Saving Saffron Sweeting (13 page)

‘No, don’t worry, I just said that it was up to you
when you made contact with him. And that you’re fine,
obviously.’

‘Thank you so much.’ We hugged awkwardly, partly
because we’re British and somewhat reserved, but mainly
because we were so full of calories.

We said goodbye at Green Park station and I
hopped on the Piccadilly line to King’s Cross. The evening
rush hour was starting and I allowed myself to be swept up in the
zealous herd making their exit from London. I was glad to match
their brisk pace, not pausing until I had tucked myself into a
precious corner seat on the commuter train to Cambridge.

But then, as we rocked and rolled our way through grimy London
suburbs, small towns and eventually green fields, I pondered our
tea and Jem’s news. Was my self-esteem so low that I was
surprised James had been trying to contact me? Did I really think
the man who had looked into my eyes and promised
Till death us
do part
wouldn’t want to know where his wife was? I had
steeled myself for the possibility that if he was in love with
Rebecca, he’d be too swept up with her to worry about me. Yet
here he was, trying to make contact.

Of course, talking to him was pointless because I had absolutely
nothing to say.

Did I?

July drew on: the cow parsley grew ever taller
and inbound families felt the urgency of settling into new homes
before school started again. I wasn’t even looking beyond the
end of the summer; for once in my life, I was living firmly and
busily in the present.

My enthusiasm for looking at houses – big, small, and
quirky – was undiminished. I had showed up nervously at the
pub for lunch with Mary Lou’s gang and been rewarded with an
extrovert, friendly group of women. These personal connections had
led to me selling a couple more homes to American transplants.
Amelia was pleased, and we increased my hours. Money was still
tight, but free rent was a blessing. I was almost living within my
means, not counting the loan from my parents to buy a car when the
rental company had demanded the return of their yellow peril.

To Amelia’s exasperation, I was now driving an old white
VW Beetle, acquired from a chicken-keeping friend of mum’s.
The elderly friend, suffering from cataracts, had given up driving
after a ‘teensy incident’. This unfortunate occurrence
turned out to be the traumatic squishing of one of her own flock.
Amelia christened it my murder-mobile, which I thought was a bit
strong, considering the glee with which she guzzled chicken and
chips at the pub.

Of course, the Beetle didn’t exude the kind of
Mercedes-driving success that Amelia herself favoured, but my
American clients declared it was wonderful, praising the vintage
‘European’ style. Even so, many of them were reluctant
to actually ride in it, preferring to drive themselves to our
viewings.

My loneliest time of day was the evening, after I’d made a
simple dinner, cleared up the kitchen and found my body was weary
but my mind still alert. This was when I missed snuggling with
James on the sofa, my head on his shoulder as we scrolled idly
through the latest offerings from Netflix. The gap beside me each
evening was echoed by the hollow space in my chest.

So, at first I found it ironic, then amusing, then welcome, that
Mungo the crazy spaniel found his way to my cottage with increasing
regularity. Sometimes, he was there when I got home from work,
panting as he lay on the doormat in the evening sun. Other
evenings, he arrived with laser-like precision just as I had
finished dinner and was wondering whether leftovers were worth
keeping. These I denied him, as his illicit visits made me feel
guilty enough and I didn’t want to add to his incentive.
Whatever his reasons, he kept coming and as the July evenings began
to shorten a little, he decided his favourite place was on top of
my feet in my basic but comfortable living room.

A couple of weeks after I’d met Jem for
tea, I arrived outside the Hargraves office one Tuesday morning and
got the nebulous impression that something was different. I scanned
our facade to see what was amiss. Then I realised my eye was
telling my brain to notice the reflection in the window. Behind me,
over the road at the bakery, two tables, a cluster of chairs and
– yes – yellow umbrellas had mushroomed. A blackboard
proclaimed
NEW!
and its swirly text promised not only
Free Refills
but also
Free Wi-Fi
.

Crikey, I thought, Brian took my advice. Pride swirled through
my toes and up my legs, but by the time it reached my knees,
apprehension took over.

I skipped our coffee pick-up and went directly inside. Amelia
was already there, checking her messages.

‘What’s up?’ she asked distractedly.

‘I’m feeling the guilt of interfering with
Brian’s business.’ I threw my car keys on my desk,
turned on the computer and sat down heavily.

‘Why, what did you do?’

I told her about my chirpy suggestions for bringing some Seattle
coffee house chic to Saffron Sweeting. ‘What if
nobody’s interested and Brian’s wasted his
money?’ I fretted. ‘Or even worse, what if everyone
buys just a cup of coffee, blags endless refills and camps out with
their laptops all day?’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like the end of the
world,’ Amelia laughed and threw several sticky notes of
messages in my direction. ‘And even if you gave advice, it
was up to Brian whether or not to take it.’

I humphed, my face of impending doom still intact.

‘Grace,’ Amelia shook her head at me impatiently,
‘you fret too much, darling.’

It was close to lunchtime when I returned from showing a
far-too-small house to a family with four little girls and a baby
boy (had they kept going until the longed-for son arrived?). As I
parked the Beetle, I was pleased to see a couple of women occupying
one of the bakery tables. One of them even had a laptop. Were they
having some kind of business meeting? That struck me as a little
high-powered for Saffron Sweeting. No offence, but this was hardly
Palo Alto’s simmering cauldron of innovation and venture
funding.

With stomach rumbling, I was forced across the road to face the
music.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Brian greeted me. ‘Like the
changes I’ve made?’

A delicious scent of coffee assailed my nostrils. Had he been
grinding it this morning?

‘Well, gosh …’ I was hesitant. ‘It
looks great out there.’

He nodded. ‘Yesterday and this morning were both extra
busy.’ He inclined his head towards the serve-yourself milk
and sugar by the door. ‘The refills seem popular –
probably made a loss on those today …’

Oh. Why hadn’t I kept my big mouth shut, instead of idly
throwing out my opinion? I clearly had zero business sense, now
proven on two continents.

‘… which is fine by me, as the cakes and savouries
have more than made up for it,’ he added cheerfully.

‘Really?’
Really?

‘Yup. Had to bake a second batch of most
things.’

‘Oh!’ I didn’t know what to say, but if
I’d had a tail, I would have wagged it. ‘Well, once
people taste your stuff, of course they’ll buy more.’ I
recovered my manners.

‘And tell their friends, hopefully,’ he said, then
broke off to serve another customer.

I selected an egg mayonnaise sandwich from the chiller cabinet
and made a tactful retreat.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ Amelia
commented, as I plunked myself in my chair and attacked my
lunch.

‘Brian says people like his new offerings.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘So I take it impending
disaster is averted?’

I chewed in silence.

‘Told you it wasn’t worth getting your knickers in a
twist.’ Amelia waved her hand airily as she picked up the
phone. ‘But I’m pleased. The better the local
businesses do, the better it is for house prices.’

‘And it’s terrific for Brian too,’ I reminded
her.

‘Hmm? Oh yes. Terrific.’ She was already dialling
her next prospect.

‘Don’t take this the wrong
way,’ I said, ‘but lots of older people haven’t
forgiven Mrs Simpson for seducing our king. You’re
implicated, simply because of your nationality.’

To my relief, Nancy just laughed, and asked for clarification of
Prince Harry’s chances of getting on the throne. She
didn’t seem to have noticed any animosity towards the
Americans in Saffron Sweeting.

Considering Nancy had a demanding job and was also having an
intellectually passionate fling with a Cambridge professor, I saw
her around the village surprisingly often. We had met up at The
Plough for a Friday night drink and, since the rain had eased for a
few days, we’d agreed we should seize our chance to sit in
the garden. Happily situated at a picnic table next to an apple
tree, my clumsy attempt to explain succession rights within the
Royal Family had accounted for the disappearance of our first glass
of wine.

Since our arrival, more customers had trickled into the pub
garden and, judging by the deep-fried smell now wafting from the
kitchen, food service had begun. I wondered if I could talk Nancy
into staying for another drink and something to eat.

‘Well, hello, how are you?’ came a friendly
call.

I looked up to see Lorraine from the bed and breakfast advancing
across the grass. I introduced her to Nancy and invited her to join
us.

‘Oh, thanks, no, my brother’s inside getting drinks,
he’ll be out in a minute. With his kids – they’re
a bit of a crowd.’ She laughed. ‘Nobody’s staying
tonight, so I seized my chance for an evening out.’

I explained to Nancy that I had been a guest at Oak House for my
first few nights in the village.

‘Actually, Grace, I’ve got a bone to pick with
you.’ Lorraine raised a finger as if to waggle it at me, but
didn’t quite go that far.

‘I stopped at the bakery to get tomorrow’s
bread,’ she continued, ‘and they’re all sold out.
Croissants, pastries, all of it. Gone.’

I didn’t know what to say – how could this be my
fault? I hadn’t been near the bakery today.

Lorraine twinkled at me. ‘Brian is singing your praises.
He says you suggested a few changes and they’ve made a world
of difference.’ She lowered her voice a little.
‘Apparently, he’s selling twice as much to the
Americans as he ever did to the Brits.’

Nancy looked intrigued. I just looked embarrassed, then felt
thankful as a male version of Lorraine and three small children
spilled out of the pub into the garden.

But I wasn’t quite off the hook yet. Lorraine’s next
words bowled me for six.

‘So I was wondering,’ she said brightly,
‘since so many of my guests are American, can you come and do
the same for me?’

This was the last thing I’d been
expecting. My mouth dropped far enough to catch any summer flies
buzzing around the pub garden.

‘Well, um, I don’t know.’ How could I manage
this tactfully? Oak House bed and breakfast had been a friendly
place to stay, but it did have room for improvement. ‘Have
you had advice from anyone else?’ I asked Lorraine.

‘No, unless you count what people put in the
visitors’ book. That can get lively.’ She laughed.

Lorraine apparently had the thick skin that was necessary to
welcome strangers into her home.

‘I’m really not sure I’m qualified.’ I
started to wriggle out of her request, then felt a kick on my shin.
Surprised, I looked across the table at Nancy. Sure enough, she
widened her eyes in mock innocence and began humming
meaningfully.

‘Could you just come over for a cup of tea and let me know
what you think?’ Lorraine’s tone was almost pleading
now.

I remembered guiltily what Brian had said about businesses
struggling in the village.

‘Well, if you think I can help …’

‘Oh, that’s terrific, thanks so much. How’s
next Thursday for you?’

Amelia was a fabulous negotiator, sticking
strictly to the principle that in a real estate transaction, the
person in a hurry pays the price. I had seen her wrangle for days
over the fine points of a deal, then pull her client away
cheerfully if the terms weren’t to her liking. At that point,
the other side usually caved in.

‘They get invested, darling,’ she had told me
sanguinely. ‘Once people have put a lot of time and effort
into something, they have a tough time backing out
altogether.’

I had stored this piece of information away for future use,
wondering if James’s zeal to get in touch with me stemmed
from his long-time investment, or just stubbornness.

But another reason for Amelia’s success was research and
preparation. She seemed to know the local real estate market back
to front, and never missed an opportunity to delve her nose into
details of a transaction.

‘Fancy a little excursion?’ she asked me.
‘There’s a property auction tomorrow and I’m
planning to go.’

‘Ooh,’ I said, ears alert. ‘Are you buying
something for a client?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Just want to see how
the cookie crumbles.’

‘I’d love to come,’ I said, picturing an
auctioneer in a tweed jacket and ruddy-cheeked bidders in green
Wellington boots. ‘Can we both be away from the
office?’

She consulted her computer screen. ‘Looks like it starts
bright and early. We’ll be back here by eleven.’

Located in a cluster of tastefully converted
farm buildings on the road to Grantchester, the auctioneers were
clearly making a tidy profit from their dealings. Half barrels
overflowing with red geraniums marked the entrance to the car park
and the way into the auction room itself. There were no tweed
jackets or Wellingtons in sight and the clientele had arrived in
gleaming Range Rovers rather than muddy Volvos. In fact, there were
rather too many fancy cars for Amelia’s liking. The manicured
gravel parking area appeared full, and a helpful
Overflow
sign pointed to the adjacent field.