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 Do class.
Driving home, a heavy weight settles in my chest. I have a bag full of cash and cheques, which is fantastic. But returning to an empty house with no-one there to help me celebrate feels surprisingly sad. Even though it’s nearly four months since Jamie walked out, I still feel his absence from time to time, like a wound that won’t heal.
I’m heating up the remains of a macaroni cheese in the microwave when the phone rings.
‘Good evening,’ says a nasally voice. ‘Who do I speak to if I want to make a complaint?’
My heart sinks. ‘That would be me, Mrs Headley. How can I help?’
I picture Olive Headley’s tight grey perm and general air of distrusting everyone – in particular the widow next door, Mrs Ellis, who entertains men friends after midnight and has the gall, when challenged, to think it’s amusing.
‘It’s about the carrots,’ she says, clearly not amused.
‘The carrots?’
‘I don’t like their shape.’
‘Their shape?’
‘Yes, their shape. Some of them are very – wiggly.’
‘Wiggly.’ Wiggly?
‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say? Yes, they are most certainly wiggly! In fact, some are such strange shapes, they are really quite rude.’
I open my mouth then close it firmly. If I say anything, the giggle surging up in my throat might escape.
‘I’d like some nice normal carrots next time, please. Like the ones I buy in the supermarket. I have my sister coming to stay and she suffers from dizzy turns. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Mrs Headley hangs up as if she’s been talking to a machine.
I stare at the phone. I can hardly phone Parsons and say, ‘No penis-shaped veg this week please, Mike!’
But at least Mrs Headley’s call has snapped me out of my despondent mood.
When I wake early next morning, the sun is shining and the air is unseasonably mild. I run for a full hour, enjoying the exercise and feeling that at last, my life is coming together. I will work hard to expand my business and I do not need a man to be happy and successful.
I spend the rest of the morning working in the vegetable plot.
After the riot of colours and scents that proliferate in the garden over the summer months, November can sometimes seem rather grey. But the gorgeous vibrant green of my little row of Savoy cabbages lifts my mood and I spend a happy few hours digging compost into the vegetable plot, preparing the ground for planting.
The labour is hard but satisfying. There’s something very calming about being well wrapped up in the open air, feeling the sharp breeze on my face, turning over the soil and breathing in all those lovely, earthy scents. I relax into the rhythmic motion of the spade, telling myself everything will be fine.
Then on Saturday morning I’m in Fieldstone doing some shopping when The Thing I Most Dread actually happens.
I’m coming out of the post office when I spot Jamie.
He’s walking hand in hand with Emma on the opposite side of the road, and the instant I see them, my legs turn to jelly. I blunder into the nearest doorway and lean against the shop window, black spots floating in front of my eyes as I follow their progress along the High Street.
They’re walking purposefully, their day planned. Jamie is wearing a black leather jacket I haven’t seen before. Emma, who I never met at any of Jamie’s work nights out, is tall, blonde and very slim. She looks like a catwalk model in her skinny jeans and high strappy shoes.
I glance down at my comfy work clothes and unfashionable trainers.
Then I watch them, forgetting to breathe, as they swing down a side street and disappear through a familiar doorway.
My dentist.
Jamie’s dentist.
A man walking by glimpses my face and instinctively slows. Realising my hand is clasped over my chest, I smile to let him know I’m fine and rummage in my bag until he walks on. Then I take some deep breaths and wait for my heart to slow to its normal rate.
It
