Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson
Читать онлайн книгу.
‘Right.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got boxes to pack.’
By seven o’clock I’ve met all my customers and presented each one with a fragrant box of fresh fruit and vegetables.
No-one seemed to mind about the lack of potatoes. They seemed far too intrigued by the box scheme itself. And having Erik as my driver made it huge fun. Even Hormonal Harriet behaved herself perfectly with him at the wheel.
As he hurtled me along the narrow lanes, he told me all about his drama course. He’s passionate about becoming an actor and has even changed his name by deed poll because he says Eric with a ‘c’ won’t land him enough acting roles or exotic women. He said it with a rakish smile and for some reason I found it hysterically funny.
As we’re tidying up later in the shed, he says solemnly, ‘You know, you’re the boss. So you should probably organise a work night out.’
‘But there’s only me.’ I pout, playing along. ‘Won’t I be lonely?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ He rests his chin on the brush handle to think. ‘You could buy yourself too much to drink … gossip with yourself about how useless the boss is … let your hair down on the dance floor.’ He frowns. ‘Snogging a colleague might be a bit of a challenge, though.’
I giggle.
It’s been a rollercoaster of a day and I’m shattered but I’m starting to think I really ought to ask Erik if he wants to stay for supper. It’s the least I can do, really.
I do a swift mental inventory of the contents of my fridge.
One of the nice things about my business is that I never run short of vegetables. So today, I could make a mustardy cheese sauce for the leeks, which would be delicious with gammon steaks. Or I could whip up a salmon pasta dish with fresh dill, red bell peppers, lemon and a drizzle of olive oil.
I need a shower first, though, which is a bit awkward. If I tell him I’m going up for a shower – however casually – it might sound like I want him to join me, which of course I don’t. Oh God no, definitely not.
But there’s a possibility he might get the wrong idea because we’ve had several flirty moments, squeezing behind each other in the shed. Once he put his hands on my waist and whispered suggestively, ‘I’ll swap you two courgettes for one of my cucumbers.’
I look at him sideways. He’s definitely hunky; a bit of a Jon Bon Jovi type with surfboarder’s hair and a sexy bum. I do wonder, though, if he flirts like this with every single woman he meets. And the married ones as well.
‘Of course, you could always invite partners,’ he’s saying, tipping soil from the scales onto the bench. ‘In which case you could ask me along.’ He turns and winks.
I steel myself and say in a voice that sounds strained and not like mine at all, ‘Are you hungry? I could make us something to eat.’
His expression changes instantly. ‘Oh, that’s a really nice offer, Isobel, but I can’t tonight. I’m meeting a mate for a drink.’
He looks genuinely regretful but I could kick myself for being so forward.
I’m about to say casually, ‘Oh well, another time,’ when it occurs to me that maybe the drink with his mate is an excuse so that he doesn’t have to hurt my feelings.
Suddenly, everything feels awkward and I can’t wait for him to leave.
Neither can he, by the looks of things. He’s brushing soil from his jeans and leaning across the bench to fish his keys from behind the weighing scales.
‘Thanks so much for helping.’
He smiles. Moving closer, he rubs something from my cheek and presses his lips to my temple. It’s cheesy, but I quiver nonetheless.
‘Can I take a rain check on that meal?’ He looks steadily into my eyes.
Blushing, I laugh and look away. ‘Of course.’
I spend the rest of the evening trying to put the quiver out of my mind and telling myself to wise up.
Erik with a ‘k’ is a professional flirt and falling for him will only end in tears.
Every one of them mine.
I’m proud of myself for not dwelling on the kiss.
I don’t dwell on it when I wake far too early and can’t get back to sleep for wondering what Erik really thinks of me.
I don’t dwell on it when Mrs P calls and I have to resist the urge to ask her all sorts of questions about him.
And I most certainly do not dwell on it when I see a male model’s rear on a huge advertising poster in town and have to look twice because it reminds me of someone.
I go to the bank to pay in my earnings from the deliveries and no kidding, I feel like a lottery winner. Not just because I’m depositing funds instead of withdrawing them, although that in itself is amazing. But because for the very first time the business seems ‘real’. I’ve decided I’m going to frame my next bank statement.
Of course, next I have to pay for the produce. But even after transferring the money over to Parsons, I’ve still made a profit on the day. (A very tiny one, mind you, but a profit nonetheless.)
I want to call Erik and tell him, but I stop myself in time. I don’t want him to think I’m chasing him. I’ll wait until he contacts me. And just in case he does, I buy lamb mince and aubergines to make moussaka for that ‘rain check’ meal.
I spend the evening designing a small advert to put in next week’s local newspaper and phoning my customers to check they liked their boxes and to ask if they’d like a delivery next week. (Mrs P told me I won’t get anywhere in business if I’m not prepared to be a little pushy.) Four customers said yes, they would – and Mrs Lilley has ordered a delivery every fortnight.
My first regular customer!
Again, I squash down the urge to share this with Erik.
Later, when the phone rings as I’m coming out of the shower, I practically break a land speed record diving onto the bed to pick it up.
It’s another brand new customer phoning to place an order. But this time, instead of leaping up and down as I usually do, I take down the details feeling a little deflated.
I get into my pyjamas and flump down in front of the TV. I do not want to be one of those women who wait by the phone for a call that never comes.
A week later my advert appears in the paper.
I return from a morning in Guildford to find I have eleven messages, nine from people calling in response to the advert. The upshot is I have fifteen boxes to deliver the following week.
I’m thrilled and a little scared too. What if Izzy’s Organics becomes impossible to control, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster?
On delivery day, squeezing all fifteen boxes into Hormonal Harriet is a challenge. I fill the boot and the back seat but there are still two large boxes left over so I stack them on the passenger seat and drive along at a snail’s pace, terrified I might have to brake suddenly. It’s a freezing cold November day but I’m sweating with the effort of ensuring I don’t dislodge my cargo.
What I really need is a van.
But I have no money to buy one – or even rent one, come to that.
I keep thinking of the fun I had doing the deliveries with Erik. He still hasn’t been in touch. I’d planned to enquire casually about him when I called at Mrs P’s earlier on my route, but she’d already left for her Tae Kwon