by Jo Carnegie
Everyone turned to observe the commotion, but the woman didn’t seem to care. ‘Up to your old tricks again! I can’t trust you for five minutes!’
Samuel had transformed into a cowering wreck. The woman turned her furious glare on Harriet.
‘In case you’re wondering, I’m Samuel’s wife.’
‘But he told me you were divorcing,’ stuttered Harriet.
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what he tells all the silly bitches who fall for his crap! I tell you, if he weren’t about to get his bonus and put all our kids through university I’d leave him right this moment.’ She yanked on his collar. ‘Come on, you. Home!’
Samuel stood up like a naughty schoolboy. He didn’t even look at Harriet as he was pushed out of the restaurant.
Harriet could feel thirty pairs of eyes on her. She literally wanted to cry with embarrassment. Out of nowhere, a waiter glided up with a large glass of white wine.
‘On the house, madam,’ he said sympathetically.
Saffron was working late again. Partly because she had loads to do, but mostly because she couldn’t bear to go back to Tara’s cramped little flat, with its damp washing hanging everywhere and dirty dishes in the sink. No wonder the place was such a mess: Tara and Tim spent most of their time in the bedroom. Saffron had even found an old used condom under one of the sofa cushions last night. She had probably been sleeping on it for weeks. The thought made her feel quite sick.
Britain was in the grip of a cold, dark winter. The black night loomed in through the office window, making the strip lighting inside even harsher. Saffron’s skin felt dry and dull from the air conditioning. For a moment, she longed to be in Churchminster, with its fresh air and wide-open country spaces. But she could never go back there. It was another thing that woman had ruined.
Saffron gave herself a mental shake. She wasn’t going to let herself think about that. Tim and Tara were out tonight; at least she’d have the place to herself. They’d been really good about it, but she knew she’d outstayed her welcome. A wave of depression washed over Saffron. She couldn’t stay on friends’ floors for the rest of her life. On this salary, she reflected glumly, I can’t even afford a shoebox in Surbiton.
The building was deserted as she made her way out. A security guard was at the desk fast asleep, his mouth wide open. So much for Valour’s stringent security measures. Saffron stepped on to the street, meeting an icy blast of wind. God, this country was miserable! Maybe she should emigrate . . . she had loads of mates in Australia. Thinking wistfully of barbecues and volleyball games on Bondi Beach, Saffron pulled her coat around her and set off.
A few minutes later she turned off the main street to take the familiar short cut to the tube. It was such a foul evening there weren’t many people about, but she could hear footsteps behind her. You have my sympathies, Saffron thought. What are we doing out on a night like this?
The blow to her face took her completely by surprise. Her knees buckling from shock more than anything, Saffron fell back on the pavement. Her attacker leant down and tried to grab her handbag. He was wearing a dark hat pulled down low over his face.
‘Get off me!’ she shouted hysterically. As the man lunged again, Saffron brought her fist up and, as hard as she could, punched him in the groin.
It worked. The man let out a shriek of pain. ‘Bitch!’ His hands clasped over his nether regions, he staggered off into the darkness.
Too shocked to move, Saffron lay still on the ground. She was soaking wet and probably filthy, but at least she still had her bag. ‘Calm down,’ she gasped to herself, ‘you’re fine.’
But then the shadow leant over her again.
‘Police! Help! Fire!’ she screamed.
‘Saffron, it’s me!’
It was a familiar voice, but she couldn’t place it. As she stared, Tom Fellows’s features came into focus.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked concernedly. It had started to rain, and drips were running down his glasses.
Saffron rubbed her cheek where she’d been hit, and winced. ‘I’ll live.’
Tom awkwardly pulled her up by her arm, and she brushed herself down with shaking hands. She was still breathing heavily. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I left something at the office.’ As if it was the most natural thing in the world Tom gently lifted her chin with his giant hand and peered at her cheek. ‘You shouldn’t be out by yourself.’ Saffron just stared at him, taken aback by the gesture. Blushing, Tom dropped his hand, pushing the bottle-tops back up his nose.
Saffron was starting to feel a bit silly. She’d probably been screaming like a complete freak, but it was just her luck that she had been rescued by Tom, and not some really fit stranger. ‘I’m a big girl, don’t worry about me,’ she declared. ‘See ya.’ Picking up her bag she sauntered off, leaving Tom standing there uselessly.
Once round the corner, however, Saffron’s chutzpah dissolved as her legs went completely. Leaning against the wall, she fumbled around in her bag for her phone. Her hands were shaking so much, it took several attempts to dial the number.
‘Aunt Velda?’ she sobbed. ‘Can you come and get me? Someone’s just tried to mug me.’
An hour later, Velda’s old Beetle pulled up at the entrance to Montague Mews. The boot was full of Saffron’s things, hastily retrieved from Tara and Tim’s. As Saffron got out of the car outside No. 3, she had never felt so glad to be home.
Velda put the key in the door. ‘I was just making a stew when you called, would you like some?’
Saffron stepped in behind her, savouring the rich spicy smell filling the house. ‘Yes, please.’
She put her suitcase down, and for a moment they just stood inside the front door, not sure what to say.
‘Saffron, I—’ started Velda.
Saffron caught her aunt’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t. It’s me who should be apologizing. I know you only had my best interests at heart.’
‘Your mother is dreadfully upset—’
Saffron interrupted again. ‘Can we please just forget about it all? I want to go back to how things were, just you and me.’
Velda seemed to want to say something, but stopped. She put her arms round her niece and hugged her. ‘Just you and me. Now go and get those wet clothes off, and I’ll get dinner ready.’
As Saffron lugged her bag upstairs, she felt her spirits lift for the first time in weeks. She was home again. Everything was back to normal.
At least, for now.
Chapter 52
ASH HAD BEEN living at the Maltings for almost a month, ensconced in the little granny annexe that had been converted at one end of the stable block. It was warm and generously furnished, but Ash couldn’t get used to all the different noises outside every night. He had grown up to the backdrop of ambulance and police sirens, loud music and people who didn’t care about keeping their voices down. Here, there was a whole new cacophony of noise: birds hooting, the wind howling through the eaves, the insistent ‘caw caw’ of the peacocks. Ash thought the countryside was meant to be quiet! He’d nearly had a heart attack the first night. There had been a fearful screaming right outside his window. When he’d eventually plucked up the courage to peek outside, he’d been confronted with the grisly sight of a huge barn owl dismembering a mouse.
Angie invited him to the ‘big house’ for dinner every night, but Ash preferred to heat something up in the microwave at his lodgings. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Fox-Titts, they’d been nothing but hospitable (aside from not being able to understand what he was saying, sometimes), but Ash had been out of a family environment for so long, he’d forgotten how to act in one. It made him uncomfortable, to say the least. At least they had Sky, and he had his iPod.
The place he had really taken to was Angie’s shop. From the moment he had walked into the crowded, low-beamed building and smelt the history in the air, Ash had felt like he had found his own personal heaven. It triggered so many happy memories and thoughts, and whatever job A
ngie gave him – whether it was cleaning and waxing bits of furniture, or listing new items – Ash threw himself into it. Angie, who had been rather worried about her withdrawn protégé until then, was encouraged by his progress.
That morning Ash was in the shop alone for the first time. Angie was out at a house clearance, seeing if there was anything worth picking up. Although he didn’t show it, Ash was really flattered Angie had thought him good enough to look after things. Though he was a bit worried about having to serve a customer. What if someone asked him a question and he couldn’t answer it? Angie had said to call her mobile if he had any problems, but it still made him feel anxious.
Mercifully the first hour or so he was undisturbed, and Ash had busied himself with polishing an old mahogany chest Angie had recently brought in. It really was beautiful, he thought, as his hands ran over it, savouring every detail, wondering how many owners it had passed through.
Suddenly the doorbell jangled. Ash’s heart jumped. He stood up to find a tall, grey-haired woman with a rather severe facial expression. Ash gulped.
‘You must be Ashley,’ said the woman. She sounded really posh, like the Queen. Ash felt tongue-tied. Unperturbed, the woman stuck out a hand encased in a leather glove. ‘I’m Clementine Standington-Fulthrope. I live at Fairoaks. I expect Angie has told you about me.’
Ash had no idea what she was going on about. ‘Hi,’ he muttered, turning puce under her steely gaze.
‘I must admit, I thought I would have seen you about the village by now, but you’ve obviously been keeping yourself busy.’
Ash shifted on to one leg. ‘Yeah.’
‘I see.’ Clementine wasn’t quite sure what to make of this pale, spotty youth with a gold stud in one ear. ‘Well, do tell Angie I dropped in. Goodbye, Ashley.’
Ash nearly gave a bow, but stopped just in time. ‘Bye, Mrs Stanley – er.’
‘Standington-Fulthrope,’ said Clementine, and swept out of the shop.
To: Caro Towey
From: Clementine Standington-Fulthrope
Subject: A new face
Darling, are you there? Oh, do pick up. I’ve had the most interesting morning, I went into Angie’s shop to meet this young Ashley fellow she’s got working for her. I must admit, I was rather put out we hadn’t been introduced before. One does like to keep abreast of all the new faces in the village. Angie warned me he was a little on the shy side, but my goodness! The poor chap couldn’t put two words together, and he was wearing one of those rather menacing hooded jumpers I saw on Crimewatch last week. He was dreadfully spotty as well; maybe I should take him out on a good walk to get the fresh air to his complexion. I haven’t seen a skin condition Churchminster hasn’t cleared up yet. I digress. Angie seems to think this Ashley (isn’t that a girl’s name?) has potential, so I will wait and see. One can’t praise the work Soirée Sponsors are doing highly enough, after all.
Has there been any development with the Saffron and Babs Sax situation? I do hope they come together and resolve it soon. That silly woman has been drinking herself into a stupor for weeks.
Anyway, I must dash: Errol Flynn is due his worming tablets. Do hope all is well with you, and that your indigestion is better. Try drinking dried nettle leaves with plenty of hot water.
Lots of love, Granny Clem Xxxx
PS. Look what Freddie taught me to do when he came round last week.:) It’s a funny face, in case you were wondering!
Despite the hopeful start, an uneasy gloom had settled over the Soirée office. Catherine seemed permanently to have a face of thunder, and most of the staff were keeping out of her way. They had received a terse email from her, saying the January issue hadn’t performed as well as expected, and that she needed even more effort from them from now on.
‘As if we aren’t working hard enough,’ grumbled Saffron to Harriet one evening. It was half past five and Catherine had already left the office. Her overworked staff were making the most of it, and packing up for the day.
Harriet sighed. ‘I know, that email didn’t sound too good, did it?’
Saffron looked round the office; there wasn’t a happy face in sight. ‘I’m sick of all this doom and gloom!’ she declared. She raised her voice. ‘Does anyone fancy a drink?’
Sure enough, quite a large group of them descended on the Snooty Fox, a nice little pub down the road. Saffron secured a large table at the back and Alexander slapped his company credit card on the bar to buy a couple of bottles of the house champagne.
‘I’ll put it through on expenses,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘Where’s Catherine?’ someone asked.
‘She left early to go down to the Soirée Sponsors office,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, but she had a face like a wet weekend in Wales. I hope there’s not a problem.’
‘Oh, great,’ said someone else. ‘That’s all we need, she’s stressed enough as it is.’
‘I don’t know why she bothers with that stupid scheme anyway, they’re a bunch of wasters,’ announced Annabel. Despite declaring she had a very exclusive party to go to, she had followed them down the pub for ‘one quick drink’.
Saffron looked at her in distaste. ‘Shut up, Annabel.’
Annabel bristled. ‘How dare you! I could have you disciplined for that.’
‘More champagne, anyone?’ asked Harriet hastily, as Saffron looked like she was about to wrap Annabel’s Alice band around her throat.
Alexander, who had been chatting up the barman, came and plonked himself down. He raised his glass in the air. ‘Here’s to us!’ he announced. ‘And to that young man over there, with the buttocks you could crack walnuts in. Oh my!’
Everyone giggled. Alexander could always be depended on to raise their spirits.
An hour later, everyone was feeling pretty merry. The art director and chief sub had gone to play snooker, and everyone else was playing a game of: ‘I have never.’
‘I have never been naked in a public place,’ said the picture editor.
Everyone except Annabel took a sip from their glass. ‘This is so childish,’ she huffed, clearly annoyed she was the odd one out.
‘I have never had it off with a member of the royal family,’ said Alexander. He drank heavily from his flute.
‘You haven’t!’ someone cried. ‘Alexander!’ His eyes flashed wickedly. ‘Oh, he was only a very minor member, don’t worry!’ He paused for effect. ‘Although I seem to remember there was nothing minor about his member.’ They all howled with laughter.
‘You’re disgusting,’ said Annabel sanctimoniously.
Alexander dismissed her with a flick of his hand. ‘Haven’t you got a party to go to, darling?’
‘Not while there’s free champagne here,’ muttered Saffron, a little too loudly.
Annabel glared at her. ‘Well, I’ve clearly outstayed my welcome. Excuse me, I’ve got some grown-ups to go and meet.’ She stood up and tried to walk off, but someone had tied the laces together on her frumpy ankle boots, and she managed one step before falling flat on her face.
‘I say, Annabel, are you all right?’ Harriet asked, trying desperately not to laugh.
Red with fury, she surfaced from under the table. ‘That is so immature! I ought to report all of you to human resources.’ With some difficulty Annabel yanked her laces apart and stomped out.
A few minutes later, Saffron turned from her conversation with Harriet to see Tom Fellows sitting beside her. He was perched awkwardly on a stool, long legs folded up underneath him like a dead spider.
‘Hi,’ he muttered. He was wearing a crumpled lumberjack shirt, which was open to reveal a ‘Mr Messy’ T-shirt underneath. His mane of black curls was wilder than ever, bottle-top glasses steaming up slightly from the heat of the room.
‘Tom, I didn’t see you there,’ said Saffron. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
Tom looked down at his huge feet. ‘It’s all right,’ he muttered.
‘Good stuff!’ said Saffron, hoping someone w
ould come along and save her. Tom carried on looking at the floor. Saffron glanced around desperately. ‘Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go to the loo,’ she said eventually. ‘All that champagne . . .’
She started to squeeze past him, but Tom suddenly looked up so they were face to face. His bottle-tops seemed thicker than ever. ‘Would you like to go out for a drink some time?’ he blurted.
Saffron was so shocked she said yes.
It was Valentine’s Day. Everywhere Catherine looked she seemed to be confronted by smug girls skipping along the street with huge bouquets of flowers. Restaurants were booked up with ‘couples only’ meals, and radio stations were playing a marathon of nonstop love songs.
Catherine normally dismissed the day as a load of rubbish. This year, however, it had really got her thinking. She didn’t want to admit how much she missed John, but maybe she had been too hasty in cutting him out of her life. Maybe her past didn’t have to come between them, and he seemed to be the first person who hadn’t judged her. But then surely John would become part of her lie . . . and could she really trust him?
Catherine rubbed her eyes. She felt so confused. Relationships had always been a no-go zone, she’d made sure of that. But John had made her feel properly alive for the first time in her life. Catherine could hardly dare consider it . . . but could they make a go of things after all? When she considered the prospect, she felt a lurch of both excitement and fear.
She ran her hands through her hair. It had been a trying couple of days. Adam had broken the news that Valour’s board needed to cut costs, and could no longer afford to pay all the Soirée Sponsors staff salaries. As Gail’s super-efficient PA, a twenty-something single mum called Cheryl, had been the most recent joiner, it was her that the axe was falling on. Valour had ‘generously’ given her a three-month notice period, but it still didn’t make breaking the news to Gail or Cheryl any easier. It was as if they had started shutting up shop already.
On top of this, Catherine felt trapped in a relentless grind of deadlines. She had made everyone go hell for leather on the February issue, but mid-month sales indicated it was barely going to make a dent in the huge sales increase expected of her. The enthusiasm everyone had summoned up was starting to wear off, and they were behind on the March issue. Saffron had landed a sought-after aristocratic model for the cover, but even that hadn’t lifted spirits. Everyone was tired, demoralized and uncertain about their future.