Saving Saffron Sweeting (20 page)

‘He’s on duty with Seb,’ Jem said in a hushed
tone, looking appreciatively at her husband. ‘He promised we
could have some girl time before your parents arrive.’

While the kettle boiled for tea, I brought her up to speed on
the parish council meeting. ‘I thought I was going to die of
fright, but actually, it turned out okay.’

‘Good for you – another dragon slain.’

‘And …’ I glanced towards the living room to
check my brother’s ears weren’t waggling, ‘there
was this guy. I think he was flirting.’

‘Ooh la la! Tell me more!’

I described Scott and how he had let his gaze linger.

‘This could be a sign.’ Jem poured our tea.
‘Oh, you used a bag. I wanted to look at the
leaves.’

‘What do you mean, a sign?’

‘That it’s time for the next chapter. You
know,’ she said in an undertone, ‘move on from
James.’

‘I’m not sure I want to move on,’ I replied
instinctively. ‘I mean, it’s just so soon.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Perhaps not. Depends how
nice his bum is, I suppose.’

I considered pretending I hadn’t looked at Scott’s
backside, but she knew me too well and smirked confidently. I
sipped my tea demurely but smiled nonetheless.

‘Woo-eeh! Here we are!’ A cry pierced the thick
stone walls of the cottage. Moments later, my mother erupted
through the back door. She was wearing a floppy straw hat –
as if she were off to the Chelsea Flower Show – a linen shirt
and trendy white jeans.

‘Halloo! And where’s my gorgeous grandson?’
She almost bowled Jem over in her haste to shower Sebastian in
ardent kisses. Seb woke obligingly and started to squawk, then shut
up as he presumably recognised grandma. I saw Jem sag a little and
gave her a sympathetic smile. It wasn’t that mum meant to be
rude, she just tended to overlook Jem’s role in creating and
nurturing the twenty pound bundle of bliss she was now cuddling. In
fairness, she pretty much glossed over Harry’s role in it
too.

I went outside to see if dad had suffered collateral damage from
the maternal maelstrom.

‘Hello, Gracie. Good to see you, love.’ He was
lifting a box out of the car boot.

‘And you, dad. What’s that?’

‘Ah, it appears to be for you. From James.’ Poor
dad, he didn’t like conveying awkward news. ‘He’s
phoned a few times, you know … but your mother’s
forbidden me from telling him anything.’

So, James had been calling my parents as well as Jem. Given the
situation, that was brave of him. I eyed the box. Sure enough, it
had come via FedEx and was plastered in customs stickers.
‘Thanks, dad. I’ll open it later.’

I busied myself sorting out drinks. Mum was now strolling around
happily with Seb in her arms and he seemed equally entranced by her
hat. My father and brother were talking animatedly about cricket,
the Middle East, or possibly cricket
in
the Middle East.
Jem had her head in the fridge, pulling out boxes and packets in
preparation for lunch.

This was the most people I’d ever entertained in Pothole
Cottage. Even though they were my family, it felt strange. Had I
become so insular and protective of my bolt-hole? With the FedEx
box out of the way, I wondered how long it would be before someone
dared mention James.

As it turned out, we made it most of the way through lunch,
squeezed around my kitchen table. We talked politely about
Harry’s two-dimensional banking job and dad’s work in
progress – a calculus textbook, no less. So that took all of
five minutes. Mum shared news of the chickens, the din of their
neighbour’s Harley Davidson, and the ‘dreadful’
organisation of the golf club’s charity fashion show. I
decided that must be the origin of the white jeans, since she
surely didn’t have the sartorial initiative to have chosen
them on her own.

Jem was interrogated on her plans for going back to work,
including ‘But Jemima dear, you’ll go simply dotty at
home all day,’ from my mother; ‘Norah was always there
when you two got home from school,’ from dad; and a jokey
‘As long as my dinner’s ready, I don’t
mind,’ from my brother. This earned him an airborne napkin
from me and a withering stare from his wife. Had they talked
properly about their situation?

‘So, Grace.’ My brother had been given the important
role of dividing up the chocolate gateau. ‘Is it completely
kaput with James?’

Silence fell around the table, and we all watched as Harry
manoeuvred a tall slice of gooey cake, cherry and all, onto my
father’s plate. I twisted my feet under my chair and hoped
someone would change the subject. No one did.

‘I would say so.’ Perhaps a brief, dignified answer
would suffice.

‘What’s in the box, poppet? Some of your
things?’ Despite two sherries before lunch, mum had the
sensitivity to bring her exuberance down a notch.

I nodded.

‘Nice of him to do that. Must have cost a bit to
send,’ Harry said.

‘Considering he slept with someone else, it’s the
least he could do.’ Jem threw a warning glance in
Harry’s direction.

‘So that’s it, then?’ my brother persisted.
‘End of the road?’

‘When a husband cheats, it usually is.’ Jem was
either sticking up for me, or firing a shot across Harry’s
bows, or maybe both.

My mother surveyed the differing wedges of gateau on each of our
plates and apparently needed no calculus textbook to deduce that
she had been cheated out of a cherry.

‘Don’t be so sure of that,’ she said, and
reached over to steal dad’s.

He didn’t even blink, much less object, but just sat there
looking sorrowful.

Eight helping hands professed themselves eager
to help tidy up the meal, so I escaped to the living room where Seb
was dozing in his little seat. I tried to think of him growing up,
going to school, getting married, perhaps cheating on his wife. My
imagination failed me: I just couldn’t picture this innocent
baby inflicting that amount of pain.

‘You’ve got it so easy,’ I told him.
‘Keep it that way, little buddy.’

Dad had fallen asleep in the big armchair by the fireplace, so
the rest of us decided to take a stroll round the village.
Everywhere was closed for Sunday afternoon, but I showed them the
malt house, Hargraves & Co and – proudly – a couple
of houses I had helped sell.

‘Yes, it’s all very nice,’ mum pronounced. By
that, I think she had decided that Saffron Sweeting probably voted
Conservative, or, worst case, Lib Dem.

Harry was eyeing up property prices in the Hargraves window.
‘Not cheap round here, is it? Sorry Jem, I don’t think
we’ll be buying a weekend home in Saffron
Sweeting.’

Jem, in charge of Seb in his pushchair, shrugged as she watched
the bees on a nearby lavender bush warily. She’s always been
more of a city girl.

‘Grace, you’ve done all right with your cottage.
Nice place,’ my brother continued.

‘Well, my days there may be numbered.’ I told them
about the skirmish over land access, but that a sale now seemed
likely.

‘Shame,’ mum tutted, as we reached Mary Lou’s
house and turned left. ‘Although of course, you’re
always welcome back home, you know that.’

‘Thanks, mum. I’ll, um, keep that in mind,’ I
replied. There was no way I could deal with both my parents and a
daily dose of Harley-riding chickens.

We had nearly walked back up the track to the cottage when I
realised a car was inching along behind us. I turned to see a dark
blue sporty convertible.

‘Oh my God. It can’t be.’ I was as shocked as
if the baby had launched into a Puccini aria.

‘What?’ Jem was slower to turn, as she’d been
watching to make sure that Seb’s pushchair wheels
didn’t fall into a pothole. ‘Oh, lookee here,’
she said.

I was already lookee-ing here. In the driver’s seat was
Scott, blond hair tousled, dark glasses glinting and white teeth
smiling.

Mum was taking off her shoes on the back-door mat and
hadn’t noticed the handsome arrival or my panicked
expression. My brother, however, clocked the car, then the
speculative grin on his wife’s face and finally my slack jaw.
Had he overheard what I’d told Jem before lunch? In any case,
for once in his life, he did the tactful thing and hustled our
mother inside.

‘We’ll put the kettle on,’ he called, and shut
the door.

Scott parked his car behind dad’s and got out.
‘Grace, hello again.’

‘Hi,’ I said, wondering how scruffy I looked in
comparison to the other night.

Jem, bless her, busied herself in reaching down to unbuckle Seb
and lift him out of his pushchair.

‘You live here?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’ This was awkward. ‘Did
Amelia give you directions?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. She did.’ He nodded
slowly and then seemed lost for words.

‘This is Jem,’ I said. ‘My
sister-in-law.’

Jem freed a hand to shake Scott’s, then went back to
jiggling Seb and patting his back.

‘The rest of the scary clan are inside,’ I went on.
‘Visiting for Sunday lunch.’ Oops, I was in danger of
babbling.

‘I’ve come at a bad time. Sorry. I’ll leave
you to it.’ Scott made as if to turn round.

‘No, no, that’s okay, I need to change this little
monster,’ Jem interrupted brightly. ‘You two carry
on.’ She made a lunge for the nappy bag from the bottom rack
of the pushchair. ‘Nice to meet you, Scott.’ She
disappeared inside.

Scott looked up at the white walls of the cottage.
‘Attractive place,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ I looked again at the climbing
roses, the tiled roof and wonky chimneys. ‘I fell in love,
the first day I saw it.’

He smiled at me and I allowed myself to smile back. He certainly
was good-looking. Today he was in jeans with a faded red checked
shirt. I should have been reminded of a steakhouse tablecloth, but
on him it looked just fine. He took his sunglasses off and polished
them on the hem of the shirt before looking at me again. His blue
eyes really were incredible. Today, in the soft September sunshine,
they seemed to have an inner ring of gold too.

‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ he said.

That struck me as strange, since he’d clearly been on his
way to visit me. I smoothed down my T-shirt surreptitiously.

‘I enjoyed chatting the other night.’ He seemed more
confident now, more like he had been in the pub. Again, he was
holding eye contact just a fraction longer than necessary.

I held my tongue, despite my racing thoughts. To distract
myself, I began nudging a loose stone with my toe.

‘So, if you have any free time next weekend, I was
wondering, can I take you out to lunch?’

I’d be lying if I said I was totally floored by this.
After his flirting in the pub, then showing up in my driveway,
I’d had a few minutes to compute the likelihood of him asking
me out.

I kicked at the stone, thinking about the FedEx box which had
travelled five thousand miles to bring me the remnants of my old
life. And I realised, I couldn’t come up with a single good
reason to decline.

‘Oh … thanks.’ I gave the loose stone a final
kick. It landed with a soft thud in the nearest flowerbed. Then I
looked him in the face. ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

‘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.