Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  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 ou
t 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.’

  I rack my brains trying to think who it could be. The voice is vaguely familiar. Smooth but deeply masculine. Definitely not the sort of voice you’d forget in a hurry. This reminds me of an old song my dad used to croon when he’d had one too many whiskies (which, around the time he and my mother were heading for break-up city, was more or less every day).

  ‘Unforgettable, ’s wot you arrrre,’ I sing experimentally, lying back on the bed and flinging an arm out, imitating Dad in full sentimental flood. I can’t remember the rest of the words so I hum a bit to fill in the gaps.

  ‘Let me guess,’ says a voice in my ear. ‘Matt Monro. Circa 1958.’

  I sit bolt upright. Oh Christ, how much has he heard?

  ‘No, wait a minute. Dean Martin on the beer?’

  Bugger! All of it apparently.

  Colour floods into my cheeks. ‘It’s Nat King Cole. As a matter of fact.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, in a well, you learn something new every day sort of way. ‘It’s an interesting version I must say.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply modestly. ‘I can do a pretty good Tony Bennett if the wind’s in the right direction.’

  ‘Impressive. Do you practise in the shed?’

  I stare at the phone. How does he know I have a shed?

  Apparently reading my mind he says, ‘I’ve just realised you don’t know who I am.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t. Who are you?’

  ‘Dan Parsons. And I believe I have some serious grovelling to do.’

  ‘Oh?’ Something clicks in my brain. ‘Oh!’ I stand up. Bloody Parsons! ‘Right, well, grovel away. I’m all ears.’ I have not forgotten the stress of that botched first delivery. And nor have I been recompensed for the inconvenience.

  He clears his throat. ‘Have the flowers reached you?’

  ‘Yes, they have. Thank you.’

  ‘I hope they were good ones. Not the cheap sort.’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. They’re lovely. Very … colourful.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Someone speaks in the background. He rustles a paper and covers the phone again.

  I tap my nails on the bedside cabinet. What about this apology, then? I have a business to run but Dan Parsons obviously thinks it’s fine to keep me hanging on while he sorts out his business. I will definitely hang up if he doesn’t come back on in—.

  ‘Sorry to keep you. I’ve – um – had problems recently and I feel like I’m swimming against the tide.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be telling me that,’ I point out waspishly. ‘Or any of your other customers for that matter. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your organisation.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he concedes amiably. ‘And normally I wouldn’t. But I want to explain why your delivery went wrong that day.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There’s no excuse for bad service but in our defence, Mike was at a funeral and I was having – er – well, I won’t bore you with the details. But our brand new receptionist was thrown right in at the deep end. I’m amazed she’s still here, actually.’

  ‘Me too.’ I recollect Gemma striving to keep a lid on her mounting hysteria.

  ‘It was a bad day. The worst,’ he says flatly. ‘I’m very sorry you were a casualty. But to make up for it, I’d like to offer you a discount on your next order. And of course, you have my assurances we will do our very best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Suddenly, I remember my lost tablet. ‘You – er – didn’t by any chance find a gift-wrapped package on one of your vehicles?’

  There is silence at the other end.

  Then Dan Parsons says, ‘Oh, yes. Hang on. A square-ish parcel wrapped in slightly garish, heart-patterned paper?”

  My eyebrows shoot up indignantly.

  Garish indeed.

  ‘Yes, that one. I left it on the lorry by mistake.’

  ‘Really?’

  I can practically hear the cogs in his brain grinding as he tries to work out what I was doing in one of his lorries, but I’m damned if I’m going to enlighten him.

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ he says. ‘We have it here. I’ll see to it personally that it’s returned to you.”

  Mike asks him a question at the other end.

  To me, he says, ‘Sorry, I have to go.’ Then I hear him murmur to Mike, ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  I grit my teeth.

  The subtext is clear.

  I’ll be with you in a sec, Mike – just as soon as I’ve finished patronising this gullible dimwit and sweet-talked her into placing another order.

  Well, Dan Parsons is not going to get off so lightly.

  Flowers, a discount and a smooth apology might atone for me getting the wrong produce. But what about that scruffy and outstandingly narky delivery driver?

  Astonished at my assertiveness, I clear my throat and say, ‘Erm, before you go, I need to tell you about the driver you sent that day.’

  ‘Really? What’s that?’ He sounds mildly amused.

  My heart is beating fast. I’m not good at complaining. If a waiter
delivered an arrangement of hamster droppings on a plate and asked if my meal was all right, it’s possible I would smile and say, ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Well, he was rude. Surly. And unhelpful. And if I were you, I would sack him immediately.’

  There’s a brief silence.

  Then he says, ‘Thank you for drawing this to our attention, Miss Fraser. We do appreciate it. The customer is, of course, king and we take all complaints very seriously indeed. There’s just – um – one minuscule problem.’

  Sighing, I say, ‘Tribunals. Of course. A Neanderthal lowlife like him would take you for everything you’ve got. Is that what you mean?’

  Another silence.

  ‘Well, no, actually.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? Don’t say he’s a relative or something.’

  ‘Not a relative exactly, no. You see, Miss Fraser, the delivery driver that day was, in fact, me.’

  Chapter Eight

  It’s obvious why Erik hasn’t been back in touch.

  I scared him off.

  The same scene keeps replaying in my head, and I’m humiliated afresh each time.

  I suggest rustling up an omelette; he looks taken aback; his expression changes to pity; then, being a thoughtful guy, he lets me down gently.

  It’s the look of pity that gets me, though. Every time I think of it I flush so hotly I have to take my cardigan off.

  I’m so deep in thought I fail to see Anna and Jess waving at me until I’m a few feet from our meeting place, outside Gino’s in the High Street.

  Anna pulls open the heavy wooden door and we’re met with a blast of pizza dough warmth and Frank Sinatra inviting everyone to fly away. Gino’s is a cosy, family-run restaurant with great food. A candle flickers in a hand-painted pot on every table, and the rough-textured terracotta walls are painted with murals of the Tuscan countryside.

  ‘So tell us about this hot new man of yours,’ Anna says, as we stand at the bar waiting for our table.

  ‘He’s not mine and I haven’t heard from him,’ I snap, staring at the photos of party nights pinned to every inch of wall space behind the tills. Flushed and happy revellers, including the odd minor celebrity, raise their glasses to the camera.

  ‘Did you get that idiot delivery driver again?’ asks Jess.

  I grin at her, grateful for the change of subject. ‘No, thank goodness. One brush with Mr Arso is quite enough. I get the regular driver now and he’s lovely and normal. He’s called Banksy.’