Page 3 of Rough Around the Hedges

God knows where she was getting actual melons from, though. Had she even sown any this year? It was better if we all used our own homegrown produce, even if it’d been touch and go with Clive and his cherry tomatoes last year.

I turned back to George, and he was grinning as if he’d just won the lottery.

“You deliberately provoked her, didn’t you?” I asked.

He held up his thumb, looking mightily proud of himself with his big old smile.

“Why don’t you just ask her out?”

That wiped the smile off his face. “Why would I do that?”

“The same reason most people go on a date. Because you la-la-la-loooove her.”

He picked his marrow back up and took a step away from the fence. “I don’t think you’re in a position to give me love advice. When was the last time you went on a date, Rose?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” I replied. “You should still ask her out. I’m tired of you flirting all over my plot. Use the path instead when you want to have your dirty little foreplay.”

George narrowed his eyes at me. “We weren’t flirting.”

“She said she’s going to show you her melons. In September. She was very specific.”

“She wasn’t very appreciative of my marrow, though.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to grow an even bigger one to impress her.” I pulled my glove back on. “Now scoot. You’re blocking my sun.”

He huffed as he got out of the way. “Maybe Susan would prefer my knobbly carrots.”

Georgewasfamous for his ability to grow scarily phallic carrots. His final attempt at them last year had ended on Christmas Eve when he’d come to harvest his carrots for Christmas dinner and almost all of them had split into three, resembling two legs and a tiny schlong in the middle.

It didn’t matter what he did to his soil either, bless him. No matter how he sieved it or how much sand he added to soften it, his carrots just wouldn’t play ball.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Susan—or any other woman, for that matter—probably wouldn’t know what to do if a gentleman offered them a phallic vegetable.

Not including myself.

I’d just put a picture of it on the allotment’s Instagram account and make the thirty thousand or so people who followed the account very happy.

I had no idea why thirty thousand people followed the adventures of Hanbury Allotments, either, but I had a heck of a time as the ringleader of my little circus.

When George and Susan weren’t engaging in cross-plot flirting and traumatising my innocent mind, that was.

“Rosieeeeeeeeee.”

I jerked my head around and glared at my best friend. “It’s like you want me to throw my trowel at you. On second thought, the hand fork would do better damage. If I can just get the right whip on it…”

Isadora grinned and popped open my gate, letting herself into my plot. “I have cake.”

I pressed my hand to my chest. “I missed you so much, bestie. You look so pretty today. Is that new lipstick? It’s totally your colour.”

“Suck up,” she said. “And yes, it is new lipstick. Thank you for noticing.”

But of course.

That was my job as best friend.

Her newest fling wasn’t going to notice it, the useless lump of—

“Oh, excuse me, Mr Waffles. Come on in. I see you’ve brought the family.”

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