Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson

‘They looked – I don’t know – happy.’

      ‘Bastards,’ says Anna comfortingly. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

      ‘Yes please. No thanks.’

      ‘Well, which?’

      Sighing, I say, ‘I’ll be fine. On my own.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘All right. I’ll phone tomorrow morning at eight to check you’re OK.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I whisper and hang up.

      Erik, in a red and gold matador costume, is sitting at the blackjack table and I have to stop him! I watch in horror as he empties the contents of my purse onto red.

      ‘No!’ I cry. I’m desperately trying to push my way through the crowds but an invisible force is holding me back.

      Jess appears. She’s twirling a pink parasol over her shoulder and is dressed for her wedding in a column of silk that would be perfect if it wasn’t fluorescent green.

      ‘Hear that?’ she says, at the sound of a bell. ‘It means you’ve won.’

      The bell does another ‘ding-dong’ and I prepare to rush into Erik’s arms and claim my prize. At long last, my money worries are over!

      Then I open one eye and see the legs of the bedroom chair.

      Bugger!

      Maybe if I close my eyes I can get right back into the dream …

      Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

      I peer at the clock, bug-eyed and headachy. Seven forty-five. In the morning? That means I’ve slept all afternoon and all night. I pull on my dressing gown and stumble downstairs to open the front door.

      A strange sight greets me.

      A short man with a disproportionately large bottom is wrestling a mass of glossy green foliage into the back seat of his car.

      ‘Oh, you’re in, are you?’ he says, peering over his shoulder at me.

      His view is restricted by a comb-over that’s broken free of its mooring. Smoothing it back, he straightens to his full height, which isn’t very far. He eyes my robe and I smile brightly, wondering if he thinks I’m the kind of housewife who cheers up an otherwise drab day by dragging tradesmen in for a quickie.

      I notice the driver’s door has To Die For printed across it in jaunty orange italics.

      ‘Flowers for Fraser?’ He manhandles the bunch of exotic blooms back out of the white Fiat and hands me the bouquet. When he shuts the back door of the car, I glimpse the whole slogan.

      ‘Ah! Flowers To Die For. I see.’ Although I don’t. Not quite.

      Flower Man gives a grunt. ‘Wife’s idea. We do funerals as well, see.’ He scratches his head. ‘Not too sure about it meself.’

      I nod in sympathy, wondering whether to give my opinion in the spirit of one entrepreneur to another. But I’m too desperate to tear open the tiny white envelope attached to the bouquet to stand and chat. So I thank him and rush indoors.

      They’re from Erik. They have to be. Who else do I know who would send me flowers as gorgeous as this?

      Reverently, I lay the pink and lilac blooms on the kitchen table, my chest expanding with joy at the sight of their dewy lusciousness. I grab the envelope and tear it open.

      The note is short and rather bald, much like Flower Man himself. Apologies from Mike and the team.

       Mike?

       And the team?

      I read it again, dismayed realisation filtering through.

      The flowers aren’t from Erik. They’re from bloody Parsons.

      I drop the note onto the table, my heart sinking into my fluffy mules. Mechanically, I fill the kettle and reach in the fridge for milk.

      None.

      But what I do find is the bag containing three aubergines, bought when I had high hopes of feeding Erik moussaka with Greek salad and a bottle of Jamie’s best burgundy.

      The aubergines are now streaked with brown, well past their sell-by date.

      You and me both, I reflect sourly, as I drop them one by one into the bin.

      My mobile springs to life upstairs. I can’t be bothered to go charging up for it so I let it ring. Then I remember Anna promising to phone at eight to check I’m OK. Glancing at the clock I see it’s dead on eight. She’ll worry if there’s no reply. I take the stairs two at a time and fling myself at the phone.

      ‘Hi, Anna?’ I pant. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not killing myself. Not today, anyway!’ To emphasise the point, I force a laugh but it comes out more like a deranged cackle.

      There is silence at the other end. Then a deep voice says, ‘Well, that’s excellent news. I’d hate to lose a customer.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry,’ the voice assures me smoothly. ‘Oh, hang on. Could you excuse me for just one moment?’

      I hate cold calls. I sometimes say, ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll just get her,’ and then go off and do my ironing or something. But his voice intrigues me so I decide to wait and find out what he’s selling. There’s a rustling sound as he covers the mouthpiece. Then he comes back on. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Fraser. Could you possibly hold for just a few seconds longer?’

      This is the point at which I really would hang up. But because I’m startled he knows my name (and because he really does sound genuinely sorry), I find myself saying, ‘Er, yes. No problem.’