“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 applesauce, 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—” I wave to the woman behind the goat’s cheese stall. “From . . .”
“From Lou,” says the cheese lady cheerily.
“From Sophie,” says the author.
“Aaron,” 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 rings.
“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 feces in a car park.”
“Honey isn’t actually bee feces, 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.
Then I turn to see everyone at the sad little fete watching me. Ted’s WI friend has a hand pressed to her mouth in horror. I swallow my work-related terror. I just need to finish the conversation with Keith, get the Le Maistres’ address, and get the hell out of here. I’ll worry about Suki later.
“So, Keith, sorry about that. Um, as you’d started to say, Maude Le Maistre—any chance you could give us her son’s full name and contact details?”
Keith is now looking at me as though I’ve admitted to being a serial killer who’s trying to hunt these people down in order to stuff both their decapitated corpses into one of his homemade beehives.
“Maybe I should give your number to Maude, let her know you’re trying to get in touch with her son.” His voice comes out at rather a high-pitched squeak. “The bee club takes data protection very seriously.”
Ted tries to reason with him, we explain all about the suitcase, but Keith isn’t budging and then the guy dressed up for the guide dogs asks Keith “if these people are bothering him.” I end up leaving with a promise from Keith that he’ll call Maude with my number as soon as he gets home. Then I dole out the last of my cash on black butter and goat’s cheese, and compliment the author on the bluebell-shaped earrings she’s wearing, all in an attempt to make amends for my sweary outburst.