Green Beans and Summer Dreams

I shake my head. ‘He was just shagging Emma.’ And that, of course, is even worse.

Anna places her palms on the table. ‘Well, it just confirms what I’ve always thought. Men look after themselves. Women look after each other.’

‘Speaking of which, I brought that job advert for you, Izzy,’ Jess announces as she delves into her bag.

As she rummages, a glossy magazine falls out onto the floor. The bride on the cover is a vision in satin and tulle, her honey-coloured hair piled up into an elaborate work of art. She is smiling a secret smile. And why wouldn’t she? She’s found perfect bliss and will be a princess for a day.

Jess shoots me a glance and shoves the magazine back in her bag as if it were red-hot porn.

She hands me the newspaper clipping. ‘One of our receptionists is going on maternity leave. Why don’t you try for it? I know it’s not PR but it might tide you over until you land something else?’

I pick it up and nod my head slowly as if I’m studying the advert. Then I look up at their watchful expressions.

‘The thing is… what I’ve decided to do…’ I place the clipping carefully on the table. ‘Well, I think it might be time for a change. I want to do something I really love. And I think gardening might be that something.’

There, I’ve said it.

‘So I was thinking I might try to turn the garden into a business.’

Two pairs of brows arch in bafflement. Either I have transmogrified into an alien or they fear they have greatly over-estimated the extent of my mental recovery.

‘You’re going to turn your garden,’ Anna repeats slowly, ‘into a business.’

There’s a further wedge of silence as they continue to stare.

Then a light goes on over Jess’s head. ‘Oh, you mean you’re going to open your garden up to the public? Like the National Trust?’ She frowns. ‘Is it big enough, though? I know you’ve got that field your Auntie Midge used to keep her rescue donkeys in, but even so—’

Anna snorts. ‘No, dumbo. She means grow potatoes and sell them.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Well, yes, I would be growing potatoes,’ I say, somewhat deflated. ‘But it would be much more than that.’

The excitement I felt at five this morning, when I woke with a plan, is ebbing away with depressing speed. But they’re both nodding so I plough on. ‘Remember last year when I grew all different kinds of crops? Well, there’s room to nearly quadruple the size of the plot—’

‘And this will pay your bills?’ interrupts Anna. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of potatoes, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘But she’s not just growing potatoes,’ reminds Jess. ‘It’s carrots and leeks and—’

‘Yes, yes, I know that.’ Anna frowns. ‘The potatoes were metaphoric.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jess nods.

I shake my head at them. ‘You don’t understand. I wouldn’t be growing it all myself.’

Anna leans forward. ‘So who…?’

‘I’ve looked into it. There are companies based in London that sell a huge range of organic fruit and vegetables. Anything you want, really. So I’d get a delivery of all the basics – like potatoes, carrots and broccoli – and also some of the exotic stuff like bananas and pineapples.’

‘But where would you sell it?’ Jess frowns. ‘At a farmers’ market?’

‘No. I’d run a box scheme.’

Anna perks up. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of those.’

I nod eagerly. ‘I’d pack a selection of fruit and vegetables – the best available that week – and deliver them to customers’ houses. Probably one day a week to start with. Until word gets round and orders increase – which they would because I’d advertise in your newspaper, Jess.’

I sit back feeling pleased.

It’s not surprising I’m word perfect. I’ve been turning it over in my mind ever since I woke up at 5 a.m. in a panic about money.

Last month, the bank was lenient about the mortgage payment and I’ve since cashed in a few shares to boost my account. But once that money runs out, I’ll have no other choice but to put the house on the market.

There’s a lot riding on this box scheme idea.

It could be the answer to a prayer.

If I can make it work.

There’s a brief, digesting silence.

Anna and Jess are nodding earnestly, but I can tell they think I’m a crate of rotten apples short of a compost heap.

Then Jess leans forward. ‘So what is it about selling vegetables that appeals to you, Izzy?’

Her perplexed expression makes me want to burst out laughing. Apart from the fact that the question is gently patronising, she sounds like she’s interviewing me for an issue of The Good Life magazine.

‘Is it because you want to get back to a simpler way of living?’

‘Hmm. Yes.’ I nod solemnly and stare at the horizon (or what I can see of it through the coffee shop’s slightly smeary window). ‘Girls, I feel something profound tickling the very edge of my consciousness. An awakening, if you like. A realisation that I need to get back to nature.’

Ignoring Anna’s snort, I slap a hand to my chest. ‘I will de-clutter my life and eat only seasonal produce. I will turn my back on fashion and wear garments made out of the wool from my own pigs. I will throw my telly out the window and play board games instead.’

Jess looks startled. ‘Gosh, really?’

Sighing, I slump back in my seat and look sheepishly from one to the other.

‘No. It’s just the only bloody thing I can think of to get me out of this mess.’

Chapter Three (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)

My plan to get back to running regularly is not going well.

It’s a clear, blue-skied morning and a light frost glints on the hedgerows. But as I lumber past, in the lane outside my house, I’m in far too much distress to admire the scenery. Each time I leap over a pothole, every molecule in my body screams enough!

What seemed like a good idea in the warmth of the kitchen, cradling my early morning cup of tea and looking out at Jack Frost’s handiwork, now feels like complete insanity. It’s all part of a ‘turning my life around’ thing – but I have a feeling this could turn out to be a jog too far.

Draughts of icy air blast into my lungs, making my eyes stream, and my thudding heart lets me know precisely how unfit I have become.

I make it to the end of the lane and flump down on the grass verge. Then I lie flat on my back as my chest continues to heave up and down, feeling mildly indignant that two passing motorists haven’t screeched to a halt to offer emergency mouth to mouth.