Green Beans and Summer Dreams

‘You’re a genius,’ I call back. ‘But I think I’ll stick with Izzy’s Organics.’

As I leave, Peter is tickling Anna and she’s begging for mercy.

Driving home with only my thoughts for company, my nerves ratchet up a million percent. What if there really are orders on my answer machine? Suddenly aware I’m haring along at twice the speed limit, I slow down and tell myself it’s perfectly fine if there aren’t any messages when I get back. It would be silly to expect such a swift response. People will need to digest the idea. Talk it over with their other half. It could be days before they get around to phoning.

All the same, my heart is beating fast as I let myself into the house. Without taking off my coat, I run upstairs to the office and press the button on my ancient answer machine.

You have no new messages.

Despite the pep talk to myself, I feel ridiculously disappointed.

I spend the evening trying to relax. But part of me must be on high alert the whole time because when the phone rings at ten past nine, I practically jump into next week. A man with a broad Scottish accent says, ‘Can I speak to Cammy, please?’ and when I say he must have the wrong number, he hangs up immediately.

I slump back on the sofa, close to tears.

What am I going to do if all my hard work has been for nothing?

Chapter Five (#ulink_2f742532-4fd6-5a9a-b4e1-9ada3d3fc468)

It’s market day in Fieldstone and as usual, parking is a nightmare.

Bunting, strung between lampposts, flaps in a stiff November breeze, dancing in perfect rhythm to the triumphal choral music filling the car.

‘What’s this one?’ I ask Jess, scanning every side street for a space.

She frowns. ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.’

‘It’s nice. Sort of jolly.’ I’m not sure this is the right response. Perhaps wedding music should lean towards the sombre and serious, reflecting the life-changing nature of the occasion.

Jess stares glumly out of the window. ‘He didn’t bring me tea. He always brings me tea in bed in the morning.’

She and Wesley have fallen out over who should photograph the wedding. Jess booked a company recommended by her wedding planner, not realising Wesley already had someone in mind.

‘Wesley is the photography expert,’ I murmur.

‘I know.’ She heaves a sigh. ‘But if we cancel, we’ll lose the deposit.’

The market, when we finally get parked, is an odd mix of quality country produce and cheap tack. The smell of gourmet sausages frying makes me feel hungry.

‘Where’s Mrs P’s patch?’ Jess asks, as we amble past a stall selling T-shirts with ‘witty’ slogans.

‘Over there.’ I point at a stall with a large hand-written sign above it that reads ‘Oldies But Goodies’ in spidery black capital letters. Whoever wrote it ran out of space and the last few letters are all squashed up together.

‘It’s popular,’ Jess says, looking at the people, mostly women, who are crowding round the stall. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised. Their cakes are scrummy.’

‘I know. And it’s so kind of her to let me put my leaflets on her stall.’

I’m grateful for any advertising that will help get the business off the ground. The money from my shares has given me some breathing space but it won’t last long.

Jess nudges me. ‘Stall holders get sexier every day.’

A man in well-worn blue jeans and a pale green sweatshirt is standing behind Mrs P’s stall, rolling an oblong package from one hand to the other. ‘Last Battenburg. Only one left.’ His tanned face breaks into a smile as he scans the crowd.

Someone claims the cake and money changes hands.

‘Now, these little smashers’ – he picks up another package – ‘they’re my all-time favourites. What do you think, ladies? Date and walnut buns?’

I study him curiously. He’s average height but fairly broad. A fit, outdoors type who should be hauling himself up a rock face or snowboarding off-piste. Not standing behind a stall talking up a date and walnut bun.

He holds the package aloft. ‘Can I tempt anyone?’

‘Not half,’ says a woman near us in a comically suggestive tone.

I snort loudly and he swings in my direction. Feeling myself redden, I’m relieved when a customer diverts his attention.

But when he’s served her, he glances back at me, a hint of a smile on his lips.

I’m the first to drop my eyes.

‘Not only delicious but good for you too.’ He’s right back into his patter, holding up a pavlova, full of fresh fruit and cream, and more shoppers pause by the stall.

What exotic destination has given him tanned forearms in November, I wonder. An Alpine ski resort, perhaps? Or snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef?

‘Organising a family is just like running a business,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s a constant battle keeping the house clean, the bills paid and the kids fed. And in an ideal world that food would be home-cooked. But who’s got time these days for home-baking?’

I look around at the rapt faces and almost laugh. He has the crowd exactly where he wants them. Has he rehearsed this or does flattering women just come naturally? I strongly suspect the latter.

Jess, beside me, is mesmerised.

‘So why not get ahead of the game?’ He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘Forget trying to be Superwoman—’

‘And what would you know about that?’ shouts a stout, middle-aged woman. ‘You’re just a man! And I’d bet my bingo money you haven’t got no kids to wear you out!’ She folds her arms and challenges him with a stony glare. Several people laugh and I exchange an interested glance with Jess.

Mr Alpine Skier looks winsomely thrown. ‘Fair point. And yes, you’re right. I’m not fortunate enough to have children…’ He glances in my direction when he says this. Flustered, I turn to see who he’s talking to. ‘I may be just a man, but I’ve been enjoying my grandma’s incredible cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper.’

‘Is that “incredible” or “inedible”?’ barks the woman.

As the crowd titters, a realisation hits me. No, he couldn’t be. Could he…?

‘What’s your name, Madam?’ he asks the bolshie woman.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

‘Erik.’ He gives her the benefit of those very white teeth.

Bloody hell, it is him. Mrs P’s grandson. But this is no gangly college boy just out of his teens. He’s a mature student, probably about the same age as me.

Wait a minute, has Mrs P set me up?