Saving Saffron Sweeting (34 page)

‘Yes, chicken nuggets are certainly off the menu,’
she replied.

I watched, surprised, as she broke a banana into pieces and
offered it to them. A white chicken and a pinky-brown cousin
competed fiercely for the treat.

I worked up my courage. ‘Is there anything you want to
tell me?’

‘Poppet …’

I twisted my hands in the too-long sleeves of Harry’s
sweater. ‘Well?’

‘Dotty had no right to say anything.’ My mother
threw the banana skin at the compost heap and wiped her fingers on
her trousers.

‘So, there was something to say?’ My voice was
barely audible.

Mum turned to me and took both my hands in hers to stop me
fidgeting. ‘Love, it was a long time ago. We can’t
dwell in the past.’

‘Did dad … did he cheat on you?’

She looked at me steadily, her face showing only the slightest
shadow of pain. Then she reached out a hand and gently smoothed my
hair. ‘Gracie, I love my life. I love my husband. And I love
my family very much.’

I opened my mouth to protest, got as far as ‘But, mum
–’ before she silenced me with a resolute shake of her
head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Look to your future,
Grace.’

Next afternoon, Harry, Jem and I were making
half-hearted efforts to get our stuff together in preparation for
departure, when the doorbell rang.

‘Oh gawd,’ said my mother, trundling to the front
door in her slippers. ‘I hope it’s not the Smythes and
another of their impromptu drinks parties.’

It wasn’t social neighbours: it was FedEx with a box for
me, origin California. Was this a late-arriving gift? There had
been nothing under the tree for me from James, which didn’t
surprise me. I hadn’t sent him anything, either. After all,
what would one buy for an estranged spouse? I took myself to the
far end of the living room where mum and dad had laid out tea
things so we could all have a snack before our journey.

First, I found the card, a simple hand-written note which read,
Grace, I didn’t know what you would like but I know you
feel the cold. Happy Christmas. All my love, James.

Inside a badly wrapped package I found a beautiful pale grey
cashmere blanket, which, if I couldn’t snuggle up with a man,
was certainly the next best thing. Mungo would have to keep his
grubby paws off this.

As I flapped the blanket open to admire it, a small square box
slipped to the floor. I exchanged a silent look with Jem, and
reached to pick it up. The outside read
Astley Clarke,
London
, and inside was a beautifully simple pair of stud
earrings.

‘Ooh.’ Jem peered from the other end of the sofa.
‘Yummy.’

I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling I was looking at
diamonds set in white gold. James wasn’t stingy, but by his
usual standards, these were a beautiful gift. He must have bought
them during his recent trip to London. The earrings glimmered as I
tilted them back and forth.

There was something else in the box: a large, thin envelope.
After diamonds and cashmere, divorce papers seemed unlikely.
Puzzled, I delved inside. There were several sheets of paper, with
a sticky note on top:
I wanted you to see these, in case they
help. Sorry, I couldn’t get them before now. J.
The
pages looked like log files from a computer program. I had to look
closely before I could make out I was reading system-stored email
correspondence.

May 18. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
So excited for my
bedroom. It’s going to be great. You should see it!
Rebecca.

May 19. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
Glad to hear it.
Grace is very talented. James.

May 19. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
I’m so
looking forward to Vegas! It’s gonna be a blast. Can you stay
on after for the workshops? Rebecca. xo

May 20. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
I don’t
think so, I need to get back. Regards, James.

There were more like this, upbeat, hopeful, a little flirtatious
from Rebecca to James; brief and business-like from him to her. I
read on, until I found:

May 29. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
Just checked in!
Room 955. View is great. Come see it! R. xo

May 29. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
Still have some
work to do for tomorrow. I’ll see you all at dinner.
James.

May 30. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
You were awesome
today! The investors loved you! So privileged to work with you.
Congrats and hugs, Becca. xoxo

May 30. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
Thanks. You too.
;)

Then, this. I bit my lip hard as I read on, not caring that, for
once, the Gillings had gone as quiet as mice.

May 31. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
Good morning
… xxx

May 31. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
I feel terrible
about what happened. We have to talk. James.

May 31. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
Last night was
amazing. Meet you later for cocktails? Becca xxx

May 31. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
I’m sorry,
I made a big mistake. I was horribly drunk. I want to apologise to
you. I’ll find you at lunchtime. James.

Finally, there were these:

June 4. From McMahon, R to Palmer, J:
I know
we’re trying to hide this from the office, but I can’t
keep pretending. You’re amazing. I want to be with you.
Can’t wait to pick up where we left off in Vegas. My place
tonight? Hugs and kisses, Becca. xxx

June 4. From Palmer, J to McMahon, R:
If I ever gave
you reason to think I have feelings for you, I apologise
unreservedly. I made a terrible, one-time mistake. I love my wife.
Please stop these notes. James.

My tea in its white china cup was cold and murky. I realised
I’d been gripping the cashmere blanket as I read, holding it
to my chest like a shield.

I looked up at Jem and Harry, not caring that my eyes were full
of tears. ‘Guys, I need a favour.’

Jem nodded immediately. ‘Sure thing,’ she said.

‘If I drop my car in Saffron Sweeting, can I get a lift to
your place for tonight? I need to be at Heathrow first thing
tomorrow.’

Harry stretched his arms above his head and glanced at my
parents before replying. ‘Where are you going?’

I stood up to finish packing. I didn’t want to lose a
single moment. ‘San Francisco.’

After the dreary British weather, I had trouble
adjusting to the bright afternoon sunlight as I drove south on
US101 from San Francisco Airport. Traffic was light and the
temperature was several degrees warmer than in England. I turned up
the radio in my rental car and felt a joyful purpose which had been
absent for a long time.

My wallet, by contrast, was feeling the pain of a last-minute
ticket purchase, but it seemed a small price to pay to see James.
Completely unable to sleep on the plane, I had twirled my wedding
ring and watched the map on the seat-back television, counting down
the miles as we made absurdly slow progress across remote parts of
northern Canada. This had, at least, given me time to settle my
thoughts.

After my encounter with mum in the garden, I’d escaped for
a walk, tearfully refusing Jem’s offer of company.

Far from being crisp and sunny, Boxing Day had been overcast and
damp. To counteract the creeping cold and my tumbling thoughts,
I’d set a punishing pace, aiming for Kelling Heath.

For the first couple of miles, I’d seen nothing of the
countryside. My head was down, my hands jammed in my pockets, my
thoughts swimming with doubt and self-pity. But as my body warmed
up and my brain cooled down, I’d found myself thinking about
Mungo, wishing he were here to explore and meet new rabbits.

I’d wondered how James had spent Christmas, and whether he
was on his own. Then, as sudden, mournful emptiness threatened to
invade my chest, I’d pushed those thoughts aside and
contemplated my parents’ marriage.

Granted, they no longer behaved like besotted lovers, but their
relationship seemed comfortable, respectful, solid. The two of them
were like wheels on a bicycle, hard to imagine the machine
functioning without both front and back. So if – and I still
wasn’t sure – dad had cheated on mum, did that mean
infidelity was a puncture that could be repaired? Sure, you had to
take the whole inner tube out, find the hole, patch carefully and
allow time for the glue to set. But then, with care, you could
pedal on. I had been unshakable in my assumption that an affair
meant the end of the road, but here they were, twenty years later,
cooking up a Christmas feast and blithely sharing the wishbone.

I figured it was too early for James to be home
from work, but I didn’t care. I headed to Menlo Park to wait.
Fully expecting to have to park myself on the wooden steps leading
up from the street, I knocked on the door, just in case. Strangely,
my ears detected music from inside the apartment but, deciding they
must still be unreliable from the flight, I turned away and
prepared to wait.

The door opened behind me and I swung around to find not my
husband but a tall, slim young woman. I took in a terrifying
expanse of brown leg before my eye was arrested by pink workout
shorts and a skimpy Nike top. Her face was girl-next-door cute and
her blonde hair was cut short, like a pixie. She didn’t look
a day over twenty-five.

‘Hey?’ she greeted me blankly.

Battling a mouth that was full of tongue and drier than an
airline sandwich, I asked if James was home.

‘James? No, he’s not. Are you a friend?’

‘Uh-huh. From England.’

‘Oh jeez, that’s too bad. I think he left
town.’

‘Left town?’ What could she mean?

She nodded her pixie head. ‘He sublet the place to me, for
three months. Sorry, I don’t know where he went.’ She
chewed on a finger, thinking. ‘I have an email address for
him, if you want.’

‘That’s okay. I have it.’ At this point, I
remembered to breathe. ‘Er, so, you’re not his …
girlfriend?’

‘Hah! No, totally not. I think he’s married,
actually. He put this place on Craigslist and I got lucky.
It’s really nicely decorated, for a guy.’

Reversing my initial opinion, I decided I liked her. But that
still left me with my sails fully rigged and no wind. I’d
crossed eight time zones and he’d left town?

‘Are you okay?’ She looked at me as I sagged against
her – my – doorway.

‘Yeah. Sorry. Just jet-lagged.’ I stood straighter
and rubbed my eyes. It was getting on for midnight in the UK.
‘I guess I’ll head to my hotel.’

I thanked her and made my way back down the steps, holding on
carefully to the banister as I didn’t trust my legs.

In the car, I pulled out my phone to call James, but got only a
generic voicemail message. Could he really have gone away?

The last time I had visited James’s
workplace, I had been spilling both tears and purple paint, so I
was nervous about making a reappearance. Nor was I looking my best,
after being processed through the sausage machine of economy-class
travel. But it couldn’t be helped. I brushed my hair, left my
unflattering duffel coat in the car and lifted my chin as I walked
into his Palo Alto office.

I sensed the company was doing well. The clock on the wall told
me it was almost five, but that was still early in start-up land.
More desks were filled than in the summer, and some framed magazine
features were displayed proudly on the wall. They even had a
receptionist, a rusty-haired, freckled young thing wearing scruffy
jeans and an eager smile. But I couldn’t see James at his old
spot.

‘Hi,’ I spoke confidently, even though my insides
were like a technology stock on the day after the IPO.
‘I’m here to see James Palmer.’

‘Oh.’ The receptionist looked confused, darting a
glance over to the area where I knew the engineering team sat.
‘James doesn’t work here any more.’

Even though I was half expecting this, I still felt the thump of
disappointment in my stomach.

‘Do you know how I could reach him?’ I made sure to
speak clearly, hoping my British accent would lend some credibility
and authority without giving me away as his wife.

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘But Duncan
might.’

Duncan was just passing the front desk, enormous Starbucks cup
in hand. Wearing thick glasses and a Google polo shirt, I suspected
he had already made his millions and only worked here to keep his
brain entertained.

I turned to him and smiled engagingly, holding out my hand.
‘Hello. I was expecting to meet with James Palmer.’

The light glinted off Duncan’s glasses as he looked at me
suspiciously. ‘Are you a headhunter?’

‘No – goodness, no. I’m Gr-’ Whoops,
that wouldn’t do. ‘I’m Greta Gilling. From the
British CISSP.’ My face turned pink as I faked a name and
threw out an acronym I’d heard James use. I had no idea what
it stood for and hoped desperately it would provide sufficient
cover.

Duncan sipped his coffee through the lid of the paper cup.
‘James left us right before the holidays. Let go, in actual
fact.’

Let go? Did he mean sacked? I couldn’t believe that: James
had always shone at work and the company was obviously growing.

I smoothed the surprise off my face and tried for a neutral
tone. ‘Do you know where he is now?’

Duncan shook his head. ‘No. You could try Microsoft.
We’ve lost a few good guys to them recently. James was one of
our best too.’

‘Microsoft?’ I didn’t think that was likely.
Bill Gates had never been one of my husband’s heroes. He
preferred the romantic nobility of the Linux crowd.

‘Yeah. Not here, though. Seattle.’

Seattle? Oh no, please no. I knew of someone else who had
recently moved to Seattle. She signed her emails
Hugs,
Becca.