Green Beans and Summer Dreams

‘It’s so exciting.’ Jess squeezes my arm. ‘Just think of all those people reading your leaflet when they get in from work.’

I grin. ‘Or chucking it in the bin with all the other junk mail.’

I’m trying to stay calm but my insides are more jumpy than Mr Motivator overdosing on blue Smarties. We’ve trudged along every street in Fieldstone, posting my little flyer through letterboxes, and all but a handful are gone.

Peter offers to get the drinks in and I push money gratefully into his hand. The bar is two-deep in people waiting to be served. It’s been a long day. All I want to do is collapse into a seat and wait for the feeling to come back into my feet.

Peter and Anna head for the bar, squabbling good-naturedly about something. Anna aims a fake punch at his stomach, which he nimbly avoids. Then he grabs her and she rests her head for a moment on his shoulder.

I feel a stab of loneliness. Whatever else was wrong with our relationship, Jamie and I could always make each other laugh.

Jess goes off to the ladies and I’m left alone with her fiancé.

Wesley is director of a small IT company that is struggling to establish itself in the industry, and he works extremely long hours. Anna refers to him as The Lesser-Spotted-Wes because a sighting of him at a social occasion is as rare as clapping eyes on a golden eagle flying up Bond Street.

Now, he mutters something that sounds like ‘table’ and strides off, possibly in search of one.

I follow him and sink gratefully onto a banquette. ‘Thanks for helping, Wesley. I’m so grateful.’

‘No problem.’ He glares at his beer mat. ‘If you ask me, there should be a hell of a lot more support available for small businesses. But then, what can you expect with this shower in office?’ He shakes his head at the carpet, thoroughly aggrieved.

‘Mmm, yes,’ I murmur, trying to think of a response that won’t betray my total lack of interest in politics. I can’t come up with anything, so I say cheerily, ‘Well, I’m determined to give it a go. Nothing ventured and all that.’

He meets my eye and gives a stern nod, and for the life of me I can’t think of a single thing to say. So we both focus on our beer mats.

Wesley is average height with a wiry frame and lots of bristly dark hair that sprouts above his shirt collar, creeps over the backs of his hands and unites to form one long mono-brow. He would be quite handsome if he smiled more and didn’t look permanently vexed. His other passion, aside from Jess and his IT company, is photography. He drives Jess all over the country taking artistic shots of stained glass windows and church pews, and the resulting photographs dominate the walls in their modern, three-bed semi.

Jess returns and sits down next to him, shuffling her chair closer, and Wesley loops his arm around her waist. He’s clearly mad about her and more than happy to indulge her plans to turn their big day into a fairytale extravaganza.

Jess is leaving no harpist or lake with swans unturned in her quest for wedding day perfection. She has relaxed her policy of not mentioning her nuptials to me and I’m now kept abreast of every single detail. We’ve discussed in depth where best to seat her two old school friends who hate each other with a passion. And which auntie is robust enough to handle Wesley’s cousin, Graham, who apparently considers it his charitable duty to grope older ladies at weddings to boost their self-esteem.

Wesley hitches up his trouser leg and glares at his sock. ‘Bloody soaking. Stepped in a bloody great pothole. The state of the roads these days.’

Jess and I shake our heads sadly.

Wesley’s favourite topic is the parlous state of Britain.

I brace myself for a stern monologue on local government spending cuts. But luckily, Anna and Peter return at that moment with the drinks.

Peter raises his glass at me. ‘To Veg-R-Us!’

Anna snorts. ‘I prefer “Izzy’s Organics”.’

‘Hey, there’s plenty more where that came from, girl.’

I laugh. ‘Go on, then.’

Peter clears his throat. ‘Twenty-Four Carrot Deliveries. Eh? How about that? You should have asked me for a name.’

Peter has this lovely Welsh lilt that becomes more pronounced when he’s fooling around, which seems to be most of the time. It’s hard to believe he’s a solicitor, specialising in commercial property sales.

A mobile phone rings and Jess dives into her bag.

She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and mimes, wedding planner. Turning away, she presses a finger to her other ear.

Jess has these intense conversations with her wedding planner on a daily basis.

Wesley leans towards her but she brushes him off, listening intently. ‘Baby pink? I thought it was cerise … yes… right … but won’t that clash?’

Anna leans over and murmurs to me, ‘Hope that’s not the bridesmaids’ dresses.’ She holds out a length of red hair. ‘Pink with my colouring? I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe it’s Wesley’s outfit,’ I whisper in a ‘gottle-o-gear’ kind of way.

‘Ooh, you bitch. Now, if I ever get married—’

‘Hell will freeze over?’

Anna grins. ‘Only after the booze has all gone. No, if I ever get married, which I won’t, there will be no fuss at all. Just me and him and some witnesses we’ve dragged in off the street. Saves all that cash and stress.’

Jess hangs up, looking flushed, and Peter says, ‘So it’s all coming together for July?’

Jess smiles. ‘I think so.’ She pulls out a well-thumbed bridal magazine and it falls open at a picture of a horse-drawn carriage.

‘I wanted us to ride to the reception on a white stallion,’ she says wistfully, showing the magazine around. ‘But we had to shelve it.’

Peter nods. ‘Too impractical?’

‘Well, no. It’s Wesley. He has a problem with heights.’

We all look at Wesley, who shrugs philosophically.

Sensing a captive audience, Jess whips out a large pink ring-binder. ‘I simply can’t make up my mind which invitation to choose. There’s this design…’ A card with silver hearts and pink flowers is flashed before us. ‘And this one.’ A second card appears, decorated with almost identical silver hearts and pink flowers. ‘What do you think?’

As they chat, my mind wanders away.

I’ve worked hard preparing for this day: designing the flyer; kitting out the garden shed with a workbench and some old-fashioned weighing scales I found in a charity shop; and turning a guest bedroom into Izzy’s Organics HQ. I’ve spent endless hours phoning packaging supply companies to get the best deal on boxes and brown tape; and I’ve finally tracked down a company based in London that is willing to deliver organic fruit and vegetables right to my door.

As I planned and talked on the phone and made lists, it somehow felt as if I was only playing at setting up a business. Like doing a school project.

But now that the leaflets have gone out, everything feels different.

It’s real now.

There’s no going back.

‘I’d better go, guys.’ I shrug into my coat. ‘You never know, I might have a dozen orders already.’

I’m at the door when Peter shouts over, ‘Taking a Leek? A Turnip for the Books? The French Bean Connection?’