The market, when we finally get parked, is an odd mix of quality country produce and cheap tack. The smell of gourmet sausages frying makes me feel hungry.
‘Where’s Mrs P’s patch?’ Jess asks, as we amble past a stall selling T-shirts with ‘witty’ slogans.
‘Over there.’ I point at a stall with a large hand-written sign above it that reads ‘Oldies But Goodies’ in spidery black capital letters. Whoever wrote it ran out of space and the last few letters are all squashed up together.
‘It’s popular,’ Jess says, looking at the people, mostly women, who are crowding round the stall. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised. Their cakes are scrummy.’
‘I know. And it’s so kind of her to let me put my leaflets on her stall.’
I’m grateful for any advertising that will help get the business off the ground. The money from my shares has given me some breathing space but it won’t last long.
Jess nudges me. ‘Stall holders get sexier every day.’
A man in well-worn blue jeans and a pale green sweatshirt is standing behind Mrs P’s stall, rolling an oblong package from one hand to the other. ‘Last Battenburg. Only one left.’ His tanned face breaks into a smile as he scans the crowd.
Someone claims the cake and money changes hands.
‘Now, these little smashers’ – he picks up another package – ‘they’re my all-time favourites. What do you think, ladies? Date and walnut buns?’
I study him curiously. He’s average height but fairly broad. A fit, outdoors type who should be hauling himself up a rock face or snowboarding off-piste. Not standing behind a stall talking up a date and walnut bun.
He holds the package aloft. ‘Can I tempt anyone?’
‘Not half,’ says a woman near us in a comically suggestive tone.
I snort loudly and he swings in my direction. Feeling myself redden, I’m relieved when a customer diverts his attention.
But when he’s served her, he glances back at me, a hint of a smile on his lips.
I’m the first to drop my eyes.
‘Not only delicious but good for you too.’ He’s right back into his patter, holding up a pavlova, full of fresh fruit and cream, and more shoppers pause by the stall.
What exotic destination has given him tanned forearms in November, I wonder. An Alpine ski resort, perhaps? Or snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef?
‘Organising a family is just like running a business,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s a constant battle keeping the house clean, the bills paid and the kids fed. And in an ideal world that food would be home-cooked. But who’s got time these days for home-baking?’
I look around at the rapt faces and almost laugh. He has the crowd exactly where he wants them. Has he rehearsed this or does flattering women just come naturally? I strongly suspect the latter.
Jess, beside me, is mesmerised.
‘So why not get ahead of the game?’ He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘Forget trying to be Superwoman—’
‘And what would you know about that?’ shouts a stout, middle-aged woman. ‘You’re just a man! And I’d bet my bingo money you haven’t got no kids to wear you out!’ She folds her arms and challenges him with a stony glare. Several people laugh and I exchange an interested glance with Jess.
Mr Alpine Skier looks winsomely thrown. ‘Fair point. And yes, you’re right. I’m not fortunate enough to have children…’ He glances in my direction when he says this. Flustered, I turn to see who he’s talking to. ‘I may be just a man, but I’ve been enjoying my grandma’s incredible cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper.’
‘Is that “incredible” or “inedible”?’ barks the woman.
As the crowd titters, a realisation hits me. No, he couldn’t be. Could he…?
‘What’s your name, Madam?’ he asks the bolshie woman.
‘Rose. What’s yours?’
‘Erik.’ He gives her the benefit of those very white teeth.
Bloody hell, it is him. Mrs P’s grandson. But this is no gangly college boy just out of his teens. He’s a mature student, probably about the same age as me.
Wait a minute, has Mrs P set me up?
Erik leaps athletically over the side of the stall. ‘Rose. What a lovely name.’ He presents her with a lemon drizzle cake. ‘Look at that. Beautiful. Made from natural, wholesome ingredients. Not a preservative in sight.’ He puts his arm round her shoulders and leans closer. ‘If you served me this, Rose, I’d definitely be coming for tea.’
Rose purses her lips but you can see she’s charmed.
‘What a load of old bollocks,’ I mutter in Jess’s ear, and she hisses back, ‘Yes, but it’s good bollocks. And he’s gorgeous.’
‘If you like that sun-kissed beach boy look. Let’s just leave the leaflets and go.’
Jess looks at me, startled, as I ease through to the front and drop the pile of flyers on the corner of the stall. I turn to say, ‘Let’s go,’ but before I can get the words out, my wrist is gripped by firm, warm fingers.
‘You’re Izzy, right?’
I spin round and that wolfish smile nearly knocks me off my feet.
I nod and make some pathetic attempts at getting my arm back. Up close I notice his eyes are an unusual shade of green, flecked with gold.
And he’s not letting go.
I paste on a fake smile, hating being the focus of attention. ‘Your gran said I could leave these flyers on the stall.’
‘I know. She told me all about you.’ His tone makes me blush from head to toe. ‘And she was right about that incredible hair.’
‘See, I said you were right to grow it longer,’ Jess pipes up.
I shoot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not growing it longer. I just can’t afford to get it cut.’
‘Stay there. Don’t move,’ Erik commands.
He lets go of my wrist and holds up one of my flyers.
‘Fruit and veg!’ He addresses the crowd but keeps one eye on me, presumably in case I attempt another vanishing act. ‘Home-grown and delicious. Guaranteed fresh and organic.’ He flicks the leaflet with the back of his other hand. ‘And delivered right to your door.’
He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, am I doing OK?
Feeling foolish, I shrug.
‘And we have the woman herself right here!’
Oh no you don’t! I clutch Jess’s arm, but he’s propelling me forward and for some reason my legs are obliging him.
‘This is Isobel.’ His tongue rolls provocatively over my name. ‘And she’ll answer all your questions. Go ahead.’
A dozen pairs of eyes turn in my direction.
‘How does it work?’ someone shouts. ‘Do you get to choose what you want in the box?’
‘Well … not exactly.’ My cheeks feel hot enough to fry eggs. ‘You pay a fixed price for a box of the best fruit and veg available that week.’
‘But my family hates celery. Must we have it?’
I shake my head. ‘You tell us your likes and dislikes and we make sure we tailor the box to suit you.’