Green Beans and Summer Dreams

‘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—’