Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘Except I don’t think Lottie is a “head case”,’ I say softly.

  He carries on crunching a digestive. ‘Well, you don’t know her.’

  ‘True. But I think she has every right to feel angry and hurt when someone who claims to love her goes off and screws other women as well.’

  He studies me coolly, taking his time finishing his biscuit. ‘And I suppose you’re both going to gang up on me now, are you?’

  ‘So you admit you’ve been screwing around all the time you’ve been seeing me?’

  He shrugs insolently and says nothing.

  ‘My God, you bastard!’

  With a weary glance at the ceiling, he says in a bored tone, ‘Oh, here we go. Let’s have it, then. Get the ear-bashing over with, then we can eat. Because I’m starving.’

  I’m trembling now. ‘Is that all you can think about? Your stomach?’

  ‘Well, it’s a lot more interesting than listening to you telling me what a bastard I am,’ he says sulkily, getting up from the table. ‘Right, I’m off.’

  I hear myself screech, ‘You’re leaving?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’d invite you along but I get the distinct impression I’d be in for a hard time all night if I did.’

  Fury rises up. My voice is shaking. ‘If you mean am I going to express a little dismay over the fact that you think it’s acceptable behaviour to screw around when you’re meant to be in a relationship with me, then you’re damn right you’ll be in for a hard time.’

  Erik folds his arms and laughs. Actually laughs. ‘You know, I’ve never seen you angry before. It’s very sexy.’

  I stare at him in disgust. ‘Aren’t you even the slightest bit ashamed?’

  He makes a goofily apologetic face and crosses his eyes.

  When this fails to make me smile, he snaps, ‘Oh, come on. Stop being so bloody serious and let’s go out. Lottie’s history, OK? There. I’ve said it. Happy now?’

  ‘Happy?’

  He grins and moves towards me. ‘OK, maybe happy’s the wrong word. But what do you say we work on it? Just give me a kiss. Go on. Pretty please?’

  I fold my arms. ‘Erik, just go.’

  He sticks out his lower lip and says, ‘Ah, Izzy, you don’t really mean that. Let me treat my special girl to a night on the town. No expense spared. What do you say?’

  ‘I say you should fuck right off, Erik.’

  He steps back and holds up his hands. ‘Ouch. This is a day of firsts.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I tell him coldly. ‘And actually, I can think of another one. Because it’s the first time I realised what an utterly self-centred, manipulative, lying, cheating bastard you actually are. And I’d like you to get out of my house right now please.’

  He looks at me with a hang-dog expression that at one time might have made me weaken.

  But I’m no longer in the mood for Erik’s jokes.

  I storm out of the kitchen, march down the hall and fling the front door wide. Erik hesitates, watching me, and for the first time I glimpse uncertainty in his look. My heart is hammering. I’m in control for the first time in our relationship and he doesn’t like it.

  He recollects himself, folding his arms and studying me with an indulgent smile as if I’m a naughty but cute kid who’s crossed the line.

  ‘I do love you, you know.’ He looks suddenly serious, and for a second I glimpse the vulnerable little boy beneath all the charm and bravado.

  ‘Yes, but the trouble is you also love Lottie and Larissa and whoever else you happen to be shagging at the time. One woman will never be enough for you, Erik. And do you know what? I feel really sorry for you. Because I suspect you will never, ever be truly happy.’

  His expression darkens.

  ‘Well, it’s your loss.’ He saunters towards me, picking up the flowers on the way. ‘I’ll take these if you don’t mind.’

  At the door he looks at me and shakes his head pityingly, as if I’ve brought all this on myself.

  My legs feel like cotton wool.

  As soon as he steps over the threshold, I slam the door and sink down onto the hall chair.

  He’s out of my life.

  And I don’t know if I want to laugh or burst into floods of tears.

  JUNE

  I’ve always had a passion for wild flowers. When I first came to live here, I tried planting a mix of seeds in a corner of the front lawn but it wasn’t a great success.

  Then I read that a weedy, untended stretch of grass is actually far better for the purpose.

  So this year I planted them in a neglected grassy area in the back garden, just beyond the orchard.

  And this month, I finally have my glorious wild flower meadow!

  Their names bring back memories of childhood nature walks: oxeye daisies, cowslip, bird’s foot trefoil, meadow buttercups, harebells.

  On sunny days, I’ve got into the habit of taking my lunch out there and sitting in a deckchair, enjoying the sun and the scents, listening to the lazy drone of the bees and watching the cabbage white butterflies flit from flower to flower.

  A glass of Pimm’s and what more could I ask for?

  As long as weather permits, I’ve been taking all my meals outside. Everything tastes so much better in the open air. I suppose it helps that the salad vegetables I’m enjoying were plucked from the garden only minutes before mealtime.

  Last night, I invited Posy round for supper. She brought some of her homemade elderberry wine (it packed a punch all right) and we ate a garden salad with salty feta cheese and bread that was still warm from the oven. Followed by deliciously tart raspberries with double cream.

  The wine went very pleasantly to our heads. Posy got on the subject of wanting to train as a car mechanic. (I think she’d be brilliant.) And I started rambling on about Italy and couldn’t stop. I decided then and there that I’d take a trip to Venice as soon as I could.

  We sat outside on the terrace, enjoying the balmy evening air, until well after ten.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For the next few days, I hardly have time to breathe, never mind ponder how I’m feeling.

  The place is buzzing with people, all doing their bit to make the summer fayre a reality. I haven’t made so many mugs of strong, sugary tea to perk up the workers since we had the builders in to renovate the house.

  I spend Friday baking hundreds of shortbread biscuits for the refreshment stall and using up the glut of tomatoes in my greenhouse to make chutney to sell at the fayre. When I climb into bed soon after midnight, I fall asleep instantly, as if my battery has been removed.

  On Saturday morning, I bolt out of bed with the six-thirty alarm and fling back the curtains.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  By some miracle, it looks exactly as if a summer fayre is set to take place today in Aunt Midge’s field.

  Most of the stalls are in place around the perimeter of the field, although they still look oddly empty, like a market when trading has finished for the day. A modest-sized marquee dominates the corner furthest from the main gate, and the Portaloos have been delivered on a truck and manoeuvred into a line. The bouncy castle people are arriving at nine.

  I shower and make tea, all the time thinking of Midge.

  If she were here, she would be right in the thick of it, sleeves rolled up, helping to make the day a success. I imagine her kicking off her shoes and clambering onto the bouncy castle, urging me to try it out too.

  Then my eye lights on the article in yesterday’s local paper under the heading, Charity Auction is a Fayre Prospect, and my heart plummets.

  With Erik gone, there will be no auction.

  Which means there will be no money to buy a chill room.

  Unless I take charge of it myself.

  The stage is all set: two hundred chairs arranged theatre-style and a long table at the front for the exhibits.

  Anna keeps telling me I’ll be fine.

  But every time I think about standing up in front of dozens of people, I
have an urge to run away and join the circus or something.

  Before you can say let’s open the bidding at ten pounds, midday arrives and the fayre is officially open.

  Only two hours left to persuade Anna to wield the gavel instead of me. But I’m so busy at the end of the lane, greeting mums, dads, grannies, fractious toddlers and bored-looking teenagers, that I barely have a chance to draw breath.

  It’s another warm day with blue skies and a light breeze, and the arrival of summer has brought the locals out in droves. Cars are parked into the hedgerow along both sides of the lane and more are arriving all the time. By twelve thirty, my drawstring bag is heavy with cash.

  It feels surreal, collecting money and watching families and couples trooping along the lane to be entertained.

  At one o’clock, Doreen, one of my customers, arrives to take over my post and I escape up the lane to find Anna.

  Every stall in the field is busy.

  The bouncy castle wobbles madly in the far corner like a huge red and blue jelly and I feel like the lady of the manor, observing the villagers having fun on their day off. I can’t get over the fact that all these people have chosen to spend part of their precious Saturday here, at my event.

  Anna is nowhere to be seen but Mrs P waves at me from her cake stall.

  ‘Baked fresh this morning, Florrie,’ she’s saying, bagging rock buns for a customer. ‘Twenty percent of the proceeds going to charity. Enjoy!’ She folds her arms and turns to me. ‘I know you’ve had a falling out, but I didn’t think Erik would leave you in the lurch like this.’

  A falling out?

  I suppose that’s one way of putting it.

  But however bitter I feel towards Erik, I will not tarnish Mrs P’s view of her darling grandson.

  She frowns. ‘I suppose you’ll have to cancel the auction.’

  ‘I can’t afford to. I’ve got a drawer stuffed full of bills. Have you seen Anna?’

  ‘Fetching supplies from the kitchen.’

  At that moment Anna emerges from the house, carrying a banana box piled high with Tupperware containers. She’s dressed in a short tennis skirt and white ballerina pumps that show off her endless legs.

  Jess appears at my side. ‘Oh God, he’s actually turned up! Sparks will fly!’

  I spin round. ‘Erik?’

  ‘No. Peter.’

  I scan the crowd and spot him, weaving his way round a family sitting on a tartan rug eating candy floss.

  I glance at my watch. ‘I’ve got to speak to Anna.’

  But at that moment, my delivery man, Banksy – who kindly offered his services and is proving a big hit with coconut shy customers – comes over to ask for more small change. And by the time I’ve solved that problem, Anna has disappeared again.

  I grasp my head in frustration just as a voice says, ‘Is your finger all right? The one that got stuck in our gate.’

  I turn round.

  It’s Zak.

  ‘Hi there. It’s fine now, thank you.’

  Zak nods and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘That’s good. You’ll probably have a scar, though.’ He’s wearing a blue T-shirt with a skateboarder on the front.

  ‘Drowned any good shoes lately?’ I turn round and there is Dan, smiling and looking cool in jeans and a white T-shirt.

  It strikes me suddenly that he looks so much better now than he did when we first met all those months ago. He’s happier. More relaxed. And much fitter, too. The jeans that used to hang off him are nice and snug now and he’s got quite a sexy tan.

  I smile sheepishly back and glance behind him, half-expecting to see Monique picking her way across the grass.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a success on your hands,’ he drawls, looping an arm round Zak and pulling him in.

  I cross my fingers. ‘So far, so good.’

  ‘Dad, can I have an ice-cream?’ Zak looks up winsomely. ‘They do some brilliant flavours.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Like bubblegum and cola, I suppose,’ grumbles Dan. ‘Whatever happened to good old-fashioned vanilla, that’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘Dad!’ Zak flicks an embarrassed glance at me.

  Dan laughs. ‘Hey, it’s an important part of the job, making your kid squirm.’ Without warning, he hoists his son under one arm and starts tickling him. Zak squeals and tries to break free, belly laughing so hard he draws smiles from all around.

  Watching them doing the father and son, rough and tumble thing, I feel privy to something special. It’s clear they adore each other.

  Dan grins at me. ‘So what flavours do you have?’

  ‘Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. You can’t get more traditional than that. I expect they had those when you were a boy.’ I wink at Zak. ‘A hundred years ago.’

  Zak hoots with laughter. ‘Yeah, Dad. You’re at least a hundred!’

  He runs off to the ice-cream van and a slight awkwardness descends.

  What do we talk about now?

  A second later, Jess arrives.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she says breathlessly, beaming at Dan. ‘But if you want to speak to Anna, she’s round the back of the house talking to Peter.’

  I glance at my watch and groan. Half an hour till the auction.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Dan asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I stare gloomily at the marquee. ‘I don’t have an auctioneer.’

  ‘So who was going to…?’

  ‘Erik.’

  He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

  ‘He would have been fantastic,’ I say, defensively. ‘But he – er – can’t do it.’

  Why on earth am I sticking up for that useless waste of space?

  It’s probably because I can’t bear to see the smug, I-told-you-so look on Dan Parsons’ face.

  ‘Anyway, got to go and find Anna.’

  I escape to the house, hoping I’m not going to barge in on a private moment between her and Peter. But just as I reach the gate to the back garden, Anna comes charging up the path towards me.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I gasp. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can convince you to—’

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Her glare stops me dead in my tracks. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Peter’s seeing someone else?’

  My face falls. ‘But I didn’t know.’

  And yet, it’s true. Peter implied there might be someone. I just wasn’t certain.

  Pain is etched across her face and instinctively, I reach out to her. But she pulls her arm away.

  I stare at her helplessly.

  She pushes past me through the gate, hurries across the gravel at the front of the house and starts heading down the main driveway.

  It dawns on me that she’s leaving.

  ‘Anna, wait!’ I shout, running after her. ‘Let’s talk about it.’

  But she doesn’t even look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Everything all right?’ asks a voice at my shoulder.

  Dan and Zak are also watching Anna stalking off down the drive.

  I smile grimly. ‘Not really. I’m going to have to front the auction but I really don’t want to. I’m terrified I’ll make a mess of it.’

  Dan shrugs. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I shoot him a look. Is he winding me up?

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘You?’

  He laughs. ‘It’s not that weird an idea, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ I say swiftly. ‘It’s really good of you to offer, it’s just…’

  His mouth twists ruefully. ‘I might not be entertaining enough?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ My face burns. Oh, God. That’s exactly what I meant.

  Zak nibbles his cone from the bottom, observing us thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, admittedly my credentials are shaky,’ says Dan. ‘Although I did play the part of Bottom in the school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. People thought that was funny. Probably for the wrong reasons.’
>
  ‘Bummer,’ I remark vaguely, a little trickle of hope springing up inside.

  He grins. ‘I can’t promise to be Bruce Forsyth. My stand-up is probably more sit-down. But the offer’s there.’

  People are already migrating over to the marquee and the thought of having to pitch up and announce it’s off is not appealing.

  ‘Can I help?’

  We turn to find Mrs P balancing a skyscraper of empty Tupperware boxes in her arms. She looks expectantly from me to Dan and back again.

  After I’ve done the introductions and told her Dan has offered to save my skin, he smiles down at her and says, ‘It’s not exactly my field of expertise, but the beauty of getting older is not giving a monkey’s about making an ar – er, fool of yourself.’

  Mrs P laughs. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ She leans closer to Dan and murmurs, ‘I’ve been making an arse of myself for years and it’s done me no harm whatsoever.’ Balancing the boxes with one hand, she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

  I stare at her.

  Is she preening?

  ‘Izzy’s worried I’ll bore the pants off everyone,’ Dan confides, with a sly glance at me.

  ‘No, I’m not! I – um – I’d actually be eternally grateful if you’d do it.’ My cheeks feel hot enough to toast crumpets.

  ‘Eternally, eh?’ He grins. ‘Well, how can I refuse? You’ve got yourself an auctioneer.’

  Mrs P turns to Zak. ‘I could do with some help on my cake stall. I don’t suppose you’d come over while your dad’s at the auction?’

  Zak gives her a double thumbs-up.

  ‘Any mention of cake and he’s there. Thanks, Mrs P.’ Dan puts an arm round her shoulders and squeezes. ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish.’ Pink with pleasure, she pretends to bat him away.

  I seriously want to throw up.

  I mean, really. Inter-generational flirting. How revolting.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Dan looks at me with wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I snap. ‘I’ll meet you at the marquee.’

  I hurry off, red-faced.

  Minutes later I’m in the marquee, running through the items up for auction with my new, smart-arse recruit. He’s too laid-back by half, interrupting me frequently to ask irritating questions. What if someone rubs their nose? How do I know if they’re bidding? They might just have hay fever.