Saving Saffron Sweeting (9 page)

I felt especially safe in the angular bedroom with its creaking
bed, sloping ceiling and tiny dormer window. For the next
twenty-four hours, I hid out there, crying a little, sleeping a lot
and trying not to wonder what James was doing. Once, I picked up my
phone and had dialled half his number before catching myself.

But I knew I couldn’t hide for ever. Nervous, excited,
with just an edge of sadness, I took a brisk shower, smoothed the
creases out of my smartest clothes and turned up for work.

Amelia greeted me with business-like
enthusiasm, and proceeded to extract more than her money’s
worth that first afternoon. I purged paper piles, printed property
handouts, sorted invoices and more. Together, we unearthed the wood
of her desk from below stacks of files. We created a to-do list for
each of us, filled a recycling box and found three large cheques
which had never been paid into the bank. The phone rang more or
less constantly and I stumbled through the enquiries as best I
could.

At five minutes to five, Amelia pointed to the clock with a
shriek. ‘Quick!’ she cried. ‘Can you pop across
to Brian at the bakery?’ She pulled a ten-pound note from her
purse and pointed apologetically to her shoes, which were not ideal
for a last-minute sugar sprint.

When I returned with hot drinks and sandwiches a few minutes
later, I saw with satisfaction the progress we’d made.

‘So, how are you doing?’ Amelia asked, sinking into
her chair with relief. She seemed less frazzled than before.

‘Okay, I think. Shouldn’t you be the judge of
that?’ I offered her first pick of either cheese or tuna.

‘Well, the sooner you can get to know the properties we
have available, the better.’ She was tackling her tuna roll
with as much enthusiasm as if it had been caviar. This woman loved
her food.

‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘tomorrow you should
start viewings; that will help a lot.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘and I could make sure these
are current.’ I waved my cheese sandwich at the display of
glossy property photos on the wall by the door.

‘Perfect,’ she nodded. ‘People keep wanting to
buy that thatched house and it’s been sold for
weeks.’

‘Can I add square footage to each description?’ I
asked. ‘That might be a big help.’

‘I’d love that. So many of the Americans ask and
I’m hopeless at maths. Just make it clear you’re
estimating, not promising.’ She grinned. ‘Don’t
get me sued.’

The next day was Saturday. After nine hours of
property viewings, I was shattered but content as I bumped the
yellow car up the track to my quirky cottage. Its solid
timelessness reassured me and the windows glowed warmly in the
evening sun.

I had visited ten different homes with three American families.
The first two were on short work contracts, looking for year-long
rentals. Their questions had covered everything from the
strangeness of the plumbing and the hygiene of carpet in the
bathroom to the impracticality of a detached garage and how to get
cable television. Did I know about the local schools? Was it better
to buy a car and sell it after twelve months, or hire one?

I had been reminded how hard it is to move thousands of miles
and how mundane activities like buying groceries or doing a load of
laundry became challenges. Unlike the States, England had adopted
metric measurements for food and the shops now expected a PIN
number to verify credit card purchases. Many of the newcomers were
finding it hard to complete even basic transactions. I found myself
smiling, explaining and apologising in equal measures.

The third family, a couple with a little girl and a toddler,
were ready to buy a house. They, too, were experiencing culture
shock and were just as bemused by the homes we saw, but they were
treating the experience as a delightful adventure.

‘We’re thrilled to be here,’ the mother told
me. ‘Bruce is part Irish and we’re going to track down
all his relatives.’

Bruce ignored this, and told me they’d need four
bedrooms.

‘I’m so pleased Bethany is going to an English
school,’ his wife continued. ‘I want her to grow up
with beautiful manners. English women have such poise, don’t
they?’

I had a flashback of my poise on the recent day when I had
stormed into my husband’s office, yelled at him in front of
his team and tipped purple paint onto the carpet.

‘Um, well, if you say so,’ I muttered. ‘Now,
isn’t this a beautiful staircase?’

At six o’clock, they had thanked me
heartily and promised to be in touch early the following week.
I’d dragged my weary bones back to the Hargraves office and
made sure I hung up the keys on the correct hooks. Amelia was
tidying up, humming to herself but in a hurry.

‘Sorry, darling,’ she’d said, ‘but I
hate this time of year.’

‘Why?’ I’d asked, surprised. She had seemed
upbeat until now.

‘It annoys the hell out of me to work during Wimbledon
fortnight.’ She winked. ‘All I want to do is drink
Pimms and ogle the Aussies in their white shorts.’

I’d grinned. I loved the way the British media supported
their chosen hopeful, appearing to believe their own hype that a
Brit could win the tournament. The inevitable national tragedy,
somewhere around the quarter-finals, was a British summer
tradition. This year the hopes of Britain’s housewives were
pinned on the delectable Bobbie Middleton, whose long legs covered
the tennis court at astounding speed. He was extremely dishy, but
unfortunately young enough to be my son.

Rummaging in her desk drawer, Amelia had pulled out the
Hargraves cheque book and reached for her favourite Tiffany pen.
‘Do you have an English bank account?’

‘Er, yes.’ I wondered why she was asking. ‘I
never got round to closing it when James and I moved.’

‘Good,’ she’d said, writing busily, then
blowing on the ink to dry it. ‘I owe you your bonus for the
sale to Ted and Betsy. Obviously the deal isn’t final yet,
but I thought an advance might come in handy.’

I’d smiled politely and put her cheque in my bag.

Now, though, in my little cottage kitchen with golden evening
sunbeams flooding across the floor, I took it out to inspect it and
did a little jig on the uneven terracotta tiles. It was far and
away the easiest money I’d ever made.

Finally, I felt ready for the eccentric embrace
of my family. The drive from Saffron Sweeting to my parents’
home in Norfolk was little more than an hour, so even though I had
slept late on Sunday morning, I arrived before lunch time.

Dad was in the front garden, tending his roses. As I opened the
car door, the pong of manure welcomed me.

‘Gracie, pet, hello!’ He downed shovel to greet me
with an affectionate and only slightly stinky hug.

‘Hi dad.’ We released each other quickly, enough
affection for one visit already shown. ‘Poo, you know how to
have a good time.’

‘Top grade stuff, this, courtesy of your mother’s
new chickens. Little sods are playing havoc with my lawn but at
least the roses are lapping it up.’ He wiped his forehead
with his handkerchief. ‘How are you, love?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ I gave him a bright, non-committal
smile. ‘Mum’s inside?’

‘Yes, in the kitchen – doing lunch.’

I headed into their small bungalow with trepidation in case I
found my mother wringing the neck of something feathery. Happily,
the roast was already in the oven and she was snipping up mint, so
I concluded it was probably lamb.

Once again I was wrapped in a brief but surprisingly strong hug,
before she released me and scrutinised me.

‘It’s lovely to see you.’ She pushed her
glasses back up her nose with a minty finger. ‘We’ve
missed you, poppet.’

‘Me too,’ I said, stealing a raw carrot and perching
on the little stool at the end of the counter. Their kitchen had
been designed in the eighties. It boasted patterned tiles, Flotex
carpet and even a serving hatch to the dining room. Usually I get a
strong urge to redesign it, but today the familiarity was
comforting.

Mum looked at me a little longer, but said nothing and reached
for the olive oil. I hadn’t really thought how I was going to
break the news about James. Would it be easier to tell her while we
were on our own in the kitchen, or wait until later? As usual, I
chose to postpone the difficult conversation.

‘So, how are the chickens?’ I asked instead.

‘Oh, wonderful! So funny, they all have their own
personalities.’ She manoeuvred a roasting tin of potatoes
into the oven and kicked the door shut. ‘Would you like to
meet them?’

I didn’t especially want to add my mother’s chickens
to my circle of best friends forever, but it reduced the chance of
awkward questions and I could tell she was proud to show me her
ladies
. So, off we went outside, where I was introduced to
each chicken in turn. My garden tour also included the compost
heap, where a badger had been spotted last week. I wondered
privately if the tourist board should be informed and whether there
was any danger of this overshadowing Buckingham Palace on the
tourist trail.

As we came back inside, my father appeared. Thankfully, he had
scrubbed up a bit and changed his chicken-poop shirt for a clean
one.

‘Fancy a sherry before we eat, Norah?’ He tipped
smoky bacon crisps into a bowl to accompany their aperitif.

I sank quietly into their Sunday routine, and dutifully had two
helpings of lamb. We also made a huge dent in a rhubarb crumble and
both of them had two glasses of wine.

‘Thank you, that was lovely,’ I said politely.

‘You’re welcome, love.’ Mum smiled at me and
picked up the custard spoon to lick. ‘We’re sorry James
couldn’t join us.’

I decided I might as well get it over with.

‘I don’t know quite how to say this.’ I looked
down at my lap and twisted my floral napkin. ‘I think
I’ve left him.’

There was a shocked pause and my father shuffled his feet under
the table.

‘Oh, Gracie.’ My mother recovered first. ‘We
thought maybe something was wrong.’

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

‘He had an affair,’ I blurted. ‘With someone
at work. I was designing her bedroom. I’m going to spend a
couple of months over here.’ This all tumbled out in a
rush.

A short, inscrutable look passed between my parents, then dad
patted me on the hand and stood up. ‘I’ll put the
kettle on,’ he said, and retreated to the kitchen.

Now my news was out, I felt calmer. It was better they knew.

My mum seemed to be searching for the right words. Eventually,
she said gently, ‘Gracie, I know this might seem like the end
of the world, but it isn’t. Things will turn out
okay.’

‘Thanks, mum.’ That was all I could manage, before
the tears filling my eyes rushed down my cheeks.

Mum gazed out of the window for a couple of minutes, either
pondering her next sentence or admiring the feathered ladies. Then
she asked, ‘So you’re with Harry and Jem? Some girl
time and shopping?’

‘Not exactly, no,’ I confessed, and explained
briefly that I had stationed myself in solitude in Saffron
Sweeting. ‘And, mum … I really don’t want James
to know I’m there.’

‘Grace! Why –’ She began to interrupt me, but
stopped, nodding slowly. Her face was compassionate.

To acknowledge her support, I volunteered a few more details
about my new living arrangements. By the time I could tell
I’d eased my mother’s concern, dad was back with our
tea.

‘It’s a shame, I always thought James was such a
clever chap,’ he said mildly. ‘The only thing I
didn’t like was that he took you to America. At least
you’re not five thousand miles away any more.’

Leaving my family to move across the Atlantic had been hard, but
James and I had been determined to treat our move like the
incredible opportunity it was. We’d been able to try things,
like skiing and wine tasting, that weren’t common in England.
James was sportier than me, but he’d led me down the green
runs at Squaw Valley and slowed his pace for bike rides at Crissy
Field. His career had thrived in the innovative culture of Silicon
Valley and even though I’d struggled to find a job I enjoyed,
California had been a fun place to live. Throwing in the towel had
never occurred to me until the stepladder day of a few weeks
ago.

Mum shot my dad a sharp look. ‘Well, you know how
misguided men can be, Geoffrey. He’s not as clever as we
thought, if he did this to our beautiful Gracie.’

Dad looked suitably chastised and busied himself tormenting the
tea bags in the pot. I wiped my eyes on my napkin and averted them
from my wedding photo on their sideboard. I didn’t know if it
would still be there next time I visited. From my mother’s
stern expression, I suspected I would return to find professional
portraits of her new poultry instead.

My emotions concerning my marriage may have
been raw, but at Hargraves & Co, my head was clearer. I could
already see I had made a positive contribution to Amelia’s
working life. The office was now tidy, with flowers and quality
magazines in our small reception area. We had US-friendly details
for all our houses. Messages – and cheques – were no
longer buried. Amelia had more time to do what she did best, which
was to negotiate great deals for her sellers.

I had asked her why she hadn’t hired an assistant
before.

‘Had one,’ she’d replied breezily. ‘She
walked out in the middle of Easter weekend, when she found out her
fiancé was shagging her twin sister. Total
nightmare.’

‘That’s horrible!’ I was shocked. ‘Ugh,
what a betrayal!’

Discovering James was having an affair with a client was one
thing, but I couldn’t imagine the pain of him cheating with a
sister.

‘You’re telling me. Busiest weekend of the year.
Cost me a sale, I’m certain.’