Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson
need and whim.
‘Or maybe a spa day would be better? Or’ – her eyes lit up – ‘how about a girls’ weekend? To Prague? Or Barcelona or something? Would that cheer you up?’
I tried to look enthused. But to be honest I was desperate to get back to Deal or No Deal. The contestants were like one big happy family. Watching it made me feel safe. And I knew for a fact that Noel Edmonds would never do the cheating thing.
But to make Anna feel better, I nodded and said, ‘Yes, that would be nice.’
I had an odd feeling it wouldn’t happen, though, and I was right because the next day I came down with the worst cold I’d had in years. As I snuffled my way through the last of the tissues (eventually resorting to the posh lilac ones in the guest bedroom), I couldn’t help wondering if illness was my body’s way of getting me out of a tight spot.
I hated to seem ungrateful, but I knew exactly what a ‘cheering up Izzy’ evening would be like. Jess and Anna would be feeling bad for me so I’d have to make a mammoth effort to smile and ‘act normal’ to reassure them I was fine, when all I really wanted to do was drive home, drag my duvet through to the living room and watch back to back reruns of Grey’s Anatomy in my pyjamas.
My cold, while pretty revolting, was a great excuse for remaining immobile in the house for another week. No-one could come near me because, of course, colds are highly infectious and this one had me practically at death’s door (at least, that’s what I told everyone).
And so it might have gone on, with me inventing new ways of remaining out of circulation in order to legitimately mope my days away.
But then that horrible text arrived from the bank and the scariest word in the home-owner’s dictionary leaped immediately into my head. Repossession.
After Jamie left, I’d buried my head in the sand over money. It was always there in the back of my mind – a vague threat cloaked in black, keeping its distance. But I somehow thought that while I was still in mourning for the end of my relationship, I couldn’t possibly be expected to start exercising the logical part of my brain and work out a plan. So the only action I’d taken to prevent my life going into complete financial meltdown was making gallons of vegetable soup and crossing my fingers. Admittedly, I was keeping them firmly crossed that Jamie would feel sufficiently guilty for doing the dirty on me to keep on paying the mortgage for a while.
Apparently I had been deluding myself.
Autumn has arrived. The leaves are changing colour daily. And I’ve run out of ways to cook apples!
My four Bramley trees have been unusually heavy with fruit this season. I went out with the step-ladder last week and picked all I could reach. I’m not great with heights so I tried not to look down. But then a terrier ran into the garden and started yapping around the ladder, so I was forced to descend.
But every cloud has a silver lining. The dog’s owner happened to be a very tall gentleman who, when he realised my difficulty reaching the top branches, climbed the ladder himself and had the rest of the apples down in minutes!
I’ve now got enough Bramleys to feed the five thousand. I’ve stored dozens in the garage, each one wrapped in newspaper to hopefully keep them from rotting.
And when Izzy arrived on Tuesday, we went out blackberrying in the lanes around the house then spent a lovely morning baking. The scent of blackberries, apples and buttery pastry filled the house and was so heavenly, we couldn’t resist eating pie for lunch and dinner as well!
Yesterday, I staked out a small area in a sunny spot of the garden so Izzy could have her very own vegetable plot. We went to the garden centre and she chose what she’d like to plant – with a little guidance from yours truly, of course.
When we got back with our spoils, Izzy remembered the pumpkins she’d planted during the summer holidays, in a spot just beyond the terrace. She rushed outside, eager to find out if they had sprouted but there was nothing to be seen.
She was so disappointed, I hatched a plan.
Magically, when I went out into the garden this morning – hey presto! There was a single, average-sized pumpkin, partially hidden by foliage, just where she’d planted the seeds!
Izzy was amazed.
Although later, she did comment that she was quite sure it hadn’t been there the day before and that it looked very like the pumpkins in my own vegetable plot. She’s too wise for her own good, that one!
I told her one pumpkin was indeed very like another.
We made soup with hers and it was absolutely delicious.
‘My treat.’ Jess reaches for her purse. ‘Call it a celebration.’
‘Of what?’ I ask, blanching at the vast sucking noise coming from the café’s industrial-sized coffee machine.
Every sudden noise is freaking me out. I suppose it’s because, apart from quick food raids to the local supermarket, I haven’t been out in the real world for months.
Jess beams in a proud, motherly way. ‘Moving on. Your brilliant new life.’
I smile at her hopeful optimism.
In recent weeks, I’ve got back to the job-hunting. But to be honest, my heart isn’t really in it. I need to feel positive about what I’m doing, otherwise I worry I might spiral down into the depths again – and sadly, I don’t think my old career in PR will give me that lift any more.
I’m hankering after a new direction altogether.
I glance around at the familiar low lighting, black leather sofas and chrome tables. The landscape of my life might look very different from two months ago, but the Fieldhorn Deli Café is exactly the same.
Today it’s full of Saturday shoppers taking shelter from the autumn wind that’s blowing leaves along the High Street. The low hum of a dozen conversations is actually quite soothing. It feels good to be somewhere familiar that evokes only good memories.
‘Just a coffee, please,’ I tell Jess, fingering the loose waistband of my jeans. I haven’t eaten properly since Jamie moved out. Whenever I make a meal for one, the food looks so abandoned on its little plate it makes me want to cry. Many times I have ended up scraping it into the bin.
At first when he left, my stomach churned constantly and I was plagued by Hollywood-style snapshots of the pair of them together.
Jamie and Emma laughing in a pub by a roaring fire, chinking glasses of mulled wine as the snow piled up outside. Emma and Jamie, in cute matching puffa jackets, stealing a kiss over a supermarket trolley. Jamie and Emma enjoying marathon sessions of movie-quality sex in her chic London flat as snow drifted gently past the window. Odd there’s so much snow. George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ video clearly made a big impression.
Jess frowns. ‘I wanted a Danish pastry. But I can’t eat it if you’re just going to sit there watching.’
‘I thought you were on a diet,’ I point out. ‘Which is nuts, by the way.’
‘I’m a bride-to-be.’ She sits bolt upright and pats her flat stomach. ‘It’s against the law not to lose weight for the Big Day.’
‘So what’s with the Danish?’
‘I’ve