Saving Saffron Sweeting (14 page)

‘I don’t think so,’ my boss sniffed, and
prepared to parallel park her Mercedes in the last few feet of
space next to a navy convertible. I felt a soft bump as she
completed the manoeuvre.

‘Whoopsadaisy,’ she said carelessly, but she did
have the decency to check for damage on the other car’s
bumper. ‘No harm done,’ she pronounced, before hurrying
me inside.

The atmosphere which greeted us was low-key. The auction
hadn’t yet started, but I suspected that when it did, this
crowd would need a lot more caffeine to get them excited. Most of
the attendees were middle-aged men wearing sensible coats over
shirts and ties. There was, however, a scent of money in the
air.

Amelia strode down the centre aisle, looking for good seats.
Heads turned, possibly because of her height and hair colour, but
more likely due to her lime green summer dress and shapely long
legs. Once seated, I buried myself in the auction catalogue while
she sat up like a meerkat to see who else was in the room. Just as
the auctioneer arrived at his podium, I saw her exchange waved
greetings with a man in the same row as us, but across the aisle. A
glance in that direction told me he was much younger than most of
the other buyers, with fair hair and an attractive profile.
Something about him was familiar, but my attention was pulled back
to the stage, where the auctioneer had begun brandishing his gavel.
Things were getting under way.

For a few minutes, I followed the lots carefully, mentally
weighing the merits of nine acres near Huntingdon and a former pub
in Linton. The auction covered a wide area and all types of land
and property seemed to be represented. I would quiz Amelia later on
her area of interest.

But as the auctioneer moved on to yet another piece of boringly
flat farmland, this time located on the unfortunately-named Grunty
Fen Road near Ely, my attention wandered around the room. I found
my eyes drawn again to the man Amelia knew. I couldn’t shake
the feeling I’d seen him somewhere before. I was eyeing up
his profile and noting that his nose wasn’t quite straight,
when his head swivelled suddenly in my direction. Damn, he’d
caught me. I coloured instantly and looked away, but not before he
grinned at me. Trying to look nonchalant, I nodded back.

‘Young lady, are you trying to bid?’ The
silver-haired auctioneer was scrutinising me over half-moon
spectacles.

Scarlet by now, I shook my head, appalled at my blunder. I was
well aware of the consequences of flapping body parts or other
items around in an auction house. The last thing I needed in my
life was to buy a dilapidated farmhouse near Stansted Airport by
mistake. I faced front and succeeded in not looking his way
again.

After about an hour, Amelia grew restless.
‘C’mon,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen
enough. Let’s head back and grab a coffee.’

As we brushed past the knees lining our row and made our way to
the exit, I was surprised to see her acquaintance follow us. I had
noticed at one point he’d bid on a large house in Ipswich,
but as far as I could tell, he didn’t win it. Perhaps that
was his only reason for being here.

We were nearly at the car when he caught up with us.
‘Hello, Amelia.’

‘Scott! Hi, how are you?’

They exchanged pleasantries and I noted Scott was a few inches
taller than her, even allowing for her heels. He was wearing a dark
suit which fitted his athletic build perfectly. His white shirt was
open at the neck and showed off a light suntan. For an irrational
moment, I pictured him in cricket gear, forearms tensed to grip the
bat.

Amelia turned to introduce me. ‘This is Grace,’ she
said. ‘My new assistant.’

‘Hi.’ I shook his hand and found my fingers were
grasped firmly. Looking up to make eye contact, I fell into a pair
of eyes the colour of denim, accentuated by just a hint of fine
lines. From the mischievous smile he was now throwing my way, I
could see how he’d got them.

‘You look different, Grace,’ Scott smiled.
‘With dry clothes.’

I frowned; he grinned and waited. When the penny dropped, I
wanted to hide in the nearest hedge. Cringing, I asked, ‘It
was you at the ford?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He didn’t look at all
afraid. He looked like he might be enjoying himself, and I got the
distinct feeling he was checking that all my clothes were, in fact,
dry. For the second time that morning, I blushed.

‘Oh, you two have met?’ Amelia asked, pressing the
button on her key to unlock the car.

‘Um, no, not really.’ I nipped smartly around to the
passenger door to put some distance between this man and myself. I
was mortified at the thought of the wet T-shirt view he’d had
last time he’d seen me.

I was saved by Amelia’s cheeky parking.

‘God’s teeth, Amelia, did you have to land on top of
my car?’ Scott had spotted that the bumper of the Mercedes
was kissing his convertible.

‘Oh, don’t be a fusspot.’ She tossed her head
as she hopped into the driver’s seat beside me, although she
did slide down her window to continue the conversation. ‘I
didn’t want to walk across the grass in my heels.’

‘Of course you didn’t. Perish the thought.’ He
tilted his head to catch my eye through the car window, and winked
conspiratorially.

I couldn’t help but smile back, and felt myself breathe
out as I did. I was clearly out of practice at chatting with
gorgeous men. There was nothing going on here, he was simply a
friend of Amelia’s.

‘Well,’ he said to Amelia, ‘since I’m
trapped until you move, be a doll and get a wiggle on.’

With parking pressure like that, I would most likely have found
the wrong gear and crumpled both cars. Fortunately, Amelia had no
such difficulties and reversed out of the space smoothly.

As we turned out of the car park onto the narrow country road,
she threw me an appraising look.

‘So, what was all that about?’ she asked. ‘Did
you fail to mention there was an audience for your frolic in the
river?’

I shook my head and fixed my eyes on the Cambridgeshire
landscape. ‘If you don’t mind,’ I said through
tight lips, ‘I’d really rather not talk about
it.’

Having put the auction encounter firmly out of
my mind, I directed my thoughts towards my appointment at the bed
and breakfast. And once the day arrived, I found my enthusiasm for
the conversation had increased. Not only had Lorraine been kind to
me when I’d first arrived in Saffron Sweeting, but Oak House
did have wonderful potential.

Remember to be tactful, I told myself sternly, as I parked my
car by the cream-coloured walls. I checked my watch to make sure
Lorraine had had enough time to finish serving breakfast and do any
housekeeping that was needed.

She welcomed me with a big pot of tea and fresh cheese scones.
Was she related to Brian, or was there something in the water
around here which resulted in such delectable baked goods?

We sat in the breakfast room and I asked what had triggered this
request.

‘Well …’ She took a deep breath and I
realised she was nervous. That made two of us. ‘People seem
to enjoy staying here, but I’m rarely full, and it
doesn’t really pay to just have one or two guests at a time.
Most of the comments in my visitors’ book are kind, but
occasionally somebody says something quite blunt. Are Americans
more demanding, do you think?’

‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘But I think
they’re often less frightened to complain than
Brits.’

‘So, a few months ago, my father died. That’s why my
brother was here – we were just going over a few loose
ends.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. He’d been ill for a long
time.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I’ve inherited a
decent amount – not a fortune, you understand – and
I’d like to invest it in Oak House.’

‘That makes sense,’ I nodded. ‘Especially
since this is your home too.’

‘I thought you would have a good sense of what would make
my American guests happy.’

It was time for me to sing for my supper – or rather,
scones. ‘One thing you might not know,’ I began gently,
‘is that in the States, bed and breakfast is usually a luxury
experience, and people expect top quality – with liberal
sprinkles of history, antiques and so on. But they’ll pay top
price for it. English B&Bs are very different, usually more of
a budget option.’

‘I’d much rather be high-end,’ Lorraine said
quickly. ‘I can do the history thing easily.’

‘Absolutely, that’s a real strength. And your
cooking is definitely a plus.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘So … I was
thinking about adding a conservatory, for guests to enjoy when the
weather isn’t so wonderful. Do you think that would be
nice?’

I chewed my lip, and the grandfather clock in the hall ticked by
a few seconds. A sunroom addition to the house would cost many
thousands of pounds. And how many of her guests sat around all day?
Surely they were out, visiting the Cambridge colleges, or going off
into the Suffolk countryside?

‘Well, that would be lovely,’ I said slowly,
‘but I’m not sure it would be the best use of your
money.’

I glanced at her for a negative reaction, but Lorraine was
waiting receptively.

‘I looked at some of your online reviews,’ I
continued. ‘The biggest criticism seems to be for your
bathrooms.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s an old
house, you know?’

‘I know, and it’s beautiful, but Americans do love a
powerful, hot shower. Could you have a plumber take a look? Maybe
install power showers?’ I didn’t mention my own
experience of the alternately freezing then dribbling water.

‘I could do that,’ Lorraine said.

‘The other thing in the reviews is soft beds. If you were
to upgrade your mattresses, that’s definitely something you
can add to your promotional materials.’

‘Mattresses? Really?’

‘Oh yes,’ I confirmed. ‘They won’t be
cheap, but if you go with a famous name, you can list it on your
website and people will know you take comfort seriously.
They’ll infer that you’re a quality place to
stay.’

‘I never would have thought of that.’

Right, here goes. I took a deep breath. ‘Ideally, you
should spend the night in each of your rooms, and see what you
find.’ Or feel in your spine, I thought. ‘If there is a
bath, lie in the bath too. You’d be amazed at what you can
see from down there. Cobwebs and stuff.’

Lorraine was taking notes, which I found hugely flattering. I
couldn’t remember the last time I’d given an opinion
and someone had written it down.

‘I did that when we first opened,’ she acknowledged.
‘I suppose I haven’t got round to it for a while. What
else, Grace?’

‘Your website is nice and I like it,’ I told her,
‘but when you’ve made these changes, you should get new
photos. They should be professionally done. So many of your
competitors have narrow-angled, dingy photos.’

‘Right, super,’ she said, still writing.

Was she actually going to go ahead with my suggestions?

‘I can give you the name of the photographer Amelia uses,
so that’s easy.’ I accepted another scone. ‘And
we should find out how to add online booking to your
website.’

‘Online booking?’ she echoed.

‘Yes – two reasons. You can update your prices
easily, by season, if you like. Graduation dates in Cambridge
should cost more – that kind of thing. And it’s such a
pain for people to contact you to find out if you’ve got
space. I’m sure some potential guests go elsewhere, rather
than take the trouble.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind not having to answer vacancy
questions,’ she agreed. ‘Do you think that’s hard
to do, though?’

‘I’m sure we can figure it out.’ I sounded
more confident than I was. Fleetingly, I thought how great it would
be to ask James for help – he could probably do that kind of
stuff in his sleep. But no, that was out of the question. Lorraine
and I would just have to muddle through.

‘Shall we take a look at each of the rooms you
have?’ I asked. My designer’s eye was curious to see
what tweaks we could make.

We visited the four guest bedrooms. All had pleasant proportions
and attractive furniture. The fabrics were a bit girly, but that
was hardly the end of the world for a bed and breakfast. However,
there was room for improvement in the accessories Lorraine had
chosen. As we went from room to room, I pointed out several spots
where bigger lamps, local art or new cushions could make a big
difference.

As we came back downstairs, the grandfather clock told me nearly
two hours had passed. I’d been so wrapped up in our tour, I
hadn’t noticed the time at all. Lorraine’s energy,
however, was clearly on the wane.

Anxious, I bit the bullet. ‘Lorraine, you’ve gone a
bit quiet. Did I overstep the mark?’

‘Oh no, Grace,’ she said. ‘I do see what you
mean. It’s just, I’m a bit daunted by all that
decorative stuff. I’m better at shortbread.’

‘It’s important,’ I said kindly. ‘Those
little touches really finish the room.’

‘I know, it’s just … my domestic goddess
talents don’t quite go that far.’ She paused. ‘I
don’t suppose you could help me buy what we need?’

‘Oh my gosh.’ My face lit up. ‘I’d love
to. Absolutely.’

‘I’d pay you for your time, of course. On top of
your fee for today.’

Pay? Time? Fee? The words floated in through my ears clearly
enough, but turned immediately to marshmallow in my brain.

My grey matter was still getting over the shock of being paid
for my ‘consulting’, as Lorraine called it, as we said
goodbye outside Oak House. Otherwise, I would have been quicker to
leap into my car when I saw the formidable figure of Violet
approaching from the direction of the village. A dog lead dangled
from her hand and sure enough, ten yards in front, trotted
Mungo.

Too late: he had seen me, or smelled me, or whatever it is that
canines do to target their prey. His tail accelerated from waving
to frenzied wagging and the jaunty trot became a flat-out gallop as
he flew down the pavement to greet me. He was running delighted
rings around Lorraine and me, but mostly me, when Violet caught up.
I have to say, she was sprightly for her age.