Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘And how long is it since you were measured for a bra?’ The saleslady, tall, bony, with no bosom of her own that I could see, flexed her tape measure.

  Surely this was a question like your dentist asks, how often do you floss?, which nobody ever answers honestly. I pretended to think. The saleslady peered over her bifocals at me and waited.

  ‘Oh, quite a while,’ I muttered, trying to look as if it might have been sometime last year. In reality, I’d been wearing the same size since I was twenty. It was one of the few clothing sizes which hadn’t needed translation when I moved to California. This had struck me as odd. Britain and America couldn’t agree on shoe sizing, dress sizing, weight, distance or temperature measurements, but on the scale of breasts, we were of one voice. Was this the true nature of the ‘special relationship’ which leaders in the White House and Downing Street were so proud of?

  I didn’t know whether I was going to have to take my top off and whether it was okay to get the giggles if her hands were chilly. I glanced nervously at the five short-listed bras on their dainty hangers. All had multiple little tags hanging off them. In my experience, the more dinky tags on a piece of clothing, the higher the price. I wondered how much this free fitting was going to end up costing.

  The shopping trip had been Amelia’s idea. On hearing about my date with Scott, she’d been uncharacteristically quiet at first. I waited for her to tell me he was gay, married or dying of a terminal disease, but she didn’t drop any bombshells. She simply looked thoughtful for a few minutes.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I’d asked. Was there some history between them? He was a tad young for her, but that didn’t rule anything out. With her limitless energy and strong fashion sense, she could pass for fifteen years younger. I formed a new theory. ‘Oh, I get it. You think it’s too soon for me to start seeing someone.’

  ‘Hell, no!’ she’d responded instantly. ‘The sooner the better. After things fell apart with Michael, I dated so many men it was hard to keep them straight.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, darling, I think it’s terrific. And you like Scott?’

  ‘He seems very nice,’ I said – a blatant understatement.

  ‘He’s also very ambitious.’

  Well, takes one to know one, I thought. ‘You think I’m not … dynamic enough for him?’ Nobody has ever called me the life of the party, and I hadn’t been on a date this decade. Did I even still know what to do?

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Amelia back-pedalled. ‘Just that he’s driven by his work, you know?’

  I was silent, conflicted. My cowardly half was looking for an excuse to wimp out of the date with Scott. The other, flattered, half wanted to have some fun.

  ‘Look,’ said Amelia. ‘No one’s talking about marriage. Just go out with him, have a blast, and you’ll feel better.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I nodded. How come everything was always so simple when Amelia said it, but so complicated inside my head?

  Scott had phoned to delay our date until the following weekend. I told myself to read nothing into this and said that would be totally fine.

  ‘Do you like horse racing?’ he asked. ‘I thought we might go over to Newmarket.’

  I had never been. Something told me that student-era visits to the greyhound track, where four of us had risked one bet each and shared a bag of chips, were best not mentioned.

  ‘Well, I like horses,’ I said, which was perfectly true. As a nine-year-old, I had begged unsuccessfully for a pony. Harry and I had been given a pair of gerbils instead.

  ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Shall I pick you up at twelve?’

  ‘Okay. Do I need to wear a hat?’

  He laughed. ‘Only if you want to.’

  Amelia, however, had been adamant. ‘We need to go shopping again. We’ll go to London on Sunday.’

  ‘But he said hats are optional.’

  She laughed at me. ‘I’m not talking about a hat, Grace. I’m talking about the rest of it.’

  Since her sartorial advice had helped me land the date with Scott in the first place, I decided I’d better listen to her. Still, it irked me slightly: why did she get to be the glamorous one? After all, I had spent time in America, while she lived in an English backwater. Then, I’d had to admit that the jeans and flip-flop uniform of Silicon Valley was hardly on a par with the catwalks of Manhattan. And I hadn’t had a pedicure, let alone a manicure, since touching down on English soil.

  So now, I found myself in Selfridges on Oxford Street with a tape measure firmly around my ribs. Amelia had wanted to go to Harvey Nichols, I had pressed for Marks and Spencer. This was our compromise. My protestations that Scott wouldn’t be seeing my underwear had been swept aside. Amelia had given me a playful look and told me there was no sin in being prepared.

  ‘34B,’ pronounced the saleslady.

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ I had been wearing 36A. Did this mean I was now smaller but chestier? I thought it unlikely, considering the number of cream teas I had consumed recently. Or was she on commission and trained to tell me a different size, so I would immediately buy seven new sets of undies?

  I emerged from the plush fitting room with a couple of pretty white bras and showed them to Amelia, who was lounging on a sofa, thumbing through a magazine. She tutted and sent me back in with a darker, lacier and racier selection. Then, she waited until I was at a perilous stage of undress, before snaking her hand around the curtain to waggle the matching knickers at me.

  ‘Okay, okay, you win,’ I sighed. The cost per square inch of this stuff was breathtaking: my credit card was going to need CPR.

  Despite my outward protests, I enjoyed shopping with Amelia. Apart from my new haircut and the outfit for the parish council meeting, it had been a long time since I’d spent money on my appearance. I knew this was a problem for many interior designers, who kept falling in love with house accessories and ending up with no budget for socks. In any case, I’d thought James didn’t care whether I looked fashionable. That complacency had apparently cost me dear.

  Satisfied with my underwear purchase, Amelia had allowed me a quick canter around John Lewis before treating me to lunch in their cafe. No doubt the glass of wine with my toasted sandwich eased the afternoon’s decision-making: I shimmied without complaint into and out of cotton, silk and jersey by Monsoon, East and Phase Eight.

  ‘Good,’ Amelia declared finally, on the pavement at the corner of Bond Street. ‘That should save you from complete embarrassment.’

  With that, she thrust out her arm. ‘I’m off to see a sweet friend in Hampstead,’ she said, as a black cab swooped to a halt at the curb. Probably, the driver had been blinded by the glint of her cocktail ring. ‘Do you want me to drop you at King’s Cross?’

  ‘No, thanks, I have plans,’ I said, mainly to prove I did have a social life outside the Saffron Sweeting pub.

  ‘All right, bye for now, then. See you on Tuesday, yes?’

  I nodded and steered myself and my shopping bags down the escalator and onto the Tube to Ealing.

  ~~~

  ‘So, tell me if this is too nosy, but what was in the box from James?’

  Jem and I were sitting on her bed, while Harry watched Match of the Day in the living room. I had warned him that if I fell asleep before he vacated the sofa, he would have to spend the night there. Seb was asleep in his cot in his tiny bedroom, faint breathing and the occasional gurgle coming through the baby alarm. Their easy domesticity was like a comfortable sweater and I was happy to slip into its sleeves.

  I stirred my mug of Ovaltine, trying to get the last lumps of powder to dissolve.

  ‘Oh, just silly personal things. My favourite mug, some clothes, a few of my beloved issues of Domino.’

  Jem looked puzzled.

  ‘It is – was – a design magazine. No longer published, but widely worshipped.’ I didn’t mention Eeyore, who had also made the journey across the Pond. I loved Jem, but she didn’t need to know I liked to
drool on a donkey at night.

  ‘That was all?’ She seemed a bit disappointed.

  ‘Pretty much. Some chocolate from Trader Joe’s. A short note; nothing you can’t guess.’

  Jem gave me one of her slow, kind smiles and didn’t press further.

  I knew the letter pretty much by heart.

  Dear Grace, I hope this finds you well and happy, also that I’ve done okay at sending the things you asked for. I’m so sorry again for what happened and have been searching for the right way to explain and apologise to you. I want to talk to you more than ever, but can understand that you don’t want to see me right now. If and when you are ready, I will be on the next plane. Much love, James.

  He had also sent a couple of our wedding photos, which I didn’t know how to interpret. I had considered those and the letter for some time, wondering if he was keen to ‘explain and apologise’ so that we could both move on. And why did he want to talk ‘more than ever’? Eventually, I resolved to stop stewing and enjoy being reunited with Eeyore. And, looking on the bright side, at least the box didn’t include divorce papers.

  ~~~

  I was chaotically nervous by the time horse-racing day arrived. How was I supposed to make interesting conversation for several hours with a man I hardly knew, who clearly wasn’t lacking in self-confidence and could flirt for England? Was I going to be a riding school pony at the Grand National?

  Still, at least I looked good. If, as I’d previously fretted, I’d let myself go, then I was thrilled to be mostly back. Amelia had loaned me her sandals again and taught me her make-up tricks in the tiny loo in the back of the Hargraves office. That morning, I had nipped into Cambridge to treat myself to a blow-dry. My dress, however, was the bee’s knees: feminine but sophisticated. In a fifties shape, with a fitted sleeveless top and full skirt, the colour was a gentle shade which Amelia called mink. Swirly cream embroidery clambered over an organza base. We had decided the matching coat was too much – ‘It’s not a wedding, after all, darling’ – but had hedged our bets with a cropped cashmere cardigan in an impractical milky colour. As a result, I had resolved only to eat beige food on my date. My little handbag was ivory snakeskin, also borrowed from Amelia. I hoped it was fake, but in view of her generosity, not just in fashion but in letting me have a Saturday off too, hadn’t liked to ask.

  Scott was unexpectedly right on time. For some reason, I had imagined he would keep me waiting. He jumped out of his car as I came out of the cottage and came around to the passenger side, where he kissed me fleetingly on the cheek and opened the door for me. I folded myself as elegantly I could into the low leather seat, proudly remembering to check my ample skirt wasn’t trapped in the door.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so.’ I smiled gamely, hoping my hair would survive the open-topped experience.

  ‘You look lovely.’ He paused to let the compliment sink in and then started the engine. It gave a mighty purr and saved me from responding.

  He was wearing a navy blazer, fawn chinos, immaculate white shirt and a silk tie patterned with what seemed to be daisies. Good, my outfit was definitely on a level playing field.

  We made small talk on the short journey to Newmarket. I was thankful for heavy race day traffic, which kept our speed down and thus saved my hair from being whipped into a Medusa-like mess.

  ‘So, you’re working with Amelia?’ Scott asked me.

  ‘Yes, part-time. She’s so busy, she needs the help.’

  ‘She’s doing well,’ he replied. ‘From what I hear, her business has thrived since she went solo.’

  ‘Have you known her long?’ I asked casually, looking at the giant sausage rolls of harvested hay in the fields.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. We met through business. But she’s clearly very sharp.’

  Did he mean sharp as in clever, or prickly? Amelia didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  ‘Tell me more about what you do,’ I prompted.

  ‘Well, it’s simple. I look for land and buildings which would be more profitable if they were turned into something else. Then I buy them and convince someone to build for me.’

  We’d hit the back of the traffic queue on the edge of Newmarket.

  ‘Is there a type you specialise in?’ I was treading carefully, discussing a topic I knew nothing about.

  ‘About twenty per cent of my deals are for vacant land. Agricultural, usually, where the farmer finds it uneconomic to keep growing wheat or pigs or whatever. But I like it best when I take old buildings and convert them.’

  ‘What do you turn them into?’

  ‘Depends, obviously. Retirement flats are often a safe bet. If it’s an urban area, offices sometimes. Mixed use is becoming hugely popular. The planning authorities love that.’

  ‘Mixed use?’

  ‘Where you have, say, flats on the top and shops or a restaurant on the bottom. Commercial and residential together.’

  ‘So, do you do barn conversions, that kind of thing?’

  He laughed and turned off the main road, following the signs for premier car parking.

  ‘Barns have been a bit overdone. All the good ones were snapped up long ago. At least, the ones in East Anglia. And generally, I’m on the lookout for larger projects.’

  ‘Amelia lives in a converted fire engine house. Really stylish,’ I said, then wondered if he already knew that.

  ‘Does she?’ he said. ‘Good for her.’

  I analysed his neutral tone and decided there was probably no romantic history between him and my boss.

  We parked and I managed to extricate myself from my ludicrously low seat. As Scott delved in the tiny boot, emerging with a pair of binoculars, I looked at the car and found it was a Jaguar. Did he know the shiny dark blue paint was a wonderful complement to his eyes? No, that would be outrageously vain and he didn’t seem like a peacock. I felt myself smiling and relaxed a little.

  ‘So,’ I asked him, ‘what now?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘We have a little over an hour before the first race. How about we get something to eat and then check out the runners?’

  I wasn’t enormously hungry, for which the only explanation was nerves. Nonetheless, I followed willingly as we entered the Premier Enclosure and made our way to a bistro. The facilities were already busy and there was a festive atmosphere as excited race-goers, all dressed to impress, milled around. People greeted each other noisily and there was much laughter and anticipation in the air. The general scene was much like a wedding, at the part before the guests get drunk and disorderly. I could tell that some were diehard enthusiasts, here for the horses, but others were guests or hangers-on, like myself. I tried and failed to think of an original way to ask Scott if he came here often.

  ‘You’ll have to guide me on how this works,’ I said instead, as we sat down in the crowded restaurant with our sandwiches. Scott had offered me champagne and I wondered whether that was first date panache, or a regular tipple for him. In any case, I had determined to stick to orange juice until I saw how the day developed. I didn’t want to get giggly even before the first race was under way.

  ‘Well, you unwrap it and take a large bite,’ he said, seriously, then broke into his wide smile, which surely belonged on a toothpaste poster.

  I smiled back at him. So far, this had been easier than I thought. I hadn’t said anything stupid and being in such a busy, public place took the pressure off. We didn’t have to fill every moment with meaningful conversation, and the venue was so packed that some physical contact was inevitable. He had put his hand on my back or elbow a couple of times already. I found I liked it.

  ‘I mean the racing,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ he replied. ‘We’ll go and look at the Parade Ring, and maybe even the saddling boxes if we have time. That’s where you pick out who you think is going to win. Once the jockeys come out and mount, the horses go down to the start line and we place our bets.’<
br />
  ‘So I have to gamble?’ I said pleasantly.

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t have to, but it’s fun. We can stick with the Tote if you want to start small. It’s less intimidating than the bookies.’

  I liked the sound of the Tote, whatever that might be. I had seen a few television dramas featuring street-wise bookmakers in grubby brown raincoats. Their world seemed a bit seedy, not to mention mathematically impossible to understand.

  ‘The Tote’s pretty straightforward,’ Scott continued. ‘They won’t tell you odds or anything, but if your horse wins, you get a share of the bets placed.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Let’s do that. Then what?’

  ‘Then, they start the race. Your job is to cheer like mad, jump up and down and generally scream your head off.’

  I grinned and shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He leaned in across our little lunch table and ran his index finger over the back of my hand. I looked down, surprised that I could feel this simple touch deep in my stomach too. Then I glanced up at his face.

  ‘Trust me.’ He held my gaze boldly, eyes playful. ‘You’ll scream.’

  CHAPTER 20

  He was right. Innuendo aside, the sight of a horse on which I’d staked a princely five pounds, moving gradually from fourth place to third as she hurtled round the final bend, was more than enough to get me on my feet and yelling. The noisy energy of the race crowd, their laughter and cheering, was infectious. I guessed some had large bets riding on the backs of the glossy fillies, but the excitement was uniform across old and young, male and female, those in the Premier Enclosure like us and those next door in the Paddock. I totally understood why Eliza Doolittle lost her new-found decorum and hollered at her horse to move yer bloomin’ arse.

  Scott had tried to get me to study the previous form of the horses and whether they did best on soft turf or firm, but I was far more interested in picking my winners based on their name or the colours the jockey was wearing. Teal and turquoise were my favourites and if their silks were spotted, so much the better.