Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  I yelp because it hurts. A lot.

  ‘I’ve done that before,’ a voice says.

  I turn to find a dark-haired boy of about eleven standing on the other side of the gate. He has one foot on a shiny green scooter and, as I watch, he pushes off, then in several deft movements, jumps up, spins the deck round and lands neatly with both feet back on the scooter.

  Zak.

  ‘Wow, I’m impressed. How long did it take you to learn that?’

  ‘Oh, not long,’ he says nonchalantly. ‘Just yesterday and the day before probably.’

  He points at the gate. ‘Mum keeps saying Dad should get that fixed but he’s always too busy.’

  I smile at him.

  He looks the image of Dan with his frank, blue eyes and mop of dark hair.

  ‘Is this your house?’

  He nods. ‘Mostly it’s just us now. Dad says peace is a good thing but sometimes I think it’s a bit boring. Mum lives in London, but she flew here this week to see me.’ He scoots a few yards then comes back to the gate. ‘She’s a make-up artist, my mum. She goes all round the world and stays in cool places like New York and the Caribbean. She was born in Paris, you know.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ I say, slightly flummoxed by this deluge of information.

  Zak nods. ‘Her name’s Monique. That’s French for Monica.’

  ‘Is she staying here?’

  ‘No. She always stays in a hotel. But it’s really posh. They have biscuits and movies in the room and everything.’ He points along the track. ‘Mum’s just gone. She was shouting at Dad and then she left.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  I glance at the house, wondering if now isn’t the right time. Perhaps I should come back later.

  ‘I’m Zak, by the way.’ He props his scooter against the fence and solemnly holds out his hand.

  ‘Hi, Zak. I’m Izzy and it’s very nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking his small, slightly sticky hand.

  His eyes open wide. ‘You’re bleeding. Look!’’

  I hold out my thumb and he inspects it carefully. ‘Once I fell down an escalator and the blood was pouring out of my knee.’

  ‘Gosh. Really?’

  He nods. ‘Gallons of it.’

  ‘Gallons, eh? Well, escalators can be tricky things.’

  ‘I’ve got a scar.’ He pulls up the leg of his jeans and displays a small white mark.

  I peer closer. ‘Ooh, I bet it hurt.’

  He considers. ‘Well, it hurt a bit, I suppose. But I didn’t cry.’

  ‘I cried a lot when I broke my wrist,’ I tell him.

  ‘Wow.’ He peers at my long-mended arm. ‘Was there blood?’

  ‘No,’ I say regretfully. ‘No blood.’

  Suddenly a deep voice bellows, ‘Zak!’ and we both jump and look towards the house. I catch sight of Dan at an open upstairs window just before he disappears.

  Seconds later the front door is flung wide and he storms out along the path, yelling, ‘Zak! I thought I told you to stay inside.’

  A pair of blazing eyes turn in my direction and I step back. Dan looks confused for a second. Then he barks, ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  Zak looks stricken. ‘Sorry Dad, but the chickens needed to be fed.’

  ‘I don’t care about the chickens. I told you to stay in.’

  I stand there, speechless. Dan is white-faced with anger.

  He stares up at the sky for a moment, as if seeking inspiration. Then he rubs his hands wearily over his face, goes to Zak and loops his arm around him. ‘Come on. Inside,’ he says, gently this time.

  When he turns to me, his eyes are bleak, his jaw tense.

  ‘Sorry.’ He nods towards the office. ‘Alison’s in charge. She’ll sort you out.’

  I watch them walk slowly up the path, Dan’s arm still resting protectively on Zak’s shoulders.

  The door clicks shut behind them.

  MAY

  Izzy arrived yesterday. Val drove her down.

  It was lunchtime when they came and I’d made a quiche with bacon and spinach. Izzy picked fresh tomatoes from the greenhouse and basil from the herb garden and made a salad all by herself, with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a grinding of black pepper, the way I showed her when she was last here.

  Val seemed quite amazed.

  After she drove off, Izzy and I looked at each other with the glee of two schoolmates seeing off another school year and embarking on their gloriously long summer break. We sat outside on the terrace and drank homemade lemonade while she told me all about school and friends and her guinea pig called Fred.

  We tiptoed into the old shed and I showed her where the swallows had made a nest in a basket on top of an old fridge. I lifted Izzy up and she whispered excitedly that she could see the little chicks’ beaks pointing skywards as they chirruped for food.

  Then we got into our gardening gear and went out to do some weeding and watering. Izzy asked me how to know if something was a weed or a plant. So I told her that old gardening joke that if in doubt, the best way to tell is to pull on it and if it comes out of the ground easily, you can be sure it’s a valuable plant.

  Later we had a ceremonial harvesting of the asparagus – eight spears each! We cooked it right there and then, and ate it standing up at the counter, butter dripping down our chins.

  This morning we made nettle soup and, although Izzy was a little dubious at first, it was actually really tasty. The young shoots are tender and apparently very nutritious. We gathered a lot, although at first I stupidly went out forgetting to find us gloves (duh!).

  The garden is full of life now, the slumber of winter long forgotten. Butterflies flit among the plants and bees hum busily all day long, like a soothing backing track to our garden labours.

  As she was waiting for Val to collect her, Izzy confided – over lavender shortbread and a glass of her own homemade lemonade – that she’d like to come and live at Farthing Cottage. I felt a lump in my throat. She truly is the child I never had. I laughed and said I’d like it, too, but that we’d better keep it our secret!

  The weather has been glorious for the whole of Izzy’s visit. Lots of blue skies and warm days followed by rather chilly nights. Just as glorious is the sweet-scented May blossom that festoons the hedges all the way along the lane. It’s my favourite wild flower – and it’s inspired me to think about planting a wild flower meadow (because I’ve got so little else to do in the garden. Ha-ha!).

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’ve been praying Erik will be back for the black-tie ball tomorrow night. Because I really can’t face going alone.

  But he phoned this morning and I could tell from his tone it wasn’t good news.

  ‘If you really need me to be there, I’ll come.’

  My heart sank. ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘Iz, you know I want to. Of course I do. It’s just …’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No. Go on. Tell me.’

  He sighed. ‘The birthday party’s tonight and I guess I’d feel bad just getting up tomorrow and leaving my sis with all the mess to clear up.’

  A wave of frustration rolled through me. ‘For God’s sake, Erik. What sort of a party is it going to be? You’re not exactly teenagers. It’s not as if there’s going to be cider all over the walls and unmentionable gunk to scrape off the carpet.’

  A brief pause. He wasn’t used to me being stroppy.

  Then he laughed. ‘No, you’re right. Listen, I’ve got to go but I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. Love you.’

  ‘Good. What time do you think—?’ But he’d already hung up.

  The following morning, I’m raking through my wardrobe trying to find something suitable to wear, when Erik phones again.

  ‘Listen, hon, I’m coming back but I’ll be cutting it fine so I’ll just meet you at the do, OK?’

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to bother. But then I’d be without a partner. So I say frostily, ‘Fine. S
even thirty, OK? And don’t be late.’

  ‘Help,’ I moan to Jess later on the phone. ‘I haven’t got anything to wear. I might tell Anna I’ve contracted a horrible skin disease so I won’t be able to “press the flesh” tonight.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother.’ Jess laughs. ‘She’ll only frogmarch you there anyway.’

  I heave a sigh. ‘She was so much more relaxed when she was getting shagged regularly.’

  Jess giggles. ‘I think Peter’s law firm’s taken a table at the do so you never know, they might be back together again after tonight. Anyway, get yourself over here later and I’ll sort you out.’

  When I arrive at her house in my boring LBD, Jess runs a critical eye over me and drags me up to the bedroom.

  ‘I’ve got the perfect dress for your colouring.’ With a flourish, she brings out a maxi dress patterned with swirls of jade green and kingfisher blue. The bodice has tiny, spaghetti straps and an inbuilt bra that sort of sculpts my boobs, and the silky fabric drifts to the floor, clinging in all the right places.

  Even I can see that it flatters me.

  It’s too long, though, so Jess dives into the wardrobe and emerges with a pair of platforms so high I swear the last person to wear them was that silver-trousered guitarist with the geeky fringe in seventies band, Slade.

  ‘They’re way too high,’ I protest.

  ‘Rubbish, you’ll be absolutely fine.’ Jess turns me to face the full-length mirror, puts the shoes down and, to be honest, I haven’t the strength to object.

  ‘You’ll meet Eloise tonight,’ she says. ‘Her company is up for an award.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Heat rushes into my cheeks as I’m reminded of my guilty secret. (Or is it Wesley’s guilty secret? I really do hope not.)

  I totter into the black-tie ball with Jess and Wesley, clutching any available prop for support (walls, chair backs, champagne cocktail), and feeling like I’m on stilts. I try to glide in an elegant manner but it’s hard to look sophisticated when you feel you might pitch forward to your death at any second.

  Anna greets us in super-efficient work mode, looking fabulous. Her red hair has been straightened and arranged into an elegant up-do and she wears a strapless column of green silk that shows off her smooth, milky white skin. An amber necklace circles her throat and long, matching earrings dip almost to her shoulders. We all gape in admiration, even Wesley, who’s replaced his habitual glower with a slightly goofy smile.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says, her green eyes sparkling. She seems lit from the inside and it can’t be alcohol because she’s working.

  ‘She’s hoping Peter will turn up,’ murmurs Jess, when Anna moves off to greet more arrivals.

  As we walk into the function room, my heart is beating fast, wondering if Erik will be there yet.

  ‘Wow,’ says Jess and I catch my breath, momentarily forgetting about Mr Unreliable.

  It’s Cinderella’s ballroom.

  The tables are sumptuously swagged, with a huge floral display on each one, and piano bar music tinkles deliciously in the background. The low lighting is the artful kind that airbrushes out everyone’s imperfections.

  I glance anxiously around. Erik promised he’d be here by now. Perhaps he’s been held up in traffic.

  We find our table and settle ourselves in the plush navy seats, Jess next to me, Wesley on her other side.

  I look around admiringly. ‘Well done, Anna. Everything’s great.’

  ‘Apart from the ferny monstrosities.’ Jess turns up her nose at the table decoration.

  A vast green display sprouts out of a square glass vase in the centre of our table. It might be the height of sophistication, but it effectively blocks us off from at least five dinner guests on the circular table.

  ‘They’re on all the tables,’ she says, looking around. ‘I feel like I’ve crash-landed into the jungle.’

  I give a bitter smile. ‘Maybe Tarzan will come swinging through the foliage.’

  Jess gives me a motherly look. ‘Never mind. He’ll be here. You look fabulous.’ She turns to Wesley. ‘Doesn’t she?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Fabulous,’ he repeats obligingly. ‘Where’s Erik tonight?’

  Jess glares at him then throws me a look that says, men are so clueless!

  I attempt a smile but my chin wobbles and a swell of emotion rises up from my platform soles.

  Why isn’t Erik by my side, proud to be my partner, like all the other husbands and boyfriends in the room? Isn’t he at all worried that I’m here on my own surrounded by handsome men in dinner jackets?

  My throat aches.

  I can no longer kid myself.

  Erik is not coming tonight. I know that for a fact. He’s been making stupid excuses for weeks not to see me. It’s time I faced it.

  I was dumped back in August by Jamie. And now, a mere nine months later, it looks like it’s happening all over again.

  My relationship is over.

  ‘Going to the ladies,’ I mumble to Jess.

  I push back my chair and start weaving between tables. But my shoes hold me up so I kick them off and hold them in one arm while I hitch up the too-long dress with the other hand.

  Eyes blurry with tears, I’m vaguely aware of a woman getting up. As she pushes back her chair, it cannons into me and I lose my balance, stumbling sideways.

  I manage to steady myself on the edge of a nearby table but the force catapults one of the shoes from my grasp. I watch in horror as it arcs, as if in slow motion, hovers in the air for a millisecond then plummets into the centre of a nearby soup bowl. A serving of carrot and coriander leaps from the bowl and splatters onto a pair of black, very clean lapels.

  The owner of the lapels stops chatting to his neighbour and turns, observing with interest what has just crash-landed into his first course.

  ‘Oh God,’ I squeak.

  Of all the soup plates in all the world …

  The whole table is agog at the impromptu entertainment. Conversation has ceased.

  Dan Parsons glances down at his jacket then fishes the dripping shoe from his soup and holds it aloft by its glittery strap. Someone snorts and turns it into a cough.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I gasp, my face the same hot pink as the dress of the woman he was chatting to. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

  Dan looks solemnly at the footwear then at me. ‘Waiter, there’s a shoe in my soup?’

  Everyone cracks up.

  Everyone except me, that is. I am actually beyond mortified. If I were a magician, I would conjure up a handy trapdoor to fall through. But all I can do is stand in red-faced shame as Dan unfolds his napkin and uses it to wrap up my shoe.

  Getting up, he smiles round the table and murmurs, ‘I knew I should have ordered the melon.’ Then he ushers me away from the scene of the disaster.

  Relieved to escape, I make for a darkened corner of the room next to the stage where I plan to hide – from everyone in the room but particularly Dan Parsons. Last time I saw him he was yelling at his son. And now I’ve ruined his suit – and possibly his entire night. Probably the only reason he didn’t bawl me out was because people were watching.

  But there’s no escape. He’s right behind me.

  ‘Look at your suit. You’re actually wearing your starter,’ I say, in a feeble attempt to joke my way out of it.

  He glances down at his herb-flecked evening attire. ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘How could it possibly be worse?’

  ‘It might have been lobster bisque.’ He grins. ‘And then we’d have caused a much bigger stink.’ He removes his jacket to reveal a crisp white evening shirt and gold cufflinks in the shape of tiny footballs. ‘There, problem solved.’

  ‘I could get it dry cleaned for you.’

  ‘No need. It was an accident. Here, hold this a minute.’ He pushes the jacket into my hands and disappears off with Jess’s shoe.

  I sit down on the edge of the stage feeling dazed.

  Jess appears and perches beside me. �
�I saw the commotion. Are you all right? What happened?’

  ‘I’m fine. But your shoe isn’t. Sorry.’ I nod towards the gents. ‘I think Dan’s gone to clean it up.’

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Dan Parsons. My supplier.’

  She frowns over at the gents. ‘But I thought he was horrible.’

  ‘He is. He was. He can be,’ I say, confusing even myself.

  ‘Shhh, here he comes.’ She melts away, leaving me all alone, which for some reason dismays me a great deal. I’m feeling a level of awkwardness that is way out of proportion considering my only crime has been to disrupt Dan Parsons’ dining experience.

  He holds up the clean shoe. ‘I feel as if I should go down on one knee and see if it fits.’

  His voice is deep, almost a growl, but full of amusement.

  I take the shoe with a nervous giggle and hand over his jacket. ‘I can’t say I feel much like Cinderella tonight. More an ugly sister.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ His eyes flick over my dress with something that looks very like approval. ‘Make sure you’re home by midnight. Otherwise you’ll definitely turn into a pumpkin.’

  I stare at him stupidly, wondering if he means what I think he means – that I’m absolutely not a minger.

  ‘Well, thanks for being my Prince Charming.’

  For one startling second, those dark blue eyes sear into mine.

  Then he runs a hand through his hair (which thankfully has grown a lot since that into-the-wood hack job) and says seriously, ‘Sorry about the other day. When I yelled at Zak.’

  ‘You don’t need to explain.’ I wave my hand awkwardly.

  He smiles ruefully. ‘Zak’s lived with me ever since Monique and I split two years ago. She travels all over the world in her career so it made sense. But now she’s decided she wants Zak to go and live with her in London.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I stare at him, imagining his horror.

  ‘Zak needs stability,’ he murmurs. ‘I think even Monique can see that.’

  I nod, noticing the tension in his jaw. He’s trying to shrug it off but it’s fairly obvious the man has been to hell and back.

  It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Zak isn’t the only one who misses Monique.