His note was brief.
Dear Grace, I haven’t come to England before now, because if you don’t want to see me, there didn’t seem to be much point. But work are sending me to this conference in London (see info). I’ve added a couple of nights on the end of my stay and hope you’ll agree to meet me. I miss you so much and want to see how you are. I would love to get together. I can meet you anywhere. Please let me know. All my love, James.
I let the papers flutter onto the bed and drifted, unseeing, through to the steam-filled bathroom. I didn’t even swear when I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bath. Shedding my jester gear in a trance, I sank into the snug embrace of the water.
That was two loves in one short letter. And the second one said All my. This was the exact opposite of what I had expected and he would be here next week.
I added yet more hot water and closed my eyes.
~~~
The village, meanwhile, was on a roll. Less than a week after Halloween, we found ourselves in warm clothes and wellies again, huddled in the dark to celebrate Guy Fawkes night. November the fifth was a Sunday, so the fireworks were held the night before, in the field behind the malt house. Unlike the Fourth of July, this time there was no grumbling about the noise: the whole village seemed to be there, determined to enjoy themselves despite the weak drizzle.
Violet and I had come to an amicable understanding that Mungo was to be locked securely in her utility room with his dog bed and – my gift – a fresh bone. This would ensure there was no repeat of Independence Day’s terrified gallop round the village. Having reached this truce, I didn’t try to avoid her when I saw her near the bonfire, after the brief but much lauded fireworks display.
‘Does Saffron Sweeting have fireworks every year?’ I asked, as we found the right distance from the flames to warm our hands.
‘No – only alternate years,’ she replied. ‘We don’t have the funds. But tonight’s were some of the best I can remember.’
‘There’s a huge crowd,’ I said.
Over by the main gate, a couple of parish councillors were holding donation buckets. They seemed to be doing pretty well. Once again, families were out in force, kids whirling sparklers in rapt delight.
Violet nodded and shuffled her feet to keep them warm. ‘Lots of folks from outside the village. Again.’
In the firelight, I could only just see her face. The darkness gave me courage. ‘Do you resent that?’ I asked quietly.
I thought she hadn’t heard me over the crackle of the flames. Then, as the bonfire started to caress the bottom of the wonky chair on which the guy sat, she said, ‘No, of course not. Their ways just take some getting used to, that’s all.’
‘You mean the Americans?’ I wiggled my fingers towards the glowing heat.
‘Not just them. Although some of the Yanks are too loud for their own good.’
I couldn’t entirely refute that, even though most of the families were lovely. Tonight, they were confused about why we were burning an effigy and most thought celebrating the near destruction of our Parliament was a little subversive. In general, though, they seemed happy just to enjoy the occasion. The pub had been dishing out bangers and mash non-stop since lunchtime.
‘Everything’s changing so fast,’ Violet continued. ‘I’m having trouble keeping up. I can’t see the post office surviving much longer.’
The guy was in even more imminent danger than the Royal Mail: the flames had reached his booted feet.
‘But wouldn’t you like to retire?’ I said, hoping this wasn’t too rude.
‘Daft question,’ she said. ‘I was born in the last year of the War.’
That meant she was close to seventy. Even though she seemed to be in perfect health, she deserved to take things a bit easier.
‘My father was American,’ she said suddenly.
‘Really?’ I hadn’t seen that coming.
‘I never knew him. He never even saw me. My mother told everyone he was killed. But before she died, she confessed she never knew that for sure. He could have simply gone back to Kansas and left us to it.’
‘Crumbs,’ I said, sensing an incredible story here. Politely, I added, ‘I’m so sorry. That’s hard.’
She smiled, her face half orange, half shadowed. ‘Well, obviously it was a long time ago. I’ve pretty much stopped wondering whether every newcomer to the village is my half-sibling. But I would like to know whether he went on to have another family.’
I nodded. No wonder she found the inbound Americans a little unsettling.
The wind changed direction slightly; we were getting smoked and would have to move soon. Violet waved at someone across the field. I looked through the haze, and saw Peter in the queue for the hot dog van. Nancy was with him.
‘He’s been spending a lot of time with her,’ Violet said.
‘Who? Nancy?’
‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m getting used to the idea, slowly.’
‘Oh. Well, I think she just likes antiques,’ I offered.
‘Humph. That’s not all she likes, I’d say.’
This was truly cryptic. I took a breath to ask why it mattered, since Peter was clearly so happy with Giles, but before I could speak, the guy fell off his chair. Amid cheering, he tumbled head first into the roaring fire, sparks shooting in all directions.
‘But I suppose it’s good that Peter’s learning to trust again,’ his mother continued. ‘He hasn’t been out with anyone since his fiancée dumped him last autumn. Nasty girl.’
Coughing from both smoke and shock, I thanked the bonfire gods for saving me from putting both feet in my mouth. This was way too much new information for one evening. My main question now, was whether Nancy knew that Peter was straight.
~~~
Scott and I had arranged to meet for Sunday lunch at a pub on the South Bank of the Thames. He’d mentioned ‘hanging out’ for the afternoon and then suggested casually that I stay over at his place. I’d jumped at the chance, mainly because I was dying to see where he called home. And since he’d not only toured my cottage but had deviously gone and bought it when I wasn’t looking, I thought it was only fair that I got to sticky-beak in return.
He’d arrived twenty minutes late. Stomach growling, I’d waited outside the pub, watching pigeons pecking around on the path. I’d been up for hours: Sunday train service was poor at the best of times and today we’d been delayed due to leaves on the line. How long should I give it before phoning him? This was unfamiliar dating territory for me.
‘Really sorry … Couldn’t park … Sorry.’ Scott’s hurried arrival, black winter coat flapping out behind him, had scattered the pigeons. I forgot my irritation as he wrapped me in a warm hug. We kissed, but briefly, as by that time my nose had started to run.
Even with the patio heaters blaring, it wasn’t warm enough to sit outside. We’d found a table near the window instead. Despite the dreary day, the view across the river to St Paul’s Cathedral was wonderful.
‘You know all the cool spots,’ I’d said, remembering Amelia’s remark that Scott kept trendy company. He knew several of my friends but I had not yet met any of his. I was nervous of my ability to come up to scratch. At least I knew his parents, if only by coincidence.
‘The first time I came here, I’d been to the Tate Modern and was starving. Just fell in by chance.’
‘You like modern art?’ I’d asked, hoping we weren’t heading there after lunch. I get bored fast in museums, much preferring the gift shop and cafe. On the other hand, I can spend hours ogling in a contemporary show home that’s had a heavy dose of interior design.
‘It’s okay. Why, did you fancy going?’ He’d glanced at the menu and was now tapping his fingers on the reclaimed planks of our table top. Was he getting impatient with me? I’d missed great pub food in California and was wondering if I was hungry enough to tackle the steak and ale pie.
‘I’d rather relax at your place,’ I’d said, doing my best to look flirtatious despite my glowi
ng nose. Was I coming down with a cold? I hoped not. And since I’d already kissed him today, Scott was going to have to take his chances with getting ill.
‘Now, that does sound appealing.’ He held my hand now and smiled at me.
Catching his look, I’d decided I’d better have a light lunch. It looked like I might be getting some exercise later.
~~~
Scott lived just a couple of miles away, near Tower Hill. I was unfamiliar with this part of London but I knew that large numbers of riverside commercial buildings had been redeveloped in the eighties and nineties.
‘When we get back, remind me I need to book a flight for tomorrow,’ Scott said, as he inched the Jaguar out of a painfully tight parking spot. I held my breath, not wanting to be present if he dented either his car or the neighbouring Renault.
Once we were safely clear, I asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Manchester. Just for one meeting.’ He glanced at me. ‘I know I suggested you stay over, and that still works. I’ll get a mid-morning flight – meet them at lunchtime.’
‘Fine,’ I said. I would take myself back on the train and spend a quiet afternoon pottering in my cottage. Between work, all the time I’d spent with Scott and the village festivities of the past week, I was behind on laundry and cleaning. ‘You’re buying something up there?’
‘Yup. It’s looking good. The local authorities are much less snooty than down south, I can tell you.’
We were crossing the river and I craned my neck to see the Tower of London.
‘Doesn’t all that bloody history trouble you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he laughed, shaking his head as if I were just beyond hope. ‘Location, location, location, Grace.’
I understood his point when I saw that, in his case, location meant a converted brick warehouse with private marina, a heartbeat away from Tower Bridge. I may actually have squeaked in awe when Scott opened the heavy door and I found myself in an enormous, loft-style living space. The windows were elegant wide arches, the floor seemed to be slate and the walls were either snowy white or a beautiful pale brick.
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘I think I just died.’
Scott put the kettle on, which, in such a glamorous space, seemed sexily domesticated. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to sort out this ticket.’
‘Can I look round?’
‘Course. Don’t get upset if you find my porn, though.’
I wasn’t sure whether he was joking, but I was too busy drinking in the surroundings to worry. In fact, at that point he could have introduced me to his blonde Swedish housemates and I don’t think I’d have cared.
My eyes out on stalks, I explored greedily. The ceilings were also arched and of brick, as they might be in a Napa wine cave. They were high and the space was so well lit, the balance of intimate and impressive was perfect. His furnishings were modern – no surprise there: chocolate leather sofas, abstract art, luscious cream rugs. The kitchen was L-shaped, white and glossy with stainless steel.
On one long wall were framed architectural plans and I guessed these might be for favourite projects he’d worked on. Sure enough, a couple of architecture award certificates were hanging in the little hallway outside the bedroom. For a man who loved his work, I was relieved they weren’t in the master bedroom itself. I felt too awkward to linger in there, but I saw that it was entirely grey and white, furnished sparsely. The bed was large, low and pristine.
Finally, I discovered the apartment’s best feature: a covered balcony, also with brick ceiling, offering a partial view of the dock below. Luxury boats were nestled there and I was going to tease Scott about which one was his, but bit my tongue in case he did, in fact, own one.
‘Dammit. I don’t believe it.’
I was brought back to earth by this exclamation from one of the long sofas, where Scott was studying his laptop.
‘What’s wrong?’ I lingered in front of a bookcase, which was at least fifteen feet wide and contained a mammoth flat screen television.
He tutted again. ‘Tomorrow’s flights are full.’
‘Really?’ The kettle had boiled but despite my scratchy throat, I wasn’t sure I should start rummaging in his cupboards for mugs and teabags.
Scott sighed. ‘Serves me right.’
‘Can you drive?’ I suggested.
‘To Manchester, on a Monday morning? Not likely.’ His tone was snappy.
‘Oh.’ I perched side-saddle on the sofa at the far end.
‘I’ll have to go tonight.’ He shook his head in annoyance. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Tonight? When?’
He consulted the screen. ‘There’s a flight at nine. I’d have to leave here about seven. That would work. We can still spend the afternoon together.’
‘Okay,’ I said, although really, it wasn’t, and I was too polite to say so. ‘I’ll head back to Cambridge tonight.’
‘No,’ he said, reaching for me along the sofa, ‘stay.’
I gave him a sceptical look.
‘I can call them and make it a breakfast meeting.’ He rubbed his chin as he thought. ‘It’ll only take an hour. I’ll hop straight on a plane – I can be back for an early lunch.’
‘What, stay here on my own?’ I asked. That was weird. It felt too early for me to be roaming his home unsupervised. And yet, I was tempted by getting to know him better through nosing around his apartment.
‘Why not?’ He put the laptop on the coffee table and moved to put his arms round me. ‘I’m so sorry, this is cutting into our weekend. But at least this way, I get to see you tomorrow too.’
He wanted to see me tomorrow. That was flattering.
‘There are films,’ he continued, gesturing at the huge array of DVDs. ‘And books. And lots of shops down on the dock. You could get a massage or a manicure or something. My treat, obviously.’
He was smiling at me confidently, but I hesitated. Still, at least he wasn’t suggesting I did his ironing while I waited.
‘You don’t have to decide now.’ Scott was playing with my hair with one hand, while the other rubbed my thigh in a way that was much more than companionable. He started to kiss my neck, nuzzling at my ear. ‘You can decide later.’
‘Well, okay, maybe,’ I said, thinking that a lazy morning and beauty treatment were more appealing than my housework.
‘Great.’ He slid his fingers inside my shirt.
I smiled and squirmed, but covered his hand with mine. ‘Do you think we could have that cup of tea first? I’m gasping.’
~~~
By eleven the next morning, I had made the most of my luxurious surroundings, but was more than ready for company again.
The previous evening, after Scott left, I had looked in all the kitchen cupboards and scanned the title of every book on his shelves. I had examined every piece of art and decorative accessory, and thumbed through his collection of CDs. I even allowed myself a quick peek in his wardrobe, which revealed lots of dark suits and tailored shirts, with a preference for Ted Baker and Paul Costelloe. In the hall cupboard I’d found skis and a substantial set of golf clubs.
Beyond that, however, I didn’t pry. Even by my nosy standards, it felt too personal to explore bedroom drawers or the office. But I noticed there were no photos in Scott’s home. Not one.
I’d made myself toast and Marmite for supper, phoned Jem for a chat, and then found that if I stood on the balcony and leaned out as far as I dared, I could just see a fireworks display from the direction of Blackheath.
Scott had left me a key to his loft, which had triggered an awkward exchange as we both confirmed I was only borrowing it, not keeping it. On Monday morning, I’d found an eye-wateringly expensive delicatessen and stocked his fridge with milk, bread, eggs and organic cheddar. Too late, I realised I didn’t know how often Scott was at home and whether he even liked to cook. Then, I’d browsed the shops next to the marina, and ended with a manicure and blow-dry at the beauty salon.
Allowing for an early meeting, journey to Manchester airport, flight and then the motorbike taxi from Heathrow, I calculated Scott might be back by about noon. I settled myself on one of his leather sofas, Starbucks latte in hand, and waited.
And waited. Noon became one, one became half past.
‘I’m not the type to call every five minutes,’ he’d said the previous evening, throwing a shirt and underwear into a Samsonite laptop case.
‘No problem.’ I’d been naked under his sheets, stretching luxuriously and sleepily.
At two, I texted him: ‘Should I wait?’
His reply: ‘Sorry, took longer than expected.’
This told me nothing. At two fifteen, stomach growling from lack of lunch, I followed up with: ‘Where are you?’
‘Just finishing up,’ came the response, a few minutes later.
What a pain. He’d dodged the question. Was he still in Manchester? Not even at the airport, let alone boarding a flight? I could either sit here indefinitely, or send a nagging text every fifteen minutes. Neither option appealed.
I jumped up, stuffed my overnight things into my bag and placed Scott’s spare key on the kitchen island. Then, pausing only to make a grab for the designer cheese, I let myself out.
~~~
It was an easy journey by Tube from Tower Hill to Liverpool Street. Once a train turned up, I figured I’d be there in a jiffy.
I’d waited a good five minutes before I realised I was on the wrong platform. Kicking myself for such an elementary mistake, I consulted the map. The last thing I wanted was to go the wrong way round the Circle line, via Victoria and South Kensington. I started to walk towards the steps but stopped abruptly, causing a throng of Japanese tourists to flow, babbling, around me. An uncomfortable thought had occurred to me: had I been as wrapped up in my design business as Scott was now? Had I shut James out, undermining us by being remote and unreliable?
Kensington was ringing a loud bell and I had just worked out why. I suddenly saw that I might be on the right platform, after all.
Saving Saffron Sweeting Page 22