Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  Amelia turned to introduce me. ‘This is Grace,’ she said. ‘My new assistant.’

  ‘Hi.’ I shook his hand and found my fingers were grasped firmly. Looking up to make eye contact, I fell into a pair of eyes the colour of denim, accentuated by just a hint of fine lines. From the mischievous smile he was now throwing my way, I could see how he’d got them.

  ‘You look different, Grace,’ Scott smiled. ‘With dry clothes.’

  I frowned; he grinned and waited. When the penny dropped, I wanted to hide in the nearest hedge. Cringing, I asked, ‘It was you at the ford?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He didn’t look at all afraid. He looked like he might be enjoying himself, and I got the distinct feeling he was checking that all my clothes were, in fact, dry. For the second time that morning, I blushed.

  ‘Oh, you two have met?’ Amelia asked, pressing the button on her key to unlock the car.

  ‘Um, no, not really.’ I nipped smartly around to the passenger door to put some distance between this man and myself. I was mortified at the thought of the wet T-shirt view he’d had last time he’d seen me.

  I was saved by Amelia’s cheeky parking.

  ‘God’s teeth, Amelia, did you have to land on top of my car?’ Scott had spotted that the bumper of the Mercedes was kissing his convertible.

  ‘Oh, don’t be a fusspot.’ She tossed her head as she hopped into the driver’s seat beside me, although she did slide down her window to continue the conversation. ‘I didn’t want to walk across the grass in my heels.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Perish the thought.’ He tilted his head to catch my eye through the car window, and winked conspiratorially.

  I couldn’t help but smile back, and felt myself breathe out as I did. I was clearly out of practice at chatting with gorgeous men. There was nothing going on here, he was simply a friend of Amelia’s.

  ‘Well,’ he said to Amelia, ‘since I’m trapped until you move, be a doll and get a wiggle on.’

  With parking pressure like that, I would most likely have found the wrong gear and crumpled both cars. Fortunately, Amelia had no such difficulties and reversed out of the space smoothly.

  As we turned out of the car park onto the narrow country road, she threw me an appraising look.

  ‘So, what was all that about?’ she asked. ‘Did you fail to mention there was an audience for your frolic in the river?’

  I shook my head and fixed my eyes on the Cambridgeshire landscape. ‘If you don’t mind,’ I said through tight lips, ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’

  ~~~

  Having put the auction encounter firmly out of my mind, I directed my thoughts towards my appointment at the bed and breakfast. And once the day arrived, I found my enthusiasm for the conversation had increased. Not only had Lorraine been kind to me when I’d first arrived in Saffron Sweeting, but Oak House did have wonderful potential.

  Remember to be tactful, I told myself sternly, as I parked my car by the cream-coloured walls. I checked my watch to make sure Lorraine had had enough time to finish serving breakfast and do any housekeeping that was needed.

  She welcomed me with a big pot of tea and fresh cheese scones. Was she related to Brian, or was there something in the water around here which resulted in such delectable baked goods?

  We sat in the breakfast room and I asked what had triggered this request.

  ‘Well …’ She took a deep breath and I realised she was nervous. That made two of us. ‘People seem to enjoy staying here, but I’m rarely full, and it doesn’t really pay to just have one or two guests at a time. Most of the comments in my visitors’ book are kind, but occasionally somebody says something quite blunt. Are Americans more demanding, do you think?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘But I think they’re often less frightened to complain than Brits.’

  ‘So, a few months ago, my father died. That’s why my brother was here – we were just going over a few loose ends.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. He’d been ill for a long time.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I’ve inherited a decent amount – not a fortune, you understand – and I’d like to invest it in Oak House.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I nodded. ‘Especially since this is your home too.’

  ‘I thought you would have a good sense of what would make my American guests happy.’

  It was time for me to sing for my supper – or rather, scones. ‘One thing you might not know,’ I began gently, ‘is that in the States, bed and breakfast is usually a luxury experience, and people expect top quality – with liberal sprinkles of history, antiques and so on. But they’ll pay top price for it. English B&Bs are very different, usually more of a budget option.’

  ‘I’d much rather be high-end,’ Lorraine said quickly. ‘I can do the history thing easily.’

  ‘Absolutely, that’s a real strength. And your cooking is definitely a plus.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘So … I was thinking about adding a conservatory, for guests to enjoy when the weather isn’t so wonderful. Do you think that would be nice?’

  I chewed my lip, and the grandfather clock in the hall ticked by a few seconds. A sunroom addition to the house would cost many thousands of pounds. And how many of her guests sat around all day? Surely they were out, visiting the Cambridge colleges, or going off into the Suffolk countryside?

  ‘Well, that would be lovely,’ I said slowly, ‘but I’m not sure it would be the best use of your money.’

  I glanced at her for a negative reaction, but Lorraine was waiting receptively.

  ‘I looked at some of your online reviews,’ I continued. ‘The biggest criticism seems to be for your bathrooms.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s an old house, you know?’

  ‘I know, and it’s beautiful, but Americans do love a powerful, hot shower. Could you have a plumber take a look? Maybe install power showers?’ I didn’t mention my own experience of the alternately freezing then dribbling water.

  ‘I could do that,’ Lorraine said.

  ‘The other thing in the reviews is soft beds. If you were to upgrade your mattresses, that’s definitely something you can add to your promotional materials.’

  ‘Mattresses? Really?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I confirmed. ‘They won’t be cheap, but if you go with a famous name, you can list it on your website and people will know you take comfort seriously. They’ll infer that you’re a quality place to stay.’

  ‘I never would have thought of that.’

  Right, here goes. I took a deep breath. ‘Ideally, you should spend the night in each of your rooms, and see what you find.’ Or feel in your spine, I thought. ‘If there is a bath, lie in the bath too. You’d be amazed at what you can see from down there. Cobwebs and stuff.’

  Lorraine was taking notes, which I found hugely flattering. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given an opinion and someone had written it down.

  ‘I did that when we first opened,’ she acknowledged. ‘I suppose I haven’t got round to it for a while. What else, Grace?’

  ‘Your website is nice and I like it,’ I told her, ‘but when you’ve made these changes, you should get new photos. They should be professionally done. So many of your competitors have narrow-angled, dingy photos.’

  ‘Right, super,’ she said, still writing.

  Was she actually going to go ahead with my suggestions?

  ‘I can give you the name of the photographer Amelia uses, so that’s easy.’ I accepted another scone. ‘And we should find out how to add online booking to your website.’

  ‘Online booking?’ she echoed.

  ‘Yes – two reasons. You can update your prices easily, by season, if you like. Graduation dates in Cambridge should cost more – that kind of thing. And it’s such a pain for people to contact you to find out if you’ve got space. I’m sure some potential guests go elsewhere, rather than take the trouble.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind n
ot having to answer vacancy questions,’ she agreed. ‘Do you think that’s hard to do, though?’

  ‘I’m sure we can figure it out.’ I sounded more confident than I was. Fleetingly, I thought how great it would be to ask James for help – he could probably do that kind of stuff in his sleep. But no, that was out of the question. Lorraine and I would just have to muddle through.

  ‘Shall we take a look at each of the rooms you have?’ I asked. My designer’s eye was curious to see what tweaks we could make.

  We visited the four guest bedrooms. All had pleasant proportions and attractive furniture. The fabrics were a bit girly, but that was hardly the end of the world for a bed and breakfast. However, there was room for improvement in the accessories Lorraine had chosen. As we went from room to room, I pointed out several spots where bigger lamps, local art or new cushions could make a big difference.

  As we came back downstairs, the grandfather clock told me nearly two hours had passed. I’d been so wrapped up in our tour, I hadn’t noticed the time at all. Lorraine’s energy, however, was clearly on the wane.

  Anxious, I bit the bullet. ‘Lorraine, you’ve gone a bit quiet. Did I overstep the mark?’

  ‘Oh no, Grace,’ she said. ‘I do see what you mean. It’s just, I’m a bit daunted by all that decorative stuff. I’m better at shortbread.’

  ‘It’s important,’ I said kindly. ‘Those little touches really finish the room.’

  ‘I know, it’s just … my domestic goddess talents don’t quite go that far.’ She paused. ‘I don’t suppose you could help me buy what we need?’

  ‘Oh my gosh.’ My face lit up. ‘I’d love to. Absolutely.’

  ‘I’d pay you for your time, of course. On top of your fee for today.’

  Pay? Time? Fee? The words floated in through my ears clearly enough, but turned immediately to marshmallow in my brain.

  My grey matter was still getting over the shock of being paid for my ‘consulting’, as Lorraine called it, as we said goodbye outside Oak House. Otherwise, I would have been quicker to leap into my car when I saw the formidable figure of Violet approaching from the direction of the village. A dog lead dangled from her hand and sure enough, ten yards in front, trotted Mungo.

  Too late: he had seen me, or smelled me, or whatever it is that canines do to target their prey. His tail accelerated from waving to frenzied wagging and the jaunty trot became a flat-out gallop as he flew down the pavement to greet me. He was running delighted rings around Lorraine and me, but mostly me, when Violet caught up. I have to say, she was sprightly for her age.

  ‘Sorry, ladies,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Mungo seems to have forgotten his manners.’

  ‘No problem,’ I shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant. Time to escape. ‘Well, thanks Lorraine, I must go. But we’ll plan a day for our shopping trip, okay?’

  Lorraine nodded effusively, then turned to Violet. ‘Grace has been suggesting some changes to appeal to the Americans.’

  ‘Has she, now?’ Violet’s lips made a thin line.

  I found my keys and tried to untangle myself from the doggie force field around my legs.

  ‘He’s super-friendly,’ Lorraine said.

  Violet narrowed her eyes to match her lips. ‘Yes, he’s not usually like this with strangers.’

  ‘Okay, must be off,’ I attempted, as Mungo thrust his nose into my groin.

  ‘Then again, he’s not been himself recently.’ Violet was undeterred. ‘Acting strangely, going walkabout, that sort of thing.’

  She was still looking at me. Had she rumbled that Mungo was being unfaithful and that I was the other woman? It wasn’t a role I ever imagined myself playing, but the trouble was, I was really fond of him. Ugh, I bet that’s what Rebecca had said too.

  As Lorraine asked Violet if she’d like some eggs, I took my chance to make a low-key exit. Well, as low-key as possible, when driving a vintage Volkswagen with a clunky gearstick. At least it didn’t backfire and give Violet a heart attack. That would really give her reason to dislike me.

  CHAPTER 14

  When six o’clock came and Amelia left the office, I was still buzzing with energy. It had been a fantastic day: Lorraine was delighted with my suggestions for her bed and breakfast and I’d even made some pocket money.

  I tidied up a bit and took a message from the scary solicitor handling one of Amelia’s pending sales. Watering the plant on the coffee table, I looked out of the window and saw Brian taking in his yellow cushions and umbrella. He was late closing tonight. I soon understood why, as a large red car jerked to a halt outside the bakery, hazard lights flashing. Mary Lou leaped out and they disappeared inside together. She re-emerged speedily with several big white cake boxes and, with only minor complaints from the car’s gears, sped off.

  Absent-mindedly, I tidied the newspapers and magazines, then emptied my inbox. Should I start browsing online for Lorraine’s accessories? No, I decided, that kind of thing was best viewed in person. We had the Cambridge shops, including the blissfully comprehensive John Lewis department store, at our disposal.

  Still, I didn’t feel in the mood to go home. I checked my personal emails and found there was another from James: Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. All is fine here. When you are ready, I’d love to talk. I miss you.

  He sent me messages like this a couple of times a week, but I usually didn’t respond. Firstly, I didn’t know what to say, and secondly, I didn’t want him thinking I was sitting around with nothing to do except write to him. Better for him to assume I was busy, happy and moving on.

  Wait a minute: today I really was busy and happy. On reflection, I’d been feeling more content for a couple of weeks now. Life in this funny little village had taken on a pleasant rhythm. I liked it here and they seemed to like me too. Well, except Violet, that is.

  I hit Reply: I’m fine, thanks. Summer is my favourite time in England and I’m enjoying myself. Was that suitably upbeat and general? I decided it was and pressed Send.

  Almost instantly, a message came back: Can I Skype you?

  Whoa. This was more than I’d bargained for. It was just after ten in the morning in California – wasn’t he at work?

  I was still dithering over my response when my computer announced his incoming call. I shot back a couple of feet in my office chair. Should I answer? Could I ignore it? What would Amelia do?

  I was pretty sure she would tell me to buck up and stop being a cowardy custard.

  With amazing presence of mind, I remembered to answer without video. After all, it was ten hours since I’d put any make-up on.

  ‘Grace, how are you?’ Unmistakably his voice. So familiar to me, but so strange at the same time.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I replied. Neither pithy nor original, but a respectable start. Truthful too.

  ‘Are you in London, or Norfolk?’

  ‘Neither.’ Too blunt. ‘Somewhere in between,’ I added. ‘With friends.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. As long as you’re okay, that’s good.’

  There was a pause, probably of the awkward sort, but I doubt many broken marriages enjoy comfortable pauses.

  ‘Have you decided when you’re coming home?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, no.’ I didn’t have a home in California any more, did I? I spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I think, for now … this is home.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  I let the transatlantic silence stretch.

  He tried again. ‘Can I come and see you?’

  ‘No.’ My voice was clipped, too terse for diplomatic relations, but I couldn’t help it.

  ‘I just want you to know …’ He sighed. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.’

  I could hear emotion building in the back of his throat.

  ‘I wish I could wind back the clock,’ he said. ‘Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here. Or I’ll come there. I just need to see you.’

  For my computer-geek husband, this was an eloquent speech
. I was almost impressed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. But what I really wanted to know was, Are you still with Rebecca?

  ‘If you change your mind, I’m ready.’ He paused. ‘Is there anything you need? Have you got enough money? Can I send you some?’

  Considering we didn’t have kids, this was decent of him. I was glad to be able to refuse with dignity.

  ‘No thanks. I have some … consulting work.’ I was stretching the truth there, but it felt good to say it. Really good.

  ‘That’s great.’ He sounded genuinely pleased. This was typical: he always had been a loyal cheerleader for me. Until the day he’d committed adultery, that is.

  ‘What about your stuff?’ he continued. ‘Is there anything you want me to send? Eeyore, maybe?’

  Oh, this wasn’t fighting fair. Tears came out of nowhere. Out of – what? – seven billion people in the world, James was the only one who knew I still liked to sleep with a cuddly toy. Or had done. Eeyore hadn’t made the cut in my frenzied packing efforts.

  ‘Okay.’ These two syllables were all I could manage. Like it or not, I was talking to my closest friend.

  ‘And if you think of anything else, just email me. Or call. Any time.’

  We said goodbye and I shut down the computer. It was kind of him to offer to send Eeyore. And a couple of other eccentric but well-loved items, like my favourite bone china mug and stripy slipper socks, wouldn’t go amiss either. In the morning, I would send a carefully worded email to request them, and ask him to use my parents’ address.

  Standing up, I shook myself, and decided it had still been a really positive day, despite the emotional, donkey-shaped ending. I collected my things together and drove back to my cottage. Mungo was waiting on the doormat, unapologetic for his earlier exhibitionism.

  ‘You fool,’ I greeted him. ‘You practically gave the game away.’

  He wagged his tail heedlessly and followed me into the kitchen. ‘Anyway,’ I told him as I looked in the freezer for something tasty and ideally high in both fat and carbs, ‘you’re going to have competition soon. Eeyore’s on his way.’