Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

‘The other day,’ he says quietly, ‘when I saw you with Zak, I thought she’d come back to take him away with her.’

  I recall Monique in her red sports car haring out of the driveway.

  He looks bleakly at the ground. ‘She’s threatened to take him before. Last time was a few months back – around the time you and I first met, in fact.’ He looks up and attempts a smile. ‘Which was why I was such a grumpy bugger.’

  I shake my head in sympathy. ‘No wonder you were horrified when you saw me and thought I was her.’

  He gives a short laugh. ‘Ridiculous, of course. You don’t look anything like each other.’

  I feel an odd twinge of despondency. Of course we don’t. Monique is probably gorgeous.

  ‘Ah, speak of the she-devil,’ Dan says, watching a brunette in a red body-con dress and killer heels heading in our direction.

  I gulp. So this is Monique.

  She’s very slender. And tall. Although Dan towers over her.

  She lays a French manicured hand on his shoulder and sort of moulds her body elegantly to his side, so they’re both looking at me.

  She gives me a serene smile. Then she turns to Dan. ‘Come back to the table, you naughty boy. The main course is served.’ The way she purrs the words – with a seductive French accent – would make Madonna blush.

  Dan clears his throat. ‘Monique. Meet Isobel, one of my best customers. Isobel, this is Zak’s mum.’

  She studies me coolly.

  Awkwardly, I fling out my hand and – after a panicky moment when I think it’s just going to hang there in mid-air – Monique reaches forward and presses the tips of my fingers.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ I force a smile and start backing away. ‘And sorry again, Dan. About the shoe.’

  He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘No problem, Cinderella. You can drop something fashionable in my soup any time.’

  Swallowing, I glance at Monique but she just smiles blandly back and slips a delicate hand round his waist, as if to say he’s mine.

  I’m so relieved to get back to my table, I even feel a wave of affection for Wesley.

  After the meal, we sit through lots of speeches from local business people receiving awards, craning our necks to see past the foliage display. During a break in the proceedings, Wesley strikes up a conversation about IT with the man next to him, leaving Jess and me to chat alone.

  This would be lovely, except she keeps interrupting what I’m saying to ask a string of questions about Dan. Is he single, married or divorced? Who was the woman he was with? Doesn’t he look like he was just made to wear a dinner suit? Wouldn’t he be perfect as the hero in a costume drama? And don’t I think he has a look of that bloke off the telly?

  I find all this fairly nauseating.

  The only reason Jess is desperate for the low-down on Dan Parsons’ astrology sign and inside leg measurement is because she’s obviously decided Erik and I are kaput. The fact she’s probably right only makes it all the more depressing.

  When the band starts up, Jess and Wesley go off to dance, having failed to persuade me into a mercy threesome. I top up my wine glass and watch them from a distance. Jess is a natural mover, Wesley rather less so. He shuffles his feet from side to side and performs a sort of rowing action with his arms, paddling on one side then the other.

  When the track ends, Eloise joins them on the dance floor. She’s wearing a long black dress and her amazing hair gleams like a golden waterfall down her back. As I watch, Wesley disappears off to the gents and she and Jess carry on talking. Eloise is telling a story and Jess suddenly grabs her arm and they both fall about laughing. Fresh from my carrot soup humiliation, I wonder if they’re talking about me. I wouldn’t blame them if they were. It was pretty funny. In retrospect.

  My eye keeps straying across to Dan and Monique, who are sitting several tables away with their backs to me. I’m intrigued by their body language. Monique is interacting with the whole table, chatting and laughing, but I notice she keeps bodily contact with Dan all the time. When he leans over for a wine bottle, her gaze follows him and she rests her hand lightly on his back.

  She looks like a woman who does not intend being ‘ex’ for very much longer.

  Jess and Eloise have disappeared off the dance floor but I spot Wesley weaving his way back to the table.

  ‘The photography agency Eloise works for is in line for an award,’ he tells me, sitting down. ‘Look. They’re about to announce it.’

  Sure enough, a man on stage is tapping the microphone and announcing the nominations for ‘most promising new business’. He points to the huge screen behind him and up flashes a photo of three jolly-looking women bathing an Afghan hound with the caption, ‘Doggy Day Care’. Next there’s a man wearing a white T-shirt that bears the name, ‘Wainwright Windows’. And then comes Eloise, pictured with the entire team from Vision Photography. Wesley applauds and cheers loudly and I join in to be polite.

  ‘And the award,’ comes the announcement, ‘goes to … Vision Photography!’ Cue more cheering and clapping.

  When it dies down, I ask Wesley how long Eloise has been a photographer.

  ‘Five years. She’s fantastic.’ He hitches his chair a little nearer. ‘She likes to work instinctively, you know? So she can capture all those special little moments you don’t get with traditional group shots.’

  He talks on and I watch him curiously. I’ve never seen him so animated. I’ve been trying to convince myself that kiss with Eloise was entirely innocent. For Jess’s sake. But now I’m not so sure.

  When conversation dries up, I decide to go and refresh my lipstick for want of anything better to do.

  On the way, I see Anna pushing backwards through a door into the kitchen, carrying a large cardboard box. Her lovely up-do is beginning to straggle down around her face and she looks thoroughly fed up. There’s no sign of Peter.

  My heart goes out to her. In many ways, Anna is her own worst enemy. It’s clear to Jess and me that she really likes Peter. But she’s in danger of losing him altogether if she doesn’t start treating him like a boyfriend. Instead of a mate she has sex with.

  I decide to talk to Jess about it. Maybe together we can make Anna see sense.

  At that very moment, Jess herself emerges from the ladies.

  I catch her eye and open my mouth to speak, but to my astonishment, she deliberately swerves away from me.

  Stunned, I watch as she pushes her way through a group of people standing nearby. They break off their conversation and turn to look as she stumbles towards the exit.

  I run out into the foyer and spot her climbing into a taxi.

  ‘Jess?’ I call after her in alarm. ‘Where are you going?’

  She turns and gives me a look of such anguish that my heart nearly stops.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She hesitates, her hand on the taxi door.

  ‘Jess, for God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong!’

  She seemed perfectly fine five minutes ago, chatting and laughing with Eloise on the dance floor. What on earth can have happened to drain every hint of colour from her face?

  She takes a step towards me.

  Then Wesley comes running out, shouting her name.

  I turn towards him.

  And when I look back, the taxi – with Jess inside – is pulling away from the kerb.

  Talking to Wesley, it’s clear he has no idea what’s happened either. He dashes inside to order a taxi and we ride home together. I’m desperate to see Jess. But Wesley thinks it would be best if he talked to her alone, so he drops me off and the taxi drives on.

  I feel shattered after my eventful night and stunned by Jess’s sudden departure. When I see there’s a message on my answer machine, I dive to pick it up, hoping it will be Jess with an explanation.

  But it’s only Erik.

  My heart sinks as he starts to speak. He’s found yet another excuse for staying away.

  Ryan, he says, has accidentally set fire to the garden
shed and hurt himself running away from the flames.

  Tired and wrung out with emotion, I snort at the phone. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Erik. Pull the other one.’

  He’s been feeding me falsehoods all along and like the idiot that I am, I’ve been more efficient than a dustbin at swallowing his crap.

  Then I hear a siren in the distance.

  And as Erik talks on, it merges with the sound of a second emergency vehicle, shrieking louder and louder until I can barely hear what he’s saying.

  ‘Got to go. They’re here,’ he yells and disconnects the call.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Anna is seething.

  She’d lined up some minor celebrity to host the auction at the summer fayre. But now it’s all off.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Her voice emerges muffled from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. ‘Carla’s gone and buggered the whole thing up.’

  Emerging with liquid cleaner and a cloth, she charges past me into the bathroom. I lean against the doorframe and watch her sluice water onto the cloth and wring it out as if it’s her colleague’s neck.

  ‘Carla got the bloody date wrong. So now, instead of drawing the crowds to your summer fayre, our lovely celebrity will be posing for a photo shoot in bloody Blackpool!’

  ‘Anna, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘But we don’t need a celebrity auctioneer. Anyone can do it.’

  Which isn’t strictly true. Personally, I’d sooner clean the Taj Mahal with a toothbrush than stand before an audience, wielding a gavel while trying to be terribly witty and entertaining.

  Anna pauses in her efforts to scrub the enamel off the basin.

  ‘But it’s next Saturday! Who’s going to do it at such short notice?’

  ‘Well … you’d be good.’ Although actually, the stressed way Anna is these days, I’m not so sure. She’d probably scare the punters off.

  She flings down the cloth and charges into the kitchen. ‘How can I do it? I’ll be co-ordinating the whole event!’

  A cupboard is wrenched open and something hits the floor with a crash.

  I sigh. Something tells me Anna’s mood is not entirely to do with Carla’s mistake.

  ‘How’s Jess?’ she calls. ‘Is she still maintaining she left the black-tie balls-up because of a splitting headache?’

  ‘Yes. But I have a feeling it was something to do with Wesley and Eloise. Why else would she scarper so fast when Wesley came out to find her?’

  Anna reappears, haphazardly squirting floor cleaner that’s supposed to remind you of pine forests but just smells of nasty chemicals. Some of it lands on my shoe so I beat a retreat and lean against the wall outside, listening to the sound of mop clanging against porcelain.

  ‘Tell you who’d be a great auctioneer,’ Anna calls.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Peter.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, in a non-committal way.

  I would rather avoid the subject of Peter altogether.

  I bumped into him in Guildford and he told me the reason he didn’t go to the black-tie ball was because he would have felt awkward seeing Anna. It was sad, he said, but they obviously wanted different things from a relationship and he felt he had to move on. I got the dreadful feeling he was seeing someone else.

  The mop resumes its clattering and seconds later I hear a knock of bone against something hard followed by a howl of rage.

  Peeling myself off the wall, I’m confronted with an alarming sight.

  Anna, who never ever cries, is sobbing her heart out.

  She’s bending over at the waist, arms folded across her stomach, letting the tears plop freely onto the floor tiles.

  ‘Why the bloody hell do they call it a funny bone?’ she wails. ‘It’s not in the least bit bloody funny!’

  I’m so taken aback to see her like this, I’m at a loss for words.

  Erik phones me from the hospital.

  Apparently Ryan is sitting up in bed, nursing little more than a sprained wrist, lapping up all the attention.

  ‘He won’t be playing with matches again, that’s for sure. I think he got a real scare,’ says Erik. ‘How was the other night? So sorry I couldn’t be there, babe.’

  ‘Well, it was … fine.’

  There’s a distance between us and it’s not only geographical. I really don’t feel like launching into the whole story of Jess bolting from the do without an explanation.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you nervous about Saturday?’ asks Erik, obviously sensing my coldness.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ I force a brightness that I’m definitely not feeling. ‘Anna’s in a panic because we don’t have an auctioneer for it, that’s all.’

  ‘You need an auctioneer?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve still got time to find one.’

  There’s a pause then he says, ‘Er, aren’t you missing the obvious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll be your auctioneer. I’m brilliant at that sort of thing.’

  I laugh because it’s so obvious now I think about it.

  ‘I’ll charm the pants off the bidders and rake in a fortune for you.’

  Later I phone Anna to tell her the good news.

  But she’s bursting with news of her own.

  ‘You’ll never guess. Jess has buggered off to Cornwall. Did you know about this? Because I certainly didn’t.’

  ‘Me neither. Why Cornwall?’

  ‘Wesley says she needed a break. Apparently she’s gone down to stay with some old school friends in Truro.’

  ‘A break from what?’

  ‘Wedding preparations, I suppose. Anyway, what’s your news?’

  When I tell her about Erik’s offer, she doesn’t seem quite as thrilled as I thought she’d be.

  ‘Of course,’ she remarks wryly. ‘Erik would never waste an opportunity to show off in front of an admiring audience of hundreds.’

  I’m so relieved we’ve solved the problem of the auction, I decide to let this pass.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Erik is still in Devon.

  But he says he’ll be back by next week, in time for the fayre.

  Why do I not feel reassured?

  Every time I point out crossly that without an auctioneer, the whole day will be ruined, he just laughs and tells me to chillax. But it really isn’t funny.

  I’m trying not to freak out about it but every time I think of the fayre happening in little over a week, I practically have to reach for the nearest tea towel and bite down hard.

  Erik won’t let me down this time. Not when he has a chance to perform in front of an audience.

  The other variable, apart from Erik, is the weather.

  We’ve been enjoying a spell of clear blue skies and warm sunshine recently. It’s been so unseasonably warm, in fact, that I’m starting to worry I’ll need that chill room sooner rather than later.

  But typically, the great weather is due to break down next week. Sunshine and showers are forecast and I keep agonising over what this actually means. I even look up ‘shower’ in the dictionary, hoping it might say something like, ‘precipitation you barely notice and which is highly unlikely to ruin an outdoor event’.

  But what it actually says is ‘a short period of rain or snow’. I shriek and throw down the book.

  My usual deliveries on Thursday take twice as long because my customers want to talk about the fayre and hand over items for the auction. I collect five bottles of wine, a set of placemats depicting steam trains, a five-hundred piece jigsaw of Westminster Abbey and a milk jug that looks like a cow.

  Anna phones just as I’m consulting the A–Z to find the last drop of the day.

  ‘Tortoise races are off,’ she says brusquely.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Health and Safety.’

  I laugh incredulously. ‘But half a dozen tortoises aren’t going to rampage about the place maiming thousands, are they?’

  ‘Terrapin-related illn
esses,’ she says flatly. ‘They’re worried people might catch one.’

  Anna’s bizarre news has a calming effect on me. We can do without the tortoises. Erik will be back in time and he’ll be the perfect auctioneer.

  Everything is going to be absolutely fine.

  I’m still grinning at the ‘terrapin-related illnesses’ as I pull the last box of the day from the back of the van and head into a Victorian house converted into flats.

  Miss C Dodds, a brand new customer, lives on the first floor.

  I press the doorbell and when there’s no sound from within, I prepare to leave the box by the door as we agreed. Then just as I’m jotting the cost of the box on a compliment slip, I hear a bolt being pulled back.

  Miss C Dodds is dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a sky-blue T-shirt. She has dark hair pulled into a loose knot and huge, slightly wary brown eyes. Her arms are very pale and slender. No bingo wings for her, I think, a split-second before it hits me.

  I know this person.

  I’ve seen her before. Standing in the street watching me.

  Miss C Dodds. C for Charlotte.

  Lottie.

  ‘Hi.’ I force a jollity I’m not feeling. ‘Standard box. No onions. Extra apples?’

  She stares at me with frightened eyes, still holding on to the door handle.

  ‘I planned what I’d say,’ she whispers at last. ‘But now you’re here …’

  My heart bumps in my chest.

  I ask her if she’s all right because she quite plainly isn’t.

  ‘Will you come in?’ She pulls the door wide and after a second’s hesitation, I cross the threshold, placing the box on the floor.

  She indicates the sofa and I sit down.

  Lottie perches at the other end and stares for a moment at her hands gripped in her lap. ‘I feel bad getting you here under false pretences. But I didn’t want to come to your house because he might be there.’

  I’m thrown for a second. Then I realise she’s talking about Erik.

  ‘But why would you want to avoid Erik? I thought you were friends.’

  She gives a curious little laugh. ‘Friends. Lovers. Even talked about getting engaged.’ She looks at me with a sad smile. ‘Oh, we’ve done the lot.’