Saving Saffron Sweeting (4 page)

‘You made it! Come in, dear, come in!’

The owner of Oak House appeared to be in her mid fifties. She
had shoulder-length grey hair pulled back by a wide band, and a
rosy complexion. I thought it was highly promising that she was
wearing an apron in the early afternoon.

‘Did you drive far? Your room’s all ready.’
She didn’t pause to allow me to say anything, so I lugged my
suitcase into the large hall and looked around discreetly. The old
house had a solid, comforting feel. A heavy wooden staircase was in
front of me, and to one side a grandfather clock ticked solemnly.
Through an open doorway, I could see a formal sitting room. From
here, a tortoiseshell cat dashed across the black and white tiles
of the hall, then disappeared. Best of all, my nostrils detected
both furniture polish and baking cookies. This place certainly had
reassuring potential for the next forty-eight hours.

‘I’m Lorraine,’ she beamed at me now, offering
me the visitors’ book to sign.

‘Grace Palmer,’ I replied, although I think she
already knew that from the phone call.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Grace. I hope
you’ll have a wonderful stay with us.’

I was grateful she didn’t ask what brought me to the
village. I needed to practise my explanation, before it was ready
for general consumption.

Instead, she continued in a business-like manner, ‘What
time would you like breakfast in the morning? Is between eight and
nine all right?’

‘Fine, yes, thanks.’ I made a mental note to set my
alarm clock, as jet lag was always worse for me the second night
than the first.

‘Righty-ho. Lovely. Let’s go on up.’

By American standards, my room was not luxurious. The bed was a
small double which sagged alarmingly when I sat on it, and there
was no sign of a television or radio. The en-suite bathroom was
absolutely minuscule: I had to squeeze around the door and then
found it necessary to sit side-saddle on the toilet. However, the
bedroom had a pretty view of a field behind the house and the decor
wasn’t bad, especially if Lorraine had been aiming for a
floral English look. I was pleased to discover a tin of home-made
shortbread on the tea tray, which explained the enticing aroma
downstairs.

Even more delightful was the basket of magazines in the corner,
including copies of
Ideal Home
and
Country
Living
. I had left California in too much of a hurry to bring
any of my precious design magazines and I was already regretting
it. Later, I would probably curl up in bed and mentally redecorate
the room, weighing the merits of Laura Ashley compared with Cath
Kidston.

For now, though, I decided a walk around the village would be a
good plan. I had booked into Oak House for two nights without any
idea what Saffron Sweeting looked like. This seemed a good time to
find out.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Saffron Sweeting,
though not postcard pretty, wouldn’t bring shame on any
tourist brochure. As I walked from Oak House towards what looked
like the village centre, I passed a number of attractive cottages
and a few larger, detached homes, before coming to a crossroads by
a small pond. Here, the village sign, depicting agricultural
activity, was set proudly into a millstone. My arrival caused noisy
excitement amongst the resident ducks, who made a fuss in
anticipation of food. Some offended waddling and tail-shaking then
followed, when it became apparent I had nothing to offer.

To my left, I spotted a medieval-looking church a short way up a
slight hill, complete with yew trees at its gate. Most of
Cambridgeshire is pancake flat, so a hill of any size is a big
deal. I chose instead to carry on, past what I assumed was the
vicarage, curiously located right next door to a pub, The Plough.
Surprisingly, I found I was hungry again, but, like the ducks, I
was out of luck, as the pub was closed for the hours between lunch
and evening. I passed a couple of gorgeous pint-sized cottages,
where pink hollyhocks bloomed beside stone front steps, but
couldn’t see any sign of a cafe or food shop.

Despite the pleasantness of the street, the whole village seemed
strangely quiet, with just the occasional cooing of a wood pigeon.
Either Saffron Sweeting was enjoying a Mediterranean-style siesta,
or the economy was hurting. Spotting a woman walking her dog, I
called out to her.

‘Excuse me – is there anywhere I can buy something
to eat?’

She looked at her watch, as her golden Labrador came to greet me
and shove its nose in unwelcome places.

‘Well,’ she replied, ‘the bakery should still
be open.’ She gestured to a road on my right.
‘Otherwise, the post office is your only option.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, untangling myself from the
Labrador’s lead and crossing the street briskly to turn in
the direction she’d pointed. I’d never heard of post
offices serving lunch before and wasn’t going to explore that
suggestion today.

This new road yielded a small bank on the corner, which, from
the sign advising all customers to use the Newmarket branch, seemed
to be completely closed. Next to that was an adorable
terracotta-coloured thatched cottage, declaring itself to be the
Old Forge, and then a tiny estate agency. I peeked in the window
just long enough to ascertain that prices here were as crazy as in
the Bay Area, but presumably without the luxury of two-car garages
and walk-in closets.

And then, opposite, I spied a brick shop with a big bay window
and a faded
Sweeting Bakery
sign above the door. I
wondered how a village this size, which clearly wasn’t
thriving like Saffron Walden, could sustain such a business.
Nonetheless, here it was and that was fine by me.

Five minutes later, I sank onto the bench by the duck pond, with
a ham sandwich for me and a loaf of yesterday’s bread for the
ducks. They showed their appreciation with a riot of quacking and
flapping, during which the prettiest one narrowly missed pooping on
my foot. I resisted the temptation to talk to them, noting the
irony of my transformation from happily married Californian
entrepreneur to crazy lady scoffing carbs and making friends with
birds.

Suddenly, I felt really alone and questioned whether I was
coming unhinged. Not wanting to be in the same room as James was
one thing, but fleeing to a random English village was surely a
little weird. In my shock and confusion over my husband’s
affair, I had put my hands over my ears and galloped away from my
problems. Now, I had temporarily stopped running, but the pain had
pursued me and seemed to be settling itself firmly on my
shoulders.

For the first time since discovering I was the third person on a
bicycle made for two, I had an urge to hear my mother’s
voice. I reached into my bag and pulled out my new phone.

‘637939.’ My father followed the old-fashioned
convention of answering with their number.

‘Hi, dad, it’s me.’ My voice was far stronger
than I felt.

‘Gracie! Hello, pet!’

‘How’s things?’ This was my standard greeting,
whether five thousand miles away or fifty.

‘Oh, we’re grand. And you? It’s early,
isn’t it?’ My dad has a mathematical mind and he was
correct: it wasn’t yet seven in California. Or did he have an
inkling that I was no longer in that time zone?

‘Well, um, yes, that’s why I’m phoning. Is mum
around?’

‘Yes, hang on, I’ll get her. NOR-AH!’

I instinctively held the phone away from my ear before this
shout, aimed at my mother whose hearing is much better than dad
realises. He is getting pretty deaf himself and tends to assume
everyone else needs a higher volume too. Likewise, I heard his
barely concealed announcement that it was me on the phone.

‘Hello, poppet!’ My mother sounded her usual chirpy
self.

I gulped, emotion welling up as the reality of the last five
days infiltrated my armour of denial. I was determined not to start
crying; or at least, not yet. I looked up instead at the horse
chestnut tree which shaded the bench and tried to focus on the
barely-formed little fruits.

‘Hi, mum.’ Good, my tone was reasonably steady.

‘Are you in England?’ She came straight to the
point.

‘Yeah.’ The ducks were looking for second helpings,
eyeing my barely touched sandwich. I took a long breath. ‘You
know I’m here?’

‘Yes, love, we knew you were on your way. James
phoned.’

I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Uh, did he?’

What had he told them? Surely not:
I’m a lying scum
bag who cheated on your daughter and she’s left me.
They
had been so thrilled when James and I got married, and as far as I
was aware, they hadn’t changed their minds since.

‘That’s right. Yesterday. He asked if you’d
arrived.’

Ouch. ‘Really?’ My mind was racing, trying to deal
with a conversation that had more spin on it than a first serve at
Wimbledon.

‘He said you were feeling a bit down and you thought
England might cheer you up. Lovely idea, June’s such a nice
month.’

My mouth was dry. ‘Was that all he said?’

‘Oh, and that he’s sorry he couldn’t come on
the same flight as you, but he’s managed to finish things at
work now. He said he’ll be arriving here the day after
tomorrow.’

I swear I hadn’t meant to kick that poor
duck. I’m not an animal abuser or anything sinister.
It’s just that I sprang to my feet when my mum dropped this
bombshell, and I hadn’t realised a female duck was pecking
about under the bench, hoping to find fallen morsels. She gave an
outraged squawk, shook herself from beak to webbed feet, and huffed
her way back to the safety of the pond. I kept an eye on her for a
few minutes and am pretty sure no lasting damage was done.

I finished the conversation with my mum as quickly as I could,
still not prepared to tell her the full story. Instead, I told a
white lie and implied I was still in London. I hinted that I wanted
a couple more days to catch up with Jem and Harry, plus time for
some shopping, before I headed to sleepy Norfolk. Mum seemed to
accept this, or, if she did smell a rat, she was diplomatic enough
to say nothing. I knew I’d have to fill my parents in soon,
but meantime I had a bigger problem on my hands: I desperately
wanted to stop James coming.

I looked at my watch: still early in California, but it was
hardly my problem if I woke him up. A kick in the gut reminded me
he might not even be at home, but curled up instead in the purple
love nest with Rebecca. With tears in my eyes, I punched out his
number, only to hang up immediately as I realised I didn’t
want him knowing how to reach me.

Sighing, I walked the few minutes back to the village and found
a phone box near the post office. It was the traditional kind, red
with little windows, which at one time had been sentenced to death
by British Telecom. Clearly, this one had been spared. I squeezed
inside, lined up a stack of coins, and took a deep breath.

‘It’s me,’ I said when James answered, hoping
he wouldn’t have to ask who
me
was.

‘Grace! Hi!’

Did he sound pleased? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t sound
especially sleepy, but nor did I get the sense I’d
interrupted anything.

‘Um, how are you?’ James adjusted his voice to be
more neutral.

‘I’m okay,’ I replied. A huge pause followed.
I had absolutely no idea what to say next and in any case was
fighting a lump the size of Windsor Castle in my throat.

‘I’m glad you called. I’ve been worried about
you,’ he said.

You weren’t worried about me when you screwed Rebecca, I
thought bitterly. Aloud, I managed a more dignified, ‘I told
you, I just need some time to think.’

‘I spoke to your mum. I told her I’m coming
over.’

‘I know. Please don’t.’

‘But Gruff, look, I can’t just sit here and do
nothing. I need to talk to you.’

Did he realise he’d just called me by the pet name only he
used?

We’d met in my first term at Durham, accidentally bumping
trays in the canteen one evening. James seemed shy and his attempts
at flirting were dismal, but Jem had taken one look at my blushing
face and had moved away to sit with the girls of the college rowing
team. During a drunken late-night philosophy session with friends,
we’d created nicknames for each other based on characters in
children’s books. Jemima was unlucky – she got lumbered
with Puddle-Duck. I, apparently, resembled a Gruffalo. Fourteen
years later, James still called me the same thing, but he never
embarrassed me with it in public.

‘We’re talking now, aren’t we?’ I fed
the phone a few more fifty pence pieces.

‘Yes, but we haven’t … I mean I haven’t
explained. I want to make it up to you.’

White-hot pain rushed into my head. I couldn’t believe he
was treating his affair so lightly. ‘What? You can’t
just make it up to me! You slept with someone else.’ I was
gripping the phone so tightly, my fingers were cramping.
‘It’s not like forgetting a birthday or
something.’

‘Please … I’m
so
sorry. I thought
– well, if I came over, we could spend some time together and
work this out.’

‘Smooth it over and forget it? Not likely,’ I
snapped back. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in you coming.
I’m not staying with mum and dad.’

‘Oh. You’re in London, then?’

‘No. I’m not telling you where I am. I want to be on
my own for a bit.’ My voice was jerky from tears now.
‘Can’t you understand that?’

He seemed to consider this. ‘Okay,’ he sighed.
‘If you need space, I owe you that. But please, don’t
shut me out. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll
come.’

‘All right,’ I said. The phone started beeping for
more money and since it had already gobbled half the daily output
of the Royal Mint, I decided our conversation was over. Just as I
hung up, I think I heard him say
I love you
, but I’m
not sure.