Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson
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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?’
‘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?
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