Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  He undresses as soon as we’re in the room, dropping his clothes on the floor and collapsing into bed with a contented groan. I nip to the bathroom but by the time I get back, he’s flat out and snoring.

  I tiptoe around making myself a hot chocolate from the welcome tray, then I sit on the bed and study the décor. Everything matches. Even the mug in my hand tones in with the curtains.

  So what if it’s not the romantic end to the night I was hoping for? We’ve got all day tomorrow. And Sunday morning as well. And actually, I’m feeling quite tired myself after our early start.

  I get into bed, switch off the bedside light and snuggle into Erik’s back.

  Next morning, Erik has a pounding head but I persuade him breakfast will perk him up and we make the dining room with minutes to spare. Afterwards, I lie on the bed thumbing through the guidebook while Erik takes a shower.

  Ten minutes later he comes out wearing the shower cap as a posing pouch.

  I giggle. ‘Things are looking up.’

  ‘Honestly. Sex. It’s all you think about.’ He takes off the cap and fastens a towel round his waist. ‘I’m starting to think you want me for one thing only.’ He does a few experimental Mr Universe poses in the mirror. ‘Not that I blame you, of course.’

  I laugh and throw a pillow at him.

  Erik loves performing, whether it’s to an audience of one across a hotel room or to a crowd on a station platform.

  With a burst of affection, I spring off the bed and wrap my arms round his waist. ‘So what shall we do first? A walk by the lake, or a visit to the Guggenheim and a cappuccino?’

  He pulls me down onto the bed and lies on top of me. ‘All of the above. But can I make a tiny little request?’

  ‘Go on, then.’ I run my hands through his hair.

  ‘I’ve got myself into a bit of a situation with Vinny and Rob,’ he says, with a hang-dog look.

  ‘A situation?’

  He sighs and sits up. ‘Last night in the bar I stupidly told them I’ve got a VIP invitation that can get me onto the Maserati stand at the motor show.’

  ‘Really? How did you manage that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Don’t forget I actually flew out to Italy to collect the car. So now they send me tickets every year for being a “valued customer”. Of course, Rob and Vinny are green with envy. They couldn’t believe I wasn’t taking up the offer, so I said I’d get them in on my invitation.’

  ‘Oh right, so can you just give them your invitation?’ I ask, hopefully.

  He shakes his head. ‘I have to be there in person. That’s the bollocks of it.’

  ‘But the show’s out at the airport, isn’t it?’

  He nods and my heart sinks.

  ‘But that’s miles away,’ I say in dismay, seeing my lovely plans for the morning slipping away.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’ He looks weighed down by guilt. Then he shrugs. ‘I could just tell them we haven’t got time.’

  I’m really torn. But then I remember how nice and welcoming his friends were, especially Rob. And I know that being invited on to the Maserati stand would be the absolute highlight of their weekend.

  ‘Tell them it’s fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Erik looks at me doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Now shut up before I change my mind.’

  He beams and kisses me. Then he bounds over to the wardrobe and picks out jeans and a lime green T-shirt that looks more suitable for a holiday somewhere tropical. ‘We’ll call in, have a quick look at the Maserati stand, quaff some champagne and leave.’

  He grabs my hands and pulls me off the bed. ‘You, my little sex kitten, look completely gorgeous. Which is just as well because later on, I’m taking you for an expensive lunch at the best café bar in town.’

  Smiling, I relent completely. ‘Sounds lovely. Let’s go.’

  Chapter Twenty

  An hour later, the four of us tumble from a taxi outside the Geneva Palexpo and join the people queuing for tickets. It’s not yet midday but as we walk into the cavernous venue and follow the crowds along a walkway towards the exhibition, I can feel the air temperature rising.

  ‘The irony of the Geneva Motor Show,’ says Erik in my ear, ‘is that Switzerland doesn’t even have a car industry. Yet every year it hosts one of the most important motor shows on the planet.’

  I squeeze his hand, happy that he’s happy.

  Entering the main salon is quite a shock to the system. It’s like being caught up in a huge media event. Images of sexy models (of the supercar variety) flash from giant screens all around the walls and throngs of people point cameras and phones at the star attractions – the cars themselves, showcased in all their gleaming, high-tech glory on gigantic rotating turntables.

  It’s so hot under the bright lights, I have to pause and wriggle out of my jacket. But when I look for Erik a minute later, I panic because I can’t see him in the crush of bodies.

  Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA’ pulsates from gigantic speakers and the sound resonates deep in my bones as I move sweatily onwards, carried along on a wave of glossy Europeans with their size zero haute couture and manbags. The marketing girls, in their skinny silver dresses and sky-scraper heels, look as futuristic as the supercars they represent.

  In my sweater with my make-up starting to melt off my face, I feel like an ugly sister.

  I keep scanning the crowd ahead of me, trying to spot Erik’s lime green T-shirt. But the throng of people is growing more impenetrable the nearer we get to the heart of the exhibition. A huge sign hangs above each stand and frantically, I search for Maserati. But there are so many different names, they make my head spin.

  At last I catch sight of a familiar yellow T-shirt. Rob! And there is Erik just ahead of him. Light-headed with relief, I start elbowing people out of the way. I’m so desperate to keep them in my sights, I practically trample over a toddler.

  I catch up with them at the Alfa Romeo stand. Erik has squeezed through to the front and is standing with his arms folded on top of the railing, Vinny and Rob next to him. They’re all gazing at the star of the show, a gleaming red Alfa, as it circles sexily on a giant white turntable. In their T-shirts, they look much cooler than me.

  I thought it was odd that Erik packed that T-shirt. And now I think I know why.

  A vague sinking feeling merges with relief as I wriggle through to join them.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ Erik glances at me as if he’s only just remembered I’m there. ‘The Giulietta. What do you think?’ He slings an arm round my shoulders.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say tartly.

  He grins. ‘You couldn’t care less, could you?’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  He gives me a surprised look. ‘Hear that, lads? My girlfriend is a heathen.’

  Vinny and Rob drag their eyes away from the scarlet temptress on the turntable. ‘We’ve got two of those at home, mate,’ Rob says, with a wink at me. ‘So you’re not Supercar Girl after all?’

  I shake my head regretfully. ‘Wouldn’t know a Lamborghini if it fell on my head.’

  Rob grins. ‘You wouldn’t know anything if a Lamborghini fell on your head.’

  ‘When Erik emailed at the last minute,’ says Vinny, ‘saying he was bringing his new girlfriend along this year, we kind of assumed you must be keen on cars, too.’

  I attempt a smile. So it’s true. Erik had booked this trip – and his single room – long before he invited me along. Vinny and Rob ‘just happening’ to be staying at our hotel was definitely no coincidence. I watch him clicking away on his camera, capturing the Alfa Romeo from all angles. No wonder he was desperate to return to the house for his camera. And all that guff he told me about wanting photos of our first trip together …

  Why didn’t he just tell me he’d already planned the trip, instead of making out it was some big romantic gesture, all for me?

  ‘You must have thought I was boring as hell,’ Rob is saying, ‘banging on about engine capacity and front wheel drive�
�’

  ‘And pistons and brake fluid? Yes, I did a bit.’

  Erik turns to see what Rob and I are laughing about, but I decide to ignore him.

  At the Maserati stand, he turns his smile on the attractive blonde behind the reception desk and produces two invitations. Then Rob and Vinny present theirs.

  I stare at him in amazement. So that was another lie. All that stuff about Rob and Vinny not having tickets was just pure fabrication so I would agree to go along. I watch him as he gives the blonde the benefit of his charms then strolls through the gate onto the stand without a backward glance at me.

  I follow him onto the stand. And into my worst nightmare.

  Everyone is staring at us. And I mean, everyone.

  The stand is fenced on all four sides and hundreds of people are hanging over the railings, clicking their cameras at the cars and staring at the handful of VIP guests (the four of us, plus two stylish couples who look French or Italian) as if we’re celebrities.

  Feeling horribly self-conscious, I shadow the boys as they wander around the stand. But the strain of trying to look as if I ‘know cars’ is too much and I bolt for the refreshment area in a corner of the stand, collapsing onto a boxy red seat that’s as uncomfortable as it is chic.

  Perspiration trickles down my back and I’m gripped with a longing to be back at the hotel, standing under the powerful shower in our en-suite. When the waiter comes over I order mineral water and down it in one.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Rob appears from nowhere.

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘Sure?’ He sits down next to me.

  ‘We were meant to be having lunch,’ I blurt out.

  ‘So go and remind him about it,’ Rob says, as if it’s that simple.

  I shrug sulkily. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil his fun.’

  ‘What about your fun?’ Leaning closer, he looks over at Erik. ‘Seriously, I love the guy to bits but he can be bloody selfish at times. Mind you, look at it this way. He must like you a hell of a lot to let you gate-crash a weekend with the boys.’

  ‘Rob, how did you get tickets for this stand?’

  He looks surprised. ‘Erik got them for us. He usually receives four invitations so he sends us his spares.’

  I stare mutinously at Erik, who’s now prowling round taking photographs of the cars. The lies just keep on coming.

  As if he knows we’re talking about him, Erik looks across and wanders over. He slips his arm round my waist and declares he’s all mine now. But by the time we fight our way out of the place and find a taxi, it’s almost three and I’ve completely lost my appetite.

  Back at the hotel, Erik makes straight for the mini bar in our room while I head for the bathroom, pointedly locking the door and turning on the bath taps.

  I’m about to step in when Erik knocks softly.

  I fasten a towel round me and yank open the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, looking like a naughty schoolboy. He has one hand behind his back.

  ‘What for?’ I demand.

  ‘For not telling you about the motor show.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you?’ I demand. ‘Honestly, Erik, you must think I’m a total idiot if you thought I wouldn’t twig what was going on. You made a complete bloody fool of me.’

  He sighs apologetically. ‘Would dinner in the best restaurant make you smile again?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I tell him icily, staring at a point over his left shoulder.

  He twirls a glittery G-string round his finger. ‘I thought I’d wear this,’ he says, tongue in cheek. ‘I bought it specially. I told you I would. How’s that for thoughtful?’

  Still I refuse to smile, determined to make him suffer a bit longer.

  We’d been joking around the other week about G-strings and whether or not they were sexy. He’d said he was going to buy one specially for this trip so I could study it and give a considered opinion. I’d just laughed, never thinking he’d actually remember.

  He throws the G-string over his shoulder, moves towards me and gently loops a strand of hair behind my ear.

  ‘I want to see you in that new dress you bought,’ he murmurs. ‘Go on. Let me make it up to you.’ He hangs his head, looking thoroughly contrite. ‘I know I can be an idiot at times. But I am trying. And you’re the best incentive I could ever have for turning over a new leaf.’

  He looks so vulnerable and hopeful, I soften slightly.

  It would be a shame to waste our weekend away by falling out.

  When he kisses me, I stubbornly refuse to join in at first. But when he wraps me in his arms, my hips can’t lie, and I find myself melting.

  So Erik has flaws. Haven’t we all? And while he might not be the perfect man for me, the sex is undeniably brilliant …

  Bath-time is subsequently delayed a while.

  Afterwards, I take my new dress out of the wardrobe and spend a long time over my make-up, while Erik drinks a beer and channel flicks. Settling on a women’s football match, he shouts a very politically incorrect commentary through to me in the bathroom and I do my best to be offended on behalf of the female sex in general.

  He falls asleep while I’m blow-drying my hair, then when I’m all ready to go, he opens his eyes and murmurs, ‘Hey, you look gorgeous.’ He stares at the sleeve of my dress and frowns. ‘You’ve got a loose thread, though. Come here.’

  When I go over to the bed, he grabs my wrist and pulls me down. I do my best to ‘go with the flow’ and not mind that my carefully applied make-up is being kissed off and that my linen dress will crease appallingly. Because it really doesn’t matter at all.

  And a little while later, my crumpled dress really is the last thing on my mind. Afterwards, he says sleepily, ‘Sorry about today.’ His arm tightens around me. ‘This feels so good I don’t want to move.’

  I snuggle against his chest, thinking ten more minutes won’t make a difference.

  But ten minutes stretch to twenty and when I try to rouse him, he shrugs me off and mumbles something about room service. Then he turns over and a minute later, he’s snoring gently.

  I switch on the TV and channel flick, turning up the volume, hoping he might wake up. But he’s out for the count.

  Eventually I get up and take off my crumpled dress. Sliding into bed, I stare at the luminous hands of the bedside clock. Nine fifteen. If I was a braver person, I would get dressed and go out anyway; find a corner table in a café and dine alone, taking the curious looks of fellow diners completely in my stride.

  But I couldn’t face that tonight.

  I stuff tissue into my ears to block out Erik’s snoring then get into bed – wide-awake – and stare into the darkness.

  It’s well past midnight before I finally fall asleep.

  We fly home the next day in silence.

  The sum total of my exploration of Geneva has been a walk this morning round the city centre and coffee in a stylish café overlooking the lake. But it wasn’t as fun as I’d imagined it would be. Erik was in a subdued mood. His mind seemed to be far away and when I tried to talk to him or make him laugh, my efforts fell on stony ground.

  And now it’s all over.

  My lovely weekend in Geneva that I was so looking forward to.

  I stare out at the blanket of white clouds while Erik buries himself in his book. He only looks up when the captain announces we’re coming in to land.

  A gulf has opened up between us and I feel queasy with uncertainty.

  I watch him as he retrieves our bags. His face is pale, his eyes puffy. The weekend has taken its toll in more ways than one.

  We’ve seen each other in a different light.

  He drives us back to Farthing Cottage but we may as well be in different cars. There’s no laughing or closeness of any kind. I want to reach out but I’m afraid my touch might not be welcome.

  When we arrive home, Erik makes no move to get out of the car.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ My insides are heavy with dread. It feels like Jamie all
over again.

  ‘Better not.’ He glances at me then stares ahead, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. ‘Need to check the flat’s OK.’

  He turns off the engine, gets out of the car and carries my case to the front door

  I follow him, keeping my eyes wide open to stop the tears escaping.

  He kisses me and tells me he’ll phone.

  Then he gets back in the car and drives off.

  APRIL

  London was great.

  I almost missed my train on the way down. I was in the garden, doing lots of little checks, pre-departure. And just as I heard my taxi pulling in at the gate, I spotted something exciting in the asparagus bed: a single spear was starting to push its way through the earth. My heart leaped with gladness. I’m sure the taxi driver thought I was completely barmy, babbling on about last year’s failed crop and how marvellous it was that this year, my niece would be able to harvest the asparagus herself and we’d cook it together and drizzle it with butter because, of course, that was absolutely the only way to eat it …

  When the train pulled into Waterloo Station, I felt a bit like a tourist with my luggage, even though the city had been my home for over twenty years.

  I caught up with lots of friends, ate and drank far too much and wore my feet out walking round all the old haunts.

  But something odd happened.

  I kept thinking about my asparagus.

  Or, more to the point, worrying about it.

  I’d look at a menu and find myself wondering if more spears had appeared. And then cursing myself for not reading up on the best time to harvest it. The asparagus season is quite fleeting. What if it was past its best by the time I returned?

  I found there were a great deal of ‘what ifs’.

  What if the slugs had got to my lovely pea seedlings that I’d sown just before I left? What if the swallows arrived – as they did last April – and started nesting in the old shed? I wanted to be there to welcome them. What if the daffodils had all died off by the time I got back? This thought made me feel quite restless during a performance of The Mouse Trap.