Saving Saffron Sweeting (19 page)

Kenneth nodded amiably, but the insult wasn’t lost on me.
My mum uses that same adjective for my cooking.

I was propelled the short distance to the pub, where I was
teased mercilessly by everyone demanding a free glass of water. To
my relief, they all seemed to be ordering real drinks too. With my
trauma out of the way, I was enormously thirsty. I perched happily
on a velvet-covered barstool, watching the game of darts in the far
corner.

‘Do you give consultations?’ A man in a bow tie
approached me hesitantly.

‘She does,’ Amelia interrupted, beaming. Then she
named an hourly rate which would more than cover the cost of my new
outfit.

‘Thank you,’ said bow-tie man. ‘I’ll
keep that in mind.’ He wandered off.

I nudged Amelia in the ribs and hissed, ‘What are you
doing
?’

‘Sorry, darling, but you have to walk the talk. You just
told them all to offer a quality service and charge
accordingly.’ She drifted away, Pimms in hand.

I pondered my glass of iced juice and conceded privately she
might have a point. Brian breezed up to say hello and I thanked him
for his introduction, even though I hadn’t internalised a
word of it. Across the room, Peter was giving out fliers. Within a
few minutes, he arrived at the bar and presented one to me with a
flourish.

‘Your launch party!’ I was delighted to see he was
going ahead with the idea.

‘Next month,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s hope the
weather holds.’

‘May I have a few more? I’d like to put them out in
the estate agency.’

‘With pleasure.’ He gave me a stack. ‘Bring me
some of these infamous Americans and I’ll be your friend for
life.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ The ice cubes in my glass
clinked as I swirled it.

‘You gave a super talk, Grace.’ Peter waved to
someone, then turned back to me. ‘Even my mother
couldn’t find a bad word to say.’

‘Your mother?’ I was lost.

‘Yes. Mum. Violet. She runs the post office.’

Uh-oh. I had no idea Peter was Violet’s son. He was so
amiable, and she was so scratchy. My brain raced to remember
whether I’d said anything bitchy about her.

But before I could recall and apologise for any wayward remarks,
a fair-haired man in a crisp blue shirt appeared beside Peter. I
felt a jolt I couldn’t explain as I recognised Scott. Then,
seeing him order them both a pint, it crossed my mind he might be
competition for Giles.

‘Have you met Scott?’ Peter asked me. ‘Scott,
this is Grace.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hello again.’ Not witty
or original, but at least this time my clothes were dry and I
wasn’t bidding on random houses.

Scott passed one of the beers to Peter, then nodded and crinkled
his blue eyes at me. ‘I enjoyed your talk,’ he said.
‘Very revealing.’

How did he make that simple word sound so suggestive? And was he
really checking out my appearance? If so, the ruffled stretchy top
was to blame. This guy was certainly
not
competition for
Giles. Incapable of saying anything remotely clever, I blushed and
gazed at the ranks of inverted bottles behind the bar.

‘Scott lives in London.’ Peter came to the rescue.
‘But we’re old school friends.’

‘I do a lot of business in East Anglia,’ Scott
added, navigating the foam on his beer with skill. ‘I like to
harass Peter when I’m passing through. Sometimes, I let him
win at golf too.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Peter said amiably. Then, not
knowing Scott had already seen me with Amelia, added, ‘When
Grace isn’t giving speeches, she works at the estate
agency.’

‘And what is it you do?’ I recovered enough to ask
Scott. Was it my imagination, or had he been staring more than he
needed to? It had been such a long time since James and I had got
together, I was rusty at reading the signs. But in any case, after
my horrendous mistake with Peter, I was determined to assume a
business demeanour with every new acquaintance, especially the
good-looking ones.

‘I’m a property developer,’ he said.

That explained why he’d been at the auction and knew
Amelia. I wasn’t entirely sure what property developing was,
but I had a feeling it meant buying up green-belt fields, evicting
the cows and cramming in carbon copy houses. Cambridge residents
were always hungry for new housing, despite then sitting bumper to
bumper in traffic each morning to get into the city.

‘And we’re thrilled to see him circling around
Saffron Sweeting,’ Peter said with heavy sarcasm.

‘That’s not much of a welcome, is it?’ Scott
looked at me, eyes twinkling once again. As I had noted at the
auction, the only flaw in his handsome face was a nose that
wasn’t quite straight. I wondered whether he’d broken
it, and if so, how. Perhaps a brawl with a love rival?

I slurped the last of my juice inelegantly, but my throat was
still parched. What was wrong with me? I decided it must be the
happy outcome of my talk, hot on the heels of acute fear which had
nearly asphyxiated me. A big mug of tea would calm me down. I
looked for Fergus in the hope of persuading him to make me some
Typhoo.

My discomfort was alleviated by a blonde head bobbing through
the throng. Marjorie greeted me like an old friend and we found her
a stool. She was wearing a black jacket, black skinny jeans and
spiky heels, which made me think of Olivia Newton-John’s
final scene in
Grease
. Marjorie, of course, was
considerably older and much rounder, but she rocked the look, even
so.

‘Well, what a breath of fresh air you were,’ she
enthused. ‘Got those old fuddy-duddies talking, I can tell
you.’

‘In a good way, I hope?’ Scott asked.

‘Oh, I think so,’ Marjorie noticed him now, looked
away, and then sat up straighter. Involuntarily, she patted her
hair. So, I wasn’t the only one affected by nice teeth and a
suntan. ‘Things have been pretty dismal around here –
someone has to shake the village up a bit.’

‘Well,’ said Scott, leaning closer to Marjorie, but
looking straight past her towards me, ‘I can imagine Grace
would shake them up
very
successfully.’

That was it. I couldn’t sit there like an overheated lemon
any longer. I fled to the cramped ladies’ loo, where I ran
cold water on my wrists and prayed that my faulty thermostat would
recalibrate. I leaned on the sink and breathed carefully as I
examined my flushed reflection in the mirror.

What an evening. I had faced one of my biggest fears and come
out the other side. I had delivered my suggestions and sparked some
positive discussion. And yet, I knew that of all the people in the
village hall tonight, the one who had received the most vigorous
shaking was me.

‘You’re awfully quiet this
morning.’ Amelia had been on the phone since I arrived in the
office, but now she peered at me over her mug.

‘Hmm? Sorry,’ I said. ‘Still recovering from
last night.’ I had been pretending to update the Hargraves
website while I mulled things over.

My brain had a lot to process, but it was moving through the
preceding day’s events slowly, like an elderly visitor to an
art gallery. I was so relieved the talk was over. But if it was
helpful to the village, then good. Maybe someone would run with the
idea of Halloween festivities. And if we discovered butternut
squash soup on the menu at The Plough, even better.

As for Scott, I had learned my lesson with Peter. I wasn’t
going to leap to conclusions: probably, he’d been flirting
harmlessly. And even if he had intended more, it was still way too
early for me to contemplate a new relationship.

Yesterday had been one of those strange days that occasionally
punctuate life, but serve only as the spice, not the main dish. I
had done enough pondering recently. From now on, I was going to
live in the moment and focus on my work.

‘Argh, I completely forgot!’ I tapped myself on the
forehead with my knuckle.

‘What?’ Amelia looked up. She’d been reviewing
the August accounts and seemed to welcome a distraction.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you since I visited
Peter’s barn.’ I saved my web edits and turned to her.
‘I was thinking, it would help the village if we put together
a pack for new house buyers, with information on the local shops
and services.’

Amelia put her head on one side. ‘A welcome pack, you
mean?’

‘Yes. We could include some special offers,
maybe.’

‘Hmm. And Peter wants to be part of that?’

‘I didn’t ask him directly. I wanted to talk to you
first. But I think he would, yes.’

‘How much do you think he’d pay?’ She fiddled
with her calculator, turning it in circles that echoed the twirling
of her shoe.

Pay? I hadn’t expected this. ‘Er, I didn’t
think we’d charge. Just put a packet together to help promote
the other businesses.’

Amelia chuckled. ‘Well, I’m not providing free
advertising from the goodness of my heart, Grace.’

‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘But it’d be great for
the village. These new families – they have money to
spend.’

‘All the more reason Peter and friends can cough
up,’ she said crisply. Then, seeing my face, ‘All
right, I’ll think about it,’ and turned back to her
accounts.

I sighed and started phoning anyone who’d viewed a house
recently. Now that the school holidays were over, we were telling
buyers that if they got a move on, they could be in their new home
for Christmas. If they were American, I shortened the timescale to
Thanksgiving.

Later that afternoon, Amelia took a call.

‘Yes, she’s here,’ she said, ‘I’ll
transfer you.’ With the caller on hold, she said to me,
‘It’s Bernard somebody.’

Bernard? Had I shown a house to anyone called Bernard? I
didn’t think so.

‘Hello, Grace speaking.’

‘Ah, yes, good afternoon. We met last night after the
parish council meeting,’ said a plummy accent. ‘This is
Bernard Pennington-Jones. I’m the general manager of Saffron
Hall.’

Could this perhaps be bow-tie man? He had certainly looked like
a Bernard.

‘Are you familiar with Saffron Hall?’ he
continued.

‘Er, not really.’ Was that the rather
austere-looking place, further up the road past Nancy’s
house?

‘We’re a manor house on the road to Soham. Grade II
listed. Privately owned. We open for tours a couple of times a
month and do weddings in summer.’

‘I see,’ I said politely, not seeing at all.

‘And I was wondering if you would give us some of your
business expertise.’

Holy cow. Was this a wind-up?

‘Miss Palmer?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, pulling myself together and
wiggling my mouse to wake up my computer. ‘Just looking you
up on the internet.’

I found it. Wow, it was huge. There must have been twenty
windows in the front facade alone. Peach-coloured brick: a boxy,
elegant building. Gorgeous.

‘And you’re asking us to sell Saffron Hall for
you?’ I asked. If so, he shouldn’t be talking to me.
Amelia was without doubt the best woman for that job.

‘No, no – ha, ha!’

I don’t know how it’s possible to laugh with a posh
accent, but he managed it.

‘Goodness, no.’ He seemed entertained. ‘Not
yet, at least. But we’re having a spot of bother and I found
your talk last night fascinating.’

‘Okay,’ I said, to show him I was listening.

‘You see, we have a great deal to offer visitors, yet we
never seem to attract enough of them. I’m afraid we operate
rather in the shadow of Anglesey Abbey.’

I knew Anglesey Abbey, of course. A centuries-old priory, owned
by the National Trust, with extensive gardens and a working
watermill. Oh, and let’s not forget the tearoom.

‘So I’d like your advice on increasing visitor
numbers.’

This was way out of my league. ‘Mr –’ What was
his name? ‘Mr Pennington-Jones, I’m flattered, but I
can’t help.’

‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Yes, well, I understand.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just not
sure I have the expertise to tell you how to run your stately
home.’

‘That’s very honest of you, Miss Palmer. I
appreciate your integrity.’ He paused for a moment.
‘Nonetheless, may I offer you a free tour? Perhaps a spot of
lunch in the orangery?’

‘Oh.’ I thought about the peach brick and the
sweeping driveway. There wasn’t any harm in just going for a
snoop round, was there? ‘That’s really kind of
you,’ I said. ‘When would be convenient?’

It had been at least six weeks since I’d
seen Jem.

‘It’s like you’ve disappeared off to
Brigadoon,’ she’d complained. ‘What do I have to
do to see you – wait a hundred years?’

As a result, she was driving up with Harry and baby Seb for
lunch on Sunday. This was a fine plan, until my hapless brother let
it slip to my parents on the phone. At that point, I’d been
volunteered to host a family reunion.

‘You’ve chosen a perfect spot between here and
London,’ said my dad, ever practical. ‘Suits me –
can’t stand that North Circular.’

My mum was more effusive. ‘Poppet! What a lovely idea! We
haven’t all been together since you came back. And I’d
like to see this little village of yours.’

I knew better than to attempt to cook. On Thursday, I placed an
order with Brian that was almost big enough to finance his eldest
through university. On Saturday, I picked up two quiches,
ready-to-bake garlic bread and a Black Forest gateau. Then I made a
guilty trip to Waitrose in Newmarket for the rest of the groceries,
which Saffron Sweeting couldn’t supply.

Harry and Jem arrived first, with Seb asleep in his baby seat. I
hadn’t seen Harry in nearly a year, since before he became a
father. We hugged awkwardly – the Gilling family not being
good at outward affection – and he disappeared into the
living room in search of sport to watch. He re-emerged in annoyance
when he found I didn’t own a television, but then settled for
the general knowledge crossword.