Saving Saffron Sweeting (17 page)

It was the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend; rain clouds had
lurked ominously over Saffron Sweeting for the last four days and
were now giving us a solid drenching. The tables outside the bakery
were deserted as villagers scuttled to do essential errands only.
The annual cricket match against Bottisham was a wash-out. By
contrast, the ducks at the pond were thrilled. They had started to
form raiding parties to explore the exotic puddles of the High
Street and I wondered if they were considering a full-scale coup,
or at least running for a seat on the local council.

Nancy and Mungo’s game ended with an abrupt crack as the
unhappy stick broke. Mungo retreated to the hearth to chew up the
longer half, scattering drool-covered bark over my floor.

Nancy collapsed back in an armchair. ‘He gives a great arm
workout,’ she laughed, then looked around. ‘Have you
made some changes, Grace?’

‘Hmm?’ I wasn’t keen on any of the recipes:
too fancy for a couple of novice chefs. ‘I think we should
just shove it in the oven for a couple of hours.’

‘This place looks more homely,’ Nancy carried on.
‘Have you been buying stuff?’

‘What? Oh yes, I have.’

After a bit of awkwardness, I’d agreed to let Peter pay me
in goods. He had helped me pick out a lovely antique sewing table,
a mantel clock with a solemn tick and an ancient, moth-weary Union
Jack flag. These new treasures gave me fresh perspective on the
cottage: it was still an achingly blank canvas, but with loads of
potential. I’d set to work, beginning with my library card.
The living room coffee table and the cabinet beside my bed now
sported tempting piles of browse-worthy books. Next, I had risked a
criminal record by helping myself to some of the late summer
grasses in the lane outside the cottage. These were now dotted
about in old jam jars and in front of the fireplace was a jug of
rose-hip stems.

As planned, I had accompanied Lorraine on a Cambridge shopping
trip for bed and breakfast accessories. I had touched, measured,
squinted and checked her opinion time and again, until I had a firm
idea of her budget and taste. My creative juices were flowing
again: exploring autumn designs in the English stores made an
interesting change from the summer stock I’d seen in Crate
& Barrel and Pottery Barn.

Inevitably, I’d started mentally transporting bits and
pieces to my own cottage. Returning the following day to make
Lorraine’s purchases, I’d bowed to the inevitable and
had splurged on a few things for myself. My living room now boasted
an abstract wool rug, bright cushions and chunky candles on the
mantelpiece. The stark, transitory rental was now a cosy
sanctuary.

‘Probably a sign you’re feeling better,’ Nancy
smiled, and sipped her mug of tea. She still took it black, with
lemon, but at least she’d stopped asking for Lipton in
public. Not that it was anything to do with me, but I’d much
rather my new American friend embarrassed herself by messing up the
pronunciation of Peterborough than drank something that no
self-respecting Brit would order.

‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘At least, the fog is
wearing off.’

‘Will you launch an interior design business here?’
she asked. ‘You’d be awesome.’

‘I dunno. I don’t think so. Amelia said I should
consider home staging, but …’

‘But?’

‘Well, there’s just so much pressure, once
someone’s paying you for something.’

‘But I thought Lorraine and Peter paid you?’ Nancy
was at her most bird-like, fixing her clever, sharp eyes on me.
‘Was that pressure?’

‘Well, no, but most of it was so obvious to me. I
couldn’t charge a lot for telling people things that are
staring me in the face.’

‘Well, honey, they weren’t staring them in the face.
I think you should put your rates up.’

‘You talk like I have a business.’

‘You could, if you wanted, I bet.’

‘I don’t think so. Anyway, they might both be
bankrupt within a month and chasing after me with a
pitchfork.’ Nancy’s prodding was making me
uncomfortable. I’d only been helping a couple of friends,
after all. ‘Right,’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Let’s go and show this beef who’s
boss.’

The meat had made it into the oven unscathed and early aromas
suggested it wasn’t a total disaster. Mungo, at any rate, had
stationed himself firmly in the middle of the kitchen, so he
didn’t miss anything crucial. We had peeled and parboiled the
potatoes for roasting and I was now attempting to explain Yorkshire
puddings to Nancy.

‘No, they’re not dessert, we eat them with the
beef,’ I told her.

‘You mean, like we put maple syrup on our bacon? Sweet and
savoury together?’ She was trying to keep a culinary open
mind.

‘No.’ I furrowed my brow. ‘They’re not
sweet. More like a …’ I was sure I’d had
something like them, somewhere in the States. ‘A
popover!’ I finally declared, dredging up a memory from a
trip to Vermont. ‘A little baked batter roll
thingummy.’

‘Oh, a
popover
!’ Nancy laughed. She stole a
raw carrot to munch, then gave me a quick one-shouldered hug.
‘Thanks, Grace, this is great. Elijah’s so into his
food.’

‘Umm?’ I was busy trying not to get spattered by the
beef as I squeezed the tray of potatoes into the narrow oven. My
stove in Menlo Park had been twice this size.

‘Yes, he’s mentioned a couple of times how great his
wife’s cooking is.’

‘Is it?’ I kicked shut the oven door, then turned
slowly as her words filtered through. ‘Sorry,’ I said,
‘whose cooking?’

Instantly, Nancy looked uncomfortable. ‘His
wife’s,’ she repeated softly.

I put my hands up to my face and wondered if I was about to pass
out, as the room went black. But no, I just had navy oven gloves
on. I threw them down on the counter and bit my lip.

‘This is Elijah, right?’ I asked her carefully.

She nodded.

‘The man you’ve been seeing for, what, six months?
The man you moved continents to be with?’

‘Grace –’

‘And he’s
married
?’ I couldn’t
have been more upset if Nancy had told me she was shagging the
prime minister.

‘Grace, he is, but his marriage is over. He and his wife
– they’re practically separated.’

‘Oh, he told you that, did he?’

‘He has an apartment in Cambridge; he hardly sleeps at
home any more. He’s just waiting for the right time to start
the divorce.’

I let out a squawk. ‘How could you? You fool!’

Mungo lifted his head in concern as Nancy took a step towards me
and I took one back.

‘Grace, I know this is awkward, what with
–’

‘You’re sleeping with another woman’s
husband,’ I hissed. ‘Have you considered what that
makes you?’

‘It isn’t like that. I told you, the marriage is
toast.’

‘Has anyone told his wife that? Have either of you thought
about how she feels?’

Nancy folded her arms and looked at the kitchen floor. ‘I
get it, you’re upset. I don’t blame you.’

‘No, I’m not upset,’ I bit out.
‘I’m disgusted. Take it from me, his marriage
isn’t
over. His wife
doesn’t
know and
he
isn’t
thinking about divorce.’

Nancy had turned white, her voice a whisper. ‘But he said
he loves me.’

Mungo looked alarmed and jumped up to visit each of us.
Nancy’s pat was limp so he turned instead to me and nudged my
hip with his velvet nose.

My glare disintegrated and I began to cry. ‘I can’t
believe you have a PhD but fell for this. He’s stringing you
along – you’re better than that.’

‘Well, I sure appreciate your vote of confidence.’
She went into the living room and gathered up her bag and jacket. I
sagged against the kitchen sink, partly because Mungo had snuggled
up for reassurance and was pressing his weight against my
knees.

‘Not sure I’m in the mood for beef.’ Nancy
touched me briefly on the arm, then opened the back door and headed
out into the rain.

‘So Mungo got the best supper of his
life,’ I told Jem ruefully on the phone a couple of days
later. I was in bed unusually early, tired and listless.

‘Roast beef, lucky hound,’ she replied. ‘And
how about you, did you eat anything?’

‘I skipped the beef and put golden syrup on the Yorkshire
puddings,’ I admitted. ‘I was so churned up by the
whole thing. Do you think I should have just held my
tongue?’

Down the phone line, I heard Jem suck her breath through her
teeth. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Everyone’s situation is different. And you’ve
never actually met what’s-his-name, have you?’

‘Nope,’ I conceded. I’d never laid eyes on
Elijah.

‘But I don’t blame you for being upset. She
doesn’t exactly come out of it smelling of roses.’

‘Nope,’ I repeated eloquently, concentrating on
tucking the duvet more tightly around my feet.

‘What matters now is, what are you going to do? Will you
apologise, or just let it be?’

‘I don’t feel much like apologising,’ I said.
‘But I could use a few friends here. Besides, I like Nancy. I
was just so shocked she would willingly be a part of it.’

‘Love is blind, and all that.’

‘Hmph. Love should get some contact lenses. There seems to
be an awful lot of cheating in this world.’

‘I know, Grace,’ Jem said quietly. After a few
moments, she added, ‘But it’s not up to you to sort it
all out.’

She was right. I had enough on my plate. ‘Anyway,’ I
said, changing tack, ‘I’ve got a slightly more pressing
problem.’

‘Oh yes?’

I could hear my brother in the background, helping to keep Seb
occupied so that Jem and I could talk. He’d never been that
obliging when he’d lived at home.

‘Something really bad has happened.’ I could feel my
palms getting sweaty, just thinking about it.

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve been asked to speak at the parish council
meeting.’

‘Whatever for?’

I pulled the petrifying letter from my bedside table, where
I’d stuffed it hastily in the back of a library book and
hoped it might disappear. ‘They’re doing a special
meeting on new opportunities for village businesses. Something
about promoting Saffron Sweeting to a diverse
population.’

There was a pause while Jem translated this. ‘You mean,
selling stuff to the Americans?’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

‘And they think you know about that?’

‘They do. Seems that Peter – he’s the antiques
guy, if you remember – has been singing my
praises.’

‘But that’s great! You’ll be
brilliant!’

Argh, she just wasn’t getting it. ‘But, Jem
–’

‘But what?’

‘You know I’d rather chew my own leg off than speak
in public.’

Try as I might to think of a way to say
No
tactfully, I didn’t seem to be able to wriggle
out of the talk. Led by Peter, Brian and Lorraine had formed an
unofficial fan club and had been whispering in influential ears.
Brian was even planning to say a few introductory words on the
difference in his bakery. Worse, I discovered that businesses from
the neighbouring villages were also invited. This meant the
audience would swell into double figures, at least. What on earth
have I started, I thought.

Amelia, of course, was all for it. ‘I think it’s
marvellous, darling! You certainly made a terrific difference
here.’ She waved a bejewelled hand around the office.
‘Anyway, it’s only a few shopkeepers – not like
you’re giving a speech to the UN.’

Well, she wouldn’t see the problem, I thought moodily, as
I began stapling a stack of property details with far more force
than was necessary. She would love to be centre stage for an
evening. I bet she could be caught by a BBC news crew in her
pyjamas and say something witty and eloquent.

A moment later, I felt ungrateful as she offered to help me
practise my talk and choose something ‘captivating’ to
wear.

‘If you’d like …’ She eyed me carefully
before sticking her neck out further.

I planted a neutral look on my face. Was she going to offer to
get me hammered, so I wouldn’t have to talk while sober?

She wasn’t. ‘We could do a bit more with your
make-up too.’

That’s how, a few evenings before the
meeting, I found myself seated at Amelia’s dressing table for
a trial run.

I hadn’t known what to expect from her home. Would she
inhabit a sleek, modern pad? Or the penthouse of a converted manor?
Or maybe she would prefer five-bedroom luxury, with an in-and-out
driveway.

It turned out to be surprisingly small, by a sharp bend in the
river on the edge of the village. I guessed there were just two
bedrooms, one for Amelia and one for her son, Oscar. I’d met
him only once and he’d just gone back to boarding school for
the new term.

‘Michael got the house, I got the business,
darling,’ she told me. ‘I bought this a couple of years
after the divorce and re-did it. It used to be the fire engine
house.’

So that explained the single storey and huge patio doors in her
living room. She had used a lot of natural materials – stone,
slate, wood – but the overall effect was clean and
contemporary. In her bedroom, the wall behind the bed was papered
in a beautiful bronze metallic. The curtains, a shimmering shade of
coffee, appeared to be silk. A bank of fitted wardrobes ran along
one wall. I wondered if they housed her clothes, or only her
shoes.

‘You haven’t told me what caused your
divorce.’ I hoped we knew each other well enough for me to be
nosy.

Amelia was unscrewing a tube of foundation but stopped and
looked at me in the mirror.

‘We grew apart,’ she said, frowning at the memory.
‘I was so young – I’d only just finished at
Cambridge when we met. I was temping, saving money. I was going to
move to London and try my luck as an actress.’