Saving Saffron Sweeting (16 page)

Our weak area was science and technology. Judging by the groans
that greeted these questions, this was a failing the other teams
shared. By contrast, as the only person in the room with a biology
PhD, Nancy was much celebrated by her accomplices.

The quiz was boisterous but light-hearted. I was surprised to
discover how the clock had advanced while we had been busy
drinking, thinking and munching Twiglets. Fifty questions resulted
in a tie between Nancy’s team and a group of Cambridge
graduate students who had infiltrated the event. Unhappily for
them, the tie-breaker was to name all the US presidents who had
died in office. The Cambridge grads put up a good fight, but
floundered after the three juiciest assassinations and FDR. As
Nancy told me later, ‘I’ve always been a sponge for
facts like that. We had those names drilled into us in grade
school.’ She aced the question and Amelia presented Marks and
Spencer vouchers to Nancy and her exuberant teammates.

As the quiz participants dispersed, I heard Marjorie debating
with Eddie which of them had had less to drink. I too was wondering
whether I was under the limit to drive home. Then she turned to me
to say goodbye.

‘Very nice to meet you, Grace. Lorraine told me
she’s looking forward to making the changes you
recommended.’

Peter overheard this. ‘Aha!’ His expression became
animated and he turned to me. ‘The penny’s just dropped
– that was you?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘It makes perfect
sense now. Good for you.’

I still felt shy about the advice I had given Lorraine. In the
hope of escaping the conversation tactfully, I joined Nancy at the
bar. But it seemed the topic was a hard one to shake off.

‘How was your visit to the bed and breakfast?’ she
asked immediately.

I told Nancy a little about my morning at Oak House and how much
I’d enjoyed it.

‘I undercharged her, of course. I was so surprised to be
offered money at all; I thought I was simply doing a neighbourly
favour.’

Nancy laughed and tore open a pub-sized bag of peanuts.

‘Amelia was cross with me,’ I continued. ‘She
huffed and puffed and gave me a lecture on valuing
myself.’

‘I read something about women having a hard time talking
about money.’ Nancy munched on her nuts.

‘It was just such a shock. I’d enjoyed the morning
and then she wanted to pay me for it.’

‘Grace, that’s how work is supposed to be.
Enjoyable, I mean, and doing what you’re good at, for
money.’

It didn’t sound so bizarre when Nancy said it. Why did it
feel so strange to me, then?

‘Talking of work,’ I said, ‘you were
impressive tonight.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she laughed. ‘Too
bad none of my countrymen are here – that would have been
much fairer.’

‘Apparently, they weren’t invited.’ I was only
half joking.

‘Are you driving home?’ Nancy asked.

‘Whoops, can you tell I’m squiffy?’ I giggled.
‘No, I’ll leave the car here and walk.’

‘I can drive you,’ she said. ‘I only had a
glass.’

Nancy shifted her gaze to my left shoulder and smiled politely.
I realised Peter had joined us at the bar and introduced them.
Thankfully, I wasn’t so tipsy that I couldn’t remember
his name. Nancy gave him a quick once-over, taking in his floppy
brown hair and friendly face. He wasn’t quite the local Ewan
McGregor I had joked about, but he wasn’t bad at all.

‘Do either of you ladies need a lift home?’ he asked
us.

‘No thanks, I think we’re good,’ Nancy
replied.

‘Well, in that case, I’ll wish you a pleasant
evening.’ He turned from us before apparently remembering
something. ‘Er, sorry.’ He swallowed. ‘Grace,
could I trouble you for your phone number?’

‘Really? I always thought he was
gay.’

I blinked slowly and stared at Amelia. Whether or not she liked
a drink, she was far more alert than me this morning.

‘Sorry?’ My grey matter struggled to catch up.

‘Peter. I thought he had a boyfriend. Partner.
Whatever.’

Oh, shoot me, now.

Nancy had driven me home, affirmed that she found Peter
attractive, and airily dismissed my protests that it was far too
early to think about going out with someone.

‘Grace, honey, you’re not getting engaged to him.
He’s cute. See what happens.’

‘It’s just so unexpected,’ I’d said.

‘Well, it shouldn’t be,’ she’d laughed
at me. ‘You’re not going to be a nun for the rest of
your life, are you?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘Well, cross that off your list, babe. Did I mention
he’s cute?’

I’d thanked Nancy for the lift and made an unsteady
beeline for bed. I’d fallen asleep in mere seconds –
all that wine – but then found myself wide awake at 3 a.m.,
thinking about the evening and Peter asking me out. Shocked,
flattered and confused, I kneaded the questions around in my
mind.

Did I like him? Was I ready to start seeing someone? What were
the norms of dating these days? Was he too old for me? What would
James think? Why did I care what James would think? What would my
mother think? That last one was the most disturbing of all.

In short, I’d worked myself up into a tangled mess of
sheets, pillows and self-reflection. By the time the sparrows and
blackbirds started trilling outside my window, I was muzzy-headed
and irritated with myself. Possibly just a little hung-over
too.

Realising I had once again fallen victim to nocturnal
over-thinking, I’d taken a chilly shower, applied extra
under-eye concealer and affected a breezy air as I arrived in the
office with two large coffees. Slicing open the envelopes of our
morning post, I’d told Amelia about Peter chatting me up.

Now, her words sunk in. I wanted to crawl under my desk and
throw up, not necessarily in that order.

‘I think they run the antiques shop together. Partners in
both senses,’ Amelia continued.

‘Blimey,’ I groaned. ‘I – am –
so
–
embarrassed
.’

‘Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit green,
darling.’ She was looking at me with great amusement.

‘How could I –?’ I gulped and shook my head.
‘Thank God you told me!’ I put my forehead in my
hands.

‘Look, you weren’t to know.’ Amelia got up
from her desk to perch side-saddle on mine. ‘Easy mistake to
make.’

‘I can’t believe I was daft enough to think he
fancied me,’ I said, followed quickly by, ‘You
won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘I won’t tell anyone. But why shouldn’t men
fancy you? You’re lovely.’ Amelia nudged the letter
opener out of my reach.

Mortified, but not actually suicidal, I shook my head
mutely.

‘Yes, you are,’ she insisted. ‘I’m
pretty sure Brian has a crush on you, for starters.’

‘Brian? He’s married,’ I countered.

Amelia snorted indelicately. ‘Oh, and that stops them,
does it?’

Ouch. There was a short silence before I said quietly,
‘Low blow.’

‘Sorry, Grace, that wasn’t very sporting of me. But
really … which world do you live in?’ She hopped off
my desk and started to change the toner in the printer.

‘Yeah, okay. I get it. As for Peter, I’m still
absolutely humiliated.’

‘At least you didn’t dress up sexy and throw
yourself at him.’

‘True.’ That would have been too much to live
down.

‘Look on the bright side. Now you can spend all day
wondering what it is he wants.’

In fact, I had to wait almost a week for the
ironic truth. It was a perfect August evening when I parked the
white Beetle outside Peter’s antiques barn, but I was focused
on business, not pleasure. His eagerness to see me again had been
based on recommendations from Brian and Lorraine. Apparently, it
was common industry knowledge that Americans loved to buy antiques,
and Peter couldn’t understand why his sales weren’t
stronger.

‘Here you are! Thanks for coming!’ Peter came out of
the barn to greet me.

I had some difficulty meeting his eye, but reminded myself that
if Amelia and Nancy could be trusted, only the three of us knew of
my slip-up. James used to tease me that my gaydar was terrible, but
compared to some of the interior designers I had met in San
Francisco, Peter was anything but camp. Warm and kind, yes, but not
camp. He led me inside the barn, where another man was just
leaving.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I’m toddling
off.’

‘Grace, this is Giles, my co-owner,’ Peter said.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Giles shook my hand.
‘Peter’s over the moon that you’re
here.’

Okay, my gaydar was working just fine now. It wasn’t the
patterned pink and grey sweater Giles was sporting, nor was it his
tastefully trimmed moustache or the lilt in his voice: it was the
sum of these details and many more. Grace Palmer, I thought, you
nearly made a five-star idiot of yourself.

We said goodnight to Giles and I looked around the barn. While
my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my nose explored instead. I
inhaled a wonderful blend of beeswax, mahogany and history. There
were under-notes of camphor and leather. I breathed deeply and
contentedly.

‘Oh, there are some stories here,’ I said, once I
could see the array of treasures.

Amongst the large furniture were dozens of smaller items, all
begging to be touched. My first glance found a pile of patchwork
quilts, a wine crate full of printing blocks, and agricultural
tools sitting next to ancient, cracked suitcases. Open drawers
revealed bundles of postcards and silver spoons tied with black
ribbon. On the floor were cloudy glass chemistry jars and a worn
but dignified rocking horse. Looking up, I found vintage bunting
and even a garden gate hanging from a beam.

‘It’s fantastic,’ I said longingly. ‘I
could take most of it home with me, right now.’

Peter smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it. Giles and I buy
what takes our fancy, and we hope for the best.’

‘And … it isn’t going all that
well?’

‘No. Not considering our local market and what others in
the industry are saying.’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. I
tried to forget how inappropriately I’d been thinking about
that jaw just the other night.

‘We thought maybe it’s too untidy,’ he
suggested. ‘Too random?’

‘Hmm, I don’t think that’s the trouble.’
I shook my head. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I assume
most of your customers are browsing for things they
like
,
not things they
need
?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘I’m thinking it’s more likely to be your
marketing.’

‘Ah, right, yes. We did advertise in the post office
window – is that what you mean?’

Be tactful, Grace. ‘I think we can do better than
that.’

An hour later, we had brainstormed a dozen ways for Peter and
Giles to generate more interest. Their website was uninspiring, but
Peter said they simply didn’t have the skills or money to
keep it up to date. Instead, we decided they would create a page on
Facebook, and promote ‘new’ items with photos. They
were going to have a cheese and wine party at the barn, inviting
the whole village. And they would start offering free in-home
consultations.

‘I don’t think the Brits do this as much, but
Americans seem to like expert advice,’ I told him.
‘Everything from their taxes to where to hang their art. So
don’t be shy in telling your Yankee customers what they
need.’

‘Really? How interesting.’ He smiled at me.
‘And when we’re rushed off our feet, we’ll hire
you to do that part for us.’

He was kidding, I assumed.

‘You’ll need a photo album full of example pieces
for the consultations,’ I told him. ‘To show people
what you’re suggesting. Not everyone knows their Queen Anne
from their elbow. Start tearing pictures out of magazines too:
anything that might inspire people.’

‘Right, like a portfolio?’ Peter asked me.

‘Precisely. Now, what else?’ I was in full flood,
the ideas just kept coming. Peter was obviously highly intelligent,
but there was so much more he and Giles could do to promote
themselves. ‘You should get a sign out on the main road too.
Make it friendly:
Browsers Welcome.’

I had a further idea for promoting his business, but thought I
should discuss it with Amelia first.

Like Lorraine, Peter had been taking notes, in a lovely brown
leather portfolio on his desk. I couldn’t imagine James ever
owning anything so stylish. I said another silent thank you to
Amelia for saving me from total shame and ploughed on with my
ideas.

‘You take credit cards, don’t you? No? Okay, you
have to fix that.’ Too bossy? Hopefully not – he
didn’t seem to mind. ‘And you do free
delivery?’

‘Er, we don’t usually arrange delivery,’ Peter
said. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Well, put it this way. Picture an American wife, recently
arrived here, her husband’s at work, she’s bored,
she’s exploring all the English shops.’ I paused to
make sure he was still with me. ‘She finds a darling antique
console table for her new house, which will be perfect in the front
hall and impress her new friends. But there’s no way
it’ll fit in the boot of the ridiculously small English car
that she’s got stuck with.’ I took a breath.
‘Don’t you think we should make it as easy as possible
for her?’

Slowly but surely, Peter began to nod. ‘Brian was
right,’ he grinned. ‘You’re worth every
penny.’

Nancy and Mungo were engaged in a fervent
tug-of-war in my living room, doing battle over a tatty grey stick
he’d been treating like a best friend.

I was on the sofa with legs tucked under me, hunting through a
cookbook from the library. Nancy had hinted that she wanted to
learn to make an English roast, so she could impress the
super-discerning Elijah with a dinner invitation. Hence, there was
a lump of silverside in my fridge and I wasn’t sure what to
do with it. Despite my love of great food, I much prefer it when
someone else does the hard work.