Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘Right, like a portfolio?’ Peter asked me.

  ‘Precisely. Now, what else?’ I was in full flood, the ideas just kept coming. Peter was obviously highly intelligent, but there was so much more he and Giles could do to promote themselves. ‘You should get a sign out on the main road too. Make it friendly: Browsers Welcome.’

  I had a further idea for promoting his business, but thought I should discuss it with Amelia first.

  Like Lorraine, Peter had been taking notes, in a lovely brown leather portfolio on his desk. I couldn’t imagine James ever owning anything so stylish. I said another silent thank you to Amelia for saving me from total shame and ploughed on with my ideas.

  ‘You take credit cards, don’t you? No? Okay, you have to fix that.’ Too bossy? Hopefully not – he didn’t seem to mind. ‘And you do free delivery?’

  ‘Er, we don’t usually arrange delivery,’ Peter said. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Well, put it this way. Picture an American wife, recently arrived here, her husband’s at work, she’s bored, she’s exploring all the English shops.’ I paused to make sure he was still with me. ‘She finds a darling antique console table for her new house, which will be perfect in the front hall and impress her new friends. But there’s no way it’ll fit in the boot of the ridiculously small English car that she’s got stuck with.’ I took a breath. ‘Don’t you think we should make it as easy as possible for her?’

  Slowly but surely, Peter began to nod. ‘Brian was right,’ he grinned. ‘You’re worth every penny.’

  ~~~

  Nancy and Mungo were engaged in a fervent tug-of-war in my living room, doing battle over a tatty grey stick he’d been treating like a best friend.

  I was on the sofa with legs tucked under me, hunting through a cookbook from the library. Nancy had hinted that she wanted to learn to make an English roast, so she could impress the super-discerning Elijah with a dinner invitation. Hence, there was a lump of silverside in my fridge and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Despite my love of great food, I much prefer it when someone else does the hard work.

  It was the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend; rain clouds had lurked ominously over Saffron Sweeting for the last four days and were now giving us a solid drenching. The tables outside the bakery were deserted as villagers scuttled to do essential errands only. The annual cricket match against Bottisham was a wash-out. By contrast, the ducks at the pond were thrilled. They had started to form raiding parties to explore the exotic puddles of the High Street and I wondered if they were considering a full-scale coup, or at least running for a seat on the local council.

  Nancy and Mungo’s game ended with an abrupt crack as the unhappy stick broke. Mungo retreated to the hearth to chew up the longer half, scattering drool-covered bark over my floor.

  Nancy collapsed back in an armchair. ‘He gives a great arm workout,’ she laughed, then looked around. ‘Have you made some changes, Grace?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I wasn’t keen on any of the recipes: too fancy for a couple of novice chefs. ‘I think we should just shove it in the oven for a couple of hours.’

  ‘This place looks more homely,’ Nancy carried on. ‘Have you been buying stuff?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, I have.’

  After a bit of awkwardness, I’d agreed to let Peter pay me in goods. He had helped me pick out a lovely antique sewing table, a mantel clock with a solemn tick and an ancient, moth-weary Union Jack flag. These new treasures gave me fresh perspective on the cottage: it was still an achingly blank canvas, but with loads of potential. I’d set to work, beginning with my library card. The living room coffee table and the cabinet beside my bed now sported tempting piles of browse-worthy books. Next, I had risked a criminal record by helping myself to some of the late summer grasses in the lane outside the cottage. These were now dotted about in old jam jars and in front of the fireplace was a jug of rose-hip stems.

  As planned, I had accompanied Lorraine on a Cambridge shopping trip for bed and breakfast accessories. I had touched, measured, squinted and checked her opinion time and again, until I had a firm idea of her budget and taste. My creative juices were flowing again: exploring autumn designs in the English stores made an interesting change from the summer stock I’d seen in Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn.

  Inevitably, I’d started mentally transporting bits and pieces to my own cottage. Returning the following day to make Lorraine’s purchases, I’d bowed to the inevitable and had splurged on a few things for myself. My living room now boasted an abstract wool rug, bright cushions and chunky candles on the mantelpiece. The stark, transitory rental was now a cosy sanctuary.

  ‘Probably a sign you’re feeling better,’ Nancy smiled, and sipped her mug of tea. She still took it black, with lemon, but at least she’d stopped asking for Lipton in public. Not that it was anything to do with me, but I’d much rather my new American friend embarrassed herself by messing up the pronunciation of Peterborough than drank something that no self-respecting Brit would order.

  ‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘At least, the fog is wearing off.’

  ‘Will you launch an interior design business here?’ she asked. ‘You’d be awesome.’

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think so. Amelia said I should consider home staging, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, there’s just so much pressure, once someone’s paying you for something.’

  ‘But I thought Lorraine and Peter paid you?’ Nancy was at her most bird-like, fixing her clever, sharp eyes on me. ‘Was that pressure?’

  ‘Well, no, but most of it was so obvious to me. I couldn’t charge a lot for telling people things that are staring me in the face.’

  ‘Well, honey, they weren’t staring them in the face. I think you should put your rates up.’

  ‘You talk like I have a business.’

  ‘You could, if you wanted, I bet.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, they might both be bankrupt within a month and chasing after me with a pitchfork.’ Nancy’s prodding was making me uncomfortable. I’d only been helping a couple of friends, after all. ‘Right,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Let’s go and show this beef who’s boss.’

  The meat had made it into the oven unscathed and early aromas suggested it wasn’t a total disaster. Mungo, at any rate, had stationed himself firmly in the middle of the kitchen, so he didn’t miss anything crucial. We had peeled and parboiled the potatoes for roasting and I was now attempting to explain Yorkshire puddings to Nancy.

  ‘No, they’re not dessert, we eat them with the beef,’ I told her.

  ‘You mean, like we put maple syrup on our bacon? Sweet and savoury together?’ She was trying to keep a culinary open mind.

  ‘No.’ I furrowed my brow. ‘They’re not sweet. More like a …’ I was sure I’d had something like them, somewhere in the States. ‘A popover!’ I finally declared, dredging up a memory from a trip to Vermont. ‘A little baked batter roll thingummy.’

  ‘Oh, a popover!’ Nancy laughed. She stole a raw carrot to munch, then gave me a quick one-shouldered hug. ‘Thanks, Grace, this is great. Elijah’s so into his food.’

  ‘Umm?’ I was busy trying not to get spattered by the beef as I squeezed the tray of potatoes into the narrow oven. My stove in Menlo Park had been twice this size.

  ‘Yes, he’s mentioned a couple of times how great his wife’s cooking is.’

  ‘Is it?’ I kicked shut the oven door, then turned slowly as her words filtered through. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘whose cooking?’

  Instantly, Nancy looked uncomfortable. ‘His wife’s,’ she repeated softly.

  I put my hands up to my face and wondered if I was about to pass out, as the room went black. But no, I just had navy oven gloves on. I threw them down on the counter and bit my lip.

  ‘This is Elijah, right?’ I asked her carefully.

  She nodded.

  ‘The man you’ve been seeing for, what, six months? The man you moved continents to be with?’


  ‘Grace –’

  ‘And he’s married?’ I couldn’t have been more upset if Nancy had told me she was shagging the prime minister.

  ‘Grace, he is, but his marriage is over. He and his wife – they’re practically separated.’

  ‘Oh, he told you that, did he?’

  ‘He has an apartment in Cambridge; he hardly sleeps at home any more. He’s just waiting for the right time to start the divorce.’

  I let out a squawk. ‘How could you? You fool!’

  Mungo lifted his head in concern as Nancy took a step towards me and I took one back.

  ‘Grace, I know this is awkward, what with –’

  ‘You’re sleeping with another woman’s husband,’ I hissed. ‘Have you considered what that makes you?’

  ‘It isn’t like that. I told you, the marriage is toast.’

  ‘Has anyone told his wife that? Have either of you thought about how she feels?’

  Nancy folded her arms and looked at the kitchen floor. ‘I get it, you’re upset. I don’t blame you.’

  ‘No, I’m not upset,’ I bit out. ‘I’m disgusted. Take it from me, his marriage isn’t over. His wife doesn’t know and he isn’t thinking about divorce.’

  Nancy had turned white, her voice a whisper. ‘But he said he loves me.’

  Mungo looked alarmed and jumped up to visit each of us. Nancy’s pat was limp so he turned instead to me and nudged my hip with his velvet nose.

  My glare disintegrated and I began to cry. ‘I can’t believe you have a PhD but fell for this. He’s stringing you along – you’re better than that.’

  ‘Well, I sure appreciate your vote of confidence.’ She went into the living room and gathered up her bag and jacket. I sagged against the kitchen sink, partly because Mungo had snuggled up for reassurance and was pressing his weight against my knees.

  ‘Not sure I’m in the mood for beef.’ Nancy touched me briefly on the arm, then opened the back door and headed out into the rain.

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘So Mungo got the best supper of his life,’ I told Jem ruefully on the phone a couple of days later. I was in bed unusually early, tired and listless.

  ‘Roast beef, lucky hound,’ she replied. ‘And how about you, did you eat anything?’

  ‘I skipped the beef and put golden syrup on the Yorkshire puddings,’ I admitted. ‘I was so churned up by the whole thing. Do you think I should have just held my tongue?’

  Down the phone line, I heard Jem suck her breath through her teeth. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s situation is different. And you’ve never actually met what’s-his-name, have you?’

  ‘Nope,’ I conceded. I’d never laid eyes on Elijah.

  ‘But I don’t blame you for being upset. She doesn’t exactly come out of it smelling of roses.’

  ‘Nope,’ I repeated eloquently, concentrating on tucking the duvet more tightly around my feet.

  ‘What matters now is, what are you going to do? Will you apologise, or just let it be?’

  ‘I don’t feel much like apologising,’ I said. ‘But I could use a few friends here. Besides, I like Nancy. I was just so shocked she would willingly be a part of it.’

  ‘Love is blind, and all that.’

  ‘Hmph. Love should get some contact lenses. There seems to be an awful lot of cheating in this world.’

  ‘I know, Grace,’ Jem said quietly. After a few moments, she added, ‘But it’s not up to you to sort it all out.’

  She was right. I had enough on my plate. ‘Anyway,’ I said, changing tack, ‘I’ve got a slightly more pressing problem.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  I could hear my brother in the background, helping to keep Seb occupied so that Jem and I could talk. He’d never been that obliging when he’d lived at home.

  ‘Something really bad has happened.’ I could feel my palms getting sweaty, just thinking about it.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to speak at the parish council meeting.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  I pulled the petrifying letter from my bedside table, where I’d stuffed it hastily in the back of a library book and hoped it might disappear. ‘They’re doing a special meeting on new opportunities for village businesses. Something about promoting Saffron Sweeting to a diverse population.’

  There was a pause while Jem translated this. ‘You mean, selling stuff to the Americans?’

  ‘Precisely,’ I said.

  ‘And they think you know about that?’

  ‘They do. Seems that Peter – he’s the antiques guy, if you remember – has been singing my praises.’

  ‘But that’s great! You’ll be brilliant!’

  Argh, she just wasn’t getting it. ‘But, Jem –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You know I’d rather chew my own leg off than speak in public.’

  ~~~

  Try as I might to think of a way to say No tactfully, I didn’t seem to be able to wriggle out of the talk. Led by Peter, Brian and Lorraine had formed an unofficial fan club and had been whispering in influential ears. Brian was even planning to say a few introductory words on the difference in his bakery. Worse, I discovered that businesses from the neighbouring villages were also invited. This meant the audience would swell into double figures, at least. What on earth have I started, I thought.

  Amelia, of course, was all for it. ‘I think it’s marvellous, darling! You certainly made a terrific difference here.’ She waved a bejewelled hand around the office. ‘Anyway, it’s only a few shopkeepers – not like you’re giving a speech to the UN.’

  Well, she wouldn’t see the problem, I thought moodily, as I began stapling a stack of property details with far more force than was necessary. She would love to be centre stage for an evening. I bet she could be caught by a BBC news crew in her pyjamas and say something witty and eloquent.

  A moment later, I felt ungrateful as she offered to help me practise my talk and choose something ‘captivating’ to wear.

  ‘If you’d like …’ She eyed me carefully before sticking her neck out further.

  I planted a neutral look on my face. Was she going to offer to get me hammered, so I wouldn’t have to talk while sober?

  She wasn’t. ‘We could do a bit more with your make-up too.’

  ~~~

  That’s how, a few evenings before the meeting, I found myself seated at Amelia’s dressing table for a trial run.

  I hadn’t known what to expect from her home. Would she inhabit a sleek, modern pad? Or the penthouse of a converted manor? Or maybe she would prefer five-bedroom luxury, with an in-and-out driveway.

  It turned out to be surprisingly small, by a sharp bend in the river on the edge of the village. I guessed there were just two bedrooms, one for Amelia and one for her son, Oscar. I’d met him only once and he’d just gone back to boarding school for the new term.

  ‘Michael got the house, I got the business, darling,’ she told me. ‘I bought this a couple of years after the divorce and re-did it. It used to be the fire engine house.’

  So that explained the single storey and huge patio doors in her living room. She had used a lot of natural materials – stone, slate, wood – but the overall effect was clean and contemporary. In her bedroom, the wall behind the bed was papered in a beautiful bronze metallic. The curtains, a shimmering shade of coffee, appeared to be silk. A bank of fitted wardrobes ran along one wall. I wondered if they housed her clothes, or only her shoes.

  ‘You haven’t told me what caused your divorce.’ I hoped we knew each other well enough for me to be nosy.

  Amelia was unscrewing a tube of foundation but stopped and looked at me in the mirror.

  ‘We grew apart,’ she said, frowning at the memory. ‘I was so young – I’d only just finished at Cambridge when we met. I was temping, saving money. I was going to move to London and try my luck as an actress.’

  ‘But you met Michael?’

  ‘Yup. He was olde
r, charming, so smooth. He persuaded me to work for him, instead.’

  ‘And?’

  Amelia started to dab foundation around my nose. ‘And for ten years or so, it was lovely. But things changed after Oscar was born. I think Michael had a midlife crisis – he was almost certainly playing around.’

  I sighed. Was this how every marriage came unstuck?

  ‘When he talked about escaping it all and moving to Spain, well, we didn’t last long after that.’

  ‘Oh.’ I digested this. ‘So he went to Spain?’

  ‘No. Turned out he just needed to escape from me.’ She wiped her fingers on a tissue before inspecting my face.

  ‘How long ago was this?’ I asked.

  ‘Gosh, I dunno, eight, nine years.’

  ‘But you seem … fine, now.’

  ‘I’ve had my share of dark moments.’

  Did she mean the alcohol? I waited for more, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she started selecting make-up colours. I wriggled nervously in front of the mirror, wondering if I had been right to agree to this. I was a minimal make-up wearer, who liked to put it on at eight in the morning, then forget about it.

  ‘Relax,’ Amelia said, ‘I’m not going to make you look like a clown. Let’s try this eyeshadow and see what you think.’

  I took a glug of the red wine I had brought. I’d purchased it at the post office and it was evident that Violet was not one of the world’s great vintners. In fact, it was only really fit for sangria. Still, it dulled my nerves as Amelia dabbed, brushed and blended.

  She was shockingly quick and I was half disappointed when, after only about ten minutes, she stood back and said, ‘Gorgeous.’

  Not quite the words I would have used, but I had to agree I looked good. She had brushed tawny eyeshadow on my lids, with some kind of highlighter on my brow bones and cheekbones. Dark brown mascara made me look more awake than usual. And rather than heavy lipstick, she had skimmed my mouth with a gentle rose lip gloss. I resisted the urge to lick if off immediately. The overall effect was healthy and flirtatious.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked me, looking confident.