Jem looked at her watch reluctantly, probably calculating Tube time back to Ealing and the babysitter’s hourly rate.
‘So … Grace,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to spoil our tea but you obviously have a right to know.’
‘Know what?’ My thoughts of a quick ten minute nap on the squishy sofa evaporated.
‘It’s just that James has called me a few times. He’s been asking – well, pleading really, to get in touch with you.’
‘Oh. Has he?’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘Um, I dunno. Maybe I thought he’d just give up on me?’
‘Grace, you’re worth more than that.’ Jem tutted and I made a little ‘maybe’ shrug.
‘It was kind of awkward, actually,’ she continued.
‘Right, yes, sorry,’ I conceded. They had been friends before this. All of my family had liked James – yet it seemed the whole lot of us had been wrong about his character. I added quickly, ‘You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?’
‘No, don’t worry, I just said that it was up to you when you made contact with him. And that you’re fine, obviously.’
‘Thank you so much.’ We hugged awkwardly, partly because we’re British and somewhat reserved, but mainly because we were so full of calories.
~~~
We said goodbye at Green Park station and I hopped on the Piccadilly line to King’s Cross. The evening rush hour was starting and I allowed myself to be swept up in the zealous herd making their exit from London. I was glad to match their brisk pace, not pausing until I had tucked myself into a precious corner seat on the commuter train to Cambridge.
But then, as we rocked and rolled our way through grimy London suburbs, small towns and eventually green fields, I pondered our tea and Jem’s news. Was my self-esteem so low that I was surprised James had been trying to contact me? Did I really think the man who had looked into my eyes and promised Till death us do part wouldn’t want to know where his wife was? I had steeled myself for the possibility that if he was in love with Rebecca, he’d be too swept up with her to worry about me. Yet here he was, trying to make contact.
Of course, talking to him was pointless because I had absolutely nothing to say.
Did I?
~~~
July drew on: the cow parsley grew ever taller and inbound families felt the urgency of settling into new homes before school started again. I wasn’t even looking beyond the end of the summer; for once in my life, I was living firmly and busily in the present.
My enthusiasm for looking at houses – big, small, and quirky – was undiminished. I had showed up nervously at the pub for lunch with Mary Lou’s gang and been rewarded with an extrovert, friendly group of women. These personal connections had led to me selling a couple more homes to American transplants. Amelia was pleased, and we increased my hours. Money was still tight, but free rent was a blessing. I was almost living within my means, not counting the loan from my parents to buy a car when the rental company had demanded the return of their yellow peril.
To Amelia’s exasperation, I was now driving an old white VW Beetle, acquired from a chicken-keeping friend of mum’s. The elderly friend, suffering from cataracts, had given up driving after a ‘teensy incident’. This unfortunate occurrence turned out to be the traumatic squishing of one of her own flock. Amelia christened it my murder-mobile, which I thought was a bit strong, considering the glee with which she guzzled chicken and chips at the pub.
Of course, the Beetle didn’t exude the kind of Mercedes-driving success that Amelia herself favoured, but my American clients declared it was wonderful, praising the vintage ‘European’ style. Even so, many of them were reluctant to actually ride in it, preferring to drive themselves to our viewings.
My loneliest time of day was the evening, after I’d made a simple dinner, cleared up the kitchen and found my body was weary but my mind still alert. This was when I missed snuggling with James on the sofa, my head on his shoulder as we scrolled idly through the latest offerings from Netflix. The gap beside me each evening was echoed by the hollow space in my chest.
So, at first I found it ironic, then amusing, then welcome, that Mungo the crazy spaniel found his way to my cottage with increasing regularity. Sometimes, he was there when I got home from work, panting as he lay on the doormat in the evening sun. Other evenings, he arrived with laser-like precision just as I had finished dinner and was wondering whether leftovers were worth keeping. These I denied him, as his illicit visits made me feel guilty enough and I didn’t want to add to his incentive. Whatever his reasons, he kept coming and as the July evenings began to shorten a little, he decided his favourite place was on top of my feet in my basic but comfortable living room.
~~~
A couple of weeks after I’d met Jem for tea, I arrived outside the Hargraves office one Tuesday morning and got the nebulous impression that something was different. I scanned our facade to see what was amiss. Then I realised my eye was telling my brain to notice the reflection in the window. Behind me, over the road at the bakery, two tables, a cluster of chairs and – yes – yellow umbrellas had mushroomed. A blackboard proclaimed NEW! and its swirly text promised not only Free Refills but also Free Wi-Fi.
Crikey, I thought, Brian took my advice. Pride swirled through my toes and up my legs, but by the time it reached my knees, apprehension took over.
I skipped our coffee pick-up and went directly inside. Amelia was already there, checking her messages.
‘What’s up?’ she asked distractedly.
‘I’m feeling the guilt of interfering with Brian’s business.’ I threw my car keys on my desk, turned on the computer and sat down heavily.
‘Why, what did you do?’
I told her about my chirpy suggestions for bringing some Seattle coffee house chic to Saffron Sweeting. ‘What if nobody’s interested and Brian’s wasted his money?’ I fretted. ‘Or even worse, what if everyone buys just a cup of coffee, blags endless refills and camps out with their laptops all day?’
‘Well, it doesn’t sound like the end of the world,’ Amelia laughed and threw several sticky notes of messages in my direction. ‘And even if you gave advice, it was up to Brian whether or not to take it.’
I humphed, my face of impending doom still intact.
‘Grace,’ Amelia shook her head at me impatiently, ‘you fret too much, darling.’
It was close to lunchtime when I returned from showing a far-too-small house to a family with four little girls and a baby boy (had they kept going until the longed-for son arrived?). As I parked the Beetle, I was pleased to see a couple of women occupying one of the bakery tables. One of them even had a laptop. Were they having some kind of business meeting? That struck me as a little high-powered for Saffron Sweeting. No offence, but this was hardly Palo Alto’s simmering cauldron of innovation and venture funding.
With stomach rumbling, I was forced across the road to face the music.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Brian greeted me. ‘Like the changes I’ve made?’
A delicious scent of coffee assailed my nostrils. Had he been grinding it this morning?
‘Well, gosh …’ I was hesitant. ‘It looks great out there.’
He nodded. ‘Yesterday and this morning were both extra busy.’ He inclined his head towards the serve-yourself milk and sugar by the door. ‘The refills seem popular – probably made a loss on those today …’
Oh. Why hadn’t I kept my big mouth shut, instead of idly throwing out my opinion? I clearly had zero business sense, now proven on two continents.
‘… which is fine by me, as the cakes and savouries have more than made up for it,’ he added cheerfully.
‘Really?’ Really?
‘Yup. Had to bake a second batch of most things.’
‘Oh!’ I didn’t know what to say, but if I’d had a tail, I would have wagged it. ‘Well, once people taste your stuff, of course they’ll buy more.’ I recovered my manners.
‘And tell their frie
nds, hopefully,’ he said, then broke off to serve another customer.
I selected an egg mayonnaise sandwich from the chiller cabinet and made a tactful retreat.
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ Amelia commented, as I plunked myself in my chair and attacked my lunch.
‘Brian says people like his new offerings.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘So I take it impending disaster is averted?’
I chewed in silence.
‘Told you it wasn’t worth getting your knickers in a twist.’ Amelia waved her hand airily as she picked up the phone. ‘But I’m pleased. The better the local businesses do, the better it is for house prices.’
‘And it’s terrific for Brian too,’ I reminded her.
‘Hmm? Oh yes. Terrific.’ She was already dialling her next prospect.
~~~
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I said, ‘but lots of older people haven’t forgiven Mrs Simpson for seducing our king. You’re implicated, simply because of your nationality.’
To my relief, Nancy just laughed, and asked for clarification of Prince Harry’s chances of getting on the throne. She didn’t seem to have noticed any animosity towards the Americans in Saffron Sweeting.
Considering Nancy had a demanding job and was also having an intellectually passionate fling with a Cambridge professor, I saw her around the village surprisingly often. We had met up at The Plough for a Friday night drink and, since the rain had eased for a few days, we’d agreed we should seize our chance to sit in the garden. Happily situated at a picnic table next to an apple tree, my clumsy attempt to explain succession rights within the Royal Family had accounted for the disappearance of our first glass of wine.
Since our arrival, more customers had trickled into the pub garden and, judging by the deep-fried smell now wafting from the kitchen, food service had begun. I wondered if I could talk Nancy into staying for another drink and something to eat.
‘Well, hello, how are you?’ came a friendly call.
I looked up to see Lorraine from the bed and breakfast advancing across the grass. I introduced her to Nancy and invited her to join us.
‘Oh, thanks, no, my brother’s inside getting drinks, he’ll be out in a minute. With his kids – they’re a bit of a crowd.’ She laughed. ‘Nobody’s staying tonight, so I seized my chance for an evening out.’
I explained to Nancy that I had been a guest at Oak House for my first few nights in the village.
‘Actually, Grace, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’ Lorraine raised a finger as if to waggle it at me, but didn’t quite go that far.
‘I stopped at the bakery to get tomorrow’s bread,’ she continued, ‘and they’re all sold out. Croissants, pastries, all of it. Gone.’
I didn’t know what to say – how could this be my fault? I hadn’t been near the bakery today.
Lorraine twinkled at me. ‘Brian is singing your praises. He says you suggested a few changes and they’ve made a world of difference.’ She lowered her voice a little. ‘Apparently, he’s selling twice as much to the Americans as he ever did to the Brits.’
Nancy looked intrigued. I just looked embarrassed, then felt thankful as a male version of Lorraine and three small children spilled out of the pub into the garden.
But I wasn’t quite off the hook yet. Lorraine’s next words bowled me for six.
‘So I was wondering,’ she said brightly, ‘since so many of my guests are American, can you come and do the same for me?’
CHAPTER 13
This was the last thing I’d been expecting. My mouth dropped far enough to catch any summer flies buzzing around the pub garden.
‘Well, um, I don’t know.’ How could I manage this tactfully? Oak House bed and breakfast had been a friendly place to stay, but it did have room for improvement. ‘Have you had advice from anyone else?’ I asked Lorraine.
‘No, unless you count what people put in the visitors’ book. That can get lively.’ She laughed.
Lorraine apparently had the thick skin that was necessary to welcome strangers into her home.
‘I’m really not sure I’m qualified.’ I started to wriggle out of her request, then felt a kick on my shin. Surprised, I looked across the table at Nancy. Sure enough, she widened her eyes in mock innocence and began humming meaningfully.
‘Could you just come over for a cup of tea and let me know what you think?’ Lorraine’s tone was almost pleading now.
I remembered guiltily what Brian had said about businesses struggling in the village.
‘Well, if you think I can help …’
‘Oh, that’s terrific, thanks so much. How’s next Thursday for you?’
~~~
Amelia was a fabulous negotiator, sticking strictly to the principle that in a real estate transaction, the person in a hurry pays the price. I had seen her wrangle for days over the fine points of a deal, then pull her client away cheerfully if the terms weren’t to her liking. At that point, the other side usually caved in.
‘They get invested, darling,’ she had told me sanguinely. ‘Once people have put a lot of time and effort into something, they have a tough time backing out altogether.’
I had stored this piece of information away for future use, wondering if James’s zeal to get in touch with me stemmed from his long-time investment, or just stubbornness.
But another reason for Amelia’s success was research and preparation. She seemed to know the local real estate market back to front, and never missed an opportunity to delve her nose into details of a transaction.
‘Fancy a little excursion?’ she asked me. ‘There’s a property auction tomorrow and I’m planning to go.’
‘Ooh,’ I said, ears alert. ‘Are you buying something for a client?’
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Just want to see how the cookie crumbles.’
‘I’d love to come,’ I said, picturing an auctioneer in a tweed jacket and ruddy-cheeked bidders in green Wellington boots. ‘Can we both be away from the office?’
She consulted her computer screen. ‘Looks like it starts bright and early. We’ll be back here by eleven.’
~~~
Located in a cluster of tastefully converted farm buildings on the road to Grantchester, the auctioneers were clearly making a tidy profit from their dealings. Half barrels overflowing with red geraniums marked the entrance to the car park and the way into the auction room itself. There were no tweed jackets or Wellingtons in sight and the clientele had arrived in gleaming Range Rovers rather than muddy Volvos. In fact, there were rather too many fancy cars for Amelia’s liking. The manicured gravel parking area appeared full, and a helpful Overflow sign pointed to the adjacent field.
‘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 b
randishing 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.
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