LITMIR.BIZ

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which Dad seems to be embracing wholeheartedly. In July they rented out their house and set off on a round-the-world backpacking trip. I’ve had postcards from lots of exotic places. They seem to be having such a good time, I’m starting to wonder if they’ll ever come back.

      Thinking of Dad brings a lump to my throat. I miss him. And Gloria, too. If they were here, we’d go to the pub and have long discussions about life and what I should do next. As it is, I’m on my own. Trying to start a business and not having a clue if it’s the right thing to do.

      I jog a two-mile circuit round Farthing Cottage, along the narrow, potholed lanes smelling of damp hedgerow.

      The steady rhythm of my feet hitting the tarmac is soothing and the tight knot of anxiety inside me begins to loosen.

      When I arrive back an hour later, red-faced and sweaty, the phone is ringing.

      ‘Hello, Isobel Fraser?’ I pant, and a man barks, ‘Are you the fruit and veg people?’

      ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

      ‘I’m a pensioner and I’ve got lumbago. Can you deliver?’

      ‘Er, yes we can.’

      ‘How much do you charge?’

      When I tell him the price of a small box, he shouts, ‘For a few potatoes and carrots? Bloody disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

      ‘Organic does tend to be more expensive,’ I say apologetically.

      ‘Orgasmic or not, it’s a bloody rip-off,’ he roars and crashes the phone down.

      Stunned, I sit there listening to the dial tone.

      Then I realise I have a message.

      It’s probably my mother, annoyed I’m not leaping on the next train to remove the hazardous book mountain from her hallway.

      Seconds later, I grab a pen and paper and begin scribbling furiously.

      Mrs Jessop lives in one of the new houses on the outskirts of Fieldstone. She would like a small box of fruit and vegetables but no onions. If she’s out, I can put it in the shed and she will leave the money under a plant pot. She’ll probably want a large box next week as she has her grandchildren coming to stay.

      I leap up and dance around the room, knocking a pile of carefully organised paperwork off the desk but not even caring.

       Mrs Jessop wants a box and will leave the money under a plant pot!

      They are the most exciting words I’ve ever heard.

      Later I run into Mrs P at the post office and she’s over the moon to hear that I have my first bona fide customer. (Technically, Mrs P is my first customer. She’s ordered a small box every week. But we both know this doesn’t really count.)

      She’s muffled up against the cold in beige quilted boots and a poncho in greens and browns that gives off a delicious caramel scent. Putting her purse back in her bag, she says, ‘I remember the morning we went to the Deli and sold our first batch of flapjack and iced gingerbread. To celebrate, we popped into Ruby’s little teashop on Sycamore Street.’

      Smiling, I say, ‘For chocolate fudge brownies?’ Ruby, a leading light in Mrs P’s WI, is renowned for her tray bakes.

      ‘Oh no, dear.’ Mrs P smiles fondly, remembering. ‘Tequila slammers. Excellent invention. Florrie had a bit of a block about licking salt off her hand but once she got the hang of it there was no stopping her.’ She tucks a wisp of hair under her bottle green wool beret. ‘My, the ideas did flow that afternoon!’

      ‘I bet they did,’ I say with feeling, remembering the outpouring of creativity I myself experienced when Jamie left and I decided to drink my way through his premier wine collection. (The idea of sneaking into Emma’s flat and sewing kippers into her curtain linings sadly never came to fruition.)

      Mrs P gives me a sharp look. ‘Has that grandson of mine been in touch?’

      ‘Er, no.’ My heart skips a beat as a vision of green eyes and tanned forearms pops into my head.

      Mrs P smiles serenely and taps the side of her nose.

      Oh God, what if she’s putting pressure on Erik? Along the lines of She was dumped horribly for a much younger model, you know, but she’s ever such a nice girl. A mercy date would be beyond humiliating.

      ‘Keep me posted about the business, dear,’ she says, as we go our separate ways. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ll have half a dozen customers by Monday.’

      As it turns out, she isn’t far off.

      During the rest of the week, I take calls from seven potential customers and five of them order boxes. Every time I put the phone down, I whoop with excitement.

      On Saturday I call the supply company in London. They’re called Parsons, and I speak to Mike, who runs the warehouse there. He senses I’m nervous and spends time advising me on the best fruit and vegetables to order that week. And instead of laughing when I place my pathetically small order, he says kindly, ‘Five customers already, eh? Not bad at all.’

      Later, it occurs to me I’ve been so engrossed in the business, I haven’t thought about Jamie at all.

      When I embarked on this, a big part of me wanted to succeed so I could prove to Jamie I wasn’t completely useless.

      But now I want to succeed for me.

       Chapter Six

      On Monday morning I wake at 5.30 a.m., before the alarm.

      The Big Day has arrived!

      It’s less than a week since we did the leaflet drop. And I’ll be delivering boxes of produce to customers this morning for the very first time.

      A shot of adrenalin surges through me.

      I peer through the curtains but it’s still pitch black outside and there’s no sign yet of my delivery. I shower quickly then go down to the kitchen and make some tea.

      But by 7.15 a.m., the lorry from Parsons still hasn’t appeared.

      I’ve been out looking in all the places a delivery driver might have left my order – in the garden shed, on the terrace at the back of the house, by the gate (I’ve checked both entrances). But there’s nothing there. I run upstairs to look at the email Mike sent me confirming the order. It’s definitely today.

      Then I hear a noise outside and I rush out just in time to see a big truck manoeuvring slowly out of my side gate, its reversal warning noise slicing through the silence and probably waking everyone up for miles around. There’s a wooden pallet by the front door containing a stack of trays and boxes, all held together with clear plastic wrapping.

      But something’s wrong.

      I know I didn’t order all that.

      I rush into the house for scissors and start cutting away the wrapping.

      One look in the boxes and my heart starts to beat very fast.

      This is not my order.

      I pull trays off the pallet to look inside and the scent of citrus fruit fills my nose. There are enough apples, grapefruit, melons and oranges to make fruit salad for an army – but apart from three trays of carrots, there are no other vegetables at all.

      Where’s my lovely broccoli? My leeks and my celeriac? My red peppers and my field mushrooms? I run out to stop the driver but he’s already accelerating slowly up the lane. I hare after the lorry, waving the invoice and shouting, ‘Stop!’ For a second the brake lights appear and I’m hopeful of a miracle. But he’s only slowing for the bend in the lane.

      A second later, the

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