And in an ideal world that food would be home-cooked. But who’s got time these days for home-baking?’
I look around at the rapt faces and almost laugh. He has the crowd exactly where he wants them. Has he rehearsed this or does flattering women just come naturally? I strongly suspect the latter.
Jess, beside me, is mesmerised.
‘So why not get ahead of the game?’ He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘Forget trying to be Superwoman—’
‘And what would you know about that?’ shouts a stout, middle-aged woman. ‘You’re just a man! And I’d bet my bingo money you haven’t got no kids to wear you out!’ She folds her arms and challenges him with a stony glare. Several people laugh and I exchange an interested glance with Jess.
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
