the box and had the guts and energy to start up a new enterprise. She was very kind to me but for all her diplomatic waffle, I knew she had me down as a batty old dear with a head full of eccentric fantasies.’
‘But that’s ageist,’ I say indignantly. ‘You would have been fantastic!’
‘Well, maybe. Maybe not.’ She shrugs. ‘The point is, she made me see it wasn’t one of my better ideas. But then I made her some tea and just as she was leaving, she gave me the idea for my business.’
Erik sits forward. ‘I didn’t know this. What did she say?’
Mrs P smiles at the memory. ‘She nudged me and said, “Do you know, Mrs Puddephat, that Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch is a real winner. I’d pay good money anywhere for that.”’
Erik grins. ‘And the rest, as they say…’
‘…is history,’ I finish.
Mrs P leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘You have to work with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got, Izzy, is a promising business. It may not be the business you first thought it would be. But it’s still a business.’
Erik chews rapidly on a mouthful of ginger cake. ‘It’s my guess,’ he says, swallowing, ‘that you’ll still make a decent profit even if you have to buy in all your produce from Parsons.’
Mrs P nods. ‘You can still grow your own vegetables but just keep it as a nice pastime. A way to relax in your spare time.’
‘Sometimes,’ says Erik, ‘it’s better to keep what you love as a hobby. Then none of the joy is taken out of it by having to meet deadlines.’
I smile at Erik, in full agreement.
Mind you, at that moment, staring into those gorgeous green eyes, he could have told me his uncle was a penguin and I’d have gone along with it.
Their sensible words have a galvanising effect.
‘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.
