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Oh wow, Keith is not helping me at all, he’s speaking at the pace of an asthmatic snail. I’m going to have to cut him off. ‘Oh, that sounds so romantic, Keith.’ Seeing he’s wearing a ring, I think on my feet; I need to divert this conversation away from bloody bees. ‘I see you’re married. How did you meet your partner?’
Keith now looks at me as though I’ve propositioned him for sex. He frowns suspiciously, then says, ‘I met my wife through a mutual acquaintance. We had a shared interest in Ordnance Survey maps.’
Possibly the most boring ‘How Did You Meet?’ I’ve ever heard.
‘So, she found the map to your heart, aw!’
Ted winces. Keith looks as though he’s watching some kind of pagan goat sacrifice take place on his trestle table. I imagine the comments full of question marks flashing up on the screen. I need to save this somehow. Think, Laura, THINK!
‘Now, you might have been expecting to see me at a gorgeous beachside location, but at Love Life, we’re all about supporting local business, that’s why I thought I’d come to the community village fete and discover genuine Jersey.’ I walk over to the jam lady, a woman in her fifties, who is sitting behind a cardboard sign that reads ‘Jenny’s Jam’. She’s wearing a pale green cloche hat, with an eye-catching gold-and-green dragonfly hatpin. Ted follows me with the camera.
‘What are you selling here, Jenny?’
‘Homemade jam, all berries from my own garden. Farmhouse black butter, too,’ she says, pointing to a small dark brown pot, tied with a red ribbon.
‘Ah, my grandmother asked me to get her some of this, but I wasn’t sure what it was.’
‘It’s a medieval recipe for apple sauce, made from cider apples. Delicious on a bit of cheese,’ Jenny explains.
‘Well, I will take three!’ I say, filling my arms with jars. ‘How many customers have you had today, Jenny?’
‘Just two,’ she says mournfully. ‘Including you.’
‘Just two! Look at this stuff. Come on, Jersey – if you’re watching, come out and support local produce at the Trinity Community Fete. Love Life believes in the charm and importance of local businesses, so come and buy something from someone with a name – you’ll make their day. From Jenny—’ then I wave to the woman behind the goat’s cheese stall, ‘From …’
‘From Lou,’ says the cheese lady cheerily.
‘From Sophie,’ says the author.
‘Barclay,’ says the man dressed as a guide dog.
Ted gives me a thumbs-up, and I try to wrap things up.
‘Well, there’s a hive of reasons to visit! Ciao for now.’
Ciao for now?I do a little pirouette, and Ted stops recording as I yank off the beekeeper’s bonnet. Wow, it was hot as a witch’s armpit under there.
‘How bad was that?’ I ask Ted, whose face looks both genuinely impressed and bewildered at the same time.
‘I think you rescued it,’ he says.
I’m not sure Suki is going to think so. Right on cue, my phone starts to ring.
‘Suki, hi!’ I say with forced excitement.
‘What was that, Laura? Why are you standing next to some bins, dressed as a lunatic, talking to some senile old man about bees and fucking jam?’ She’s shouting loud enough for Keith to hear, and he looks suitably offended. I back away, out of his earshot.
‘Well, I was going for something experimental,’ I say, the cement now set dry in my throat. ‘People love bees, they’re very on trend.’
‘I do not like bees, Laura, and we do not support local business, we support big business who have budgets for advertising. What the hell are you trying to pull here? I was expecting you in a bikini, on a beach, eating oysters – SEXY! ASPIRATIONAL! HOLIDAY! Not bee faeces in a car park.’
‘Honey isn’t actually bee faeces, Suki; they make it from—’
‘Thin ice, Laura – skinny Frappuccino thin.’
She hangs up on me. My chest flutters with panic as I feel Suki’s faith in me vanishing like a rapidly retreating tide.
‘FUCK! Fuckity fuck, fuck pants,’ I scream at the phone.
