Saving Saffron Sweeting (29 page)

‘He’s been spending a lot of time with her,’
Violet said.

‘Who? Nancy?’

‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m getting used
to the idea, slowly.’

‘Oh. Well, I think she just likes antiques,’ I
offered.

‘Humph. That’s not all she likes, I’d
say.’

This was truly cryptic. I took a breath to ask why it mattered,
since Peter was clearly so happy with Giles, but before I could
speak, the guy fell off his chair. Amid cheering, he tumbled head
first into the roaring fire, sparks shooting in all directions.

‘But I suppose it’s good that Peter’s learning
to trust again,’ his mother continued. ‘He hasn’t
been out with anyone since his fiancée dumped him last
autumn. Nasty girl.’

Coughing from both smoke and shock, I thanked the bonfire gods
for saving me from putting both feet in my mouth. This was way too
much new information for one evening. My main question now, was
whether Nancy knew that Peter was straight.

Scott and I had arranged to meet for Sunday
lunch at a pub on the South Bank of the Thames. He’d
mentioned ‘hanging out’ for the afternoon and then
suggested casually that I stay over at his place. I’d jumped
at the chance, mainly because I was dying to see where he called
home. And since he’d not only toured my cottage but had
deviously gone and bought it when I wasn’t looking, I thought
it was only fair that I got to sticky-beak in return.

He’d arrived twenty minutes late. Stomach growling,
I’d waited outside the pub, watching pigeons pecking around
on the path. I’d been up for hours: Sunday train service was
poor at the best of times and today we’d been delayed due to
leaves on the line. How long should I give it before phoning him?
This was unfamiliar dating territory for me.

‘Really sorry … Couldn’t park …
Sorry.’ Scott’s hurried arrival, black winter coat
flapping out behind him, had scattered the pigeons. I forgot my
irritation as he wrapped me in a warm hug. We kissed, but briefly,
as by that time my nose had started to run.

Even with the patio heaters blaring, it wasn’t warm enough
to sit outside. We’d found a table near the window instead.
Despite the dreary day, the view across the river to St
Paul’s Cathedral was wonderful.

‘You know all the cool spots,’ I’d said,
remembering Amelia’s remark that Scott kept trendy company.
He knew several of my friends but I had not yet met any of his. I
was nervous of my ability to come up to scratch. At least I knew
his parents, if only by coincidence.

‘The first time I came here, I’d been to the Tate
Modern and was starving. Just fell in by chance.’

‘You like modern art?’ I’d asked, hoping we
weren’t heading there after lunch. I get bored fast in
museums, much preferring the gift shop and cafe. On the other hand,
I can spend hours ogling in a contemporary show home that’s
had a heavy dose of interior design.

‘It’s okay. Why, did you fancy going?’
He’d glanced at the menu and was now tapping his fingers on
the reclaimed planks of our table top. Was he getting impatient
with me? I’d missed great pub food in California and was
wondering if I was hungry enough to tackle the steak and ale
pie.

‘I’d rather relax at your place,’ I’d
said, doing my best to look flirtatious despite my glowing nose.
Was I coming down with a cold? I hoped not. And since I’d
already kissed him today, Scott was going to have to take his
chances with getting ill.

‘Now, that does sound appealing.’ He held my hand
now and smiled at me.

Catching his look, I’d decided I’d better have a
light lunch. It looked like I might be getting some exercise
later.

Scott lived just a couple of miles away, near
Tower Hill. I was unfamiliar with this part of London but I knew
that large numbers of riverside commercial buildings had been
redeveloped in the eighties and nineties.

‘When we get back, remind me I need to book a flight for
tomorrow,’ Scott said, as he inched the Jaguar out of a
painfully tight parking spot. I held my breath, not wanting to be
present if he dented either his car or the neighbouring
Renault.

Once we were safely clear, I asked, ‘Where are you
going?’

‘Manchester. Just for one meeting.’ He glanced at
me. ‘I know I suggested you stay over, and that still works.
I’ll get a mid-morning flight – meet them at
lunchtime.’

‘Fine,’ I said. I would take myself back on the
train and spend a quiet afternoon pottering in my cottage. Between
work, all the time I’d spent with Scott and the village
festivities of the past week, I was behind on laundry and cleaning.
‘You’re buying something up there?’

‘Yup. It’s looking good. The local authorities are
much less snooty than down south, I can tell you.’

We were crossing the river and I craned my neck to see the Tower
of London.

‘Doesn’t all that bloody history trouble you?’
I asked.

‘No,’ he laughed, shaking his head as if I were just
beyond hope. ‘Location, location, location, Grace.’

I understood his point when I saw that, in his case,
location
meant a converted brick warehouse with private
marina, a heartbeat away from Tower Bridge. I may actually have
squeaked in awe when Scott opened the heavy door and I found myself
in an enormous, loft-style living space. The windows were elegant
wide arches, the floor seemed to be slate and the walls were either
snowy white or a beautiful pale brick.

‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘I think I just
died.’

Scott put the kettle on, which, in such a glamorous space,
seemed sexily domesticated. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he
said. ‘I’m just going to sort out this
ticket.’

‘Can I look round?’

‘Course. Don’t get upset if you find my porn,
though.’

I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, but I was too busy
drinking in the surroundings to worry. In fact, at that point he
could have introduced me to his blonde Swedish housemates and I
don’t think I’d have cared.

My eyes out on stalks, I explored greedily. The ceilings were
also arched and of brick, as they might be in a Napa wine cave.
They were high and the space was so well lit, the balance of
intimate and impressive was perfect. His furnishings were modern
– no surprise there: chocolate leather sofas, abstract art,
luscious cream rugs. The kitchen was L-shaped, white and glossy
with stainless steel.

On one long wall were framed architectural plans and I guessed
these might be for favourite projects he’d worked on. Sure
enough, a couple of architecture award certificates were hanging in
the little hallway outside the bedroom. For a man who loved his
work, I was relieved they weren’t in the master bedroom
itself. I felt too awkward to linger in there, but I saw that it
was entirely grey and white, furnished sparsely. The bed was large,
low and pristine.

Finally, I discovered the apartment’s best feature: a
covered balcony, also with brick ceiling, offering a partial view
of the dock below. Luxury boats were nestled there and I was going
to tease Scott about which one was his, but bit my tongue in case
he did, in fact, own one.

‘Dammit. I don’t believe it.’

I was brought back to earth by this exclamation from one of the
long sofas, where Scott was studying his laptop.

‘What’s wrong?’ I lingered in front of a
bookcase, which was at least fifteen feet wide and contained a
mammoth flat screen television.

He tutted again. ‘Tomorrow’s flights are
full.’

‘Really?’ The kettle had boiled but despite my
scratchy throat, I wasn’t sure I should start rummaging in
his cupboards for mugs and teabags.

Scott sighed. ‘Serves me right.’

‘Can you drive?’ I suggested.

‘To Manchester, on a Monday morning? Not likely.’
His tone was snappy.

‘Oh.’ I perched side-saddle on the sofa at the far
end.

‘I’ll have to go tonight.’ He shook his head
in annoyance. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Tonight? When?’

He consulted the screen. ‘There’s a flight at nine.
I’d have to leave here about seven. That would work. We can
still spend the afternoon together.’

‘Okay,’ I said, although really, it wasn’t,
and I was too polite to say so. ‘I’ll head back to
Cambridge tonight.’

‘No,’ he said, reaching for me along the sofa,
‘stay.’

I gave him a sceptical look.

‘I can call them and make it a breakfast meeting.’
He rubbed his chin as he thought. ‘It’ll only take an
hour. I’ll hop straight on a plane – I can be back for
an early lunch.’

‘What, stay here on my own?’ I asked. That was
weird. It felt too early for me to be roaming his home
unsupervised. And yet, I was tempted by getting to know him better
through nosing around his apartment.

‘Why not?’ He put the laptop on the coffee table and
moved to put his arms round me. ‘I’m so sorry, this is
cutting into our weekend. But at least this way, I get to see you
tomorrow too.’

He wanted to see me tomorrow. That was flattering.

‘There are films,’ he continued, gesturing at the
huge array of DVDs. ‘And books. And lots of shops down on the
dock. You could get a massage or a manicure or something. My treat,
obviously.’

He was smiling at me confidently, but I hesitated. Still, at
least he wasn’t suggesting I did his ironing while I
waited.

‘You don’t have to decide now.’ Scott was
playing with my hair with one hand, while the other rubbed my thigh
in a way that was much more than companionable. He started to kiss
my neck, nuzzling at my ear. ‘You can decide
later.’

‘Well, okay, maybe,’ I said, thinking that a lazy
morning and beauty treatment were more appealing than my
housework.

‘Great.’ He slid his fingers inside my shirt.

I smiled and squirmed, but covered his hand with mine. ‘Do
you think we could have that cup of tea first? I’m
gasping.’

By eleven the next morning, I had made the most
of my luxurious surroundings, but was more than ready for company
again.

The previous evening, after Scott left, I had looked in all the
kitchen cupboards and scanned the title of every book on his
shelves. I had examined every piece of art and decorative
accessory, and thumbed through his collection of CDs. I even
allowed myself a quick peek in his wardrobe, which revealed lots of
dark suits and tailored shirts, with a preference for Ted Baker and
Paul Costelloe. In the hall cupboard I’d found skis and a
substantial set of golf clubs.

Beyond that, however, I didn’t pry. Even by my nosy
standards, it felt too personal to explore bedroom drawers or the
office. But I noticed there were no photos in Scott’s home.
Not one.

I’d made myself toast and Marmite for supper, phoned Jem
for a chat, and then found that if I stood on the balcony and
leaned out as far as I dared, I could just see a fireworks display
from the direction of Blackheath.

Scott had left me a key to his loft, which had triggered an
awkward exchange as we both confirmed I was only borrowing it, not
keeping it. On Monday morning, I’d found an eye-wateringly
expensive delicatessen and stocked his fridge with milk, bread,
eggs and organic cheddar. Too late, I realised I didn’t know
how often Scott was at home and whether he even liked to cook.
Then, I’d browsed the shops next to the marina, and ended
with a manicure and blow-dry at the beauty salon.

Allowing for an early meeting, journey to Manchester airport,
flight and then the motorbike taxi from Heathrow, I calculated
Scott might be back by about noon. I settled myself on one of his
leather sofas, Starbucks latte in hand, and waited.

And waited. Noon became one, one became half past.

‘I’m not the type to call every five minutes,’
he’d said the previous evening, throwing a shirt and
underwear into a Samsonite laptop case.

‘No problem.’ I’d been naked under his sheets,
stretching luxuriously and sleepily.

At two, I texted him: ‘Should I wait?’

His reply: ‘Sorry, took longer than expected.’

This told me nothing. At two fifteen, stomach growling from lack
of lunch, I followed up with: ‘Where are you?’

‘Just finishing up,’ came the response, a few
minutes later.

What a pain. He’d dodged the question. Was he still in
Manchester? Not even at the airport, let alone boarding a flight? I
could either sit here indefinitely, or send a nagging text every
fifteen minutes. Neither option appealed.

I jumped up, stuffed my overnight things into my bag and placed
Scott’s spare key on the kitchen island. Then, pausing only
to make a grab for the designer cheese, I let myself out.

It was an easy journey by Tube from Tower Hill
to Liverpool Street. Once a train turned up, I figured I’d be
there in a jiffy.

I’d waited a good five minutes before I realised I was on
the wrong platform. Kicking myself for such an elementary mistake,
I consulted the map. The last thing I wanted was to go the wrong
way round the Circle line, via Victoria and South Kensington. I
started to walk towards the steps but stopped abruptly, causing a
throng of Japanese tourists to flow, babbling, around me. An
uncomfortable thought had occurred to me: had I been as wrapped up
in my design business as Scott was now? Had I shut James out,
undermining us by being remote and unreliable?

Kensington was ringing a loud bell and I had just worked out
why. I suddenly saw that I might be on the right platform, after
all.

I put my bag down, took out my phone and called my husband.

I was pathetically unprepared for the triad of
familiarity, love and pain which swirled over me when I saw James.
I recognised him as soon as I entered the marble hotel lobby, and
would have known him as easily at fifty paces or even five hundred.
Every mannerism, from the way he was standing with one hand in his
pocket, to the lift of his head when he saw me, to the way his red
shirt wasn’t fully tucked in, was exactly the same. I
didn’t even know I knew these things, apparently absorbed
into my subconscious memory through years of routine living.