Saving Saffron Sweeting (2 page)

‘Well, actually,’ Rebecca had the nerve to put her
hand on his arm, ‘it’s probably best that you know,
Grace. It wasn’t a mistake.’ She glanced at me and I
noticed for the first time an intense determination in her face.
‘I’m so sorry, we didn’t plan it this way. It
happened after I hired you. But we can’t help how we
feel.’ In her strappy beige sandals she was nearly as tall as
James, and she barely needed to lift her pointy little chin upwards
to gaze at my husband adoringly. ‘The thing is, I care about
you and I want to be with you.’

A collective gasp flew round the office, almost loud enough to
drown my yelp of pain. I could sense the techie crowd reaching for
their phones to post
Wild and crazy work love triangle
on
their Facebook pages. I felt like I’d been whacked in the
ribs with a cricket bat, but I registered through my tears that
James was shaking his head in defeat. The little pot slipped from
my fingers before I could think of throwing paint in their faces.
Instead, it added a permanent souvenir of the demise of my marriage
to the carpet and his Hush Puppies. Rebecca sidestepped smartly and
her sexy sandals escaped the shower. Too bad.

Failing entirely to live up to my name, I turned and fled with
as much poise as a double-decker London bus.

We spent the next two days in an ugly blur of
sobbing, shouting, and silence. Not all the tears were mine: James
followed me straight home and begged me to hear his side of the
story. I heard but I didn’t listen and I certainly
didn’t believe his lame attempts to blame his cheating on a
drunken night of clubbing at the conference in Las Vegas. Did he
really think I was that gullible?

He tiptoed around me for the first evening, then slept in our
guest room and left early the next day. That was worse than the
awkwardness of him being in the apartment: I knew he was going to
see Rebecca and I was tormented by the thought. I wasn’t even
sure he’d come home again. But he did, to find me curled up
on the sofa with a blanket, in pointed denial of the California
sunshine outside.

‘Will you please talk to me?’ He approached
hesitantly. ‘I know this was really, really stupid but I need
to tell you my side of things.’

‘You mean you’ve got something original to say?
Because up to this point, it’s all looking like one big
cliché to me. You cheated, you got caught, you’re a
lying bastard.’

He sat down at the other end of our Ikea sofa and I immediately
tucked my legs under me, as if it would burn me to touch him.
‘Grace, I didn’t lie to you, I was trying to tell
you!’

‘Well, you didn’t try very hard.’ I could feel
my eyes welling up yet again.

‘Look, ever since I got back, I’ve been trying to
get you to sit down.’ He did at least have the decency to
look distraught. ‘But you’ve been so caught up in your
business recently – there wasn’t a good
moment.’

He was staring at me intently and I could see the beginning of
tears in his own eyes. He clearly hadn’t shaved that morning
and his shirt was even more of a crumpled disaster than usual.

‘Well, excuse me for turning my back for five minutes to
try and make some money.’ I was firmly on the defensive, one
hundred per cent the injured party. ‘And in case you
hadn’t noticed, I was slaving away to finish a project for
the woman you’re sleeping with!’

‘I’m not sleeping with her. It was just one time.
One stupid bloody time. I’m so sorry.’

‘I don’t believe you. You knew about that goddamn
purple wall.’ I was looking around wildly, seeking my escape
route. I didn’t want to be in the same room with him.

‘All right, so I happened to see her bedroom! That
doesn’t mean anything.’

‘No, it means everything.’ I was sobbing now.
‘It means I’ll never trust you again.’

I wish I’d had the panache to storm out of our apartment
in an expensive cloud of Chanel perfume. I wish I’d owned a
Louis Vuitton bag to grab on my way to check into a luxury hotel,
where I’d instigate a passionate revenge fling with a
nineteen-year-old bellboy. Unfortunately, I clambered off the sofa
with pins and needles in my legs and tripped over my blankie
instead. Then I trailed soggy tissues across the floor and locked
myself in the bathroom, where my only company was a dog-eared copy
of
National Geographic
.

I had followed my British husband – and his job –
from London to California, but my own attempt at the American dream
had flopped. I’d been working crazily, had failed to see my
marriage falling apart, and felt like a total fool.

I certainly couldn’t afford to kick James out and stay in
our apartment on my own. My so-called business was barely
breathing. I had no idea how many months or years of scraping by
might be ahead of me, if I attempted to build a list of design
clients who weren’t going to thank me by stealing my husband.
Did I have the energy to move out, find a job, and rebuild my life
in the fast-moving world of Silicon Valley? What the heck was I
doing in this country, anyway? All I wanted was to crawl under the
bed covers and hide, preferably with a packet of imported
Cadbury’s biscuits.

In the small, mocking hours of the next morning, I found myself
unearthing a suitcase from the closet. With safety, seclusion and
comfort food as my primary motives, I booked a flight home to
England.

‘Quick! Hop in before they shoot
us!’ Jem released me from a bear hug and started trying to
stuff my suitcase into the boot of her Mini.

Despite my fatigue, I smiled. My best friend since university,
now my brother’s wife, she’d come to a halt at a jaunty
and probably illegal angle by the arrivals building of Heathrow
Terminal Three. We were already drawing beady looks from the police
officers patrolling the area. I told her that she and six-month-old
baby Sebastian presented minimal threat to Queen and country.

‘You wait until he wakes up,’ she replied ominously.
‘His screams could bring down the government.’

After my long flight, seeing Jem spring from her car was the
boost I needed. I knew she wasn’t finding motherhood easy,
but her spirit was clearly alive and well. One of the reasons I
adore Jem is her optimism, which, frankly, I lack.

‘I bet you’re tired so we’ll go straight home.
Okay?’ She still had one eye on the nearest policeman and
gave him a coy wave.

‘Perfect. Thanks for coming – the Tube might have
been the end of me.’

Every time I arrive back in London, I wonder what kind of
impression England makes on new visitors. From the air, the
countryside looks so green and peaceful, with its patchwork of
hedges, fields and winding rivers. Then, you come down to earth
with a bump amidst the bedlam of Heathrow Airport. Today, we had
performed nauseating circles above Essex waiting to land, then
lurked for twenty minutes on a taxiway until another aircraft
departed and made room for us to park. When released from our
tin-can prison, there was a hike of about a mile through the
terminal building. My reward at passport control was a scrum
similar to the first day of the Harrods sale, only without the
designer goodies. By some miracle, I was reunited with my suitcase
and thanked the baggage gods that, unlike last time, my underwear
had not spilled over the reclaim belt in a Lycra impression of road
kill.

‘Nope, won’t fit.’ Jem was defeated in her
attempts to shoehorn my bag into the small boot, but got away with
stashing it on the back seat beside the sleeping tyrant. And then
we were off, Jem piloting the Mini fearlessly through the airport
maze. She seemed able to carry on a conversation directed at me,
the baby and London’s aggressive drivers in equal
measures.

‘How was the flight? Did you sleep?’ she asked,
making an X-rated gesture at a double-decker bus.

‘A bit.’

I was looking out of the window. Even at the best of times, I
found coming back to London after being in the US a bit of a shock.
Everything looked incredibly familiar and yet surreal, like
watching a favourite TV show for ages, then finally getting to
visit the set. We were on the wrong side of the road, of course,
traffic was brutal, and hazards like zebra crossings, mini
roundabouts and speed cameras littered our path. Even though it was
June, definitely one of the best times to visit Britain, the sky
was gloomy and so were the faces I saw on the streets. My mood was
equally low. I had left my husband and bundled myself onto a plane
without any clear idea of what to do next. Now, I was technically
home, but it didn’t feel like it.

‘Your hair’s longer. Suits you. Damn, who put that
camera there?’ She had just steered the Mini up a bus lane in
Hounslow and probably had her number plate snapped.

‘Uh-huh.’ I knew she was just being kind. Jem is one
quarter Pakistani and has the most beautiful, sleek dark hair
I’ve ever seen. Mine, on the other hand, is mousy and goes
limp at the first sign of trouble. If Jem had noticed my red eyes
too, she didn’t say anything. Normally hazel, they’re
my favourite feature, but lack of sleep and more or less constant
sobbing had left them puffy and dull.

I felt grubby, too, from the long overnight flight, where
I’d folded myself into the window seat and tried to avoid all
conversation with the older couple next to me. I don’t know
if they were curious that I’d cried for an hour after we left
San Francisco, and then some more as we flew over the Houses of
Parliament and up the Thames to Richmond, but they hadn’t
pried.

As for Jem, I had emailed her with just a little of what had
happened and, bless her, she stuck to small talk as we drove to the
flat she and my brother owned in Ealing. She entertained me with
Sebastian’s little ways, including his liking of outings by
car, bus or train. Only when still was he prone to vigorous
exercising of his lungs.

‘And Harry’s fine, just very busy at work,’
Jem said, as the houses lining our route changed from totally
depressing to only slightly grungy. I couldn’t help mentally
comparing the grey streets and kebab shops with the sunny
tree-lined avenues of Menlo Park.

‘He’s in Aberdeen for a few days,’ she
continued. ‘I should be irritated at him leaving me with Seb
but really, I haven’t got a leg to stand on. We’re
reliant on his income now.’

I nodded. She was on maternity leave from her job in human
resources and I knew she was wondering whether to go back to work
at all.

How could this worn, sagging sofa be so
comfortable? I must have dozed off for a few minutes as I woke to
find Jem placing mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs in
front of us. I doubt she intended it as a gesture of sisterhood and
solidarity, but for me it was the first sign of hope in several
days. I couldn’t actually remember when I had last eaten.

My brother and Jem had managed to scramble onto the London
property ladder with a top-floor Edwardian flat. Although small and
not furnished in the latest style, it had a bay-windowed lounge and
other original features which would trigger heart palpitations in
most Californian designers. It smelled of pine floors and clean
washing. I was glad to be there.

Jem slurped her tea slightly and planted her feet in their
striped socks on the coffee table.

‘Well then,’ she said, tilting her head in my
direction and frowning. ‘Want to spill the beans?’

Tongue-tied, I nibbled on my biscuit and wondered if dunking it
would cause it to disintegrate. Jem knew me well enough to keep
quiet and wait.

‘One minute we seemed fine …’ I said
awkwardly, ‘and the next I found out he’s in love with
someone else.’

‘And she’s someone he works with?’ Jem pursed
her lips and I suspected she was choosing her words carefully.
She’d known James almost as long as she’d known me and
had always liked him. We sometimes compared notes on our husbands
and although I knew my brother won for charisma and romantic
gestures, there was a thoughtfulness about James that was hard to
beat. His everyday willingness to do the washing up and put laundry
away – things that were invisible to Harry unless Jem nagged
him – had meant more to me than Friday night flowers.

‘Not only does he work with her,’ I swallowed and
bit my lip, ‘but she was basically my only good decorating
client. I was doing her bedroom.’

‘Wow. That’s horrible. What can she have been
thinking?’

‘I’m more gutted by what James was thinking.’
The chocolate biscuits were disappearing remarkably fast. Surely I
hadn’t eaten all those? Regardless, I took another: this was
a crisis and everyone knows you don’t count calories in the
middle of a crisis. ‘It’s just so humiliating.
I’m pretty sure they were doing it in that bedroom. I was
working so hard to make it beautiful.’

‘Oh, Grace, I’m sorry,’ Jem said.

I could tell she was upset on my behalf and I loved her for
that. Without doubt, she’s the non-existent sister I would
have liked as a teenager. Only now, it’s better, because we
share gossip and nail varnish without stealing each other’s
boyfriends and losing borrowed shoes at parties.

‘Were there … other problems?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ I chewed my lip.
‘We’ve definitely been less patient with each other,
recently. Less affectionate. Maybe I wasn’t making enough
effort. Huh. Easy to be wise now.’

‘It’s rough on your relationship, when you’re
both running on the hamster wheel.’ Jem gave me a worried
smile.

‘And seeing him with – her –’ I gulped,
‘makes me think I’ve really let myself go.’

‘Tosh,’ said my sister-in-law immediately.

But Jem hadn’t met the other woman and I was busy
comparing myself unfavourably. At five feet four, I would never be
willowy like Rebecca, and although I’d lost weight recently,
none of it seemed to have gone from around my hips. Having always
been more interested in home accessories than fashion, I had to
admit that in the last couple of years my wardrobe had become
especially boring. I lived in black jeans and my shoes were all
practical, with nothing even half as sexy as the sandals Rebecca
had been wearing on the fateful purple paint day. Combine all this
with limp hair and a totally deflated ego, and I knew I
wasn’t exactly alluring to come home to.