Green Beans and Summer Dreams

‘You heard me. I’ll sell things.’

‘What things?’

I hesitated, curling my hands into fists.

‘Vegetables.’

There was a short silence, broken only by the occasional drip of a bath tap.

‘Vegetables?’

I could picture his disbelief.

‘Yes, vegetables. From mygarden,’ I shouted, pride in my achievement poking through the desolation.

‘Izzy, don’t be so fucking ridiculous.’

My heart sank at his scorn. But of course he was right. Selling vegetables wasn’t going to pay the mortgage. I needed to get a proper job.

‘So how does Emma earn a living?’ I called out, panic making my voice sound shrill.

‘Sorry?’

‘I expect she’s something incredibly important in the City.’

‘She’s a receptionist, if you must know. But what’s that got to do with anything? Look, for Christ’s sake open up.’ He pumped the bathroom handle to let me know he meant business.

I stared at the door. It was clear he’d made up his mind and now only wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to do anything silly. Like drowning myself. Or making a suicidal appointment with my hairdresser.

Sighing, I kicked off the sandals and got to my feet. ‘OK, I’ll come out.’

Maybe it was time to do the grown-up thing …

‘Well, thank Christ for that,’ came the response. ‘Talk about melodramatic. You’d try the bloody patience of a saint sometimes.’

But then again, maybe I’ll just stay here …

‘I’m having a soak first,’ I called out defiantly. ‘I might be a while.’

I turned on the taps and undressed slowly while the bath filled and the hammering on the door intensified. Lowering myself into the water, I felt fragile and bruised, as if I’d been in a punch-up.

A resounding thud reverberated through the bath as Jamie kicked the door in frustration.

‘Suit yourself, then,’ he yelled. ‘Have a nice life.’

I heard his feet hammer down the stairs and seconds later, the front door slammed.

I lay there until the bath water grew cool.

Then I got out and wrapped myself in a towel.

It was 12th August. The date we’d met, five years earlier. A day we’d always taken care to celebrate, whatever else was happening, and which this year I’d flagged on the calendar in the kitchen – a big red heart with an arrow through it and our initials. Even knee-deep in misery, the irony of his timing didn’t escape me.

Today was our anniversary.

Jamie had left me.

And I was alone.

The two weeks that followed were a bit of a blur.

Sick with misery, I turned inwards, wanting to be alone, unable to bear the thought of other people’s sympathy. As day turned to night and back to day again, I gradually became aware that Anna and Jess would wonder about my lack of contact. So I sent them texts saying I was visiting my mother and would be in touch when I got back.

Every morning I woke in a panic at the thought of a future without Jamie in it. And I constantly raked over the details of our last year together, wondering if there was something I could have done differently that would have stopped him falling in love with Emma.

I spent a lot of time in bed with my nice friends on daytime TV. And I mooched around the house, leaving a trail of scrunched-up tissues, making feverish plans that alternated between winning Jamie back and making him suffer horribly.

I was plagued with guilt about the garden and all the weeding I wasn’t doing.

The vegetable plot was usually my haven, especially in times of stress. I nurtured my plants lovingly; fed them rich compost; even talked to them because I’d heard that helped. But they were being sorely neglected.

I’d started to avert my eyes every time I passed a window, because I couldn’t bear to see their hurt stares. Rows of neglected peas, tendrils twining round sticks, crying out to be picked. And droopy green beans, used to being cosseted, huffily indignant to find themselves thirsty.

I was finally forced to text Anna with news of our split – only because Jamie and I were due round at hers for dinner that night so I had no other option.

And half an hour after that text – as I lay on my bed eating a chocolate orange I’d found in my gift drawer and watching Deal or No Deal – she was banging on the door.

I tried to ignore it.

But she rattled the letterbox and started yelling through it. ‘I know you’re in there, Izz. I can hear the telly for Christ’s sake!’

I frowned at the open bedroom window.

‘Let me in! Please!’ A pause. ‘I’m not budging till you open up.’

My heart sank.

I’d learned from experience that when Anna made up her mind about something, arguing with her was completely futile. You might as well tell Sweeney Todd to turn vegetarian.

Anna was loud and extrovert and said exactly what she thought. It might have been something to do with her red hair. Or the fact that she never had a dad to oversee discipline in the house when she was a child, just a lovely, slightly unconventional mum who had her packing her own school lunches by the time she was five.

If I didn’t go downstairs, Anna would bring a tent and a flask and camp out in my field until she gained entry.

So I dragged myself up, pulled on my dressing gown and did a horrified double take in the mirror.

I had turned into the mad woman in the attic.

Scary white face peering through a tangle of undergrowth. My dark auburn hair kinked wildly when left to go its own way. It hadn’t been within spitting distance of a hairdryer for days.