Читать книгу Green Beans and Summer Dreams - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 15

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 so sorry. 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.’