Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  Mind you, to be fair, ‘droning’ implies boring of tone as well as content. And the deeply masculine voice I’d appreciated on the phone a week or so ago is anything but boring. In fact, it’s the only thing keeping him safe. Running Dan Parsons out of the shed on the end of my broom remains – for now – just a delicious thought.

  ‘Look, if I needed a lecture on knuckling down, I would call my mother,’ I snap when he eventually stops pointing out how useless I am.

  He rubs his face wearily. ‘Look, I’m just playing devil’s advocate. If you can’t hack it, you’d probably be wise to get out now – before you throw good money after bad. It would be pointless carrying on, naïvely thinking you can make a living from this, only to be wiped out by the competition.’

  I feel a twinge of apprehension.

  ‘The competition? There isn’t any competition.’ What’s he talking about? If I had a rival in business I would know about it by now, wouldn’t I?

  He goes to the door and bends to look out, his hand overhead on the doorframe.

  Then he turns. ‘Look, it’s only fair to warn you,’ he says, and my stomach drops like a stone. ‘At the moment we sell to the trade. Restaurants, shops, market stalls. But we’re considering branching out into box scheme deliveries. Doing what you’re doing, in other words.’

  I stare at him and he gives an apologetic shrug.

  ‘But hey, you’re an intelligent woman. You’ll be fine. You’ll get a job,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Something that provides a real living. Not a hand-to-mouth existence.’

  Ah, so that’s why he was so interested in my previous career.

  ‘Have you finished?’ I ask tartly.

  He shrugs lazily.

  ‘Right. Well, I’d like you to leave now, please. I have work to do. Customers to call. A hand-to-mouth living to earn.’ I hold the door wide, shaking with the effort of being confrontational. ‘I don’t need your advice, thank you very much. I’m managing perfectly well by myself.’

  He looks amused. ‘Being melodramatic won’t change anything.’

  ‘I’m not being melodramatic.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  I want to slap that smug look right off his face. ‘Go ahead. Trample my fledgling business under foot. I’d expect nothing less from a bully who barges around wilfully mistreating other people’s property.’

  He looks mystified.

  ‘My gates.’

  ‘Oh, those. They’re a bit past it, aren’t they? They’re even rustier than that car on your driveway.’

  My mouth opens in total indignation. ‘I’ll have you know my aunt brought those gates back from Venice and meticulously restored them with her own fair hands. And they’ll be glorious again if I have anything to do with it. A bit past it, indeed.’

  He studies me for a moment and to my intense irritation, there’s a suspicion of a smile on his lips. Then he shakes his head. ‘Melodramatic? You? Perish the thought.’

  And with that, he strides out to his car.

  I’m shaking with annoyance.

  How dare Dan Parsons come here and trample all over my precious plans, under the guise of doing me a favour?

  Arso by name. Arso by bloody nature!

  Chapter Nine

  It’s Saturday morning and we’re shopping for a wedding dress. But the bride-to-be is late.

  Fieldstone’s posh bridal shop is a symphony in pink.

  Pink display cases. Pink carpet. Pink Queen Anne style chairs (not very comfortable). Even Marcia, the frosty-faced owner of Romantic Bride, appears to be pink.

  Either she’s over-done the blusher. Or she’s flushed with annoyance at Anna, who keeps pointing at sparkly tiaras and bead-encrusted satin shoes and making signs she’s about to throw up.

  I nudge her warningly.

  She frowns. ‘Shall we just go? I reckon Jess has forgotten.’

  My hoot of laughter incurs displeasure from all sides; Marcia because it’s clearly the laugh of a hooligan, and Anna because her head hurts from partying the night before.

  ‘Anna, is it likely Jess would forget the event of the year?’

  ‘Maybe planning your nuptials wipes out short-term memory,’ she mutters. ‘Another excellent reason for staying single.’

  I throw her an arch look. ‘Speaking of keeping men at arm’s length, how’s Peter?’

  ‘Fine,’ she snaps, leaning forward and cradling her stomach.

  Anna has been on the dreaded hotel break with Peter, but neither Jess nor I have been able to ascertain how it went.

  ‘Why won’t you talk about your weekend away? Was it really that bad?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘So tell me what happened.’

  She glares at the plush pink carpet. ‘Climbed a mountain, glorious day, view amazing, had sex back at hotel, went for swim, had sex again, laughed all through dinner.’ She looks up, her mouth twitching at a memory. ‘Actually, I thought they were going to throw us out of the restaurant, we were laughing so much.’

  ‘Riiiigghht. And the bad bits happened … afterwards?’

  She goes back to glaring at the carpet. ‘You’re missing the point.’

  ‘I must be. You see, to me that sounds like the perfect day.’

  ‘Too bloody perfect for words. Peter thinks we’re going somewhere but we’re absolutely not. I keep telling him I haven’t got time for a full-on relationship.’ She looks up, appealing for my understanding. ‘I want to make it in my career, Izz. I can’t let anything hold me back.’

  ‘But Peter would support you in your career.’

  She clutches her head. ‘Ouch, stop making me talk.’

  I stare at her thoughtfully. Anna’s track record with love isn’t great. She’s been out with a couple of ruggedly handsome but rather insecure men who in the end couldn’t cope with Anna’s big personality and her tendency to take centre stage everywhere she goes.

  Peter is different. He’s thoroughly happy in his own skin and just laughs when she gets hyper. They’d be perfect together. But her trust has been dented.

  We lapse into gloomy silence. I’m starting to hope Jess might not turn up. Because neither of us is in the mood to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over bridal gowns.

  Anna is so hungover, the only place for her is bed.

  And I couldn’t be feeling any less bridal.

  I’ve spent much of the past week stewing over my argument with a certain fruit and veg supplier.

  I’d been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt when he turned up at the house to return my tablet. I’d believed him when he said he’d recently been through a rocky patch. And I’d liked the way his eyes softened when he talked about his son, Zak. That almost made him seem human.

  But all he really wanted to do was point out – in a horribly arrogant and patronising way – that clueless females who have big dreams but less business acumen than your average toddler are ultimately doomed to fail.

  And I resent that.

  I mean, he’s probably right but does he really imagine I want to hear it? I happen to be a firm believer in that old adage, what you don’t know can’t harm you, and Dan Parsons has ruined everything by exposing all the nasty little flaws in my (non-existent) business plan.

  I keep running over our conversation in my head and thinking up fabulous one-liners to put him in his place.

  ‘It’s stifling in here,’ complains Anna, wriggling out of her parka and dumping it on the next seat. She gets up and slouches over to a glass case full of diamanté hair accessories.

  Marcia, who’s standing by a rail of frothy dresses running her finger down a list, stops what she’s doing and stares pointedly at Anna over her specs.

  Totally unaware, Anna plonks herself back down with a restless sigh. ‘How can anyone get excited about a stiff petticoat?’

  ‘Well, Jess can. And she’s entitled to. It’s her one chance to do what every little girl dreams of.’

  ‘What? Become a reality TV star?’

  �
��She’ll be here in a minute,’ I laugh. ‘For goodness’ sake, try and look excited for her.’

  ‘Excited? About the wedding of Jess ‘n’ Wes?’

  I give her a sharp nudge. ‘Hey, stop being so scathing about Wesley.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ I sigh. ‘Look, no matter what you think of Wesley, the fact is, Jess loves him. So that should be enough for you.’

  ‘Yes, but does she? Love him?’

  I stare at her.

  She shrugs. ‘It always seems to be about Wesley’s stuff. He likes taking photos of church pews so she goes along with it. He’d like her to give up work after they’re married so she’s considering it. Even though she loves that job.’

  ‘I know. But she hasn’t made up her mind yet.’

  Since the bombshell in Gino’s, both Anna and I have tackled Jess about her giving up work, and she confessed to me the reason she didn’t tell us was because she was embarrassed. She thought we’d think she was barmy.

  ‘But you love your job,’ I said gently. ‘Should you really give it up just because Wesley fancies having you at home?’

  She flushed and said, ‘It’s totally my choice, you know. He’s not insisting on it. But I know that’s what he’d prefer. And when you’re married, you have to be prepared to make compromises.’

  I smiled and left it at that. It was her decision, after all.

  Next to me, Anna heaves a sigh. ‘I’m just worried about Jess, that’s all.’

  ‘I know. But of course she loves Wes. She wouldn’t be marrying him otherwise, would she?’

  ‘You said Wes.’ Anna grins. ‘You must admit the rhyming thing’s funny.’

  I glare at her. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think Jess finds it quite so hilarious, do you?’

  Anna looks sheepish. ‘I know. I just have this feeling she’s settling for Wes – I mean, Wesley. And then there’s her obsession with making sure the wedding’s perfect. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’

  I shrug. ‘Not really. Brides can be pretty neurotic.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s an air of desperation about it all. Like she thinks if the wedding is perfect, the marriage might work out.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Anna, I hardly think you’re qualified to judge what makes the ideal relationship.’

  She sighs and slumps back in her seat. And we lapse into silence once more.

  I think about Jess and her belief that marriage to Wesley will make her happy. Is it a naïve notion? Or will Jess’s faith turn out to be justified? I’m not sure I’d want to be alone the rest of my life. It’s just that, after Jamie, I no longer believe in the notion of one ‘soul-mate’ for each of us.

  Romantic love is highly over-rated. Men are simply not worth the emotional pain.

  A contradictory voice in my head whispers, ‘Even incredibly sexy men like Erik?’

  I sigh and shift in my seat.

  Erik is disturbingly attractive. But the problem is he’s also the type to break hearts as regularly as he brushes his teeth (and he’s got the most fantastic pearly whites).

  Marcia is growing agitated. I’ve already assured her we’re waiting for Jess, but it’s obvious she doesn’t trust Anna in her Doc Martens and hooded parka.

  ‘Would you ladies like coffee while you wait?’ she calls over. The way she says ‘ladies’ makes me think she suspects we’re hookers, only in the shop for a nice, warm sit-down.

  ‘Lovely. Thank you,’ I trill back in my most un-lady-of-the-night manner.

  ‘Will your friend be long, do you think? It’s just I have a very important client arriving soon.’ The phrase, and I’d very much like it if you tramps were long gone by then, is left hanging in the air.

  Anna surges to her feet. Her bright smile does not bode well.

  ‘Ah, Marcia. I forgot,’ she says. ‘You haven’t met our friend.’

  Marcia gives her a look that would freeze seawater.

  ‘She uses plain Jessica Smith so as not to cause a fuss. But actually, she’s the Right Honourable Lady Jessica Wortlington-Smythe.’

  I bite my lip and look out of the window.

  ‘Yes, second cousin to the Duke, twice removed. They’ll be married at St Paul’s, you know. An intimate gathering. No royalty. At least…’ She glances across at me. ‘Has Petronella replied yet? I suppose she’s fairly royal.’

  ‘I … um … don’t think so.’

  I’m not sure if Marcia believes all this, but her eyebrows have risen so high they’re merging with her light caramel perm.

  Suddenly a quartet starts up out of nowhere, playing a honey-sweet version of ‘You Raise Me Up’. I swing round, looking for the harpist, before realising it’s Marcia’s ring-tone.

  At the same time I become aware that Jess is standing outside the shop peering in the window. She catches my eye and beckons in an agitated fashion. I lean forward and stare at her quizzically, and her gesticulations become even more frantic.

  Marcia is otherwise engaged on the phone so I grab Anna by the arm and pull her out of the shop.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Jess looks stressed. ‘My wedding planner phoned. She’s worried I might choose the wrong dress. She says I might think I’m a satin hourglass while actually, I’m an embroidered fishtail.’

  There’s no answer to that. And anyway, what do I know? Jess has researched the subject of weddings so exhaustively, she could wallpaper her entire house with her stock of bridal magazines. (I’m a little surprised she hasn’t.)

  Jess chews on her lip. ‘She also says it’s a bad idea to take friends along to help.’

  Anna snorts. ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘She says when you’re choosing a wedding dress, you need someone who’s prepared to tell you the absolute truth about how you look. She says friends can’t always be trusted to do that.’

  I laugh. ‘Well, she obviously hasn’t met Anna.’

  Chapter Ten

  It’s Saturday morning and I’m on a train heading north. Weekends with my mother can be stressful enough without adding stop-start Hormonal Harriet to the mix.

  I’m only staying one night. No doubt my mother will be put out. But Banksy pitches up with my vegetable delivery very early on a Monday morning, so I need to be back for that.

  I decide to walk from the station. But my brisk pace in a winter coat means I’m flushed and hot by the time I arrive.

  Ringing the bell, I brace myself for the assault. Not from my mother. (We can normally manage a good hour or so of civility before we stray into punch-up territory.) No, the fact that my ankles are prickling with tension is all down to a psychotically possessive Yorkshire terrier going by the name of Trixiebell.

  It’s Trixie for short. (My mother thought she was getting a girl dog and by the time she realised her mistake, the name had stuck.)

  But all is quiet on the canine front.

  His Yappiness would usually be barking furiously by now, having picked up the scent of his arch rival disembarking from the 10.57. I do hope nothing bad has happened to him. That main road can be pretty dangerous at peak times.

  My mother opens the door and her floral scent rushes up my nostrils. She embraces me by placing her hands on my shoulders and doing a ‘mwah, mwah’ to each cheek.

  ‘Come in, dear. I’ll make coffee.’

  ‘I’d prefer tea.’ I glance around. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Oh, Jim Three Doors Along took him out for his morning walk. Bless him, he said he knew I wouldn’t want to get my hair messed up going out in this wind.’ She pats her expensively teased blonde blow-dry.

  I nod. Jim Three Doors Along (to distinguish him from Jim Over the Road) is completely besotted with her. My mother has always had men falling over themselves to get her attention. When I was younger, I used to watch her working the room at our annual Christmas and midsummer parties, wishing so hard that I could be more like her. I was dark and awkward and I flushed beetroot the instant anyone spoke to me. My mother, by contrast, had a look of
Lauren Hutton with her golden hair, slender figure and wide smile. She made the person she was shining on feel really special. Even crusty old great uncle Jack got a surge of happy hormones when my mother was around. He’d stand tall and twinkle his rheumy eyes and you could see the man he was before age diminished him.

  She flirted outrageously with Maurice, a Cockney builder who lived next door to us. I suppose he was attractive in a rough and ready sort of way, but to be honest, I don’t think that mattered. It was his admiration of her that was the real draw. I used to wonder what Dad thought of it all. I asked him once and he grinned and said, ‘She’s all talk and no action, love.’

  I’m not sure Maurice’s wife, Shirley, could manage to be quite so philosophical.

  When I started dating, it became a real nightmare. My mother could turn a normally laid-back teenage boy into a mass of surging testosterone just by the simple act of being herself; clipping around the kitchen in her black patent heels, blonde hair perfectly coiffed even after a long day at the office, every inch the sophisticated PA in her tight little suits and silky blouses. She told amusing stories that made them blush and laugh much louder than they ever laughed at my jokes.

  She hangs my coat on the stand, peers at my face and says, ‘You know, you can get some marvellous corrector creams these days to mask redness. Betsy says her daughter swears by them for her rosacea.’

  Betsy Wilson is her best friend. My mother believes Betsy’s offspring, Rhona, is a shining example of how a daughter should be.

  ‘Rosacea?’ I enquire waspishly. ‘I thought Rhona had acne.’

  My mother’s lips purse slightly. ‘I’ll buy you one next time I’m in town,’ she says, and shimmies off, her gold-coloured lounge suit showing off her neat figure to perfection.

  I suddenly remember the reason I’m here. She wants my stuff out of the way. The offending cardboard boxes are piled against the wall by the loft hatch, blocking half the passageway. My mother raises her manicured hands and performs a ‘stepping-round-the-obstacle’ wiggle for my benefit.

  We go shopping in the afternoon and she insists on treating me to a top I admire. It’s ridiculously expensive and ‘dry clean only’ which means it will lie at the bottom of my wash basket for months, if not years. But she’s determined to buy it for me. We watch the assistant’s glossy red nails as she reverently enfolds the top in several trees’ worth of pale pink tissue paper before placing it in a bag that’s a work of art in itself.