Saving Saffron Sweeting (10 page)

Clearly, our definition of the ultimate betrayal was a little
different. Nonetheless, a smile tugged at my cheeks. Amelia might
have been a self-declared mess after her divorce, but she was
strong and sassy now.

My unofficial role at Hargraves was to act as buyer’s
advocate, touring homes with them, answering questions and pointing
out the advantages of each property. This I did with enthusiasm and
honesty, but I didn’t disguise the drawbacks, either. Some of
my clients probably found that strange, but others thanked me for
being ‘on their side’.

In the short time since starting work, I had helped sell another
house, and Amelia was threatening to take me shoe shopping to
celebrate.

‘I know your trainers are practical, but they don’t
really convey success, darling,’ she chided me with a
good-natured wave of her toe.

We were doing market research on the internet while keeping one
eye on the tennis scores.

‘But they’re
smart
trainers, not like
something the ballgirls are wearing,’ I replied. It was true:
mine were a slim style, pale blue with suede details – not a
sexy shoe, but respectable for the office. I distracted Amelia by
pointing to the slide show accompanying one of our
competitor’s listings. ‘Do you think this yellow
kitchen will sell?’

For a few minutes, we discussed the merits of magnolia over
sunflower paint.

‘Ever considered a career in home staging?’ Amelia
asked me. ‘It’s a close cousin to interior design and
you certainly have an eye for what buyers want.’

‘Well, obviously, I love that kind of stuff
…’ I rubbed the crease which had involuntarily
appeared on my forehead. ‘But I wasn’t much good at
getting people to pay me for it.’

She raised one perfect eyebrow. ‘Maybe you just
didn’t give it long enough.’

‘Yeah, well, my courage kind of left me when my husband
slept with my best client,’ I sniffed defensively.
‘Puts you off, you know?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, and studied her cocktail
ring.

I knew she didn’t mean to upset me; it’s just that
Amelia didn’t strike me as very empathetic about the
challenges of owning a floundering business. It was fine for her,
all she had to do was twirl her shoe a few times, like Dorothy
clicking her heels, and wealthy American home-buyers lined up at
her door. She and her twirling Blahniks were probably responsible
for the weak pound too.

‘So, your husband wasn’t supportive of you running
your own show?’

‘Um, no, he was really sweet about it, actually,’ I
said. ‘I just couldn’t make it work.’

‘How so?’

There, she was doing that shoe thing right now.

‘Well, let’s see …’ I wondered if I
wanted to discuss this. I found maybe I did. ‘I wasted a ton
of money on glossy advertising, which got me precisely zero
clients. That was stupid; everyone told me not to do print ads but
I didn’t listen.’ I chewed on a biro, thinking back.
‘And I went to no end of networking groups. They were fun,
but full of women with equally desperate situations, flogging
nutritional advice or life coaching or other stuff nobody really
needs
. We all smiled gamely but I think we were all
struggling.’

‘But people value great design, surely?’

‘I suppose so. But I wasn’t moving in the kind of
circles that have big budgets. The people I pitched to seemed to
think I could transform their room with five hundred dollars and a
trip to Ikea.’

Amelia nodded sympathetically. ‘Not quite your target
niche?’

‘No …’ Another sigh. ‘And once I lost
confidence, I got so anxious, I was kind of consumed by it.’
I had made deep tooth marks in the biro and saw my hands were inky
blue. I chucked it in the bin and wiped my fingers on the
Cambridge Evening News
. ‘Plus, it meant I was out
most evenings.’

‘So?’

‘So …’ This was harder. ‘I think James
and I maybe got a bit … disconnected. He saw how scared I
was and he couldn’t help.’

‘Hardly an excuse to start sleeping around, though,’
she said.

‘No, of course not, absolutely not.’ I shook my head
hard, to make sure I believed it. To my relief, I found I did.
‘But I don’t suppose I was much fun to live
with.’

The phone on my desk rang and I jumped, then summoned up one of
the brave smiles that were becoming my speciality.

Amelia tilted her head, drumming her fingernails on her desk.
‘Right. Well, I don’t care if you’re fun to live
with or not. We’re still going shoe shopping.’

Later that afternoon, Amelia was on the phone
when the door opened and a woman in her late thirties came into the
office. Tall and wiry, she had shortish, curly dark hair held back
by a headband, and was dressed simply in chinos, striped shirt and
loafers. She picked up the glossy Cambridgeshire property magazine
and began scanning the photos in our
Rental
display.

‘Hello, can I help?’ I stood and came towards her,
noticing her keen, bird-like dark eyes. I thought she reminded me
of a raven, then decided no, a jackdaw: her overall look was cuter
and without menace.

‘Hey there. I just arrived from Boston and I’m
looking for somewhere to rent.’

Her origin was no big shock. ‘Okay,’ I replied,
‘I can help with that. What kind of thing do you
need?’

We discussed her requirements briefly: small, outside the city,
preferably with character. Not unlike my own hopes when I had
arrived in Saffron Sweeting. But unlike me, her company was picking
up the cost for the first six months. She named a figure which gave
her plenty of options.

‘And you’re looking to move … when?’ I
was busily taking notes.

‘As soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I arrived
here Thursday and start work next Monday.’

‘And you’re in bio-tech?’

Nancy – that was her name – blinked, a little
surprised. I awarded myself only half points for such an easy
guess.

‘I don’t suppose you have anything with a thatched
roof?’ she asked. ‘They are so
adorable
.’

I clicked my tongue, thinking hard. ‘Sorry, I don’t
think so,’ I replied. ‘Not unless you’re ready to
buy. Thatched anything always goes fast, but especially the
rentals.’

‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘Never mind, can you show
me what you have?’

‘Absolutely.’ I collected keys for a couple of older
homes which I felt had some charm and murmured ‘See you in a
bit’ to Amelia, who was by now pushing hard on her phone
call. From the speed of the accompanying shoe twirling, I suspected
an agreement was imminent.

In the street, I pointed my car out to Nancy. ‘It’s
that yellow one,’ I told her. ‘Some clients prefer to
drive themselves, but you’re welcome to come with
me.’

‘Yours is great.’ She climbed in without fear, once
she’d remembered the passenger seat was on the left.

‘There’s only one option at the moment in this
village,’ I told her, ‘and the other is in Dullingham,
which is still pretty convenient for the Science Park. I assume
you’re based at the Science Park?’

She was. ‘At first,’ she said, ‘I schlepped
around looking for a flat in downtown Cambridge, but I would still
need a car to get to work and the parking was just awful. Plus, I
was kind of freaked out by the swarms of kamikaze bikes weaving
inches from my fender the whole time.’

I wasn’t sure where ‘downtown’ Cambridge was,
but the middle of the city certainly wasn’t the place for
newly imported wrong-side-of-the-road drivers. For a moment, I
considered an abrupt career change to offer driving lessons for
American newbies. No, that was ridiculous, and my nerves probably
couldn’t stand it either. Whatever colour my elusive
parachute turned out to be, it wasn’t that.

After just two hours, Nancy and I were friends.
She had told me of her stout enthusiasm for the Royal Family, and I
had shared that I had moved back to England following my marriage
break-up. Unfortunately, our conversation had been more enjoyable
than the viewings.

The first cottage had been wonderful: sloped ceilings, beams
everywhere and, in the kitchen, even a two-part stable door. The
bedroom was large, although admittedly it lost a third of its space
due to the acutely sloping ceiling. Outside, the cottage boasted an
original coal chute and purple petunias.

Nancy had loved it, but not the location. ‘I dunno about
driving these narrow roads in winter,’ she mused.

Sure enough, the death knell came for the Dullingham cottage
when we encountered a distressed tractor during our return to
Saffron Sweeting. It had got one wheel stuck in a ditch and was
leaning ominously. After a minute of indecision, I squeezed the car
past. Nancy and I both held our breath for fear that the
unglamorous cargo of sugar beet might come raining down upon
us.

The second little house, near the river in Saffron Sweeting, had
spadefuls of character but was unfurnished and impractical. Amelia
would be hopping mad to learn it hadn’t been cleaned
thoroughly, either. The dishes piled in the kitchen sink alerted
Nancy to the lack of a dishwasher. This discovery led us on a
general appliance hunt, which revealed an ancient twin-tub washing
machine in an adjoining outhouse.

‘Oh boy,’ was Nancy’s reaction.

‘Mmm, not good,’ I agreed. ‘A girl needs her
creature comforts.’

The most direct route from this cottage back to the Hargraves
office was through the ford. The village had a bridge, of course,
but that was up near Mary Lou’s house. I thought Nancy might
find it a novel way to end our tour. I hadn’t been through it
before, but had watched other cars splash through easily. After the
fine weather we’d been enjoying, the water seemed to be only
about six inches deep.

‘I don’t know if you do this in the States,’ I
said to her, ‘but in English villages, it’s still
fairly common to be able to drive through a shallow river as the
most efficient way to get where you’re going. We call them
fords.’

‘No way!’ she laughed. ‘That’s totally
nuts.’

‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘I think it’s
rather fun.’

‘Cool,’ Nancy said. ‘Let’s do
it!’

My mistake was to approach the ford and enter the water in
second gear. We were just halfway across when I realised the little
yellow car was struggling with our low speed. It seemed Mary Lou
wasn’t the only one whose gearstick awareness was lacking. I
tried to change down into first and promptly stalled.

‘Shit!’ I exclaimed, followed by ‘Excuse my
French’ to my new client.

‘Jeez,’ said Nancy. ‘Will it start again, or
are we screwed?’

I tried the engine and was rewarded with indignant spluttering
sounds, followed by a couple of gurgles.

‘Okay, no problem, not to worry,’ I said to Nancy,
as much for my benefit as hers. I would deal with this calmly.
‘I’ll just give us a push.’

‘You’re gonna get your feet wet.’ Nancy
grinned as she stated the obvious.

I was already wriggling out of my maligned suede trainers.
‘Can you skooch over and take the wheel?’

I opened the car door. It was well above the water level: this
would be a piece of cake. Gingerly, I lowered myself down into the
shallow river. The water was chilly, but not unpleasantly so, and
under different circumstances would have been refreshing. It flowed
happily around my calves, certainly not presenting any danger. I
was standing on smooth stone, presumably laid on the river bed to
stop cars sinking into the natural gravel or mud.

Grateful none of the Saffron Sweeting ducks were present to
observe my predicament, I held onto the car as I paddled carefully
round to the back. Nancy wriggled over the gearstick, into the
driver’s seat.

‘Do I need to steer?’ she called.

‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘Just hold it steady
in case the water tries to take us.’

With that, I placed both hands firmly on the yellow boot and
pushed. Nothing happened. The small car was disproportionately
heavy and there was resistance from the water.

This will teach me to join a gym, I thought. I bent my knees
further and pushed off hard with my feet.

‘Yay!’ cried Nancy, as the vehicle started to move
through the water.

With gritted teeth, I tried to take advantage of the momentum.
But as we inched closer to the river bank, the smooth stones became
covered in weed, and without warning my bare feet swished out from
under me. For a startled moment I was weightless, before I toppled
sideways with a resounding splash. The soothing footbath became a
frigid shock.

‘Bollocks,’ I gasped, sitting up in a hurry.
‘Sod!’

‘Oh my God.’ Nancy opened the driver’s door
and looked back at me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine, sorry, fine!’ I scrambled to my feet,
determined to make the best of it. And I
was
fine, apart
from a bruised elbow and dripping clothes. I was wearing a short
beige linen skirt and pale pink T-shirt, both now clinging to me.
‘Sorry,’ I called to her again. ‘All under
control.’

It was at this point I realised that the ducks might have been
absent, but we had an audience nonetheless. Up on the road, above
the bank we had almost reached, was a dark blue sports car. The
driver, a man, was holding a mobile phone to his ear.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I heard him say. Then he called
out, ‘Are you ladies in a spot of bother?’

Was he laughing? How long had he been there?

I looked down at my wet clothes. Hell, my T-shirt had gone
see-through. I was wearing a bra, of course, but still …

‘No, thanks, we’re doing great!’ Nancy shouted
back cheerfully, before I could respond.

Rats: some help would have been fantastic. Still, I shrugged and
tried to look as though I cavorted in small rivers for fun.

He was definitely laughing now. ‘Right, okay then,
I’ll leave you to it.’