wheel with an agonised howl then pleading with her to start.

My car might be ancient but she’s also a bit of a diva, so I should have known that forcing her to drive at breakneck speed along potholed country roads would provoke first, surprised outrage, then an all-out strike.

Heart racing, I glance at my phone.

Twenty-two minutes.

Twenty-two minutes to get there and prevent myself from slithering further into the slimy pit of humiliation I’ve been trying to scramble out of since CLB left.

When she heard the news of Jamie’s betrayal, my forthright and fiercely protective friend, Anna, declared, ‘Izzy, I will never speak that wanker’s name again!’

So now she refers to Jamie as Cheating Lying Bastard (aka CLB). The label seems to have stuck and I, for one, am certainly not complaining.

Twenty-one minutes!

There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to run.

I scramble out of the car and glance at my feet. Scabby trainers. Perfect. I was cross-country champion at school so running a mile should be a walk in the park.

Three minutes later, I’m in so much agony I think I might be suffering a minor heart attack. But the memory of that doom-laden text message spurs me on. Without Jamie paying the mortgage, it’s all down to me now – and I’ve slipped up badly. Those panic-inducing words – not enough funds to cover – pinged onto my phone only an hour ago.

I was in the kitchen, intent on a double mission: attacking my garden’s embarrassing glut of carrots and leeks by chopping them up into soup and thereby saving money on this week’s food bill. I froze with fear. If I missed the mortgage payment – due next day – I’d be on a slippery slope I couldn’t bear to think about. Transferring funds into the account was the logical thing to do. Just one small fly in the ointment. My meagre savings had run out; there were no funds to transfer.

Then I remembered the brand new tablet I’d bought for Jamie when we were still together and money wasn’t a problem. The tablet was a gift to mark the anniversary of the day we’d met five years earlier. But before I had a chance to present him with it, I found out he’d been cheating on me and we broke up.

I pictured the tablet, lying in my bedside drawer, still wrapped in its romantic, heart-patterned cellophane, with a label that read: To Jamie, All My Love, Izzy xxx

Thank God I hadn’t given it to him!

I could return the tablet to the shop and the refund would plug the gap in my account.

As I jog along the lane, shoulder bag clamped tight, I can hear the cellophane crackling inside. I’m panting so loudly, I sound like I’m having wildly inventive, leap-off-the-wardrobe sex. I should be so lucky. Thank God it’s a quiet country road so no-one can witness me lurching along with the sweaty complexion of a bursting tomato.

At last the High Street comes into view.

The shop closes at 5.30. It’s now 5.23.

I think I’m going to make it!

I lumber past the post office then hang onto some railings, wheezing for Britain. One big push and I’ll be there …

Launching myself off, I stare grimly at my target and stagger on. Luckily, the shop is at this end of the High Street, just beyond a trendy juice bar and the newsagent’s.

A hulking, mud-spattered lorry is taking up most of the pavement outside the juice bar, its back door thrown up. I concentrate hard on the very small space on the pavement between the lorry and the shops. Definitely single file only, but there’s no-one approaching from the other direction.

I’m almost there, ready to squeeze through, when I’m momentarily distracted by the lorry’s cargo. A familiar scent wafts up my nose. Vegetables. Curious, I slow down to take a closer look at the stacked wooden trays filled with fresh broccoli and pears. Ooh, and juicy-looking clementines with their glossy green leaves still attached. Lovely. And something else – oh, it’s kohlrabi. I’ve been meaning to try growing some of that – there’s room in my vegetable patch between the winter cabbages and the cauliflowers—

‘Oof!’

Not looking where I’m going, I collide with a very large, very solid object. Bouncing backwards, I lose my balance and land with a nasty thud on my bottom.

It’s a bit of a shock to see the world from this angle.

Thoroughly winded, I take in a pair of massive trainers, even shabbier than mine, on the end of a pair of long male legs clad in scruffy black joggers.

A big, muck-encrusted hand is thrust into my eye-line and – still dazed and disorientated – I’m hauled roughly to my feet. The owner of the legs towers over me, glaring down from behind a pair of creepy, silver-mirrored aviator glasses.

I’m about to launch into a profuse apology, when this sinister-looking giant barks, ‘Bloody woman. Might have known. No sense of spatial awareness whatsoever.’ He points. ‘You’ve dropped something.’ Then he stomps into the newsagent’s.

Stunned by the unfairness of his accusation, I sink back against the lorry to catch my breath.

But next second, I gasp in horror.

My mortgage payment is lying in the road and a car is bearing down on it.

Swiftly, I dive over, scoop up my precious cellophane package and set it down carefully beside the tray of clementines, before bending over into the lorry and resting my weight on my arms as I get my breath back. The scent of citrus fruit rushes up my nose.

As if all this wasn’t weird enough, without warning my world is rocked again – quite literally this time.

The lorry is swaying from side to side.

I leap away in shock as the engine roars into life and the vehicle starts to move off.

What the hell’s going on? The driver’s forgotten to close the back of the lorry!

The crate of clementines is sliding dangerously close to the edge and as I stare after the truck, dumbfounded, several butternut squash roll out of the back and bounce gaily into the gutter.

I start to run.

‘Hey, wait a minute! Stop!’

The driver is signalling, waiting to move out and I almost manage to draw level with the cab, waving my arms about like an idiot.

But it’s no use.

The lorry is so grimy, I can’t even make out the name of the company on the side. Only a few letters are visible and they – rather appropriately I feel – spell out ‘arso’.

Horrified, I watch as the lorry accelerates off into the distance with my beautifully wrapped mortgage payment nestled cosily between the kohlrabi and the clementines.

When I met Jamie, I was in my mid-twenties, sharing a chaotic but colourful flat with my three best girlfriends in Edinburgh. We were all starting out in our careers; I’d graduated from the university with a degree in English and was now a lowly public relations assistant with a salary to match. But being broke much of the time didn’t seem to stop us enjoying ourselves and partying most weekends.

I met Jamie at our local pub – I left my scarf behind and he sprinted the length of the street to return it and ask me on a date – and I fell crazily and completely in love.

A financial analyst, Jamie was something of a whiz in the maths department; far more intelligent than me, but not in the least bit geeky. Quite the opposite, in fact. He could liven up any gathering with his charm and wealth of funny stories, and he was also surprisingly romantic. Once, for my birthday, he filled the entire flat with sunflowers (my favourite) – dozens and dozens of them in every room, all in pretty blue vases that must have cost him a small fortune.

Before long, we were such an inseparable double-act, my flatmates started laughingly referring to us as Richard and Judy. And a year after we met, we decided to move in together.

Everything was wonderful.

I’d never been so happy.

But the downside was that while I was so wrapped up in my new life with Jamie, my visits to family tended to get put on the back-burner. With Dad living in Glasgow, just an hour away on the train, I saw him and Gloria fairly often. And at least four times a year, I’d usually make the journey south to see both Mum and Midge. But during that first year of living with Jamie, I let things slide.

So when Mum phoned with some grim news, it came as a truly devastating blow.

My lovely Aunt Midge was desperately ill.

She had undergone a heart operation without even telling us, which was typical of her. The prognosis was not good. The doctor was advising us to visit as soon as we could.

As I moved round the flat in a daze, blinded by tears, trying to pack a bag for the journey south, Jamie arrived home.

His concern when he heard the news was genuine. He’d met Midge just once but he’d liked her very much, especially her dry humour and her feisty spirit. He immediately phoned work, saying he had a family emergency and would be absent for a few days. He located my keys and went round turning off lights while I stood by in a useless daze. Then he drove me all the way down to the hospital in Surrey and an emotional reunion with my mother.

Midge died two days later.

I was numb with grief.

And weighed down by guilt.

I hated myself for not being there when she needed me. Midge had kept her illness to herself but that was no excuse. I should have gone down to Surrey a lot more often, then I would have known she wasn’t herself. But I’d been too wrapped up in my life with Jamie. I kept promising Midge I’d visit but it was always hazy, planned for some time in the future.

I never actually fixed a date.

And now it was all too late.

A few weeks later, I was stunned by the contents of Midge’s will.

She had bequeathed her beloved Farthing Cottage to me, along with the adjacent field where she’d kept her rescue donkeys at one time.

I couldn’t believe it.

I loved the cottage. I’d spent such idyllically happy times there with Midge during my school holidays. I couldn’t possibly sell it. But what was the alternative? To live there would mean giving up my life in Edinburgh, yet as the months went by and we debated what to do, I grew more and more enchanted by the idea of moving down to Surrey.

Then, when Jamie landed a job as a financial trader in the City of London, that was it.

The decision was made.

Off we went.

Jamie had always hankered after working in London’s Square Mile, the heart of the powerful financial district, so he was happy. I immediately started job-hunting, feeling fairly confident that with my degree and experience, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be earning, too.

I began applying for jobs locally in the PR industry. Then, when I wasn’t immediately successful, I started to spread the net wider. I reasoned that living in Surrey, it would be an easy commute by train to London and for a while, I entertained a lovely image of Jamie and me travelling in together each morning, he with his Financial Times and me with my nose in a book.

When the first few rejections arrived, I stayed optimistic. I knew that with the recession still biting hard, it might be a bit of a slog. But if I kept on trying, I’d get there in the end.

But it wasn’t as simple as I had imagined.

After three or four months of getting precisely nowhere, my confidence had taken a bashing and I was growing restless, stuck in a dilapidated house while Jamie worked long hours to establish himself at his new firm – although thankfully, he was earning more than enough for both of us. I was also missing Edinburgh and my friends. I desperately needed something to occupy my mind.

That was when Jamie came up with a plan.

I would give the job-hunting a rest for the time being, and instead, project manage the renovation of Farthing Cottage. He was more than happy to pay the bills while I worked on the house and we’d have a gorgeous home at the end of it.

I accepted the challenge gratefully. After months of anxiety over my future in the workplace, finally I had a project to get my teeth into.

And what a project!

For the last few years of Midge’s life, the house had been neglected. Every part of it – the roof, the plumbing, the electrics, the gardens – needed a complete overhaul. The roof was the worst. We had leaks in the kitchen whenever it rained. And an inspection revealed that renewing the tiles would not be sufficient. The entire thing would have to be replaced.

So we drew up big plans to go the whole hog, knocking down walls, extending the kitchen and installing en-suite bathrooms and a conservatory. We took out a small mortgage on the property to raise funds and lived in a caravan for the first few months while the roof was fixed and the interior reshaped.

Then we moved in and spent the best part of six months battling with the mess, installing new fittings and making it into a lovely home again.

I was focused one hundred and ten percent on the project. I even took some night classes in plastering and eventually, after a few false starts, we managed to save ourselves a shed-load of money by doing most of it ourselves. We hired plumbers and electricians to do the specialised work. But most of the donkey work I did myself, helped by Jamie at weekends. Finally, we had a beautiful blank canvas and I was able to embark on the painting and decorating.

I shaped rooms and chose paint shades and fabrics with Midge in mind. It was like she was there, advising me with her wise words and shrugging her shoulders when I got it wrong.

I was also determined to have the wrought iron main gates restored to their former glory. They were beautiful. A real work of art. But they had tarnished over time and Midge had seemed agitated about that when we last spoke.

With the house project over, I started job-hunting again while setting to work on the jungle of a garden.

I’d found a twelve-month gardening diary Midge had started in 1992, a few years after she’d first come to live at Farthing Cottage. So now I was following her lead. I threw all my energy into tackling the huge, overgrown plot at the back of the house, getting rid of the tangle of weeds, pruning the fruit trees, and even cultivating a small vegetable plot. I’d never gardened before but I borrowed loads of books from the library and started experimenting. Jamie helped out at weekends with the heavier jobs.

And I found I loved it.

Working in the garden brought me a satisfaction I’d never experienced before. Even project managing the house hadn’t given me the same pleasure as working outdoors in the fresh air, coaxing plants to life and leaning on my spade at the end of the day to admire the result. My muscles would ache, I’d be hot and sweaty, and in my gardening gear, I looked rather like a scarecrow. But the sense of achievement and the feeling of peace was second to none.

I’d discovered a genuine affinity with the earth and a love of gardening that I could only assume I’d inherited from my Aunt Midge.

And for the first time, I realised that actually, I wouldn’t be at all disappointed if I never saw the inside of an office again. I hadn’t missed my PR work at all.

My mind seemed to be wandering in a new direction.

Could I turn my love of gardening into a business?

I’d spend hours mulling over the possibilities. Could I sell my own vegetables at the farmers’ market? Set myself up in business as a gardener in the local area? Or try to find work at a garden centre?

But I always came to the same conclusion.

However attractive the idea of growing and selling my own vegetables might be, there wasn’t any real money in it. So gardening could only ever be a lovely hobby.

But I’d reached a place where I was happy with myself and my life. Jamie seemed to be thriving at work. We were living in a beautiful house in the country. Our future looked sunny.

I could never have anticipated what was to come next.

Afterwards, I’d look back and wonder why on earth I hadn’t realised what was happening. Had I been too wrapped up in the garden to spot the signs?

When Jamie came home from work one day and broke the news that he was leaving, it was so unexpected that at first, I was struck dumb. I remember watching the sentences floating out of his mouth but being quite unable to take them in.

Then he mentioned Emma and instantly I was hearing every word in magnified Dolby surround sound.

I sat down on the nearest kitchen chair, in case my trembling legs gave way.

Emma was Jamie’s work colleague. He’d mentioned her from time to time. Apparently they had tried so hard to resist the attraction between them but in the end it was impossible. Jamie gazed at me with infinite sadness, shrugged his careworn shoulders and said, ‘It was beyond our control. We were always meant to be. Emma and me.’

Hurt and anger boiled up inside me.

What an utter load of horseshit he was spouting!

Since when had Jamie been a believer in flaky concepts like Fate and Destiny?

The only thing that was ‘meant to be’ was me hurling the salmon en croute with asparagus at his stupid head.

But since I’m not a violent person, I did the next best thing and escaped to the bathroom.

I sat on the mercifully cool floor tiles, leaning against the lovely free-standing bath Jamie and I had chosen together.

I caught my reflection in the angled shaving mirror by the basin. Pale face. Sweep of reddish-brown blow-dried hair. Dark eyes bleak with despair.

The fabric of my brand new, poppy-red mini dress felt stiff against my bare thighs, tanned from the garden. I gazed at the cream, strappy sandals with the ruby jewel embellishments.

I was dressed for a special day.

And special days demanded sacrifices – whether it was heels that tortured your feet and gave you the calf muscles of a weightlifter or corset-type tops that made you wish breathing could be optional. In an ideal world, I would have changed out of my new outfit when the lightning bolt struck because now it just made me feel like a fool. But when someone who’s supposed to love you stands there, white-faced and barely able to look you in the eye, and says he’s sorry, but he’s decided to move in with someone a decade younger, it would hardly be normal behaviour to say, ‘Hang fire a sec, will you, while I slip into something more comfortable?’

I smoothed my hand over the knobbly surface of the floor tiles. A bathroom wasn’t the best place to hole up, from a comfort perspective, but it had one distinct advantage. A door that locked. So I didn’t have to look at his face and see his pathetic I’m so sorry but we just couldn’t help ourselves expression.

I loved those tiles. Tiny Mediterranean blue squares like the bottom of a swimming pool. They’d taken an age to lay. The rooms in this old farmhouse weren’t exactly small. But we’d both agreed it was worth the painstaking effort.

Tears stung my eyes.

He’d be picking out tiles with Emma from now on.

I thought of all the months of deception as Jamie pursued his tacky, clandestine passion and suddenly, I was furious again. I wanted to stick my head round the door and yell at him that bloody Emma was welcome to him. And could he please leave his key on the way out? I might even hurl his stupid top-of-the-range tablet at him as he went. The one I’d spent ages choosing then wrapping up in a big cellophane bow with little red hearts on it.

Take that, cheating gadget man!

But of course I wouldn’t. I’d keep it all in because in my top ten of Things I Loathe, confrontation was a clear winner (though currently jostling for the top spot with Jamie Evans, monster deceiver).

I thought of my friend, Anna. She wouldn’thold back for fear of unpleasantness and shouting. I shuddered to imagine what she would say to Jamie when she knew he’d been cheating on me for the past ten months; with a woman who, at twenty-two, had a full decade on me and whose biological clock could tick for another twenty years before the warranty ran out.

Jess, my other best friend, would be deeply shocked but instead of railing at Jamie, she would gather me close and let me sob.

Suddenly I longed for Jess.

‘Izzy? Are you OK in there?’

I froze, like an animal sensing the next few seconds could mean life or death.

‘Open up, Izz. We need to talk.’

I stared mutinously at the door handle. If he thought I was going to—

‘Come on, Izz, stop being so melodramatic. Oh, for God’s sake, we can’t do this through a locked door.’

My mouth twisted with scorn. He’d been shagging Emma for the best part of a year. Now they were planning a new life together. Exactly how was talking going to help?

‘Izzy, I’m so, so sorry. What else can I say? If you want me to go, I will. Do you want me to go?’

I pulled a ‘duh!’ face at the door.

‘Isobel! Talk to me!’ He blew out his breath, frustrated. ‘Look, we’ve had a good innings, you and me. Five years. But in the long run you’ll see this was for the best. Christ, you’ll probably thank me.’

A good innings? Trust him to default to his deathly dull cricket in a crisis.

I remembered the champagne chilling in the fridge. I’d smiled at the check-out girl as she removed the security collar on the bottle, all the while complaining that her boyfriend could never be relied on to remember special occasions. My smile was a little smug, because my boyfriend always did.

‘Right, I’m going,’ he announced, and the ice in his tone felt like a slap in the face. ‘You do realise you’ll have to sell the house.’

I swallowed hard. ‘No way,’ I called out, my voice catching a little.

This was my house! We weren’t married. Or even engaged. Aunt Midge would turn in her grave if she knew he and Emma were planning to lay some kind of claim to Farthing Cottage.

‘Well, you’ll have to pay the mortgage on your own then, won’t you?’

‘Fine!’ I yelled.

‘Come on, Izzy. You won’t need a house this big once I’m gone.’

I reached for some toilet tissue and blew my nose very softly. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll – sell things.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You heard me. I’ll sell things.’

‘What things?’

I hesitated, curling my hands into fists.

‘Vegetables.’

There was a short silence, broken only by the occasional drip of a bath tap.

‘Vegetables?’

I could picture his disbelief.

‘Yes, vegetables. From mygarden,’ I shouted, pride in my achievement poking through the desolation.

‘Izzy, don’t be so fucking ridiculous.’

My heart sank at his scorn. But of course he was right. Selling vegetables wasn’t going to pay the mortgage. I needed to get a proper job.

‘So how does Emma earn a living?’ I called out, panic making my voice sound shrill.

‘Sorry?’

‘I expect she’s something incredibly important in the City.’

‘She’s a receptionist, if you must know. But what’s that got to do with anything? Look, for Christ’s sake open up.’ He pumped the bathroom handle to let me know he meant business.

I stared at the door. It was clear he’d made up his mind and now only wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to do anything silly. Like drowning myself. Or making a suicidal appointment with my hairdresser.

Sighing, I kicked off the sandals and got to my feet. ‘OK, I’ll come out.’

Maybe it was time to do the grown-up thing …

‘Well, thank Christ for that,’ came the response. ‘Talk about melodramatic. You’d try the bloody patience of a saint sometimes.’

But then again, maybe I’ll just stay here …

‘I’m having a soak first,’ I called out defiantly. ‘I might be a while.’

I turned on the taps and undressed slowly while the bath filled and the hammering on the door intensified. Lowering myself into the water, I felt fragile and bruised, as if I’d been in a punch-up.

A resounding thud reverberated through the bath as Jamie kicked the door in frustration.

‘Suit yourself, then,’ he yelled. ‘Have a nice life.’

I heard his feet hammer down the stairs and seconds later, the front door slammed.

I lay there until the bath water grew cool.

Then I got out and wrapped myself in a towel.

It was 12th August. The date we’d met, five years earlier. A day we’d always taken care to celebrate, whatever else was happening, and which this year I’d flagged on the calendar in the kitchen – a big red heart with an arrow through it and our initials. Even knee-deep in misery, the irony of his timing didn’t escape me.

Today was our anniversary.

Jamie had left me.

And I was alone.

The two weeks that followed were a bit of a blur.

Sick with misery, I turned inwards, wanting to be alone, unable to bear the thought of other people’s sympathy. As day turned to night and back to day again, I gradually became aware that Anna and Jess would wonder about my lack of contact. So I sent them texts saying I was visiting my mother and would be in touch when I got back.

Every morning I woke in a panic at the thought of a future without Jamie in it. And I constantly raked over the details of our last year together, wondering if there was something I could have done differently that would have stopped him falling in love with Emma.

I spent a lot of time in bed with my nice friends on daytime TV. And I mooched around the house, leaving a trail of scrunched-up tissues, making feverish plans that alternated between winning Jamie back and making him suffer horribly.

I was plagued with guilt about the garden and all the weeding I wasn’t doing.

The vegetable plot was usually my haven, especially in times of stress. I nurtured my plants lovingly; fed them rich compost; even talked to them because I’d heard that helped. But they were being sorely neglected.

I’d started to avert my eyes every time I passed a window, because I couldn’t bear to see their hurt stares. Rows of neglected peas, tendrils twining round sticks, crying out to be picked. And droopy green beans, used to being cosseted, huffily indignant to find themselves thirsty.

I was finally forced to text Anna with news of our split – only because Jamie and I were due round at hers for dinner that night so I had no other option.

And half an hour after that text – as I lay on my bed eating a chocolate orange I’d found in my gift drawer and watching Deal or No Deal – she was banging on the door.

I tried to ignore it.

But she rattled the letterbox and started yelling through it. ‘I know you’re in there, Izz. I can hear the telly for Christ’s sake!’

I frowned at the open bedroom window.

‘Let me in! Please!’ A pause. ‘I’m not budging till you open up.’

My heart sank.

I’d learned from experience that when Anna made up her mind about something, arguing with her was completely futile. You might as well tell Sweeney Todd to turn vegetarian.

Anna was loud and extrovert and said exactly what she thought. It might have been something to do with her red hair. Or the fact that she never had a dad to oversee discipline in the house when she was a child, just a lovely, slightly unconventional mum who had her packing her own school lunches by the time she was five.

If I didn’t go downstairs, Anna would bring a tent and a flask and camp out in my field until she gained entry.

So I dragged myself up, pulled on my dressing gown and did a horrified double take in the mirror.

I had turned into the mad woman in the attic.

Scary white face peering through a tangle of undergrowth. My dark auburn hair kinked wildly when left to go its own way. It hadn’t been within spitting distance of a hairdryer for days.

It was a wrench having to leave my sanctuary.

But as I headed down the stairs, I suddenly thought how lovely it would be to see a friendly face again after two weeks of self-imposed solitary confinement.

Tears pricked my eyes.

How could I have forgotten what an amazing comfort friends could be in times of crisis?

A warm feeling spread through me and I almost ran the last few steps.

‘At long bloody last!’ Anna shouted. ‘I’m freezing my bloody bollocks off here.’

She blew in on a gusty wind, along with a delivery of crisp autumn leaves from the beech trees outside my door, and marched straight through to the kitchen, winding off her scarf and yelling back, ‘I couldn’t believe your text saying Jamie buggered off at the weekend. That bastard has been gone three days and you never thought to mention it till this morning?’

I pulled my gaping dressing gown together and trailed after her. Having made it to the front door, I was now completely knackered.

I slumped down at the kitchen table. ‘What day is it?’

‘Wednesday. Why?’

‘Actually, it’s two weeks and four days.’ I eye her apologetically. ‘Since he left.’

Anna, who was pacing round the kitchen, boot heels clacking on the flagstone floor, stopped and spun round.

‘But your texts said you’d gone away. You’ve been here all this time?’ She fell into a chair opposite, her face softening. ‘Look at you! So calm and so brave.’ Leaning across the table, she imprisoned my hand in her freezing fingers. ‘Well, don’t worry. You’re not on your own any more.’

‘Um – good,’ I said, trying my best to look encouraged. All this messy human interaction was taking a bit of getting used to after two weeks in a vacuum. And I was aching all over. Even my skin felt sore. Every cell in my feeble body wanted to be in bed with the covers pulled over my head.

Anna gave my fingers a tight squeeze and I tried not to wince. ‘Let’s have a night out! Just you, me and Jess. And we can rubbish men to our heart’s content.’

She sighed happily at the prospect. This was Anna in her element, rubbishing men. Which was strange when she had lovely, funny, rugby-playing Peter tending to her every need and whim.

‘Or maybe a spa day would be better? Or’ – her eyes lit up – ‘how about a girls’ weekend? To Prague? Or Barcelona or something? Would that cheer you up?’

I tried to look enthused. But to be honest I was desperate to get back to Deal or No Deal. The contestants were like one big happy family. Watching it made me feel safe. And I knew for a fact that Noel Edmonds would never do the cheating thing.

But to make Anna feel better, I nodded and said, ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

I had an odd feeling it wouldn’t happen, though, and I was right because the next day I came down with the worst cold I’d had in years. As I snuffled my way through the last of the tissues (eventually resorting to the posh lilac ones in the guest bedroom), I couldn’t help wondering if illness was my body’s way of getting me out of a tight spot.

I hated to seem ungrateful, but I knew exactly what a ‘cheering up Izzy’ evening would be like. Jess and Anna would be feeling bad for me so I’d have to make a mammoth effort to smile and ‘act normal’ to reassure them I was fine, when all I really wanted to do was drive home, drag my duvet through to the living room and watch back to back reruns of Grey’s Anatomy in my pyjamas.

My cold, while pretty revolting, was a great excuse for remaining immobile in the house for another week. No-one could come near me because, of course, colds are highly infectious and this one had me practically at death’s door (at least, that’s what I told everyone).

And so it might have gone on, with me inventing new ways of remaining out of circulation in order to legitimately mope my days away.

But then that horrible text arrived from the bank and the scariest word in the home-owner’s dictionary leaped immediately into my head. Repossession.

After Jamie left, I’d buried my head in the sand over money. It was always there in the back of my mind – a vague threat cloaked in black, keeping its distance. But I somehow thought that while I was still in mourning for the end of my relationship, I couldn’t possibly be expected to start exercising the logical part of my brain and work out a plan. So the only action I’d taken to prevent my life going into complete financial meltdown was making gallons of vegetable soup and crossing my fingers. Admittedly, I was keeping them firmly crossed that Jamie would feel sufficiently guilty for doing the dirty on me to keep on paying the mortgage for a while.

Apparently I had been deluding myself.




OCTOBER (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


Autumn has arrived. The leaves are changing colour daily. And I’ve run out of ways to cook apples!

My four Bramley trees have been unusually heavy with fruit this season. I went out with the step-ladder last week and picked all I could reach. I’m not great with heights so I tried not to look down. But then a terrier ran into the garden and started yapping around the ladder, so I was forced to descend.

But every cloud has a silver lining. The dog’s owner happened to be a very tall gentleman who, when he realised my difficulty reaching the top branches, climbed the ladder himself and had the rest of the apples down in minutes!

I’ve now got enough Bramleys to feed the five thousand. I’ve stored dozens in the garage, each one wrapped in newspaper to hopefully keep them from rotting.

And when Izzy arrived on Tuesday, we went out blackberrying in the lanes around the house then spent a lovely morning baking. The scent of blackberries, apples and buttery pastry filled the house and was so heavenly, we couldn’t resist eating pie for lunch and dinner as well!

Yesterday, I staked out a small area in a sunny spot of the garden so Izzy could have her very own vegetable plot. We went to the garden centre and she chose what she’d like to plant – with a little guidance from yours truly, of course.

When we got back with our spoils, Izzy remembered the pumpkins she’d planted during the summer holidays, in a spot just beyond the terrace. She rushed outside, eager to find out if they had sprouted but there was nothing to be seen.

She was so disappointed, I hatched a plan.

Magically, when I went out into the garden this morning – hey presto! There was a single, average-sized pumpkin, partially hidden by foliage, just where she’d planted the seeds!

Izzy was amazed.

Although later, she did comment that she was quite sure it hadn’t been there the day before and that it looked very like the pumpkins in my own vegetable plot. She’s too wise for her own good, that one!

I told her one pumpkin was indeed very like another.

We made soup with hers and it was absolutely delicious.




Chapter Two (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


‘My treat.’ Jess reaches for her purse. ‘Call it a celebration.’

‘Of what?’ I ask, blanching at the vast sucking noise coming from the café’s industrial-sized coffee machine.

Every sudden noise is freaking me out. I suppose it’s because, apart from quick food raids to the local supermarket, I haven’t been out in the real world for months.

Jess beams in a proud, motherly way. ‘Moving on. Your brilliant new life.’

I smile at her hopeful optimism.

In recent weeks, I’ve got back to the job-hunting. But to be honest, my heart isn’t really in it. I need to feel positive about what I’m doing, otherwise I worry I might spiral down into the depths again – and sadly, I don’t think my old career in PR will give me that lift any more.

I’m hankering after a new direction altogether.

I glance around at the familiar low lighting, black leather sofas and chrome tables. The landscape of my life might look very different from two months ago, but the Fieldhorn Deli Café is exactly the same.

Today it’s full of Saturday shoppers taking shelter from the autumn wind that’s blowing leaves along the High Street. The low hum of a dozen conversations is actually quite soothing. It feels good to be somewhere familiar that evokes only good memories.

‘Just a coffee, please,’ I tell Jess, fingering the loose waistband of my jeans. I haven’t eaten properly since Jamie moved out. Whenever I make a meal for one, the food looks so abandoned on its little plate it makes me want to cry. Many times I have ended up scraping it into the bin.

At first when he left, my stomach churned constantly and I was plagued by Hollywood-style snapshots of the pair of them together.

Jamie and Emma laughing in a pub by a roaring fire, chinking glasses of mulled wine as the snow piled up outside. Emma and Jamie, in cute matching puffa jackets, stealing a kiss over a supermarket trolley. Jamie and Emma enjoying marathon sessions of movie-quality sex in her chic London flat as snow drifted gently past the window. Odd there’s so much snow. George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ video clearly made a big impression.

Jess frowns. ‘I wanted a Danish pastry. But I can’t eat it if you’re just going to sit there watching.’

‘I thought you were on a diet,’ I point out. ‘Which is nuts, by the way.’

‘I’m a bride-to-be.’ She sits bolt upright and pats her flat stomach. ‘It’s against the law not to lose weight for the Big Day.’

‘So what’s with the Danish?’

‘I’ve counted it into my eating plan.’

Suddenly I feel hungry. Perhaps it’s all this talk of food or the aroma of fresh coffee or knowing the Deli Café sells my favourite cookie of all time.

Or maybe it’s because after a month of half-hearted job-hunting, at last I have a plan I think might work.

‘Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch, please,’ I tell Jess. ‘Actually, I’m starving. I’ve been awake since five.’

Jess’s face falls. She knows all about my sleepless nights.

‘No, it’s good.’ I sit forward. ‘I’ve been thinking since five, and I’ve found a way to hold on to Farthing Cottage. I’ll tell you about it when Anna gets here.’

She gives me that fond, goofy look that says, How do you manage to be so brave?

Frankly, I wish she would stop wrapping my feelings in cotton wool. Jess is getting married to Wesley in July and should, in theory, be boring me to death with talk of bridesmaids’ dresses and table plans. Just because I won’t be walking down the aisle any time soon doesn’t mean I’m allergic to connubial happiness in general.

But I know she’s only trying to protect me.

I feel a surge of affection for my two best friends. A tear squeezes out but I dash it away in case Jess thinks I’m about to have a relapse.

The truth is I still have an occasional ‘down day’ but on the whole, life is slowly getting back to normal.

Jess goes off to order just as the door chimes and Anna arrives, out of breath. The damp day has frizzed her red hair, making it bunch out over her shoulders. She drops her keys on the table and hugs me. ‘Sorry I’m late. Peter wouldn’t let me out of bed.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘How’s Jess?’ She grins over at the counter. ‘Of Jess ‘n’ Wes?’

‘Stop it,’ I admonish her. ‘You know she hates that.’

Anna shrugs. ‘It’s not my fault they’re a rhyming couplet. Back in a sec.’ She plonks her scarf on the table and rushes over to join Jess at the counter.

I smile, watching as she loops her arm round Jess’s shoulders.

Thank goodness for friends.

When Jamie and I first moved down here, the only person I knew was Jess. We’d met at Edinburgh University and she’d lived in the same flat as me for a while after we graduated. But then she’d found a job as a sub-editor on a newspaper in Surrey, where her family lived, and moved back down there.

We met Anna a year ago. She works as an events organiser, and Jess’s newspaper employed Anna’s company to set up a charity event for Comic Relief.

I remember Jess phoning me in a panic. She’d agreed to have lunch with Anna, who she barely knew, after the event. ‘She’s a bit – erm – whacky. Sort of loud. And very opinionated.’

Jess can be a bit shy with new people. She begged me to ‘drop by’ for support.

I laughed and said I would. So the three of us had lunch and actually, it turned out to be a riot. Anna kept us in stitches the whole time, waving her arms about in illustration and nearly sending a waiter’s tray of glasses flying. She was in the process of doing up a flat and was intrigued to see what I’d done with Farthing Cottage. So I invited her and Jess round for supper and we’ve been good friends ever since.

When we’re all settled and I have rediscovered the delights of Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch, I turn to Anna. ‘So how’s Peter? Still whisking you off for a romantic weekend?’

Anna shrugs. ‘I think so.’

‘When?’

‘Next Friday.’ She picks up her spoon and toys pensively with the froth on her cappuccino.

‘You don’t look very excited,’ points out Jess.

Anna’s mouth twists. ‘Well, he’s not “the one”, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’re not “in lurve” or anything.’

I grin at her. ‘So what are you?’

‘We’re friends.’ She shrugs. ‘Friends who occasionally sleep together.’

I give her a look that says, forgive me if I’m sceptical but seeing Peter twice during the week and most Saturday nights does not, in my book, fall into the ‘occasionally’ category.

‘Peter’s lovely,’ sighs Jess.

It’s true. He’s a big, beefy guy with a soft centre. Funny and really laid-back. Plus it’s obvious he adores Anna.

‘He’s way too keen.’ Anna clatters the spoon back in the saucer. ‘I keep telling him I don’t want anything heavy but he’d still see me every night if he could.’

‘But why don’t you want a proper relationship?’ Jess asks anxiously.

‘Because I don’t, all right?’ snaps Anna. ‘And anyway, how’s Wes, Jess?’

Jess purses her lips. ‘It’s Wesley. And he’s fine, thanks.’

‘You said sex with Peter was the best you’d ever had,’ I remind Anna.

She rounds on me. ‘Well, you thought CLB was bloody perfect and look how that turned out.’

I grit my teeth. I really don’t need reminding.

‘Sorry.’ Anna presses my hand. ‘It’s just I could murder him for shagging around like that.’

Jess frowns at her. ‘He wasn’t “shagging around” as you so delicately put it.’ She turns to me. ‘He wasn’t, was he?’

I shake my head. ‘He was just shagging Emma.’ And that, of course, is even worse.

Anna places her palms on the table. ‘Well, it just confirms what I’ve always thought. Men look after themselves. Women look after each other.’

‘Speaking of which, I brought that job advert for you, Izzy,’ Jess announces as she delves into her bag.

As she rummages, a glossy magazine falls out onto the floor. The bride on the cover is a vision in satin and tulle, her honey-coloured hair piled up into an elaborate work of art. She is smiling a secret smile. And why wouldn’t she? She’s found perfect bliss and will be a princess for a day.

Jess shoots me a glance and shoves the magazine back in her bag as if it were red-hot porn.

She hands me the newspaper clipping. ‘One of our receptionists is going on maternity leave. Why don’t you try for it? I know it’s not PR but it might tide you over until you land something else?’

I pick it up and nod my head slowly as if I’m studying the advert. Then I look up at their watchful expressions.

‘The thing is… what I’ve decided to do…’ I place the clipping carefully on the table. ‘Well, I think it might be time for a change. I want to do something I really love. And I think gardening might be that something.’

There, I’ve said it.

‘So I was thinking I might try to turn the garden into a business.’

Two pairs of brows arch in bafflement. Either I have transmogrified into an alien or they fear they have greatly over-estimated the extent of my mental recovery.

‘You’re going to turn your garden,’ Anna repeats slowly, ‘into a business.’

There’s a further wedge of silence as they continue to stare.

Then a light goes on over Jess’s head. ‘Oh, you mean you’re going to open your garden up to the public? Like the National Trust?’ She frowns. ‘Is it big enough, though? I know you’ve got that field your Auntie Midge used to keep her rescue donkeys in, but even so—’

Anna snorts. ‘No, dumbo. She means grow potatoes and sell them.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Well, yes, I would be growing potatoes,’ I say, somewhat deflated. ‘But it would be much more than that.’

The excitement I felt at five this morning, when I woke with a plan, is ebbing away with depressing speed. But they’re both nodding so I plough on. ‘Remember last year when I grew all different kinds of crops? Well, there’s room to nearly quadruple the size of the plot—’

‘And this will pay your bills?’ interrupts Anna. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of potatoes, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘But she’s not just growing potatoes,’ reminds Jess. ‘It’s carrots and leeks and—’

‘Yes, yes, I know that.’ Anna frowns. ‘The potatoes were metaphoric.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jess nods.

I shake my head at them. ‘You don’t understand. I wouldn’t be growing it all myself.’

Anna leans forward. ‘So who…?’

‘I’ve looked into it. There are companies based in London that sell a huge range of organic fruit and vegetables. Anything you want, really. So I’d get a delivery of all the basics – like potatoes, carrots and broccoli – and also some of the exotic stuff like bananas and pineapples.’

‘But where would you sell it?’ Jess frowns. ‘At a farmers’ market?’

‘No. I’d run a box scheme.’

Anna perks up. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of those.’

I nod eagerly. ‘I’d pack a selection of fruit and vegetables – the best available that week – and deliver them to customers’ houses. Probably one day a week to start with. Until word gets round and orders increase – which they would because I’d advertise in your newspaper, Jess.’

I sit back feeling pleased.

It’s not surprising I’m word perfect. I’ve been turning it over in my mind ever since I woke up at 5 a.m. in a panic about money.

Last month, the bank was lenient about the mortgage payment and I’ve since cashed in a few shares to boost my account. But once that money runs out, I’ll have no other choice but to put the house on the market.

There’s a lot riding on this box scheme idea.

It could be the answer to a prayer.

If I can make it work.

There’s a brief, digesting silence.

Anna and Jess are nodding earnestly, but I can tell they think I’m a crate of rotten apples short of a compost heap.

Then Jess leans forward. ‘So what is it about selling vegetables that appeals to you, Izzy?’

Her perplexed expression makes me want to burst out laughing. Apart from the fact that the question is gently patronising, she sounds like she’s interviewing me for an issue of The Good Life magazine.

‘Is it because you want to get back to a simpler way of living?’

‘Hmm. Yes.’ I nod solemnly and stare at the horizon (or what I can see of it through the coffee shop’s slightly smeary window). ‘Girls, I feel something profound tickling the very edge of my consciousness. An awakening, if you like. A realisation that I need to get back to nature.’

Ignoring Anna’s snort, I slap a hand to my chest. ‘I will de-clutter my life and eat only seasonal produce. I will turn my back on fashion and wear garments made out of the wool from my own pigs. I will throw my telly out the window and play board games instead.’

Jess looks startled. ‘Gosh, really?’

Sighing, I slump back in my seat and look sheepishly from one to the other.

‘No. It’s just the only bloody thing I can think of to get me out of this mess.’




Chapter Three (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


My plan to get back to running regularly is not going well.

It’s a clear, blue-skied morning and a light frost glints on the hedgerows. But as I lumber past, in the lane outside my house, I’m in far too much distress to admire the scenery. Each time I leap over a pothole, every molecule in my body screams enough!

What seemed like a good idea in the warmth of the kitchen, cradling my early morning cup of tea and looking out at Jack Frost’s handiwork, now feels like complete insanity. It’s all part of a ‘turning my life around’ thing – but I have a feeling this could turn out to be a jog too far.

Draughts of icy air blast into my lungs, making my eyes stream, and my thudding heart lets me know precisely how unfit I have become.

I make it to the end of the lane and flump down on the grass verge. Then I lie flat on my back as my chest continues to heave up and down, feeling mildly indignant that two passing motorists haven’t screeched to a halt to offer emergency mouth to mouth.

Yesterday, I was counting on Jess and Anna to encourage the fledgling entrepreneur in me. But I suspect they thought I was grasping at straws, with a plan born of complete desperation.

I can’t imagine why they would think that …

Driving home from the coffee shop yesterday, my spirits were low. My lack of self-belief and the motherly concern of my friends was a recipe for disaster. I was effectively back to square one, terrified to commit to my plan in case it backfired and left me even worse off than I was before. As I parked on the gravel by the front door and let myself in, I wondered if I should forget the whole thing and apply for the job on Jess’s newspaper instead. But the position was only temporary. So in six months’ time I would be right back where I started.

I went round switching on lamps then sat at the kitchen table and took the advert out of my bag. Even if I got the job, the salary was so meagre that once I’d paid my bills every month, there would be barely anything left. And the trouble with living in a quirky old farmhouse that has almost been refurbished, but not quite, is that things keep needing to be repaired.

I pulled on my wellies, unlocked the back door and stepped out onto the terrace.

Staring out over the vegetable plot to the sweep of lawn and the orchard beyond, a dead weight settled in my chest at the thought of having to sell up.

I adored the garden and read horticultural magazines the way some women devoured celebrity gossip. Despite never having grown my own vegetables until a year ago, it was undoubtedly a passion I’d inherited from my aunt.

From an early age, I was handling vegetables of all varieties, digging up carrots with their green leafy tops still intact, rubbing earth from tiny, earth-scented new potatoes and sitting beside Midge in the garden on summer afternoons, shelling peas that burst with sweetness in your mouth.

At lunchtime, we would pull up little gem lettuces, shaking soil from the roots and laying them in Midge’s straw basket alongside fragrant cucumbers and crimson radishes that made a peppery taste explosion on your tongue.

I crunched tart, home-grown rhubarb dipped in sugar and turned up my nose at supermarket tomatoes because they didn’t taste or smell anything like the perfect, blush-ripe beauties in my Aunt Midge’s garden.

By the time I came to live at Farthing Cottage, the vegetable garden was wildly overgrown, so I hacked everything back and started from scratch. I sectioned off an area in front of the terrace, and started planting the vegetables I remembered from my childhood. Last summer, we had a mad glut of green beans and ate them every day. But my all-time favourite was the home-grown asparagus, earthy and sweet, eaten freshly harvested and dripping with butter.

Standing there on the terrace, I gazed out over my little bit of paradise, past the slightly sloping lawn and the vegetable plot close to the house, to the two rows of fruit trees either side of a grassy path leading to the little wildflower meadow beyond. My eye wandered to the row of tall conifers at the foot of the garden that provided shelter from the northerly wind. And then to the field on my left, which Midge put to such good use, building a little shelter there for the donkeys she rescued.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the glorious ripeness of summer when I’d spent whole days tending my plants in the warm, herb-scented air, willing them to grow and labouring as happily as the bees until my body ached. The flower borders around the lawn lay dormant right now but in high summer, they were a riot of colour, filled with delicate pink roses, lilac-blue geraniums and my childhood favourite, pinky-purple foxgloves.

Suddenly I was hit by a feeling of loss so powerful I had to sink down on a patio chair.

Whichever way you looked at my predicament – and I’d studied it from every possible angle – the logical solution was to sell Farthing Cottage, pay off the mortgage and rent a flat in Fieldstone.

But logical solutions weren’t always the answer.

Sometimes you had to go with your heart.

To lose Midge was devastating enough. But the thought of parting with her house to some complete stranger was just horrible.

I remained there, motionless, until my gloveless fingers felt frozen. Then I retreated inside, levered off my wellies and went into the kitchen. I curled into Midge’s chair by the window, smoothing my hands over the arms. The leather was old and cracked now but I would never part with it. Midge had said that, whatever challenge she faced, if she sat there for long enough, staring out over the fields, an answer would always come.

It was worth a try.

I focused on my apple and damson trees and the fields beyond the garden. I kept on staring, willing a miracle.

But then raindrops began to spatter against the window and the sky darkened – and it was clear no answer was going to jump magically into my head.

I laid my cheek against the soft leather of the chair back and a warm tear leaked out.

Far from feeling closer to Midge, I felt more alone than ever.

I’m startled from my engrossing daydream, lying flaked out on the grass verge, by the blast of a honking fanfare.

I scramble to my feet as a gang of grinning workmen zoom past in their van, making assorted hand gestures. I feel stupidly flattered until it occurs to me that I’m wearing a top and Lycra shorts that are way too skimpy now I’m a size bigger than I was in my running days. And they are, of course, workmen. Cheering big bazookas is part of their job description.

I decide to run back up the lane but two minutes in, my lungs are back on the protest line.

As I plod past, my nearest neighbour emerges from her cottage. A widow in her early seventies, I call her Mrs P because she has a surname I can’t pronounce. I raise a cheery hand in greeting and Mrs P, startled by the puce-faced apparition puffing past her gate at 7.30 in the morning, nearly drops her carton of milk.

I slow right down as I near my house, then walk the last few hundred yards, noticing as I go that one of the driveway gates is propped slightly out of alignment, as if it might crash to the ground at any second. I go to investigate, easing it gently back into place.

The gates don’t look much now but I can see beyond the rust. When they’re latched shut, as they are now, a delicate rose appears in the centre, and swirls like fine plant tendrils spread out in a series of graceful curls and spirals. They’re a fairytale creation – a labour of love by some long-ago craftsman – pounced on with glee by Midge during a trip to Italy. She had them shipped back to Britain and I remember one hot summer day, when I was about twelve, spending hours helping her to scrape away the rust with sandpaper then sitting cross-legged on the grass verge watching as she painted each swirl and spiral a delicate dove grey. Even now, the smell of paint takes me right back to that summer.

Jamie loosened the left-hand gate from its moorings but then the money ran out and he never got round to fixing it back into place. I’ve tied it with string to the gatepost but I get anxious when it’s windy and I always use the side entrance instead.

Back in the house I shower, have breakfast then collect some apples from my store in the shed to take along the lane to Mrs P.

I have a shadowy memory of Mrs P from the days when I used to visit Midge during my school summer holidays, and I’ve learned more about her through Midge’s diary.

When Jamie and I came to live at Farthing Cottage, I knocked on her door and asked her if she remembered me from way back, and she smiled wistfully and said of course she did. She invited me in and made me tea and we chatted for a while, sharing a few precious memories of Midge.

But I didn’t get to know Mrs P properly until about a month after Jamie left.

I’d got a raging toothache and had to psych myself up to drive to my dentist in Guildford. I put on my dark glasses and set out but half way down the lane, Hormonal Harriet shuddered to a halt.

The pain in my tooth was searing, and I fell on the steering wheel and sobbed.

After a while, Mrs P knocked on the window.

She took me inside and offered to make me a drink. I mopped my eyes with the lavender-scented handkerchief she gave me and sat back in the rocker, expecting hot, sweet tea served in a floral teapot with a strainer on the side.

One stiff brandy later (she absolutely insisted I join her), I’d told her the whole story of my break-up, my tooth was numb and I was feeling pleasantly uncoordinated.

‘Another?’ She crossed to the drinks cabinet and waggled the bottle.

I looked at my watch: 10.30 a.m. ‘Er, it’s a bit early for me, thanks.’

Her response was brisk. ‘Rubbish. It’s never too early for a small one.’ She refilled her own glass and turned to me with a wistful smile. ‘You know, you sounded just like Midge then. Or “Thelma” as I used to call her. She was always trying to make me behave, too.’

I smiled. ‘Why Thelma?’

‘Ah, well.’ Mrs P adjusted her glasses. ‘Remember Thelma and Louise? That was our all-time favourite movie. Midge was Thelma and I was Louise. She used to say to me, “Lou, when we’re both too old to hobble along to the garden centre on our own two legs, we’ll hire a Stingray Corvette, speed down to Dover and launch ourselves over those cliffs. I want to go out in a blaze of glory!”’

Laughter burst right out of me then because that was just so like Midge.

‘I used to say, “Count me in, Thelma. Just as long as we’re not too doddery to find the bloody cliffs in the first place.”’

We smiled at each other.

Her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

‘But why a Stingray whatever-it’s-called?’ I asked.

‘Stingray Corvette. My favourite car. Cars are my passion.’ She got to her feet. ‘Speaking of which, let’s go and have a look at your rust bucket.’

I followed her out and flipped the bonnet as she collected an oily rag and some tools. Then she did something with a wrench that made the engine spring to life at the first try.

After that, we got on famously and I found she wasn’t quite the sad, lonely widow I’d assumed she was. Despite being over seventy, she had a better social life than me. (Not that this was hard.)

Today, with my bag of apples, I’m suddenly worried 8 a.m. might be too early to call. But she answers the door as soon as I knock.

‘Ooh, lovely,’ she says, sniffing the apples.

She’s wearing purple-framed glasses that are surprisingly trendy and there’s a dusting of flour on her cheek. Her apron bears an image of a bronzed and rippling male torso.

‘I’m baking bread. For the WI,’ she says, beckoning me in.

‘Right.’ I’m trying hard not to look at the posing pouch down below. ‘I – er – didn’t know Fieldstone had a Women’s Institute.’

‘Oh, we don’t dear. The nearest branch is forty miles away, so we decided to invent our own.’

I suddenly recall an entry from Midge’s diary. ‘I know this! Your WI stands for Women Inebriated!’

She smiles. ‘You’re quite right. Midge must have told you. But we’ve updated it recently. Seeing as our combined age is about a thousand and two, me and the gals decided to change it to Wrinklies Inebriated.’ She winks. ‘But don’t spread it about.’

Laughing, I watch her spoon loose tea leaves into a pot.

‘You might meet my grandson,’ she says, half-turning. ‘He said he’d pop round early and fix my front door knocker. He’s got a free period at college.’

‘Oh. What’s his name?’

‘Erik. With a “k”. Lovely boy. I’m biased, naturally.’ She glances up. ‘He’s single.’

I smile politely. The last thing I need is Mrs P trying to fix me up. I do not need a college student toy boy.

To change the subject, I start telling her about my whacky idea for a business.

She nods slowly as she places a plate of Bakewell tart on the table. Then she sits down opposite me and stares pensively at the sugar bowl.

At least she’s not looking at me like I have two heads. The way Anna and Jess did. My stomach growls and I take a piece of tart.

‘I like it,’ she says at last, nut brown eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘Beginning of a new year, people making resolutions to live a healthier life. What better start than buying a box of fresh fruit and vegetables every week? And they don’t have to lug them back from the shops because you’ll be delivering them right to their door. Have you got a name for the business?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You could have a brainstorming session with your friends. That’s what we did. It’s amazing what you can achieve in just ten minutes of shouting out ideas.’

I stop munching.

‘That’s what you did?’

‘Yes. And we came up with Oldies But Goodies.’ Her eyebrows rise. ‘Oh, didn’t you know about the business?’

‘No. This Bakewell tart is melt-in-the-mouth gorgeous, by the way.’

‘Good. We bake twenty-five of those every week for the Deli Café.’

I stare at her. ‘The Fieldhorn Deli Café?’

‘The very same. Sorry, dear, I thought you knew. I set up Oldies But Goodies a few years ago. We bake all the traditional favourites. Plus some inventions of our own.’

A thought occurs. ‘Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch?’

‘My very own recipe.’

I stare at her. I’ve been enthusing about those biscuits for ages – and they started their days right here, in Mrs P’s kitchen?

Half an hour later, I head home with a bag of the famous cookies and a new enthusiasm for the box scheme. It’s a gamble pouring what little money I have into a venture that may or may not pay off. But sometimes you just have to take a risk.

Jamie might have no faith in me to succeed on my own.

But I’m determined to prove him wrong.




NOVEMBER (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)


Shit, shit, shit, shit, shite!

Whoever described gardening as relaxing was either lying or rich enough to employ someone to do it for them. I truly have reached the end of my tether this time.

Mind you, I thought I’d reached it in May when the rabbits – toothy little buggers – breached my defences (well, my fences, actually) and made short work of all my beautiful lettuces.

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 (#ulink_8ff25d8c-1129-555e-ba16-7ec20d0dbe03)


‘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 (#ulink_2f742532-4fd6-5a9a-b4e1-9ada3d3fc468)


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.

I’m convinced my hair would have made me a target for bullies – but for one thing.

I could run.

I didn’t even know I was good at running until Year Six. I wasn’t particularly fast but when it came to long-distance, I had the stamina to run for miles. Some of the kids tried to get out of PE when long-distance running was on the agenda, but for me it felt as natural as walking – and it granted me a sort of kudos with my peers.

After Dad left, when I was twelve, I started running after school every night, pounding the pavements round our house, dodging shoppers on the high street and circling the grassy perimeter of the local park. I used to lose myself in the hypnotic rhythm of my shoes hitting the ground. People used to ask me why I did it. Turning out on cold, rainy nights. Putting my body through all that.

I think the most tangible reward was that it provided a structure for my evenings and gave me a sense of control over my life. (Watching TV at home with my mother, who would be up one minute and down on the floor with self-pity the next, didn’t make for a particularly fun home life.)

Dad lives in Scotland now with his second wife and I go up to Glasgow to visit them as often as I can. Gloria fusses around me as if I’m her real daughter and Dad loves that we get on so well together. He seems far more content now and I’m glad. After the constant hen-pecking he got from the first Mrs Fraser, my dad definitely deserves some happiness at last.

It’s just a shame my mother can’t see it like that. Despite all the years that have gone by, she’s just as bitter about his departure as she ever was.

Gloria, Dad’s new wife, is quite Bohemian. She paints dramatic landscapes, lives very much in the moment, and wears fabulously flowing clothes in all the colours of the rainbow. She has a great sense of adventure which Dad seems to be embracing wholeheartedly. In July they rented out their house and set off on a round-the-world backpacking trip. I’ve had postcards from lots of exotic places. They seem to be having such a good time, I’m starting to wonder if they’ll ever come back.

Thinking of Dad brings a lump to my throat. I miss him. And Gloria, too. If they were here, we’d go to the pub and have long discussions about life and what I should do next. As it is, I’m on my own. Trying to start a business and not having a clue if it’s the right thing to do.

I jog a two-mile circuit round Farthing Cottage, along the narrow, potholed lanes smelling of damp hedgerow.

The steady rhythm of my feet hitting the tarmac is soothing and the tight knot of anxiety inside me begins to loosen.

When I arrive back an hour later, red-faced and sweaty, the phone is ringing.

‘Hello, Isobel Fraser?’ I pant, and a man barks, ‘Are you the fruit and veg people?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘I’m a pensioner and I’ve got lumbago. Can you deliver?’

‘Er, yes we can.’

‘How much do you charge?’

When I tell him the price of a small box, he shouts, ‘For a few potatoes and carrots? Bloody disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Organic does tend to be more expensive,’ I say apologetically.

‘Orgasmic or not, it’s a bloody rip-off,’ he roars and crashes the phone down.

Stunned, I sit there listening to the dial tone.

Then I realise I have a message.

It’s probably my mother, annoyed I’m not leaping on the next train to remove the hazardous book mountain from her hallway.

Seconds later, I grab a pen and paper and begin scribbling furiously.

Mrs Jessop lives in one of the new houses on the outskirts of Fieldstone. She would like a small box of fruit and vegetables but no onions. If she’s out, I can put it in the shed and she will leave the money under a plant pot. She’ll probably want a large box next week as she has her grandchildren coming to stay.

I leap up and dance around the room, knocking a pile of carefully organised paperwork off the desk but not even caring.

Mrs Jessop wants a box and will leave the money under a plant pot!

They are the most exciting words I’ve ever heard.

Later I run into Mrs P at the post office and she’s over the moon to hear that I have my first bona fide customer. (Technically, Mrs P is my first customer. She’s ordered a small box every week. But we both know this doesn’t really count.)

She’s muffled up against the cold in beige quilted boots and a poncho in greens and browns that gives off a delicious caramel scent. Putting her purse back in her bag, she says, ‘I remember the morning we went to the Deli and sold our first batch of flapjack and iced gingerbread. To celebrate, we popped into Ruby’s little teashop on Sycamore Street.’

Smiling, I say, ‘For chocolate fudge brownies?’ Ruby, a leading light in Mrs P’s WI, is renowned for her tray bakes.

‘Oh no, dear.’ Mrs P smiles fondly, remembering. ‘Tequila slammers. Excellent invention. Florrie had a bit of a block about licking salt off her hand but once she got the hang of it there was no stopping her.’ She tucks a wisp of hair under her bottle green wool beret. ‘My, the ideas did flow that afternoon!’

‘I bet they did,’ I say with feeling, remembering the outpouring of creativity I myself experienced when Jamie left and I decided to drink my way through his premier wine collection. (The idea of sneaking into Emma’s flat and sewing kippers into her curtain linings sadly never came to fruition.)

Mrs P gives me a sharp look. ‘Has that grandson of mine been in touch?’

‘Er, no.’ My heart skips a beat as a vision of green eyes and tanned forearms pops into my head.

Mrs P smiles serenely and taps the side of her nose.

Oh God, what if she’s putting pressure on Erik? Along the lines of She wasdumped horribly for a much younger model, you know, but she’s ever such a nice girl. A mercy date would be beyond humiliating.

‘Keep me posted about the business, dear,’ she says, as we go our separate ways. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ll have half a dozen customers by Monday.’

As it turns out, she isn’t far off.

During the rest of the week, I take calls from seven potential customers and five of them order boxes. Every time I put the phone down, I whoop with excitement.

On Saturday I call the supply company in London. They’re called Parsons, and I speak to Mike, who runs the warehouse there. He senses I’m nervous and spends time advising me on the best fruit and vegetables to order that week. And instead of laughing when I place my pathetically small order, he says kindly, ‘Five customers already, eh? Not bad at all.’

Later, it occurs to me I’ve been so engrossed in the business, I haven’t thought about Jamie at all.

When I embarked on this, a big part of me wanted to succeed so I could prove to Jamie I wasn’t completely useless.

But now I want to succeed for me.




Chapter Six (#ulink_fe9bf151-c19c-595b-8323-f93bf15a5ccd)


On Monday morning I wake at 5.30 a.m., before the alarm.

The Big Day has arrived!

It’s less than a week since we did the leaflet drop. And I’ll be delivering boxes of produce to customers this morning for the very first time.

A shot of adrenalin surges through me.

I peer through the curtains but it’s still pitch black outside and there’s no sign yet of my delivery. I shower quickly then go down to the kitchen and make some tea.

But by 7.15 a.m., the lorry from Parsons still hasn’t appeared.

I’ve been out looking in all the places a delivery driver might have left my order – in the garden shed, on the terrace at the back of the house, by the gate (I’ve checked both entrances). But there’s nothing there. I run upstairs to look at the email Mike sent me confirming the order. It’s definitely today.

Then I hear a noise outside and I rush out just in time to see a big truck manoeuvring slowly out of my side gate, its reversal warning noise slicing through the silence and probably waking everyone up for miles around. There’s a wooden pallet by the front door containing a stack of trays and boxes, all held together with clear plastic wrapping.

But something’s wrong.

I know I didn’t order all that.

I rush into the house for scissors and start cutting away the wrapping.

One look in the boxes and my heart starts to beat very fast.

This is not my order.

I pull trays off the pallet to look inside and the scent of citrus fruit fills my nose. There are enough apples, grapefruit, melons and oranges to make fruit salad for an army – but apart from three trays of carrots, there are no other vegetables at all.

Where’s my lovely broccoli? My leeks and my celeriac? My red peppers and my field mushrooms? I run out to stop the driver but he’s already accelerating slowly up the lane. I hare after the lorry, waving the invoice and shouting, ‘Stop!’ For a second the brake lights appear and I’m hopeful of a miracle. But he’s only slowing for the bend in the lane.

A second later, the engine revs and the vehicle lumbers off into the gloom, swaying and juddering over the potholes in the lane.

I feel like howling with frustration but instead I take a deep breath and go inside to phone Mike.

A sing-song voice says, ‘Hello, Parsons. Gemma speaking. How can I help?’

I tell her about the mix-up and she says, ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Mike’s at a funeral today and I only started last week. Can I get someone to phone you?’

I wait all morning for a call. Gemma contacts me regularly with an update but it’s always the same. She can’t get hold of anyone. Even the boss has gone AWOL for some reason.

Tension bubbles under the surface of her pleasant manner. I suspect it’s only the desire to live up to her new employer’s faith in her that’s stopping her from shrieking, ‘They’ve all just fucked off and left me!’ before snatching up her bag and running for the hills.

My panic is rising at roughly the same rate.

Then just before one, Gemma phones with some news. A lorry will be with me soon after three. My order has apparently got mixed up with a delivery to the juice bar in Fieldstone.

I feel a brief pang of sympathy for the owner of the juice bar. I’ve never tried juicing leeks but I can’t imagine it would have customers clamouring for more.

I thank Gemma and hang up, mightily relieved.

A little later, I’m at Mrs P’s having a soothing cup of chamomile tea when my mobile rings.

‘Isobel Fraser?’ a man’s voice barks.

‘Yes. Who’s speaking please?’

‘Parsons. I’ve got your delivery.’

‘Oh, great.’ I glance at my watch. Two twenty. He’s early. ‘Where are you?’

‘Ah, now, let me see.’ There’s a rustling of paper. ‘Farthing Cottage, Fieldstone. Ring a bell?’

‘Right, well—’

‘Nightmare to find.’

‘Yes, it can be—’

‘Then I get here and you’re not even in.’

‘But I’m just minutes away.’ I scrape back my chair. ‘I’m so sorry – but you did say after three and it’s only—’

‘Look, I haven’t got time to chat. Either you’re here in three minutes or I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.’ There’s a loud crackle in my ear. Grovelling or protesting is not an option. He’s cut me off.

‘Problems?’ asks Mrs P.

‘Oh, not really. They’ve sent the grumpiest delivery driver on the planet, that’s all.’

I make for the door and as I jog back up the lane, I hear Mrs P shouting, ‘Go girl! You’ve got buckets of your aunt’s spirit! You can do it!’

I stop smiling when I spot the lorry from Parsons attempting to turn round in the lane outside my house. The driver is backing perilously close to Midge’s precious gates. Horrified, I break into a run, picturing wrought iron mangled beneath the lorry’s monster wheels. He hits the brakes with inches to spare and starts moving forward again. And that’s when I realise he’s about to thunder off with my fruit and vegetables still on board.

I run into the middle of the road in front of the lorry as it gathers speed, waving frantically, and for a few horrible seconds I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure if he’s going to stop in time.

Or stop at all.

There’s a squeal of brakes and when I open my eyes, my nose is inches away from solid green metal.

I walk round to the driver’s side, my legs as shaky as if I just stepped off a rollercoaster. The window rolls down and I’m staring up at a scruffy baseball cap and a pair of silver reflective shades that seem vaguely familiar.

Oh my God. It’s that horrible man I collided with on Fieldstone High Street – the time I lost Jamie’s tablet. He must have been the driver of that mud-spattered lorry that zoomed off with my tablet on board … something clicks in my brain.

Ha! It’s Mr Arso!

Only the middle letters were visible on the side of that filthy lorry – and the name, now I think about it, must have been Parsons.

I’m about to demand he hands back my tablet. Then I take in the grim set of his mouth and change my mind. There’ll be time later to make enquiries.

I fix on a smile. ‘Hi. I’m Isobel Fraser.’

Be nice or he might leave!

I make to shake hands, before realising I would actually need a small set of step-ladders to reach the cab. I shove my hand behind my back.

‘If you’re expecting me to reverse back up this lane to your gate, you’ve got another thing coming,’ he says bluntly. I can’t see his eyes but I know they’re glaring at me.

‘OK, well, why not just unload it by the side of the road here and I’ll move it myself.’ I smile up at him, pleased at how decisive I sound.

But either his brain or his hearing are sub-standard – or he’s even ruder than I thought – because he completely ignores me, jumps down from the cab and disappears round the back of the lorry. The door swings up and I feel the vibration as he leaps inside and starts thumping trays around.

I hold out my hands to take a tray of broccoli but he pretends he hasn’t seen me, jumps down and lifts five trays off the lorry at once. Then he hefts it up the lane to the house. I grab a box of mushrooms and – balancing it on a tray of red peppers – follow mutinously behind, eyes fixed grimly on the small tear in his washed-out jeans, just below his left buttock.

Suddenly I realise he’s heading for the main gates. ‘Can you use the side entrance, please?’ I call out in a panic.

He nods abruptly but doesn’t turn around.

He’s very tall with huge strides and I have to keep breaking into a girly run just to keep up with him. We march through the side gate and crunch across the gravel driveway. Then he barges round the house into the back garden, straight into the shed.

‘Here?’ He honours me with a glance.

I give a curt nod and he sets the trays on the workbench. Then he strides from the shed without another word.

Stunned, I stare after him. He obviously doesn’t recognise me. Did he find my tablet on the back of his lorry that morning? I’ll ask him when he comes back.

And why the hell hasn’t he apologised for this morning’s mix-up?

I fume a bit more, kicking at some soil with my toe, and when I hear him returning, I snatch up the invoice and get busy checking off the trays of produce as if I haven’t a care in the world.

‘Right, that’s it.’ He thumps the remaining trays onto the bench then frowns at a box on the floor. ‘What are they?’

I stare at his surly mouth. Is he having me on? ‘They’re potatoes?’

Isn’t it obvious what they are?

‘Po-tat-oes,’ I add helpfully. ‘I grew them myself. Don’t they have root vegetables where you come from?’

‘You can’t sell them as organic if they’re not organic,’ he says flatly, ignoring my sarcasm. He checks the produce against the invoice, tears off the top copy and hands it over.

‘But they are organic,’ I tell him smugly.

‘Certified organic by the Soil Association?’

I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I do know I have never ever used pesticides of any sort in my vegetable garden. And that qualifies as organic, doesn’t it?

‘I’ve never ever used pesticides—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ His deep voice is almost a growl. ‘In order to sell produce labelled organic, the land must be certified organic by the Soil Association.’

‘Right, well, I’ll give them a call tomorrow,’ I say airily.

I have no idea what this Soil thingy is, but I’m not about to let Mr Arso know this.

‘Good idea.’ He folds his part of the invoice and shoves it in his pocket. ‘Then in three years’ time you can actually start selling your organic po-tat-oes.’

‘Three years?’ What on earth’s he talking about? Is he trying to scare me?

He shrugs. ‘The land has to be free of pesticides – after the Soil Association has examined it – for three years. Look it up on the internet if you don’t believe me.’

Then he claps soil off his hands on the back of his jeans and walks out.

I stare after him, stunned.

And then I realise he’s heading off down the main driveway. My gates!

I run after him but I can see I’m already too late. He’s wrenching them open, and as I watch, the gate that is attached by string comes loose and crashes to the ground.

And does Delivery Man of the Year look back? Of course he bloody doesn’t.

He balances the gate against the post, climbs in his cab, adjusts his shades and pulls down his cap.

Then he roars off on his next mission, like Superman’s surly cousin.

‘I hate him. He’s spoiled everything.’

Mrs P sets a plate of ginger cake on the table in front of me. ‘Well, I don’t know. I think he might have done you a favour, you know.’

I stare blearily up at her and she offers me a hanky.

‘You know all about the Soil Association rules now.’ She lays her hand on my shoulder. ‘Mind you, if I see him, I’ll tell him exactly what he can do with his courgettes.’

I start to laugh but then my face crumples and I start sobbing afresh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional these days.

But perhaps it’s forgivable.

After all, I’ve got five customers expecting deliveries and I can’t even put potatoes and onions in their boxes because I grew them and apparently they’re not officially organic. So my beautiful plan to grow my own and supplement it with produce from Parsons is dead in the water.

The doorbell invades my misery; pressed five times in quick succession by some joker who’s clearly having a much better day than I am.

I grit my teeth and prepare to leave. I’m here to soak up some of Mrs P’s wisdom. I do not feel like being nice to some unbearably cheerful stranger.

When Erik walks in, I blanch.

What the hell is he doing here?

He looks at me in surprise, clearly thinking the same, and murmurs, ‘Hey you.’

‘Hi.’ Furtively I try to wipe under my eyes with my sleeve.

This is a disaster.

Quite apart from the tragi-comedy that has been my day so far, whenever I’ve imagined bumping into Erik again, I’m wearing my most flattering jeans, lip-gloss freshly slicked, hair newly washed and at its sleekly tamed best. My line in cool banter is nothing short of knock-out.

I have never once featured in saggy-kneed sweat pants with dripping nose and a barnet that resembles a hedge.

Erik kisses his grandmother and she holds his face for a moment in her hands and smiles. It’s a really sweet gesture and a lump rises in my throat.

‘What’s up?’ He pulls out a chair and sits beside me so our arms are touching.

I tell him what happened. Then he says, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an afternoon off college. I’ll help you sort it.’

‘Oh.’ I stare into his eyes and instantly forget everything else. Are they jade, I wonder, or more a grassy shade of green? And those smile lines. They are so sexy …

I’m aware he’s speaking. But his words are swimming lazily around inside my head and in my dazed state, I’m finding it hard to link them up into a sentence.

‘Say something.’ He nudges me gently. ‘More carrots in place of potatoes? Good idea? Yeah or nay?’

I force myself to concentrate. ‘But I promised them potatoes. They won’t like it if they don’t get any.’

Although to be fair, basking in the glow of Erik’s full-on attention and with the warmth of his shoulder seeping through my sleeve, the welfare of my customers is just about the last thing on my mind.

‘As long as the produce is good, it doesn’t matter a jot to me.’ Mrs P’s brisk tone snaps me out of my trance. ‘Why don’t you just tell them you’re really sorry but there will definitely be potatoes and onions in next week’s boxes.’

Erik grins. ‘Which is a great excuse for asking if they’d like another delivery next week.’

I smile at Mrs P. ‘I wish I had your common sense. And your entrepreneurial flair.’

‘My what?’ She hoots with laughter. ‘Entrepreneurial flair, my arse! Don’t go thinking I fell into the cake-making business just like that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you must know, it was sheer fluke.’

I heave a sigh. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

Mrs P pours tea into a mug for Erik and sits down opposite. ‘Do you know what I’d really set my heart on? I wanted to be a car mechanic. Do the training and everything.’

‘Really?’ My eyes widen in astonishment. It makes sense, though. The woman is a marvel under the bonnet.

‘And you’d have been brilliant,’ Erik says.

She shrugs. ‘You’re biased. And anyway, that’s not what the lady from the business support agency said.’ She plops three lumps of sugar into her tea. ‘I thought I might be eligible for a start-up grant so she came round and she listened and patronised me a bit. She said how great it was that someone at my stage of life was thinking outside the box and had the guts and energy to start up a new enterprise. She was very kind to me but for all her diplomatic waffle, I knew she had me down as a batty old dear with a head full of eccentric fantasies.’

‘But that’s ageist,’ I say indignantly. ‘You would have been fantastic!’

‘Well, maybe. Maybe not.’ She shrugs. ‘The point is, she made me see it wasn’t one of my better ideas. But then I made her some tea and just as she was leaving, she gave me the idea for my business.’

Erik sits forward. ‘I didn’t know this. What did she say?’

Mrs P smiles at the memory. ‘She nudged me and said, “Do you know, Mrs Puddephat, that Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch is a real winner. I’d pay good money anywhere for that.”’

Erik grins. ‘And the rest, as they say…’

‘…is history,’ I finish.

Mrs P leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘You have to work with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got, Izzy, is a promising business. It may not be the business you first thought it would be. But it’s still a business.’

Erik chews rapidly on a mouthful of ginger cake. ‘It’s my guess,’ he says, swallowing, ‘that you’ll still make a decent profit even if you have to buy in all your produce from Parsons.’

Mrs P nods. ‘You can still grow your own vegetables but just keep it as a nice pastime. A way to relax in your spare time.’

‘Sometimes,’ says Erik, ‘it’s better to keep what you love as a hobby. Then none of the joy is taken out of it by having to meet deadlines.’

I smile at Erik, in full agreement.

Mind you, at that moment, staring into those gorgeous green eyes, he could have told me his uncle was a penguin and I’d have gone along with it.

Their sensible words have a galvanising effect.

‘Right.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got boxes to pack.’

By seven o’clock I’ve met all my customers and presented each one with a fragrant box of fresh fruit and vegetables.

No-one seemed to mind about the lack of potatoes. They seemed far too intrigued by the box scheme itself. And having Erik as my driver made it huge fun. Even Hormonal Harriet behaved herself perfectly with him at the wheel.

As he hurtled me along the narrow lanes, he told me all about his drama course. He’s passionate about becoming an actor and has even changed his name by deed poll because he says Eric with a ‘c’ won’t land him enough acting roles or exotic women. He said it with a rakish smile and for some reason I found it hysterically funny.

As we’re tidying up later in the shed, he says solemnly, ‘You know, you’re the boss. So you should probably organise a work night out.’

‘But there’s only me.’ I pout, playing along. ‘Won’t I be lonely?’

‘Well, I don’t know.’ He rests his chin on the brush handle to think. ‘You could buy yourself too much to drink … gossip with yourself about how useless the boss is … let your hair down on the dance floor.’ He frowns. ‘Snogging a colleague might be a bit of a challenge, though.’

I giggle.

It’s been a rollercoaster of a day and I’m shattered but I’m starting to think I really ought to ask Erik if he wants to stay for supper. It’s the least I can do, really.

I do a swift mental inventory of the contents of my fridge.

One of the nice things about my business is that I never run short of vegetables. So today, I could make a mustardy cheese sauce for the leeks, which would be delicious with gammon steaks. Or I could whip up a salmon pasta dish with fresh dill, red bell peppers, lemon and a drizzle of olive oil.

I need a shower first, though, which is a bit awkward. If I tell him I’m going up for a shower – however casually – it might sound like I want him to join me, which of course I don’t. Oh God no, definitely not.

But there’s a possibility he might get the wrong idea because we’ve had several flirty moments, squeezing behind each other in the shed. Once he put his hands on my waist and whispered suggestively, ‘I’ll swap you two courgettes for one of my cucumbers.’

I look at him sideways. He’s definitely hunky; a bit of a Jon Bon Jovi type with surfboarder’s hair and a sexy bum. I do wonder, though, if he flirts like this with every single woman he meets. And the married ones as well.

‘Of course, you could always invite partners,’ he’s saying, tipping soil from the scales onto the bench. ‘In which case you could ask me along.’ He turns and winks.

I steel myself and say in a voice that sounds strained and not like mine at all, ‘Are you hungry? I could make us something to eat.’

His expression changes instantly. ‘Oh, that’s a really nice offer, Isobel, but I can’t tonight. I’m meeting a mate for a drink.’

He looks genuinely regretful but I could kick myself for being so forward.

I’m about to say casually, ‘Oh well, another time,’ when it occurs to me that maybe the drink with his mate is an excuse so that he doesn’t have to hurt my feelings.

Suddenly, everything feels awkward and I can’t wait for him to leave.

Neither can he, by the looks of things. He’s brushing soil from his jeans and leaning across the bench to fish his keys from behind the weighing scales.

‘Thanks so much for helping.’

He smiles. Moving closer, he rubs something from my cheek and presses his lips to my temple. It’s cheesy, but I quiver nonetheless.

‘Can I take a rain check on that meal?’ He looks steadily into my eyes.

Blushing, I laugh and look away. ‘Of course.’

I spend the rest of the evening trying to put the quiver out of my mind and telling myself to wise up.

Erik with a ‘k’ is a professional flirt and falling for him will only end in tears.

Every one of them mine.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_524b7b87-9f6b-5d0b-ad8b-b9aba6271ed6)


I’m proud of myself for not dwelling on the kiss.

I don’t dwell on it when I wake far too early and can’t get back to sleep for wondering what Erik really thinks of me.

I don’t dwell on it when Mrs P calls and I have to resist the urge to ask her all sorts of questions about him.

And I most certainly do not dwell on it when I see a male model’s rear on a huge advertising poster in town and have to look twice because it reminds me of someone.

I go to the bank to pay in my earnings from the deliveries and no kidding, I feel like a lottery winner. Not just because I’m depositing funds instead of withdrawing them, although that in itself is amazing. But because for the very first time the business seems ‘real’. I’ve decided I’m going to frame my next bank statement.

Of course, next I have to pay for the produce. But even after transferring the money over to Parsons, I’ve still made a profit on the day. (A very tiny one, mind you, but a profit nonetheless.)

I want to call Erik and tell him, but I stop myself in time. I don’t want him to think I’m chasing him. I’ll wait until he contacts me. And just in case he does, I buy lamb mince and aubergines to make moussaka for that ‘rain check’ meal.

I spend the evening designing a small advert to put in next week’s local newspaper and phoning my customers to check they liked their boxes and to ask if they’d like a delivery next week. (Mrs P told me I won’t get anywhere in business if I’m not prepared to be a little pushy.) Four customers said yes, they would – and Mrs Lilley has ordered a delivery every fortnight.

My first regular customer!

Again, I squash down the urge to share this with Erik.

Later, when the phone rings as I’m coming out of the shower, I practically break a land speed record diving onto the bed to pick it up.

It’s another brand new customer phoning to place an order. But this time, instead of leaping up and down as I usually do, I take down the details feeling a little deflated.

I get into my pyjamas and flump down in front of the TV. I do not want to be one of those women who wait by the phone for a call that never comes.

A week later my advert appears in the paper.

I return from a morning in Guildford to find I have eleven messages, nine from people calling in response to the advert. The upshot is I have fifteen boxes to deliver the following week.

I’m thrilled and a little scared too. What if Izzy’s Organics becomes impossible to control, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster?

On delivery day, squeezing all fifteen boxes into Hormonal Harriet is a challenge. I fill the boot and the back seat but there are still two large boxes left over so I stack them on the passenger seat and drive along at a snail’s pace, terrified I might have to brake suddenly. It’s a freezing cold November day but I’m sweating with the effort of ensuring I don’t dislodge my cargo.

What I really need is a van.

But I have no money to buy one – or even rent one, come to that.

I keep thinking of the fun I had doing the deliveries with Erik. He still hasn’t been in touch. I’d planned to enquire casually about him when I called at Mrs P’s earlier on my route, but she’d already left for her Tae Kwon Do class.

Driving home, a heavy weight settles in my chest. I have a bag full of cash and cheques, which is fantastic. But returning to an empty house with no-one there to help me celebrate feels surprisingly sad. Even though it’s nearly four months since Jamie walked out, I still feel his absence from time to time, like a wound that won’t heal.

I’m heating up the remains of a macaroni cheese in the microwave when the phone rings.

‘Good evening,’ says a nasally voice. ‘Who do I speak to if I want to make a complaint?’

My heart sinks. ‘That would be me, Mrs Headley. How can I help?’

I picture Olive Headley’s tight grey perm and general air of distrusting everyone – in particular the widow next door, Mrs Ellis, who entertains men friends after midnight and has the gall, when challenged, to think it’s amusing.

‘It’s about the carrots,’ she says, clearly not amused.

‘The carrots?’

‘I don’t like their shape.’

‘Their shape?’

‘Yes, their shape. Some of them are very – wiggly.’

‘Wiggly.’ Wiggly?

‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say? Yes, they are most certainly wiggly! In fact, some are such strange shapes, they are really quite rude.’

I open my mouth then close it firmly. If I say anything, the giggle surging up in my throat might escape.

‘I’d like some nice normal carrots next time, please. Like the ones I buy in the supermarket. I have my sister coming to stay and she suffers from dizzy turns. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Mrs Headley hangs up as if she’s been talking to a machine.

I stare at the phone. I can hardly phone Parsons and say, ‘No penis-shaped veg this week please, Mike!’

But at least Mrs Headley’s call has snapped me out of my despondent mood.

When I wake early next morning, the sun is shining and the air is unseasonably mild. I run for a full hour, enjoying the exercise and feeling that at last, my life is coming together. I will work hard to expand my business and I do not need a man to be happy and successful.

I spend the rest of the morning working in the vegetable plot.

After the riot of colours and scents that proliferate in the garden over the summer months, November can sometimes seem rather grey. But the gorgeous vibrant green of my little row of Savoy cabbages lifts my mood and I spend a happy few hours digging compost into the vegetable plot, preparing the ground for planting.

The labour is hard but satisfying. There’s something very calming about being well wrapped up in the open air, feeling the sharp breeze on my face, turning over the soil and breathing in all those lovely, earthy scents. I relax into the rhythmic motion of the spade, telling myself everything will be fine.

Then on Saturday morning I’m in Fieldstone doing some shopping when The Thing I Most Dread actually happens.

I’m coming out of the post office when I spot Jamie.

He’s walking hand in hand with Emma on the opposite side of the road, and the instant I see them, my legs turn to jelly. I blunder into the nearest doorway and lean against the shop window, black spots floating in front of my eyes as I follow their progress along the High Street.

They’re walking purposefully, their day planned. Jamie is wearing a black leather jacket I haven’t seen before. Emma, who I never met at any of Jamie’s work nights out, is tall, blonde and very slim. She looks like a catwalk model in her skinny jeans and high strappy shoes.

I glance down at my comfy work clothes and unfashionable trainers.

Then I watch them, forgetting to breathe, as they swing down a side street and disappear through a familiar doorway.

My dentist.

Jamie’s dentist.

A man walking by glimpses my face and instinctively slows. Realising my hand is clasped over my chest, I smile to let him know I’m fine and rummage in my bag until he walks on. Then I take some deep breaths and wait for my heart to slow to its normal rate.

It had to happen. I was bound to bump into them together eventually.

But I’m fine. I survived. And it won’t be so bad next time.

It’s only then I notice the six-foot-high, sparkly red heart suspended in the jeweller’s shop window I’m leaning against. Inside the heart, it says: Will you be proposing to your special someone this Christmas?

It’s a big, in-your-face display that would make me feel sick even if I hadn’t just bumped into my ex and his stunning girlfriend.

I head back to the car, moving like a figure in a dream, only dimly aware of people staring at me and parting to let me through.

Driving home, I face up to the fact that I’ve been in denial. I thought I’d got Jamie out of my head but I was kidding myself. Deep down I never really believed he was gone for good. In the dark caves of my subconscious, I was waiting for him to come to his senses and realise his mistake.

I feel as if I’ve been hurled back to square one. It’s like a game of snakes and ladders. I’ve been swinging up those ladders, showing everyone how brave and resilient I am. And then, just as I’m a whisker from victory, I land on the giant snake that tumbles me all the way down to the bottom of the board.

The phone is ringing when I get in.

‘Hello, dear. How are you?’

It’s my mother.

‘Fine thanks.’

‘And how’s Jamie? Still beavering away in the City?’

‘Er – yes, Jamie’s fine too,’ I manage to croak.

My mother never asks about Jamie. How ironic that she should mention him now. Today of all days.

She doesn’t know about the break-up. It’s easier to keep quiet about it. She would ask far too many probing questions in her effort to determine how I’ve managed to cock things up this time.

I’ve told her about Izzy’s Organics, though, and I really wish I hadn’t.

Today she says, ‘Is this really what you want to do? Sell vegetables?’ I picture her pained expression. Her brow would crease into lines of dismay if it were not for the Botox.

‘Yes, it really is, Mum.’

‘But what does Jamie think of this? Will it actually bring in money?’

‘I think so.’

‘You don’t sound too certain.’

‘Well, I am.’

She sighs. ‘I would have thought three years at university would equip you for rather more than a job as a door-to-door salesman, Isobel.’

I slump down at the kitchen table.

‘But never mind,’ she says, ‘I’m sure you know best.’

‘Speak to you soon. Got to go,’ I mutter through gritted teeth and hang up.

I trail upstairs, shed my clothes and get into bed. I don’t care that it’s only four in the afternoon. I want the complete nothingness of sleep.

Jamie is gone and he’s never coming back. (Not that I’d want him if he did, but that’s not the point.)

My life is a pile of horse manure.

I was even kidding myself about Erik.

Pathetic.

Later, the phone rings and I jerk awake, wondering what time it is.

It’s Anna, wondering why I didn’t meet her for coffee in Guildford as we planned.

I struggle to a sitting position. ‘Oh God, Anna, I’m sosorry. I completely forgot.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes.’ I rub my gritty eyes and peer at the clock. ‘No.’

‘What happened?’

‘I saw Jamie with Emma.’

Anna gasps and is silent.

I swallow hard. ‘They looked – I don’t know – happy.’

‘Bastards,’ says Anna comfortingly. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

‘Yes please. No thanks.’

‘Well, which?’

Sighing, I say, ‘I’ll be fine. On my own.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. I’ll phone tomorrow morning at eight to check you’re OK.’

‘Thanks,’ I whisper and hang up.

Erik, in a red and gold matador costume, is sitting at the blackjack table and I have to stop him! I watch in horror as he empties the contents of my purse onto red.

‘No!’ I cry. I’m desperately trying to push my way through the crowds but an invisible force is holding me back.

Jess appears. She’s twirling a pink parasol over her shoulder and is dressed for her wedding in a column of silk that would be perfect if it wasn’t fluorescent green.

‘Hear that?’ she says, at the sound of a bell. ‘It means you’ve won.’

The bell does another ‘ding-dong’ and I prepare to rush into Erik’s arms and claim my prize. At long last, my money worries are over!

Then I open one eye and see the legs of the bedroom chair.

Bugger!

Maybe if I close my eyes I can get right back into the dream …

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

I peer at the clock, bug-eyed and headachy. Seven forty-five. In the morning? That means I’ve slept all afternoon and all night. I pull on my dressing gown and stumble downstairs to open the front door.

A strange sight greets me.

A short man with a disproportionately large bottom is wrestling a mass of glossy green foliage into the back seat of his car.

‘Oh, you’re in, are you?’ he says, peering over his shoulder at me.

His view is restricted by a comb-over that’s broken free of its mooring. Smoothing it back, he straightens to his full height, which isn’t very far. He eyes my robe and I smile brightly, wondering if he thinks I’m the kind of housewife who cheers up an otherwise drab day by dragging tradesmen in for a quickie.

I notice the driver’s door has To Die For printed across it in jaunty orange italics.

‘Flowers for Fraser?’ He manhandles the bunch of exotic blooms back out of the white Fiat and hands me the bouquet. When he shuts the back door of the car, I glimpse the whole slogan.

‘Ah! Flowers To Die For. I see.’ Although I don’t. Not quite.

Flower Man gives a grunt. ‘Wife’s idea. We do funerals as well, see.’ He scratches his head. ‘Not too sure about it meself.’

I nod in sympathy, wondering whether to give my opinion in the spirit of one entrepreneur to another. But I’m too desperate to tear open the tiny white envelope attached to the bouquet to stand and chat. So I thank him and rush indoors.

They’re from Erik. They have to be. Who else do I know who would send me flowers as gorgeous as this?

Reverently, I lay the pink and lilac blooms on the kitchen table, my chest expanding with joy at the sight of their dewy lusciousness. I grab the envelope and tear it open.

The note is short and rather bald, much like Flower Man himself. Apologies from Mike and the team.

Mike?

And the team?

I read it again, dismayed realisation filtering through.

The flowers aren’t from Erik. They’re from bloody Parsons.

I drop the note onto the table, my heart sinking into my fluffy mules. Mechanically, I fill the kettle and reach in the fridge for milk.

None.

But what I do find is the bag containing three aubergines, bought when I had high hopes of feeding Erik moussaka with Greek salad and a bottle of Jamie’s best burgundy.

The aubergines are now streaked with brown, well past their sell-by date.

You and me both, I reflect sourly, as I drop them one by one into the bin.

My mobile springs to life upstairs. I can’t be bothered to go charging up for it so I let it ring. Then I remember Anna promising to phone at eight to check I’m OK. Glancing at the clock I see it’s dead on eight. She’ll worry if there’s no reply. I take the stairs two at a time and fling myself at the phone.

‘Hi, Anna?’ I pant. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not killing myself. Not today, anyway!’ To emphasise the point, I force a laugh but it comes out more like a deranged cackle.

There is silence at the other end. Then a deep voice says, ‘Well, that’s excellent news. I’d hate to lose a customer.’

‘Sorry?’

‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry,’ the voice assures me smoothly. ‘Oh, hang on. Could you excuse me for just one moment?’

I hate cold calls. I sometimes say, ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll just get her,’ and then go off and do my ironing or something. But his voice intrigues me so I decide to wait and find out what he’s selling. There’s a rustling sound as he covers the mouthpiece. Then he comes back on. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Fraser. Could you possibly hold for just a few seconds longer?’

This is the point at which I really would hang up. But because I’m startled he knows my name (and because he really does sound genuinely sorry), I find myself saying, ‘Er, yes. No problem.’





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