Saving Saffron Sweeting (22 page)

‘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.’

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.

My method was severely flawed. I’d lost my money on Golden
Gate. PBJ Sandwich disgraced me by finishing last. So, in the third
race, I switched my allegiance to Blighty and placed an each way
bet on Lovely Jubbly. Bobbing up and down to see past the unruly
group in front of us, I lost sight of her.

‘I can’t see!’ I was up on my tiptoes despite
Amelia’s heeled sandals. ‘Where is she?’

Scott was a good eight inches taller and was glued to his
binoculars. ‘Er, fifth. No, wait – that’s not
her.’

I clutched his arm and bobbed some more.

‘There she is! She’s second!’ he called
out.

I whooped as she came back into view, thundering down the home
straight. The leader was a length clear, but two other horses were
nudging alongside my pick.

‘Hang in there! Come on!’ I yelled.

A blur of colours whizzed past us, to deafening shouts and
cheers from the crowd.

‘What happened?’ I cried. ‘I couldn’t
tell. Did she do it?’

‘I think so.’ Scott was grinning at me.
‘Let’s go and see.’

When we reached the Tote and I found I’d made all of
nineteen pounds, I did a little jig.

‘Champagne!’ I announced. ‘My
treat!’

Scott laughed. ‘You won’t have any winnings
left.’ But he looked pleased for me nonetheless.

‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘That was
brilliant.’

He laughed again, shook his head and gestured to the bar.

‘So, is this a good time to ask if
you’re enjoying yourself?’ Scott smiled as we clinked
glasses.

‘Well, obviously the first couple of races were dire, but
I might rethink that opinion now.’ I sipped my champagne and
reminded myself that bouncing up and down like a sugar-fuelled
eight-year-old at a birthday party wasn’t ideal first date
behaviour. This guy was sophisticated and my winner’s jig had
not been cool.

He nodded and said nothing, watching my face.

I was tempted to just sit there and gaze back, but blamed that
on the champagne. Instead, I added, ‘Yes, it’s really
fun, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

There was a pause and then he waved at someone behind me.

‘Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?
There’s someone over there I need to talk business
with.’

‘No problem.’

He made a tilting gesture with his glass. ‘I’ll text
you if I can’t find you.’

‘Sure thing.’

I was curious, but had no particular wish to be introduced to
his business colleague. Instead, I took a quick peek as Scott made
his way across the bar and greeted a paunchy older man in a grey
suit. A city fat cat, perhaps?

I’d taken careful note of Scott’s betting behaviour
so far, as it had occurred to me he might be a hard-core gambler.
But from what I could see, he was treating the afternoon lightly
and was a good loser. True, he placed larger bets than me, but that
wasn’t hard, and after all, this wasn’t his first
rodeo. Whether it was his preference, or to keep me company,
he’d stuck mainly with the Tote for his betting. Only once
did he head for the bookmakers, when he said he was intrigued by
the long odds for a horse called Beach Belle. That flutter had
resulted in a fistful of twenties, which he had pocketed with a
grin and a careless shrug. Overall, he didn’t seem to be
displaying addictive gambling tendencies.

I, on the other hand, was hooked. This was so much more fun than
feeding ten-pence pieces into the waterfall machines at the beach
in Lowestoft. Harry and I had done that on every family holiday,
until he’d reached sixteen and abandoned me for the delights
of the disco.

Now, I ran my eye down the list of runners for the next race.
American Dream jumped out at me as the obvious choice. Still riding
high from my recent win, I almost ran to place my bet, then drooped
over the railings with my hand in front of my eyes as the hapless
horse ambled around the track so slowly he might as well have gone
backwards.

Jem, no doubt, would declare this to be a sign, and for once I
was inclined to agree.

Enough of this foolishness. James had broken my heart, and now I
was starting over. I was on a date with an incredibly attractive
man and I had no intention of blowing it. My life was in England
now.

After his short absence, Scott rejoined me and
apologised for being rude.

‘No problem,’ I said cheerfully, ‘I was quite
happy losing all my money on a terrible horse.’

‘I get the picture,’ he responded.
‘Don’t worry, that happens to me all the
time.’

I’m not sure it was true, but it was gallant of him to say
it. He really was a decent bloke.

‘So, I take it you’re quitting while you’re
behind?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to leave?’

‘No, no, I’m fine. But I might get a cup of tea
while I calm down a bit.’

‘Told you it would work you into a frenzy,’ he
said.

He was totally flirting with me and I didn’t need to blame
the champagne for my willingness to flirt back. We watched a couple
more races, standing closer than the crowd required, his arm around
my waist as he pulled me nearer to point out something on the far
side of the course.

It was late afternoon when Scott turned to me. ‘So, Grace,
last chance. You either win back all your money, or we leave now
and beat the traffic.’ He consulted the race card, then said,
‘Decision made. To hell with the traffic. Let’s check
her out.’

We made our way to the Parade Ring, and there, in beautiful
turquoise silks with white spots, a diminutive jockey was being
hoisted onto Grace Under Fire.

‘Up for this?’ he asked me.

I paused for a split second, then smiled up at him.
‘Absolutely.’

It was dark when Scott bumped the Jaguar back
up the track to my cottage.

My final race winnings had been more than enough to pay for
dinner at the quiet country pub he’d chosen, but Scott had
insisted that today was on him.

‘Perhaps I’ll let you pay next time,’ he said,
as he’d scooped up our bill.

Forgive my anti-feminist treachery, but I was impressed.
We’d shared a lovely meal, and I had felt sufficiently tired
from the afternoon to relax properly in his company. I liked the
sound of
next time
too.

During dinner, he’d asked what had brought me to Saffron
Sweeting.

I’d set down my fork and taken a glug of wine. I was
unprepared for this topic and the longer I stretched the pause, the
bigger deal it would become.

‘My marriage ended a few months ago.’ When in doubt,
keep it brief.

‘I’m sorry.’ His reply was equally simple. He
looked away and I couldn’t begin to guess what he
thought.

‘And the village? Why there?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘It was either Saffron Sweeting or move back
home to mum and dad’s.’ I made sure to smile, to show
him I was at ease. ‘No-brainer.’

He’d nodded, then topped up my wine. ‘Well,
then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Grace
under fire.’

My cottage was in darkness but I thought I could make out
Mungo’s black and white shape, sitting on the doormat.

‘Your dog?’ Scott asked.

‘No, he just thinks he lives here,’ I said.
‘Don’t get out, you’ll only get slobbered
on.’

‘You make it sound so tempting.’ He turned the
engine off anyway.

‘Thank you, that was a lovely day.’ I was formal
now, feeling shy. The low bucket seats of his car were hardly
conducive to smooching and in any case, I had no idea of current
etiquette at the end of a first date.

‘Thank you for joining me.’ As before, he ran a
single finger down my forearm and over my hand. I felt the tingle
from my ears to my toes, then froze like a rabbit as he leaned
across the gearstick. Yet, when he brushed my cheek with the
briefest of kisses, I was disappointed. Was that his secret, to
leave me wanting more?

Inside, the cottage felt chilly and it crossed my mind I’d
have to investigate how the heating worked. Mungo sat
optimistically next to the empty fireplace, as I paced between the
kitchen and the living room. I wasn’t sleepy, but
couldn’t settle to do anything useful.

In the end, I flopped on the sofa and fondled Mungo’s ears
as he arrived, tail waving, at my side. His doggie identification
tags made a tuneful clinking as I scratched him under the chin with
my left hand and let my mind run over the day.

This small noise from Mungo’s collar brought me back to
the present. I stilled my hand and paused, looking down at my
fingers. Mungo sank with a sigh at my feet and the only sound now
was the rhythmic tick-thud of my antique clock.

Slowly, carefully and before I could change my mind, I took hold
of my platinum wedding ring. Then I tugged, twisted and wriggled,
until it was off my finger.

On Tuesday morning I stopped at the bakery, in
search of Amelia’s favourite custard tarts.

Brian was wiping crumbs off the counter. ‘They’re
only just out of the oven. Can you come back in ten minutes?’
he said cheerfully, adding, ‘You look well, Grace.’

I was indeed feeling upbeat after Saturday’s horse racing
and heart racing, but I wasn’t going to share that with
Brian.

‘Thanks. How’s business?’ I asked.

‘My accountant’s still finalising the August
numbers, but fingers crossed, things are looking good.’ He
seemed pleased. ‘Some of us are meeting tonight to plan
Halloween.’

‘Really? That’s great.’ I was thrilled to hear
it.

To kill the time, I reluctantly took myself to the post office
for stamps. Generally speaking, I tried to avoid Violet.

My instincts had been right. As I turned to leave, she stopped
me.

‘What’s going on with you and my dog?’

‘What do you mean?’ I stalled for time, but knew
full well what she meant.

‘Seems to me, you’ve been holding him hostage.
He’s up at your place more often than not.’

‘I haven’t been holding him hostage,’ I
retorted. ‘Mungo shows up of his own free will. You
shouldn’t let him out if you don’t want him to
roam.’

She glared at me. I realised that squabbling over a
canine’s affections was pretty lame.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry. I know
he’s your dog. But for some reason he likes the
cottage.’ I took a breath. ‘And when he first arrived,
I didn’t have any other friends here.’

Violet folded her arms. ‘So you made friends with my
dog?’

‘It was a difficult time for me. I’d just left my
husband.’ I felt tears beginning and kicked myself. What was
I thinking, to reveal that to her? Now she’d make mincemeat
out of me.

‘Why?’ she asked.

For heaven’s sake, I thought. That’s too personal
for the post office. Can’t we talk about the weather, or
something a bit more British?

I lifted my chin. ‘He cheated on me.’ Great, now my
shame would be all over Saffron Sweeting by lunchtime.

Violet, however, looked awkward and began tidying the newspapers
on the counter. Then she sighed. ‘Well. His loss,
dear.’

It took a few seconds for this veiled compliment to sink in. I
blinked back the threatening tears and edged towards the door.

‘Is there anything you’d recommend?’ Violet
asked suddenly.

‘Sorry?’ What did she mean? A brand of
tranquilliser? A tactic for dealing with errant husbands?

‘Anything you think I should stock, which the Americans
would like?’

‘Oh. Right.’ I looked around as my brain scrambled
to catch up. Her selection was uninspiring at best, but I had no
retail experience to call on. I struggled to think back to last
autumn and what I’d seen on sale in the States. Violet
waited, her expression softer than usual but still wary. Asking me
for advice was obviously an olive branch.

‘Right. Um, well.’
Orange
. I had seen a
whole lot of orange. ‘Well, at this time of year, they get
really excited about Halloween.’

‘Which means?’

‘If you can find supplies of pumpkins, and put them
outside, that would attract folks in. And orange things. Black and
orange, those are the Halloween colours. Oh, and candy – I
mean, sweets. People give out sweets. Can you get some big bags of
individually-wrapped small sweets?’