idea.’ He folds his part of the invoice and shoves it in his pocket. ‘Then in three years’ time you can actually start selling your organic po-tat-oes.’
‘Three years?’ What on earth’s he talking about? Is he trying to scare me?
He shrugs. ‘The land has to be free of pesticides – after the Soil Association has examined it – for three years. Look it up on the internet if you don’t believe me.’
Then he claps soil off his hands on the back of his jeans and walks out.
I stare after him, stunned.
And then I realise he’s heading off down the main driveway. My gates!
I run after him but I can see I’m already too late. He’s wrenching them open, and as I watch, the gate that is attached by string comes loose and crashes to the ground.
And does Delivery Man of the Year look back? Of course he bloody doesn’t.
He balances the gate against the post, climbs in his cab, adjusts his shades and pulls down his cap.
Then he roars off on his next mission, like Superman’s surly cousin.
‘I hate him. He’s spoiled everything.’
Mrs P sets a plate of ginger cake on the table in front of me. ‘Well, I don’t know. I think he might have done you a favour, you know.’
I stare blearily up at her and she offers me a hanky.
‘You know all about the Soil Association rules now.’ She lays her hand on my shoulder. ‘Mind you, if I see him, I’ll tell him exactly what he can do with his courgettes.’
I start to laugh but then my face crumples and I start sobbing afresh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional these days.
But perhaps it’s forgivable.
After all, I’ve got five customers expecting deliveries and I can’t even put potatoes and onions in their boxes because I grew them and apparently they’re not officially organic. So my beautiful plan to grow my own and supplement it with produce from Parsons is dead in the water.
The doorbell invades my misery; pressed five times in quick succession by some joker who’s clearly having a much better day than I am.
I grit my teeth and prepare to leave. I’m here to soak up some of Mrs P’s wisdom. I do not feel like being nice to some unbearably cheerful stranger.
When Erik walks in, I blanch.
What the hell is he doing here?
He looks at me in surprise, clearly thinking the same, and murmurs, ‘Hey you.’
‘Hi.’ Furtively I try to wipe under my eyes with my sleeve.
This is a disaster.
Quite apart from the tragi-comedy that has been my day so far, whenever I’ve imagined bumping into Erik again, I’m wearing my most flattering jeans, lip-gloss freshly slicked, hair newly washed and at its sleekly tamed best. My line in cool banter is nothing short of knock-out.
I have never once featured in saggy-kneed sweat pants with dripping nose and a barnet that resembles a hedge.
Erik kisses his grandmother and she holds his face for a moment in her hands and smiles. It’s a really sweet gesture and a lump rises in my throat.
‘What’s up?’ He pulls out a chair and sits beside me so our arms are touching.
I tell him what happened. Then he says, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an afternoon off college. I’ll help you sort it.’
‘Oh.’ I stare into his eyes and instantly forget everything else. Are they jade, I wonder, or more a grassy shade of green? And those smile lines. They are so sexy …
I’m aware he’s speaking. But his words are swimming lazily around inside my head and in my dazed state, I’m finding it hard to link them up into a sentence.
‘Say something.’ He nudges me gently. ‘More carrots in place of potatoes? Good idea? Yeah or nay?’
I force myself to concentrate. ‘But I promised them potatoes. They won’t like it if they don’t get any.’
Although to be fair, basking in the glow of Erik’s full-on attention and with the warmth of his shoulder seeping through my sleeve, the welfare of my customers is just about the last thing on my mind.
‘As long as the produce is good, it doesn’t matter a jot to me.’ Mrs P’s brisk tone snaps me out of my trance. ‘Why don’t you just tell them you’re really sorry but there will definitely be potatoes and onions in next week’s boxes.’
Erik grins. ‘Which is a great excuse for asking if they’d like another delivery next week.’
I smile at Mrs P. ‘I wish I had your common sense. And your entrepreneurial flair.’
‘My what?’ She hoots with laughter. ‘Entrepreneurial flair, my arse! Don’t go thinking I fell into the cake-making business just like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you must know, it was sheer fluke.’
I heave a sigh. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’
Mrs P pours tea into a mug for Erik and sits down opposite. ‘Do you know what I’d really set my heart on? I wanted to be a car mechanic. Do the training and everything.’
‘Really?’ My eyes widen in astonishment. It makes sense, though. The woman is a marvel under the bonnet.
‘And you’d have been brilliant,’ Erik says.
She shrugs. ‘You’re biased. And anyway, that’s not what the lady from the business support agency said.’ She plops three lumps of sugar into her tea. ‘I thought I might be eligible for a start-up grant so she came round and she listened and patronised me a bit. She said how great it was that someone at my stage of life was thinking outside 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,