Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson

Chapter One

      When Hormonal Harriet gives a violent judder then plays dead a mile from the village, I react like any other normal, level-headed person. Thumping the steering wheel with an agonised howl then pleading with her to start.

      My car might be ancient but she’s also a bit of a diva, so I should have known that forcing her to drive at breakneck speed along potholed country roads would provoke first, surprised outrage, then an all-out strike.

      Heart racing, I glance at my phone.

       Twenty-two minutes.

      Twenty-two minutes to get there and prevent myself from slithering further into the slimy pit of humiliation I’ve been trying to scramble out of since CLB left.

      When she heard the news of Jamie’s betrayal, my forthright and fiercely protective friend, Anna, declared, ‘Izzy, I will never speak that wanker’s name again!’

      So now she refers to Jamie as Cheating Lying Bastard (aka CLB). The label seems to have stuck and I, for one, am certainly not complaining.

       Twenty-one minutes!

      There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to run.

      I scramble out of the car and glance at my feet. Scabby trainers. Perfect. I was cross-country champion at school so running a mile should be a walk in the park.

      Three minutes later, I’m in so much agony I think I might be suffering a minor heart attack. But the memory of that doom-laden text message spurs me on. Without Jamie paying the mortgage, it’s all down to me now – and I’ve slipped up badly. Those panic-inducing words – not enough funds to cover – pinged onto my phone only an hour ago.

      I was in the kitchen, intent on a double mission: attacking my garden’s embarrassing glut of carrots and leeks by chopping them up into soup and thereby saving money on this week’s food bill. I froze with fear. If I missed the mortgage payment – due next day – I’d be on a slippery slope I couldn’t bear to think about. Transferring funds into the account was the logical thing to do. Just one small fly in the ointment. My meagre savings had run out; there were no funds to transfer.

      Then I remembered the brand new tablet I’d bought for Jamie when we were still together and money wasn’t a problem. The tablet was a gift to mark the anniversary of the day we’d met five years earlier. But before I had a chance to present him with it, I found out he’d been cheating on me and we broke up.

      I pictured the tablet, lying in my bedside drawer, still wrapped in its romantic, heart-patterned cellophane, with a label that read: To Jamie, All My Love, Izzy xxx

      Thank God I hadn’t given it to him!

      I could return the tablet to the shop and the refund would plug the gap in my account.

      As I jog along the lane, shoulder bag clamped tight, I can hear the cellophane crackling inside. I’m panting so loudly, I sound like I’m having wildly inventive, leap-off-the-wardrobe sex. I should be so lucky. Thank God it’s a quiet country road so no-one can witness me lurching along with the sweaty complexion of a bursting tomato.

      At last the High Street comes into view.

      The shop closes at 5.30. It’s now 5.23.

       I think I’m going to make it!

      I lumber past the post office then hang onto some railings, wheezing for Britain. One big push and I’ll be there …

      Launching myself off, I stare grimly at my target and stagger on. Luckily, the shop is at this end of the High Street, just beyond a trendy juice bar and the newsagent’s.

      A hulking, mud-spattered lorry is taking up most of the pavement outside the juice bar, its back door thrown up. I concentrate hard on the very small space on the pavement between the lorry and the shops. Definitely single file only, but there’s no-one approaching from the other direction.

      I’m almost there, ready to squeeze through, when I’m momentarily distracted by the lorry’s cargo. A familiar scent wafts up my nose. Vegetables. Curious, I slow down to take a closer look at the stacked wooden trays filled with fresh broccoli and pears. Ooh, and juicy-looking clementines with their glossy green leaves still attached. Lovely. And something else – oh, it’s kohlrabi. I’ve been meaning to try growing some of that – there’s room in my vegetable patch between the winter cabbages and the cauliflowers—

      ‘Oof!’

      Not looking where I’m going, I collide with a very large, very solid object. Bouncing backwards, I lose my balance and land with a nasty thud on my bottom.

      It’s a bit of a shock to see the world from this angle.

      Thoroughly winded, I take in a pair of massive trainers, even shabbier than mine, on the end of a pair of long male legs clad in scruffy black joggers.

      A big, muck-encrusted hand is thrust into my eye-line and – still dazed and disorientated – I’m hauled roughly to my feet. The owner of the legs towers over me, glaring down from behind a pair of creepy, silver-mirrored aviator glasses.

      I’m about to launch into a profuse apology, when this sinister-looking giant barks, ‘Bloody woman. Might have known. No sense of spatial awareness whatsoever.’ He points. ‘You’ve dropped something.’ Then he stomps into the newsagent’s.

      Stunned by the unfairness of his accusation, I sink back against the lorry to catch my breath.

      But next second, I gasp in horror.

      My mortgage payment is lying in the road and a car is bearing down on it.

      Swiftly, I dive over, scoop up my precious cellophane package and set it down carefully beside the tray of clementines, before bending over into the lorry and resting my weight on my arms as I get my breath back. The scent of citrus fruit rushes up my nose.

      As if all this wasn’t weird enough, without warning my world is rocked again – quite literally this time.

      The lorry is swaying from side to side.

      I leap away in shock as the engine roars into life and the vehicle starts to move off.

      What the hell’s going on? The driver’s forgotten to close the back of the lorry!

      The crate of clementines is sliding dangerously close to the edge and as I stare after the truck, dumbfounded, several butternut squash roll out of the back and bounce gaily into the gutter.

      I start to run.

      ‘Hey, wait a minute! Stop!’

      The driver is signalling, waiting to move out and I almost manage to draw level with the cab, waving my arms about like an idiot.

      But it’s no use.

      The lorry is so grimy, I can’t even make out the name of the company on the side. Only a few letters are visible and they – rather appropriately I feel – spell out ‘arso’.

      Horrified, I watch as the lorry accelerates off into the distance with my beautifully wrapped mortgage payment nestled cosily between the kohlrabi and the clementines.

      When I met Jamie, I was in my mid-twenties, sharing a chaotic but colourful flat with my three best girlfriends in Edinburgh. We were all starting out in our careers; I’d graduated from the university with a degree in English and was now a lowly public relations assistant with a salary to match. But being broke much of the time didn’t seem to stop us enjoying ourselves and partying most weekends.

      I met Jamie at our local pub – I left my scarf behind and he sprinted the length of the street to return it and ask me on a date – and I fell crazily and completely in love.

      A financial analyst, Jamie was something of a whiz in the maths department; far more intelligent than me, but not in the least bit geeky. Quite the opposite, in fact.