Saving Saffron Sweeting (21 page)

‘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.’

‘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.