Saving Saffron Sweeting (12 page)

Her friend asked for the same and then yawned as she said, to no
one in particular, ‘I could sure use some caffeine this
morning. The kids were too excited to sleep.’

I looked around for more children. Perhaps they were tied up
outside, like dogs?

‘They’re in school,’ Mary Lou said to me,
‘where mine should be.’

‘I enjoyed what I saw of the fireworks,’ I said
pleasantly. ‘I wish I’d been there.’

‘We had quite a crowd,’ said Mary Lou’s
friend.

‘Where were they held?’ I asked.

‘The field next to that deserted barn. The sad-looking
one,’ said Mary Lou.

‘The malt house,’ said Brian. He had poured a total
of four coffees and set them on the counter.

‘Such a pity, history just falling apart.’ Mary Lou
paid for her drinks. ‘Do you have any sweetener by chance?
Randy, stop that.’

Brian searched behind the counter and came up with a couple of
dog-eared sachets. ‘It’s been like that for a
while,’ he said. ‘The village doesn’t have the
funds to restore it.’

‘Well, too bad,’ said the friend. ‘England has
so much awesome architecture. Mary Lou, are we still heading to
Waitrose in Newmarket?’

Mary Lou grabbed hold of Randy by his shirt collar.
‘Don’t forget to join us, Tuesdays at the pub,’
she called to me, as the four of them jostled their way out of the
bakery.

Brian sighed. ‘I wish the village was a bit friendlier to
them,’ he said.

‘Well, her boy is a bit of a tearaway,’ I replied in
polite understatement.

‘No, I mean all the new families. The Sweeting shops are
struggling and it would be so nice if they shopped here rather than
in Newmarket.’

‘Things aren’t so bad, surely?’

He looked down at the floor. ‘They’re not good,
Grace. So many people just get in their car and go to Tesco’s
or Sainsbury’s for everything. Violet would never tell you
this, but she’s been threatened with closure at least
twice.’

Poor Brian. ‘Sorry to hear it.’ I eyed the sausage
rolls and decided I would play my part in supporting the local
economy. ‘Amelia’s so frantically busy, I thought
things must be going well.’

‘We like Amelia … but she’s the exception
that proves the rule around here. And she’s pretty determined
when she has to be.’

What did that mean? Had Amelia trodden on some toes in the
village?

‘Speaking for myself,’ he continued, ‘business
rates just keep going up and the insurance is horrendous.
Apparently, other bakers keep getting sued for allergies.’ He
furrowed his brow.

I asked for the sausage rolls and as he put them in a bag, Brian
said, ‘I wonder what would keep the gaggle of mums in the
village, rather than going to Newmarket.’

‘You could try free refills,’ I joked.

‘Come again?’ He looked surprised.

‘Er, I meant that coffee shops in the States often give a
second cup for free.’

‘Do they really? Good heavens.’

‘It encourages people to hang around. And buy something to
eat, of course. You’d probably need to put up the price of
the first cup, though.’

Brian looked thoughtful. ‘What else?’ He fixed his
gaze on me.

Oh dear, what had I started with my big mouth?

‘Oh, gosh, well, you know,’ I stalled. Whatever I
said next would probably offend him.

‘Yes?’ He wasn’t letting me off the hook.

Right then, in for a penny and all that. ‘Well, Mary Lou
wanted sweetener, so you should have some of that available. Maybe
over there, so people can help themselves.’ I gestured
towards the door. ‘And could you offer an alternative to
milk? Soy, perhaps?’

‘Soy … soy …’ he rolled the words
around a little. ‘Allergies again.’

I looked at my watch and realised that Amelia would not be
amused if I showed up late with cold coffee. It was time to make a
diplomatic retreat.

‘And how about a couple of tables outside? Umbrellas?
Cushions, even? That would be nice.’

I fled before he could tell me to take a running jump.

It was too good to last. For the first time
that I could remember, the fine weather held right the way through
Wimbledon, instead of turning disgusting for the second week. But
almost as soon as the last trophy had been presented, the wind
swung around to the north and things turned filthy. Every day
brought heavy clouds and dark downpours and The Plough switched its
special offer from strawberries to soup.

I tried to stay positive and, not having seen rain in California
since April, declared I was grateful for the onset of wet weather.
I found some polka-dot wellies in Marks and Spencer and gamely
planted a bucket under the leaking roof in my bedroom. The wistful
side of me, however, took melancholy delight in gazing out of the
misty cottage windows, as fat raindrops trickled down the
panes.

Unfortunately, no Willoughby appeared to console my Marianne
Dashwood sensibilities and I began to wonder whether forbidding
James from coming to see me had been such a clever move. Despite
outward assertions that my marriage was over, I wasn’t quite
ready to wish James and Rebecca a long
or
happy life
together.

‘I wanted a stove, not a space
ship.’ Nancy was peering at the oven in the kitchen of the
little house we were viewing.

Since we hadn’t found her somewhere to live the last time,
we were out again looking at properties, despite the ugly weather.
This time, the houses were modern, with unthinkable conveniences
like microwaves and tumble dryers.

As I joined her to examine the oven, I realised that the control
symbols were completely different from those used in the
States.

‘Well, even so, I think this is the one. It’s in
great condition.’ She stood up, apparently satisfied that
this house met her needs.

‘You like it?’ I was surprised.

We were in a modern cul-de-sac, on the edge of Saffron Sweeting.
The chalet bungalow with its smooth cream-painted walls and double
glazing wasn’t what she’d initially specified at all.
But I could see that a kitchen that didn’t threaten carbon
monoxide poisoning was a plus.

‘One thing I’ve learned is that when I’m
wrong, it’s best just to forget it and move on. Dwelling on
stuff rarely helps.’ She looked around contentedly. ‘If
I’d been stubborn about Hollywood’s idea of an English
cottage, I’d be washing my panties in the sink for the next
year.’

‘I love him to bits, but it’s so
blissful being able to go to the loo without a nappy
bag.’

A few days later, Jem and I met for tea at our favourite London
hotel. I don’t know which of us was more excited. She had
splashed out on a babysitter, and was relishing the freedom of
being able to navigate Tube station steps, go upstairs on a London
bus, and even go to the toilet without squeezing self, baby and
nappy bag around impossibly tight corners.

I, on the other hand, had missed both her and the English tea
experience desperately. Naturally, I had been to cute and cosy
Lovejoys in San Francisco and even dabbled with the splendour of
the Palace Hotel, but I had lacked a tea soulmate in the States.
James, to my eternal frustration, didn’t see the point of
eating between meals. He had tolerated our infrequent tea outings
with the same expression I wore for Giants baseball games. And, to
be blunt, a scone in San Francisco just didn’t taste the same
as one served in Piccadilly.

Jem and I had spent some time on the phone in an excited
discussion of which tea venue was worthy of this special occasion.
The Ritz was ruled out quickly, for being too glitzy and
ostentatious. Fortnums, I speculated, would be full of tourists and
hence disqualified for that reason alone. We both liked the
Dorchester, but our long-time favourite was the little-known Dukes
Hotel, hidden away in a tiny street next to Green Park. Small and
friendly, we loved that it was classy, but not so intimidating that
you couldn’t undo the button of your jeans if the generous
portions of sandwiches and pastries required it.

Apart from a couple of French ladies, we had the serene pale
blue Drawing Room to ourselves. We were working our way steadily
from top to bottom of the tiered cake plate, while tipping
limitless quantities of loose-leaf tea down our throats.

Over delicate sandwiches of mature Somerset cheddar and tomato,
cushioned between squishy white bread, we discussed my
brother’s well-being, which didn’t take long, and
Jem’s career concerns, which were more troubling.

‘So many women in the world don’t have careers,
I’m lucky to have a choice,’ she said. ‘Thing is,
I can’t imagine getting my act together enough to go back to
work, but staying home with Seb for the next five years scares me
witless too.’ She looked torn. ‘I feel like I should be
contributing to society.’

‘You are contributing, you’re raising Seb.’ I
wasn’t qualified to advise her, but I had seen enough of life
with a baby to know that getting everyone fed, dressed and out of
the door by eight each morning would be a mental and physical
miracle.

‘Could you do something part-time, maybe?’ I
asked.

‘I guess,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I could go
back on that basis, if I make a strong case.’ She dabbed with
her fingertip at the stray pieces of grated cheese on her plate,
before licking them off thoughtfully. ‘But I’m not sure
it’s fair on my team, if I’m always disappearing when
Seb’s ill.’

‘What does Harry think?’ I asked.

‘We haven’t talked about it properly. I suspect he
thinks I should go back to work.’

‘For the money?’

‘Well, the money would be nice, but more for my sanity,
actually.’

‘But he hasn’t said so?’

She shook her head and eyed up our tower of treats. The middle
tier beckoned with toasted teacakes and plump sultana scones.

‘Some evenings, I have absolutely no conversation to
offer, except the number of times Seb puked, or how loudly he
screamed. I’m not very brilliant company.’

‘Well, in my humble opinion, you should discuss it with
Harry. But I don’t think your first concern should be how
brilliant your company is. Do what’s best for you and
Seb.’ I followed her gaze to the scones.

‘Fair point.’ Jem nodded, then perked up as she
asked, ‘Do you think we can justify the clotted cream and
jam?’

‘Oh, absolutely. Well, it’s rude not to,
right?’ I sat up a little straighter and poured some more tea
for us, being careful with the hot handle of the silver teapot. For
once, I remembered to use the strainer too, so I didn’t fill
our cups with soggy tea leaves.

Jem sipped her Darjeeling and leaned back on the plush silk
sofa. Then she said kindly, ‘You’re looking brighter,
my friend.’

‘Am I? Oh.’ For the first time in ages my jeans felt
tight, which hardly seemed a good thing.

‘Well, for starters, I can’t get over your
hair.’

‘Oh. Thanks. Amelia sent me to her hairdresser in
Cambridge.’

The terrifying Jean-Claude had bullied me into an angled bob and
some lovely ash-blonde highlights. He knew his stuff: I felt
lighter and swooshier as a result. Right there, in his twirling
leather chair, I’d promised myself I’d go back
regularly.

‘And you seem more … peaceful. I’m thinking
that’s a good sign.’

Now Jem mentioned it, I realised I had been sleeping much
better. My skin looked healthier too.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘the last few nights have
been easier. Most mornings, I still wake up and calculate the time
in California and wonder what he might be doing. But at least
I’m no longer spending half the night thinking the same
thing.’

‘So, you’re feeling a tad better?’

I chewed my scone while I contemplated this. ‘The initial
shock has worn off. It’s sinking in now: what happened and
that my marriage is over.’ I swallowed. I’m not sure
I’d said those words out loud yet. Tears gathered at the back
of my eyes like ballet dancers backstage, but to my relief they
dispersed without fuss. I exhaled.

Jem said nothing, but touched my arm lightly and waited.

‘And then I upended my life by fleeing here,’ I
continued. ‘That was probably a bit crazy.’

‘No, you did what you had to do.’

‘As for the future, I’ve absolutely no clue,’
I said. ‘But I like the interim solution just fine. For
somewhere to tread water and work out what comes next, I did
okay.’

‘I’m dying to see Saffron Sweeting. We’ll come
and visit you next time.’

The waiter brought yet more tea and asked if we wanted anything
else. Only the delicate pastries on the bottom tier awaited our
attention.

‘That was amazing, better than a spa day. I’m in
scone-shaped bliss,’ Jem told him.

‘Thank you, madam,’ came the discreet reply.

‘Do you think they’ll mind if we take a quick
nap?’ I asked longingly, after we’d made valiant
attempts to polish off the mini chocolate eclairs and teeny
individual portions of apple crumble.

Jem looked at her watch reluctantly, probably calculating Tube
time back to Ealing and the babysitter’s hourly rate.

‘So … Grace,’ she said, ‘I didn’t
want to spoil our tea but you obviously have a right to
know.’

‘Know what?’ My thoughts of a quick ten minute nap
on the squishy sofa evaporated.

‘It’s just that James has called me a few times.
He’s been asking – well, pleading really, to get in
touch with you.’

‘Oh. Has he?’

‘You’re surprised?’

‘Um, I dunno. Maybe I thought he’d just give up on
me?’

‘Grace, you’re worth more than that.’ Jem
tutted and I made a little ‘maybe’ shrug.

‘It was kind of awkward, actually,’ she
continued.

‘Right, yes, sorry,’ I conceded. They had been
friends before this. All of my family had liked James – yet
it seemed the whole lot of us had been wrong about his character. I
added quickly, ‘You didn’t tell him where I am, did
you?’