Catherine Ferguson - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

Mr Alpine Skier looks winsomely thrown. ‘Fair point. And yes, you’re right. I’m not fortunate enough to have children…’ He glances in my direction when he says this. Flustered, I turn to see who he’s talking to. ‘I may be just a man , but I’ve been enjoying my grandma’s incredible cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper.’

‘Is that “incredible” or “inedible”?’ barks the woman.

As the crowd titters, a realisation hits me. No, he couldn’t be. Could he…?

‘What’s your name, Madam?’ he asks the bolshie woman.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

‘Erik.’ He gives her the benefit of those very white teeth.

Bloody hell, it is him. Mrs P’s grandson. But this is no gangly college boy just out of his teens. He’s a mature student, probably about the same age as me.

Wait a minute, has Mrs P set me up?

Erik leaps athletically over the side of the stall. ‘Rose. What a lovely name.’ He presents her with a lemon drizzle cake. ‘Look at that. Beautiful. Made from natural, wholesome ingredients. Not a preservative in sight.’ He puts his arm round her shoulders and leans closer. ‘If you served me this, Rose, I’d definitely be coming for tea.’

Rose purses her lips but you can see she’s charmed.

‘What a load of old bollocks,’ I mutter in Jess’s ear, and she hisses back, ‘Yes, but it’s good bollocks. And he’s gorgeous.’

‘If you like that sun-kissed beach boy look. Let’s just leave the leaflets and go.’

Jess looks at me, startled, as I ease through to the front and drop the pile of flyers on the corner of the stall. I turn to say, ‘Let’s go,’ but before I can get the words out, my wrist is gripped by firm, warm fingers.

‘You’re Izzy, right?’

I spin round and that wolfish smile nearly knocks me off my feet.

I nod and make some pathetic attempts at getting my arm back. Up close I notice his eyes are an unusual shade of green, flecked with gold.

And he’s not letting go.

I paste on a fake smile, hating being the focus of attention. ‘Your gran said I could leave these flyers on the stall.’

‘I know. She told me all about you.’ His tone makes me blush from head to toe. ‘And she was right about that incredible hair.’

‘See, I said you were right to grow it longer,’ Jess pipes up.

I shoot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not growing it longer. I just can’t afford to get it cut.’

‘Stay there. Don’t move,’ Erik commands.

He lets go of my wrist and holds up one of my flyers.

‘Fruit and veg!’ He addresses the crowd but keeps one eye on me, presumably in case I attempt another vanishing act. ‘Home-grown and delicious. Guaranteed fresh and organic.’ He flicks the leaflet with the back of his other hand. ‘And delivered right to your door.’

He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, am I doing OK?

Feeling foolish, I shrug.

‘And we have the woman herself right here!’

Oh no you don’t! I clutch Jess’s arm, but he’s propelling me forward and for some reason my legs are obliging him.

‘This is Isobel.’ His tongue rolls provocatively over my name. ‘And she’ll answer all your questions. Go ahead.’

A dozen pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

‘How does it work?’ someone shouts. ‘Do you get to choose what you want in the box?’

‘Well … not exactly.’ My cheeks feel hot enough to fry eggs. ‘You pay a fixed price for a box of the best fruit and veg available that week.’

‘But my family hates celery. Must we have it?’

I shake my head. ‘You tell us your likes and dislikes and we make sure we tailor the box to suit you.’

‘What size are the boxes?’ asks the woman called Rose. ‘There’s only me and my son, and he won’t eat fruit.’ I pass her a leaflet explaining the sizes and prices, then find myself putting them into other outstretched hands.

‘I’ve been looking for a box scheme.’ A young woman smiles at me and pats her baby bump. ‘I’m determined to eat organic for junior’s sake.’

I smile back, my confidence growing. This isn’t so bad after all. If only Erik wasn’t standing there, arms folded, listening to every single word. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning from ear to ear.

‘Do you grow it all yourself?’ someone asks.

I shake my head. ‘There isn’t enough variety in an English garden – especially during the winter. And I couldn’t grow the volume I need. So I use a company that imports fruit and vegetables from all over the world.’

‘But I don’t want broccoli that’s clocked up more air miles than a British Airways pilot,’ is the stern response. ‘How can you justify that?’

‘I … erm …’ I rub my nose. ‘I know what you’re saying and it’s something I’ve considered. But the thing is… I swallow. The inside of my head is suddenly as deserted as the Marie Celeste . My brain cells have clocked off early and gone down the pub.

In the expectant silence, a mobile phone vibrates on mute.

Erik steps in. ‘I think what Isobel wants to say is that in an ideal world we’d eat produce from local farms all year round. But sadly, that’s not a realistic proposition.’

I shoot him a grateful look.

During a lull in customers, I go over and thank him for coming to my rescue.

All but three of the two dozen leaflets have gone. I can’t quite believe it.

‘Hey, no problem. Tea?’ He produces a flask, and pours some into a mug. I take a sip and shudder.

‘Too sweet, right? Gran’s a great believer in sugar for energy. Beats me how she stays as thin as a whippet.’ He hands a cup to Jess.

‘So do you do this for a living?’ she asks. ‘Are you a market trader?’

He laughs. ‘God, no. I’m just helping out for the day.’

‘But you honestly look as if you’ve been doing it all your life,’ she says admiringly.

He downs his tea. ‘First time actually. I was a solicitor for a while but it was too much like hard work.’ He glances at me, almost apologetically. ‘So I chucked it in and applied to drama college.’

‘Wow,’ breathes Jess. ‘Do you want to be an actor, then?’

He grins. ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

‘Gosh! You might be famous one day. Can I have your autograph just in case?’

I check her expression for any trace of sarcasm.

Nope. She’s beaming like a loony.

I have to get her away before she decides she’s not marrying Wesley after all.

‘Well, thanks.’ I hand back the cup. ‘It’s been …’ I tail off and go pink.

‘It was a pleasure,’ he says seriously. ‘And if you need any more help just let Gran know and she’ll pass on your message.’

‘Er, right. Excellent.’

He gives me another knee-trembler smile.

‘Well, someone has an admirer,’ Jess remarks on our way back to the car.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was only being friendly.’

‘Well, there’s friendly. And then there’s friendly . If you know what I mean.’

Driving home after dropping Jess off, I find myself thinking about Erik, and about Jess saying he fancies me. It’s rubbish, of course. He was being nice because I’m Mrs P’s friend, that’s all.

I’m not even thinking about the business as I go upstairs to the office.

So when I see the answer machine is flashing with three messages, I nearly faint with shock.

First is my mother with a long-winded tale about some boxes that need to go in the loft. ‘I cleared out your bedroom, Isobel, because let’s face it you’re so rarely here and I need a dining room. But now I’ve got these boxes of books in the hallway that I keep tripping over. And I can’t possibly ask Bill Next Door to help because he already puts my bins out every second Tuesday, bless him. You know the silly man has a crush on me and I really can’t afford to rub Vanessa up the wrong way. That’s his wife. She used to be a weightlifter, apparently. Or a wrestler, I can’t remember which. But she’s quite gone to seed and you know my opinions on fat people.’ She pauses for a fraction of a second. ‘But anyway, I expect you’re busy so I won’t keep you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out somehow.’