Saving Saffron Sweeting (8 page)

Amelia was leaning against her desk, arms folded, looking stern.
Was I in trouble?

‘There you are, Grace,’ she said. ‘We need to
have a bit of a talk.’

So, I
was
in trouble, but I couldn’t quite think
what I’d done.

‘Are you still planning to stay in Saffron
Sweeting?’

‘Um, well, I’d like to, I suppose.’

‘Good.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘Ted and Betsy
just called. They’ve made a generous offer on that
house.’ The smile started in Amelia’s eyes and spread
rapidly across her face. ‘You’re hired.’

Amelia treated me to a fish and chip supper at
The Plough, which, considering the commission I’d just made
for her, was fair enough. It was a beautiful evening and we sat in
the garden, accompanied by the pleasant blended aroma of warm beer,
fried food and honeysuckle. It was early enough in the evening that
children were eating, not bickering, and early enough in the summer
that wasps weren’t climbing into everyone’s drinks. In
other words, it was as good as it gets in an English pub.

Amelia was demolishing her battered cod as though she
hadn’t eaten in three days. Actually, she was so busy, this
might be true. I was on my second glass of Sauvignon Blanc and
taking secret delight in my sudden success. Previously, I had felt
like an awkward thorn in Amelia’s side; now I was flavour of
the month and she was enthusiastic.

‘Grace, darling, you clearly have a bit of a talent for
this.’ She paused to take a swig from an enormous glass of
gin and tonic.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said modestly.
‘That house is so gorgeous, it basically sold
itself.’

‘Not true, they were eating out of your hand. Bloody
marvellous. So,’ she continued, ‘I need an assistant
and I’d like you to consider it.’

I dipped a chip in ketchup, smiled politely, and waited.

‘Not full time, and you’d have to do some of the
boring stuff in the office, but I’d like you to, well,
translate
for the Americans, show them that we understand
their needs.’ She waved her ring-adorned right hand
expressively. ‘The fact that you’ve lived there is
excellent.’

I couldn’t remember a time when someone had tried to
persuade me to work for them. Previously, it had been me doing all
the running, either applying for jobs with multiple other
grey-suited candidates or, recently, pitching my ideas for design
work, trying to sound confident and capable. Now, after just one
afternoon, Amelia was telling me I have a talent. This was a
pleasant change, but scary too.

‘The thing is,’ I replied, ‘I was sort of
planning to just take a few weeks while I think about what to do
with the rest of my life.’ I shrugged sheepishly. ‘You
know, my marriage and all that.’

‘I understand completely.’ She paused for a
respectable instant before adding briskly, ‘But you might as
well do something useful while you think. If you only help out for
a few weeks and then disappear back to California, I won’t
hold it against you.’

She was right: I couldn’t just sit around and mope. And
I’d been surprised how much fun it was to look around the
house and fantasise about how the other half lives.

‘But I haven’t found anywhere to live. I can’t
afford to stay at Oak House indefinitely.’

Amelia saw that I had placed my knife and fork together and
stole a few remaining chips from my plate. Technically, she was
overweight, but she didn’t seem to care. The curves suited
her well and her energy was attractive.

‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. I might be able to help
with that. But I need to make a couple of calls in the
morning.’

This was surprising news, based on her previous assessment of my
chances of finding accommodation. I smiled amicably but wondered
what she had in mind. Suspicious, I pictured myself in a sleeping
bag on the floor of her office, or in a tent by the duck pond.

‘Come into the office tomorrow morning,’ she
suggested – or commanded, I’m not sure which.
‘We’ll sort the details out then.’

I had to admire her headlong style. Where I saw only problems,
she cleared obstacles out of her path in favour of immediate
action. I was inclined to hesitate and deliberate, whereas she was
boldly blithe. I nodded my agreement.

‘Super!’ She picked up the menu with gusto.
‘Want to share a sticky toffee pudding?’

I slept badly that night, not helped by the
early June dawn and the cacophony of bird song which burst forth at
5 a.m. I snoozed for a couple of hours, tied the duvet in knots
around my feet, then phoned Jem for advice.

‘Hope it’s not too early,’ I apologised.

‘Don’t be daft, we’ve been awake for hours. At
least, Seb’s awake, I’m not fully conscious yet. Harry
just left for work.’

I pictured her glugging instant coffee in their little kitchen.
Then I told her what had happened yesterday.

‘So, she’s offering you a job and you’re in a
tizz about taking it.’

‘Yes. It just feels a bit sudden. I’m still such a
mess,’ I said.

‘But she’ll pay you to look at houses and translate
American?’

‘It looks like it. But not much, I expect. And I came here
to think, not work.’

‘Er, but the money would come in handy, right?’

‘Right, yes, it would.’ That was definitely
true.

‘And she’s not forbidding you from thinking at the
same time?’

‘Well, no, I suppose not.’

‘Grace, honey …’ Jem paused. ‘I mean
this very kindly, but honestly, what have you got to lose? Give it
a try.’

She had a great point. Compared with what I’d already
lost, this was nothing.

A little before we reached Mary Lou’s
house, Amelia turned left along a road I hadn’t yet explored.
Slowing almost immediately, she made another turn and bumped her
dark green Mercedes along what appeared to be a farm track. Through
a thick hedge on our left, I glimpsed a large but uninspiring
house. To our right was swaying cow parsley and a field which
contained a crop I didn’t know. After a couple of hundred
yards, we turned sharply left and Amelia parked the car on a rough
patch of gravel in front of a little cottage.

Originally of brick but now painted white, the cottage had
small, irregular windows. The dark slate roof was pitched at a
strikingly steep angle. At both ends of the cottage were tall
chimneys, neither of which looked perpendicular to the horizon. The
front door appeared to be no more than six feet tall, with its own
little pitched roof to protect it. On either side, a straggling
yellow rose clung to the wall. The overall impression was like
something out of a Beatrix Potter story and I looked around for Mrs
Tiggy-Winkle.

‘It’s very cute,’ I said as we got out of the
car. ‘Is it one of your listings?’

Amelia hadn’t yet explained why we were here. She had
shown me a few of the clerical tasks at Hargraves, declined to
commit to an hourly rate of pay, but promised a significant bonus
if I landed new clients who purchased houses. Then, she had locked
the front door of the office, twirled around the sign to read
Back Soon
, and bundled me into her car.

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘The solicitors dug
up some God-awful problem about access, so it’s off the
market.’

She scrabbled in her beautiful leather handbag and pulled out
door keys.

‘It belongs to Grey Stoke House.’ She waved the keys
at the hedge which separated us from the bigger house. ‘But
it turns out the track we just used is on the land of the farm next
door. So, technically, a buyer would be purchasing a house with no
legal means of getting to it. The farmer’s smelling money and
is demanding an exorbitant sum for that twelve-foot strip of land.
The legal beagles are having a field day.’

I was having trouble keeping up. ‘So, you can’t sell
it?’

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘It could take several
months to sort out. Anyway, I suggested to the owners they might
fancy a spot of rental income in the meantime.’ She looked
pleased with herself.

‘Wow,’ I sighed, as a swallow swooped past us into
its nest under the eaves. ‘It’s lovely, but I
don’t think I could afford it.’

Undeterred, Amelia picked her way across the crunchy gravel and
began unlocking the front door.

‘Hargraves & Co will cover your rent,’ she
called to me. ‘But understand, darling, you’ll get
booted out when I can sell it.’

Cover my rent? To live in this beauty, with actual roses round
its door?

‘Can you do half days at the office, Tuesday to Friday,
and all day Saturday? I’ll make sure you don’t
starve,’ Amelia added, as the big black hinges of the door
opened squeakily. ‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you so much,’ I croaked in a voice as rough
as my new front door. ‘It’s adorable.’

When I moved in the next morning, I quickly
understood that the cottage wasn’t completely adorable, but I
didn’t appreciate its full repertoire of quirks until I had
lived there for forty-eight hours.

My first impression when Amelia had allowed me time for a quick
look around was of white-painted walls, low ceilings and oak beams.
The kitchen was sunny and not too dated, plus there was a working
fireplace in the living room, which might make for cosy evenings as
summer slipped away. The cottage was partially furnished, with
timeless, sturdy pieces.

My subconscious interior design voice had declared it a fabulous
blank canvas, and asked for a five-figure accessories budget to
transform sparse into stylish. My practical, just-left-my-husband
voice had promptly replied that a set of sheets, some towels and a
few kitchen tools would be fine.

I had driven into Newmarket to procure these basics, for once
taking little pleasure in choosing between blue or cream sheets and
striped or dotted towels. My non-existent budget meant my options
were limited, and the act of buying a cheap set of Argos china made
my split from James more final. By the time I had arrived back at
Oak House to tell Lorraine that this would be my last night under
her roof, my mood was sombre.

Curled up in bed with the complimentary shortbread tin for the
final time, I wondered what James would think of my new job and
home. He had always been supportive of my career ambitions, even
the ill-fated decision to leave my safe, dull job at the university
and start my own design business.

Now, I was sufficiently removed from recent events to know the
self-imposed stress of launching a business hadn’t helped our
marriage. I second-guessed every decision I made, and when James
and I were together, which wasn’t often, I was insecure and
anxious. Whenever questioned, he’d simply said,
‘Don’t worry so much, Gruff. Do what makes you
happy.’

Clearly, these had been empty words, as he could hardly expect
me to be over the moon about his purple-tinted affair with
Rebecca.

As I switched off the light and listened to the gentle summer
breeze ruffling the leaves of the oak tree, I recalled the weeks
before his trip to Las Vegas. I had certainly been wrapped up in my
own problems, but how on earth had I missed what was going on? I
couldn’t help but wonder at what precise point my husband had
given up on us.

It took just one trip in the little yellow car
to move my entire possessions from Lorraine’s bed and
breakfast to the cottage. Even as a student, I had owned more gear
than this. However, it certainly made the whole moving process less
painful: an hour after leaving Oak House, I had unpacked and was
drinking tea in my own kitchen, determined to tackle the coming
days like a strong, calm, single woman.

I was strong and calm through the afternoon as I stocked up on
essential groceries, evicted spiders from the bathroom and managed
not only to find the ancient boiler, but even to rekindle its pilot
light. But in the early evening, when I entered the kitchen to fix
a snack, I spotted a brown tail disappearing under the cooker. My
composure deserted me and I bolted halfway up the stairs, then sat
down abruptly and sobbed.

Just at the point where I had soaked a couple of tissues,
searched my pockets in vain for more, and remembered I hadn’t
bought any toilet paper, my mobile phone rang. It was Amelia, to
ask how I was settling in.

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulped at her. ‘I
don’t think I can do this.’

‘Why ever not?’ she asked. ‘What’s
wrong?’

‘I’m no use to anyone at the moment.’ I
hiccupped. ‘I shouldn’t have said I’d work for
you.’

‘Darling, you’re just a bit stressed. You’re
making some big changes.’

‘I forgot to buy toilet paper.’

She laughed heartily. ‘Well, that’s hardly the end
of the world, is it?’

I pictured her at her desk, twirling a shoe on the end of her
foot.

‘Grace, I know it’s not easy when your marriage
ends. Give it some time and don’t worry so much.’

‘But …’

‘But what?’

‘I saw a rat. In the kitchen.’

‘Darling, you most certainly did not. It was probably a
mouse.’

Of course, I thought, she would say that: she’s an estate
agent.

‘Just a little mouse,’ she continued. ‘He
didn’t mean you any harm. But if you’re troubled by it,
I’ll get a man out there tomorrow.’

‘Right.’ From my vantage point on the stairs, I kept
my gaze fixed on the spot where the rodent had disappeared.

‘Now, why don’t you go and have a hot bath and maybe
open a bottle of wine? Things will look better after a good
night’s sleep.’

I said nothing, hugging my knees and sniffing pathetically.

‘Okay?’ Amelia asked.

‘Yes, okay,’ I said, wondering if the post office
would still be open to sell me toilet paper. And rat poison.

The draughts were terrible, the hot water was a
lottery, and if I turned on too many lights at once, the fuses
blew. No matter how many times I trundled my car up the driveway, I
shook my bones to bits as we fell into every single pothole, and I
mentally renamed Grey Stoke Cottage to Pothole Cottage.
Nonetheless, I quickly bonded with my quirky little abode and
learned to get along with its foibles. I saw no more evidence of
rodent occupation and decided perhaps the mice had moved out the
same day I moved in. Either that, or they were too clever to get
caught in the peanut butter baited trap I left for them.