I’m heating up the remains of a macaroni cheese in the microwave when the phone rings.
‘Good evening,’ says a nasally voice. ‘Who do I speak to if I want to make a complaint?’
My heart sinks. ‘That would be me, Mrs Headley. How can I help?’
I picture Olive Headley’s tight grey perm and general air of distrusting everyone – in particular the widow next door, Mrs Ellis, who entertains men friends after midnight and has the gall, when challenged, to think it’s amusing.
‘It’s about the carrots,’ she says, clearly not amused.
‘The carrots?’
‘I don’t like their shape.’
‘Their shape?’
‘Yes, their shape. Some of them are very – wiggly.’
‘Wiggly.’ Wiggly?
‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say? Yes, they are most certainly wiggly! In fact, some are such strange shapes, they are really quite rude.’
I open my mouth then close it firmly. If I say anything, the giggle surging up in my throat might escape.
‘I’d like some nice normal carrots next time, please. Like the ones I buy in the supermarket. I have my sister coming to stay and she suffers from dizzy turns. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Mrs Headley hangs up as if she’s been talking to a machine.
I stare at the phone. I can hardly phone Parsons and say, ‘No penis-shaped veg this week please, Mike!’
But at least Mrs Headley’s call has snapped me out of my despondent mood.
When I wake early next morning, the sun is shining and the air is unseasonably mild. I run for a full hour, enjoying the exercise and feeling that at last, my life is coming together. I will work hard to expand my business and I do not need a man to be happy and successful.
I spend the rest of the morning working in the vegetable plot.
After the riot of colours and scents that proliferate in the garden over the summer months, November can sometimes seem rather grey. But the gorgeous vibrant green of my little row of Savoy cabbages lifts my mood and I spend a happy few hours digging compost into the vegetable plot, preparing the ground for planting.
The labour is hard but satisfying. There’s something very calming about being well wrapped up in the open air, feeling the sharp breeze on my face, turning over the soil and breathing in all those lovely, earthy scents. I relax into the rhythmic motion of the spade, telling myself everything will be fine.
Then on Saturday morning I’m in Fieldstone doing some shopping when The Thing I Most Dread actually happens.
I’m coming out of the post office when I spot Jamie.
He’s walking hand in hand with Emma on the opposite side of the road, and the instant I see them, my legs turn to jelly. I blunder into the nearest doorway and lean against the shop window, black spots floating in front of my eyes as I follow their progress along the High Street.
They’re walking purposefully, their day planned. Jamie is wearing a black leather jacket I haven’t seen before. Emma, who I never met at any of Jamie’s work nights out, is tall, blonde and very slim. She looks like a catwalk model in her skinny jeans and high strappy shoes.
I glance down at my comfy work clothes and unfashionable trainers.
Then I watch them, forgetting to breathe, as they swing down a side street and disappear through a familiar doorway.
My dentist.
Jamie’s dentist.
A man walking by glimpses my face and instinctively slows. Realising my hand is clasped over my chest, I smile to let him know I’m fine and rummage in my bag until he walks on. Then I take some deep breaths and wait for my heart to slow to its normal rate.
It had to happen. I was bound to bump into them together eventually.
But I’m fine. I survived. And it won’t be so bad next time.
It’s only then I notice the six-foot-high, sparkly red heart suspended in the jeweller’s shop window I’m leaning against. Inside the heart, it says: Will you be proposing to your special someone this Christmas?
It’s a big, in-your-face display that would make me feel sick even if I hadn’t just bumped into my ex and his stunning girlfriend.
I head back to the car, moving like a figure in a dream, only dimly aware of people staring at me and parting to let me through.
Driving home, I face up to the fact that I’ve been in denial. I thought I’d got Jamie out of my head but I was kidding myself. Deep down I never really believed he was gone for good. In the dark caves of my subconscious, I was waiting for him to come to his senses and realise his mistake.
I feel as if I’ve been hurled back to square one. It’s like a game of snakes and ladders. I’ve been swinging up those ladders, showing everyone how brave and resilient I am. And then, just as I’m a whisker from victory, I land on the giant snake that tumbles me all the way down to the bottom of the board.
The phone is ringing when I get in.
‘Hello, dear. How are you?’
It’s my mother.
‘Fine thanks.’
‘And how’s Jamie? Still beavering away in the City?’
‘Er – yes, Jamie’s fine too,’ I manage to croak.
My mother never asks about Jamie. How ironic that she should mention him now. Today of all days.
She doesn’t know about the break-up. It’s easier to keep quiet about it. She would ask far too many probing questions in her effort to determine how I’ve managed to cock things up this time.
I’ve told her about Izzy’s Organics, though, and I really wish I hadn’t.
Today she says, ‘Is this really what you want to do? Sell vegetables?’ I picture her pained expression. Her brow would crease into lines of dismay if it were not for the Botox.
‘Yes, it really is, Mum.’
‘But what does Jamie think of this? Will it actually bring in money?’
‘I think so.’
‘You don’t sound too certain.’
‘Well, I am.’
She sighs. ‘I would have thought three years at university would equip you for rather more than a job as a door-to-door salesman, Isobel.’
I slump down at the kitchen table.
‘But never mind,’ she says, ‘I’m sure you know best.’
‘Speak to you soon. Got to go,’ I mutter through gritted teeth and hang up.
I trail upstairs, shed my clothes and get into bed. I don’t care that it’s only four in the afternoon. I want the complete nothingness of sleep.
Jamie is gone and he’s never coming back. (Not that I’d want him if he did, but that’s not the point.)
My life is a pile of horse manure.
I was even kidding myself about Erik.
Pathetic.
Later, the phone rings and I jerk awake, wondering what time it is.
It’s Anna, wondering why I didn’t meet her for coffee in Guildford as we planned.
I struggle to a sitting position. ‘Oh God, Anna,