I left with an invitation to Milo’s third birthday party, in a couple of weeks’ time, where I could meet the rest of the family. This felt like a sensible length of time away, and there were always phones and Facebook in the meantime. I had no hesitation in accepting an invitation to go to a party on my own and meet a load of strangers who were also relatives. The last couple of hours had been a lot. But I had the same trainers as my cousin. Dawn was obsessed with cooking, baking desserts for anyone who’d eat them. They told me Layla read travel books and had a whole scrapbook full of dream destinations for when her children were older.
These were my people, and I left with the absolute certainty that the only thing I had to fear was missing out on the chance to be a part of them.
Before we knew it, autumn was well under way. The forest was adorned with a crisp rainbow of reds, burnished orange and gold. Some mornings were so chilly, our breath blew smoke signals into the cobalt sky as we loaded up the van. On others, we scuttled back and forth dodging puddles, praying the rain stopped so that we’d sell at least something that day.
The summer season had rounded off with Nottingham Goose Fair at the end of September, a travelling funfair spread over a large city recreation site where half a million visitors swarmed between every kind of ride, game and food stall imaginable. It was a horribly hectic ten days of constant noise, flashing lights and endless hungry customers, but the gruelling shifts meant wewere entering the quieter months with a healthy bank balance and a sense of growing optimism that we had created something special.
Following that, Blessing and I took a much-needed week off to recuperate and reassess how the business was going.
Our conclusion? It was going brilliantly.
For the rest of the autumn, our plan was to rely on our weekends at the Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre along with two days a week in bustling markets, plus the now regular supply to Scarlett’s restaurant and a couple of local cafés. We had four weddings spread over the next three months, and would be at different locations for five days straight over the week of Bonfire Night at the beginning of November, after which the Christmas markets and fairs started.
During our week off, I invited my family over for a damp barbecue, because there was no way they’d all fit in the house. This did require pausing more than once to brush off a twinge of guilt at what Mum would say to her garden being invaded by Swans, but I refused to let that taint the afternoon. It was my home now, and increasingly, I found it easier to accept that there was nothing wrong with wanting to do things my own way.
Hosting family was tiring and slightly stressful, yet heart-warming and exhilarating at the same time. We still had so much to learn about each other, and despite the many poignant similarities between us, the differences at times seemed stark. I didn’t expect any of them to become a new best friend, but I found a family who were interested in me, who were keen to offer help and support – even when their opinions did tip into overbearing – and who rapidly decided they loved me with the same fiery fervency they adored each other.
It took some adjustments, having a whole load of people who cared. I wasn’t used to daily group WhatsApp conversations about poorly children or a special offer on beef at thesupermarket. Someone asking how my day had been, or what my plans were for tomorrow.
It was wonderful and irritating, comforting and disconcerting all at the same time.
Chatting it through with Blessing on one of the rambles through the forest that we’d instigated to combat all the extra calories from taste-testing, I decided the only way I’d coped with all this change was due to my altered pace of life, which included time to process, talk and decompress on our precious days off.
‘That’s the only reason I’m not bullying you into saying yes to Beagle Boy,’ Blessing said one Sunday afternoon, as we crunched through piles of fallen leaves, acorns and chestnuts, the autumn sunshine dappling the path between the trees.
‘Saying yes to what?’ I retorted, feeling a flush of colour that had nothing to do with the fresh air. ‘He’s not asked me anything.’
Beagle Boy was most definitely a man, not a boy. Probably somewhere in his thirties, he walked two beagles through Sherwood Forest every Saturday, stopping for something to eat before heading home. Over the past few weeks, he’d progressed from a quick hello and the odd comment about the weather to longer conversations spanning our recipes, local news and whatever mischief the dogs had got into that week.
‘Only because you won’t put him out of his misery and take the hint. “Any plans for the rest of the weekend, Emmie?” “What kind of food do you like to eat, when someone else is cooking?” And you shut him down every time. Which is fine,’ she added, quickly, as I began to protest. ‘Like I said, you’ve had more than enough going on lately. But one day, he’s going to bite the bullet and ask you out. Might be worth thinking about your answer, because if he catches you off guard, who knows what you’ll end up saying?’
‘I’m not interested in Beagle Boy,’ I said, with a reasonable amount of certainty.
‘Not interested in him yet, or at all?’ Blessing asked. ‘Or should I say, not interested in him, or in anyone who isn’t a hot farmer living in the middle of the Irish Sea?’
My spluttered attempt at a reply only provided more impetus to keep going.
‘Because, last I heard, you told that farmer to leave you alone.’
‘Which he has, so I don’t know why you’re dragging him up again.’
‘Emmie, if you don’t like some random dog walker, that’s your prerogative. Even if he does have a cute smile and the rare ability to partake in a two-way conversation rather than waffling on about himself all the time. But if you’re holding back on even considering whether you might like someone because you can’t let go of Pip, then you need to do something about that.’
We slowed down to dodge around a giant puddle of mud.
‘Of course I’m not over Pip. I don’t know how to switch off my feelings for him. I can’t just not like him any more for no reason.’
‘No, but you can move on. People get over exes all the time. It’s not easy, and it might take a while, but the first thing you do is stop obsessing over every Instagram account that might provide the tiniest titbit of tenuous information about them. You block them, or anything to do with them. Especially when you’ve got no one else in common, so the only possible excuse you have for cyberstalking them is to fuel those feelings.’ She gave me a sardonic look. ‘Don’t think you’re being subtle, Miss Devotee of Siskin News.’
‘Do you think I’m a total loser?’ I asked.
‘No.’ Blessing caught my sheepish expression. ‘No! I think you had a two-year crush on a really good guy who clearly liked you too. He’s now intrinsically tied up in a massively significantmoment in your life. You’ll inevitably have trouble letting him go. What I’m asking is, are you still sure that you want to?’
‘I’m not sure I ever did want to.’ I gave a dejected shrug. ‘I’m no expert, but I’ve been on a steep learning curve about love in the past couple of months. I genuinely love Pip, Blessing. I wasn’t simply swept up in holiday romance when I told you I wasinlove with him.’
Blessing stopped.
‘Then you’ve got two options. Either do whatever it takes to get over him, or whatever it takes to, I don’t know…gethim.’
