Best Women's Erotica 2011 (24 page)

“I’m going to need some help getting the freezers out of the van,” I tell the steward.

She looks down at her clipboard, frowning. “Did you give notice when you booked your pitch?”

“Yes—and I rang up last week to remind you. I spoke to a Mr. Addleman; he said there’d be no problem.”

She snorts down her nose. “Well, he didn’t write it down here. Still, we’ll manage. I’ll go find you someone to help.” And she goes off, leaving me to haul the tent frame out of the van on my own and start putting it together. I think Mr. Addleman’s going to get it in the neck. She looks like the sort who’s used to telling everyone on the town council what he or she needs to do to be properly organized: she’s wearing a tweed twinset on a summer’s morning. It’s all a bit like that today—a town fête writ large and run by optimistic amateurs who are slightly out of their depth. Not that I’m surprised. The fair marks the 360th anniversary of their castle’s surrender to the parliamentary army and, well, that’s not the sort of thing you practice every year.

I do a lot of shows in the summer months: agricultural shows (green Wellington boots, horsey women and hard-mouthed farmers); game fairs (guns and spaniels and camouflage trousers); craft exhibitions (well-off suburbanites). The one thing they all have in common is food. The punters want to eat. They want to try something different, a little luxury: spit-roasted pig and hot waffles and venison burgers…and Abigail’s ice cream. Even at the Strawberry Fair in Cambridge, which is the tattooed alternative crowd and beer in plastic glasses and loud live music, I can easily shift two full freezer-loads on a hot afternoon.

Me? I’m actually a bit of an aging hippy-chick, though I try and hide the fact for some venues. Since Indian prints are finally back in fashion this year, today I’m wearing an embroidered,
sleeveless dress I first bought when I was at college back in the Eighties (oh, no post-punk grunge for us: ours was a fine arts college). It still fits me, after twenty years and a child; there are some things I can be proud of. Its soft cotton swings with each turn, making me feel good about myself, and I don’t think I’m out of place here. This particular fair is a combination of local celebration—they’ve got a historical reenactment group in: Roundheads and Cavaliers poking at each other with pikes—and charity stalls and family entertainment. It’s an easygoing crowd and it looks like the sun’s going to come out, which is great for my sales. It’s going to be a doddle, if I can get someone to help me shift those freezers full of ice cream out of the van.

And then suddenly, as I’m working a tent pole into its canvas sleeve, there they are: two men standing over me, grinning. “Need a hand with that, love?” says one.

“Looks like a bit of a tight fit,” adds the other with an audible smirk. “You need some K-Y, I reckon.’

I look up, acknowledging his teasing with a grin and a shake of my head. They’re both wearing uniforms of some sort: green shirts and trousers, radios on their belts. Both strong-looking men, thank goodness, and in their twenties at a guess.

“We were told you needed a hand,” says the one with the lube obsession. He’s got a handsome square face and sun-blonded hair that would be curly if he let it grow any longer than his stubbly beard.

“Um.” Standing, I look again at the NHS badges sewn on their shirtfronts. “From…doctors?”

He looks hurt. “Paramedics, love.”

“Oh—right.”

“We’ve got time to kill before the show kicks off,” says the other, the one with the olive complexion and the dark nap of hair shaved so close that it looks like suede. “Mrs. Addleman
asked if there was anyone available for some heavy lifting, so we volunteered.”

Aha, I think. Mr. Addleman is doomed.

“Great, thank you. I’ve got two freezers full of ice cream in that van,” is what I say. “They’re on wheels but they’re still really heavy. If you could shift them down into the stall area here…”

They get to it with enthusiasm. It turns out that the fair one is Matt and the dark one, Trev; that they’ve been stationed here with the ambulance all day to back up the St. John’s first-aiders in case there’s a serious incident, and that they’re doing a demonstration in the main arena area later, helping the local fire brigade cut an “accident” victim out of his car. They’re fit and chirpy and they josh each other and me. They insist on helping me put up the tent, and I can barely instruct them fast enough to keep up with their swiftness and confidence. In minutes the stall has taken shape. With a few casual blows of the mallet it’s pegged securely to the ground. They connect up the freezers to the generator out back and get it started up for me with hardly any effort.

Oh, they make me feel old.

 

 

“Bloody hell,” says Matt. He’s just spotted the price list I’ve hung at the front. “That’s expensive ice cream!”

“Homemade, organic and fair-trade.” I’m not abashed:
I’ll cover my costs here on any reasonable day, but my profit margins are surprisingly slim and it’s seasonal work. “I pick the fruit myself and make every tub. And the base is sheep’s milk for most of them. That’s not cheap.”

“Sheep? You milk sheep?”

“Not me—I get it from a local farmer. He used to milk for the cheese trade, but he lost his contract and I stepped in to try turning it into ice cream. It’s lovely stuff. Easier to digest than cow’s milk too.”

“Ginger and brandy snap,” he muses. “Green basil. Strawberry and black pepper.”

“Sounds good,” says Trev. “Weird, mind; but good.”

“Do you want some? I think I owe you both an ice cream, for this lot.”

“You got double-choc-chip?” asks Matt, grinning.

“Brazilian chocolate and chili,” I counter, daring him.

“Go on then. I can’t resist a Brazilian.” He winks; I roll my eyes in mock despair. But just as I open the freezer Trev’s radio buzzes to life. I can’t make out the words barked over the airways, but he switches in a second from affable to decisive.

“Gotta go. Sorry, Matt.”

“No fair. I was hoping for a chocolate flake with that.”

They hurry off at a jog. Matt looks back and shouts at me, waving his arm: “You owe us an ice cream! Don’t forget!”

I wonder why I feel so warm and tingling inside, and why I was so disappointed when the call came through.

 

 

I’m lucky: the sunshine doesn’t just win through, but rolls up the clouds and sends them packing. It turns into a lovely hot summer’s day and by late lunchtime I’m selling steadily. So I’m in a bright mood.

But it’s not just the sun and the trade; it’s how the day started. It’s ridiculous really, but Matt and Trev have really perked me up. Just the way they joked with me and looked at me, like it was more than a kindness they were doing and they were getting something out of my company; the spark in their eyes. Damn, but it’s a long time since anyone but chivalrous old men flirted with me. I’m not used to it from guys younger than I am, and it’s left me a little giddy. I have an extra smile for my customers today.

Oh, they were cute, both of them.

And, oh, I’m too old for this. They’re young enough to be… okay, not really young enough to be my kids, but certainly not even a decade older than Skye, and she’s still at university. I’m forty-two, for heaven’s sake. I’ve got crow’s-feet starting about my eyes, not to mention those horizontal creases across my throat that came out of nowhere, and my hands are starting to look lumpy around the knuckles of my skinny fingers. I’ve got a mortgage that is most of the way toward being paid off and my idea of a good evening is curling up in front of a
CSI
rerun on TV with a glass of port and a bag of low-sodium pretzels.

Yet when those two looked at me in my tie-dyed dress, they looked. I mean, with happy appreciation, like they were seeing
right through the fabric. Or at least, I think they did. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it’s the first sign of early menopause and I’m going batty.

Goddamn. It’s been so long since any bloke fancied me. I’m letting this go to my head.

So I smile and sell ice cream and try hard not to think about them too often, though when I hear a siren going off somewhere I can’t help wondering if they’re on their way to the county hospital with some emergency. Heatstroke probably, in this weather. It’s got to the point that I’m quite grateful to be working over the open freezer.

Then maybe an hour later, while I’m taking the opportunity during a lull to swig bottled water, I see an ambulance nosing through the crowd. The sirens are quiet this time. My stall is on the main avenue between the first aid point and the main arena, so I guess they are on their way down to do their demo. Matt is driving; I spot him through the windscreen as I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, and I feel a kick of shameful pleasure inside me. Suddenly the passenger door opens and Trev drops out, hustling through the crowd, heading straight for me. His dark eyes seize mine. Before I can think what to say, he snatches the big bottle of water from my hand and plants a hard peck on my cheek.

“Need this. Thanks, love,” he says, hurrying back to the ambulance.

My face burns.

 

 

I don’t see the ambulance head back, but I might have missed it when I went off for my brief loo break, or I might just have been too busy with the queues. It’s a hugely successful day; every one of my tubs is down to empty by the time the fête winds down. Well, nearly—I make sure I save enough for a couple of cones. As we hit the official closing time I take down the signs and clear up, padlocking the cashbox inside one of the freezers, stripping off the last set of plastic gloves and then washing and moisturizing my hands. It’s the same routine as always, but this time I’m more on edge. I keep an eye out as I wipe down and pack up.

They don’t show.

I don’t let myself be disappointed; that would be an admission of something deeply foolish. Instead I make up two sugar cones with generous scoops of ice cream—one chocolate-and-chili, one honey-and-saffron—and I pop them in the plastic rack for holding cones and head up to the first aid point on foot. All around me stalls are being dismantled and vans loaded. I consider letting my hair down from its thick plait—I know my features are on the sharp side and loose hair softens them—but that’s one step too far toward undignified.

At the first aid post the volunteers from the St. John’s brigade are drinking tea and filling in forms. The ambulance is parked at the side of the tent, and I walk round it to the back. My mouth is dry; the potential for embarrassing myself here is immense.

There they are, at the back of the open vehicle, folding up the legs of a stretcher and loading it in.

“Still want those ice creams?” I ask brightly.

“Hey…Abbie!” The smiles seem genuine. Their interest in the ice cream certainly is: they both reach for the cones eagerly, bickering like boys over who gets the chocolate one. Trev volunteers for the honey, takes a big mouthful and then widens his eyes.

“Bloody Nora…this is good!”

“I know that.” I allow myself to feel smug. My visit is vindicated.

“Have a seat, love,” suggests Matt, indicating the back step of the ambulance. I sit myself down, and he instantly perches on my right. He’s so close that I automatically attempt to shift up, but Trev is already on my left side, settling himself comfortably, one arm sweeping round behind my back. Not touching me, but definitely in my personal space. My sunburned upper arms brush their shirts.