Page 31

F’s instructions were repeating in Temperance’s head later that day as she walked along the single-track lane to Praveen’s Pick Your Own field. Belladonna sounded like serious stuff, not to be treated lightly, and Temperance didn’t want to risk any lingering magical poison transferring onto Try Again inventory or – God forbid – their customers, so she’d thrown on her roughest denim shorts and trainers to go and track down some disposable equipment for the witchy gathering mission.

She could have taken the car, but the sun was lighting up the sky a glorious buttercup yellow and Temperance figured an uphill walk in the blistering heat was a sure-fire way to clear her head of doom and destruction. And old flames. It was so bright that, at times, she almost walked with her eyes closed behind her sunglasses, one hand trailing in the hedgerow, her ears listening for cars but only hearing crickets. By the time she reached the rusty farm gates, she could feel the sweat gathering under her baseball cap and between her cleavage, but she couldn’t have cared less. The endorphins were helping pick up her feet, and knowing she was on the right track to be able to fix some of the mess she’d unwittingly made cleared some of the fog in her head.

Seeing Praveen in the little tin hut by the strawberry field, Temperance went over and knocked gently on the corrugated metal.

‘Hiya, Prav.’

‘Hello, Temperance, lovely. How are you then? Gosh, didn’t you look gorgeous at FairyFest. You had all the heads turning.’ Praveen leant back on her chair and laced her fingers together.

‘Erm, not sure about that, but thanks. It was . . . fun.’ Temperance had to briefly shut her eyes to chase away the memory of how the rustling wedding dress filled her senses with love, how the cocktails dulled her inhibitions, how it felt to sway in time to the music in Abel’s arms, his tall frame pressed against her . . .

Her neighbour let out the kind of incredulous sigh that married middle-aged people seem happy to give any single adults they know. ‘Psshaw. You were fighting them off with a stick.’

Temperance was glad that her cheeks must already be beetroot red anyway, from her boiling hot walk. What a wicked thing to do . . . the song whispered from the back of her mind.

‘I wouldn’t even need a cocktail umbrella to fight off my admirers,’ she shrugged and gave a jokey grimace.

Praveen smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘Well, the field’s packed today. You never know who you might meet over a strawberry plant. A natural aphrodisiac and all that.’

Temperance craned her neck around the side of the hut to the busy field beyond. The only examples of her preferred gender were sunburnt dads chasing pink-lipped toddlers through the furrows or impeccably dressed retirees at least twice her age, nervously bending down to add to their punnets, perhaps unsure that they’d make it back up again.

‘Hmm. Thanks, but I’m actually after some random bits and pieces, if that’s OK? Do you have any old buckets I could buy off you? I’ve got some . . . scruffy work to do. At the shop.’

Praveen bit the inside of her cheek. ‘I do, I think. In the shed on the far side of the strawberry field. There’s some old stuff stacked up at the back I haven’t used in years – you’re welcome to it.’

‘Thanks. And any of the . . . snippy garden things? Like really hench scissors?’

‘Secateurs?’ Praveen laughed. ‘Yes, there’s a few of them hanging on the peg board in the shed. Bring them back when you’re done.’ She squinted at Temperance. ‘I can’t imagine what would be so grubby at your vintage store that you need old buckets and hench scissors.’

Temperance felt too sweaty to come up with a reply. ‘I know, right? Thanks, Prav. See you in a bit.’ Temperance wiped her forehead and then set off for the field.

It certainly was busy, with clusters of families crouching down to pick the ruby-red berries, the odd slap of a hand when too much sampling was going on. It was always a tourist hot-spot on a sunny day: a wholesome activity out in the open with the very big bonus of having the toppings for your afternoon cream tea sorted at the same time. Temperance’s mouth watered at the thought of a deep, crumbling scone heaped up with clotted cream and sun-warmed strawberries. She’d have to hit the bakery on the way home.

In the sea of brightly coloured summer clothes, one tall black smudge was patently obvious. Temperance’s eyes were still half-closed against the sun but when the figure stood up she knew exactly who it was.

Instantly, she dodged behind the nearest tree.

‘Fucking Abel,’ she hissed to herself. How can you spend twelve years thinking about the one that got away and then all of a sudden he’s the one you can’t bloody well escape from?

Temperance was not in the mood to be disdainfully judged right now, not while she was dressed like a gym teacher and smelt like a locker room. Besides, Abel had made it undeniably obvious that he wanted nothing to do with her. This will never happen. Hiking with his surfboard. How much clearer could he be?

She risked a peek around the tree trunk. In a black T-shirt and shiny red shorts, he was completely incongruous amongst the khakis and chinos. Temperance had a vague memory of red shorts like that. From Year 10 netball. She looked again. He wasn’t wearing his old PE shorts, was he?! Maybe that was all Margie had kept of his from back in the day. They certainly were a snug fit. If she hadn’t been worried about giving away her hiding spot, she would have cackled with laughter like the witch she was.

The old shed was right at the end of the field but Temperance realised from where she standing now, she could just hop into the field’s ditch and follow it all the way down. Bingo. No run ins, no more humiliation, no muttered exchange where Abel would clearly rather be slowly eaten to death by aphids over a thousand years than talk to her. This time, she would run away from him in a public place.

She hopped down ungainly into the ditch and started to jog along, head lowered, dodging stinging nettles and pretending she was some kind of very niche RPG character on a side quest, a goofy grin spread across her face. At the shed five minutes later, Temperance hauled herself up onto the grass, not caring that she now had dusty elbows and knees, and that sweat was running down between her shoulder blades. This wasn’t a beauty pageant. This was serious magical business.

Inside the shed there was a refreshingly cool, if musty, atmosphere and Temperance flapped her vest top away from her body to feel the air reach her skin.

‘Buckets,’ she muttered to herself, wandering down to the corner and a big stack of cobwebbed crates and a wheelbarrow without a wheel. She found two with only small cracks and figured they’d do nicely for holding belladonna leaves. If they were just gathering dust here they might as well come home with her and get up to some magical mischief. As she turned back towards the workbench and peg board, she saw a heap of hessian sacks.

‘Never read hessian before. Maybe potatoes have big feelings.’ Temperance raised her eyebrows. She held out a hand over the top sack and it rose easily to meet her touch. Her fingers sparked as she gripped the rough fibres, but nothing was there. What had she been hoping for? Maybe a Lady Chatterley style agricultural love affair? Two forbidden lovers making their bed on scratchy hessian, too engulfed by lust to notice? Temperance shook her head.

Once this doom is off the books, I will start internet-dating again, no matter how painful. In fact. . .

She put the sack down and fished her phone out of her back pocket. Opening up the Devon Loves app, Temperance switched her notifications back to ‘On’.

No time like the present. You’ve got a lot of hormones built up in you, babe. Look how you threw yourself into that insane dance with Abel – the man who quite literally wants nothing to do with you! Even if you’re just kissing more frogs, it’ll get you closer to The One Frog. A frog who’s actually up for it.