Saving Saffron Sweeting (25 page)

Nancy dropped a tissue on the carpet and snuffled into
another.

I changed the subject to distract her. ‘But now that
you’re in England, you’ll stay, won’t
you?’

‘You bet,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so happy
here.’

Funny way of showing it. I went to the kitchen to hunt down a
corkscrew and wash some glasses. When I came back, she’d
discovered the Galaxy chocolate and was holding a piece between
thumb and forefinger.

‘This is good stuff.’ Nancy licked it carefully.
‘It’s smoother than Hershey’s, I
think.’

I made a mental note to introduce her to Maltesers, Crunchie
bars and possibly Curly Wurlies.

‘Try it with the red wine,’ I suggested.

The combination was pretty awful, but we didn’t care. When
we’d annihilated all of the chocolate and most of the wine, I
made us some cheese on toast. Then we watched
Coronation
Street
and
Doctor Who
. Neither of us had a clue what
was happening in either programme, but it didn’t matter. We
sat there in mutual melancholy, punctuated by the Daleks and some
cheap red plonk.

‘Antiques aren’t really my thing,
but I wasn’t going to turn down free cheese and
wine.’

Amelia clinked her glass against mine and shrugged
innocently.

‘Fair enough,’ I told her. ‘I’m just
pleased there’s a big crowd here to support Peter and
Giles.’

Already, a high volume of chatter was floating up to the rafters
of the antiques barn, and a few people were even examining the
merchandise.

I saw Mary Lou through the throng and waved at her. She had
helpfully invited her friends to the party.

‘And it’s nice to have something social in the
village,’ Amelia continued. ‘Too bloody quiet around
here.’

Peter joined us. ‘Ladies, hi.’ He was wearing a
gorgeous striped lavender shirt, which I would have been happy to
own myself.

‘How’s it going so far?’ I asked him. The
responsibility for suggesting the party was weighing heavily on me
and I nibbled anxiously on a cube of Wensleydale.

‘I think it’s going well,’ he said, looking
around. ‘Several people have said they never knew there was a
shop here, so that’s a start.’ He lowered his voice.
‘And, Grace, you did brilliantly at getting the Americans to
come.’

‘Watch out, here’s another one,’ said a female
voice behind us. ‘Grace hassled me mercilessly, until I
promised to show up.’

I turned and found Nancy smiling bravely. Dressed in a chestnut
trouser suit, she had seemingly come straight from work. She looked
much brighter. We hugged and I checked that she knew Amelia and
remembered Peter from the pub.

‘How’s your house?’ Amelia asked her.
‘Everything okay?’

‘Just great, thanks. I love it,’ Nancy replied.

‘Could you use some antiques?’ I joked. ‘Peter
has a few spare.’

‘Actually, I’d love to get something. Just so long
as it’s small enough to ship when I go back.’

‘How long are you here for?’ Peter asked her.

‘I’m not sure yet. At least a year,
though.’

‘Well, I’ll be happy to show you around.’

They moved off together, already deep in discussion.

‘Does she know he’s gay?’ Amelia murmured to
me.

‘No problem there,’ I replied. ‘She’s
heartbroken over some spineless tosser who wouldn’t leave his
wife.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Scott said, as
he got back in the Jaguar. ‘It’ll get more interesting
from now on.’

‘And I had been thinking your job was glamorous,’ I
replied. I kept my voice cheerful, but I was thinking that picking
Monday morning for our next date had been a big mistake.

Scott’s car was parked outside a disused factory on the
outskirts of Ipswich. The building was a grey, soulless shape from
the sixties, windows broken, litter flapping in the chilly breeze.
Even the graffiti was uninspiring. I had declined the tour
politely, waiting instead in the car with the doors locked.

‘Was it any good?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Even if we could sort
it out – which would cost a bomb – I can’t see
people wanting to live in this apocalyptic wasteland.’ He
started the engine. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

He headed north on the A12 and within minutes, the scenery
improved, with the landscape an autumn mix of greens, yellows and
some rusts. I stole a look at Scott as he drove. So far today, he
had been business-like in his behaviour to me, but that made sense
as he was effectively at work. He had picked me up from Ipswich
station, greeting me with nothing more than a ‘Good
morning’. I was losing my nervousness at being with him, but
was wondering if and when we’d repeat our kiss of the other
evening.

‘I could do with a coffee,’ he said now. ‘Okay
if we stop off?’

‘I’d love one,’ I said. Unusually for me,
I’d skipped breakfast in order to catch an early train. It
hadn’t helped that I’d changed outfit twice, finally
settling for black jeans, boots and Amelia’s tan leather
jacket.

He turned onto a minor road and before long we were in a
charming historic town. Scott parked his car in the market
square.

‘Where’s this?’ I asked. ‘I like
it.’

‘Woodbridge,’ he replied. ‘I actually own a
small cottage here.’

‘Oh, for weekends?’ The town seemed pleasant, but I
had pictured Scott preferring something more cosmopolitan for his
Saturday nights.

‘No,’ he smiled and shook his head. ‘It has
tenants. I bought it as an investment.’

Oh. So, whereas my interior design work tempted me to buy
cushions, his job had led to a whole cottage. My impulse buys could
hardly be considered wise investments. No wonder he drove a purring
Jaguar and I owned a crumbling Beetle.

The little cafe had bleached pine tables. On its walls were
Suffolk landscapes by local artists. We were alone except for two
young mothers and their babies. Scott sat opposite me at our table
in the window. He was looking expensively smooth in a dark suit,
his shirt open at the neck. If he’d spent the weekend
partying hard, it didn’t show.

‘Do you usually work alone?’ My bandwidth for
eloquent conversation was restricted by my assault on two thick
slices of granary toast and a pot of tea. I should have known
better than to miss breakfast; lack of food always makes me
sag.

‘Pretty much. At least, initially. Obviously later there
are meetings, investors, all that stuff. It’s nice to have
company for a change.’ He was stirring a large latte and
watching me with some amusement.

‘Sorry,’ I said, adding more honey to my toast.
‘I know this looks piggy. No breakfast.’

‘You go ahead. I’m glad it’s doing the trick.
Nothing worse than a woman who doesn’t eat.’

Inevitably, I imagined a recent girlfriend: tall, wafer thin,
probably a model or a public relations princess. Glamorous, high
maintenance. And here I was, noshing greedily on toast and honey.
Well, too bad, I couldn’t be captivating on an empty
stomach.

I gave Scott my best smile and was rewarded with his own slow
grin. Really, his eyes shouldn’t be allowed out before the
cocktail hour – they were too sensuous for this time of
day.

‘So, what’s next?’ I tried to get my thoughts
back to business, but was derailed when Scott reached over and
poured more tea for me. The gesture was endearingly familiar.

‘There’s an old school just north of here, which
I’m keen to scout out. Some canny old codger’s been
hanging onto it, but I think his kids have convinced him to
sell.’

‘Kids can be so persuasive,’ I said meaningfully,
offering him another chance to mention his parents.

He glossed right over it. ‘After that, there’s a
hotel in Aldeburgh that’s just come on the market. Thought it
might be worth a look. It’s in a great location.’

Okay, so he didn’t want to talk about Saffron Hall. No big
deal. I wiped my mouth carefully, keen to eradicate lingering
crumbs and honey.

The waitress brought our bill and we both reached for it at the
same time. His hand landed on mine and he curled his fingers around
mine. I glanced up nervously as he began stroking his thumb over
the inside of my wrist, then had to look away as longing heated my
insides. Or it could have been the tea, but if that was the case,
they should have charged a whole lot more for it and recruited Meg
Ryan as their celebrity sponsor.

‘You’re not wearing your wedding ring,’ he
said quietly.

Finding nothing to say, I shook my head. I didn’t think
men noticed that kind of thing. Did this mean Scott had spotted it,
in the pub or maybe at the races? If so, he’d known he was
chatting up a married woman.

‘So … it’s over then?’ he asked.

I looked out of the window. On the other side of the street, an
old couple, bent with age, were passing slowly. He was in a brown
tweed cap, relying on a walking stick, she wore a bright headscarf
and pulled a small wheeled shopping bag behind her. Her free arm
was tucked through his and each careful step they took was in
perfect timing.

‘I think so …’ I caught Scott’s gaze
and exhaled. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s over.’

It was amazing the difference that tea and
toast made to my spirits. From then on, the day just seemed to get
better and better.

En route from the cafe back to Scott’s car, we passed an
estate agency. Without a word between us, we both ground to a halt
so we could steam up the windows. I imagine I was looking for the
fun of it and to see which living room photo I liked best, whereas
Scott was on the hunt for his next deal. I got a kick out of our
shared interest, anyway.

It wasn’t far to the old school. As we drove, I wondered
idly whether his residential projects would need an interior
designer for the show homes. For a few seconds, I allowed myself a
pleasant daydream that we could work together, or at least that
he’d pass me lots of lucrative design work. With a decent
budget and interesting architecture, I could create some stunning
spaces. Teaming up with Scott would be a neat solution to both my
personal and professional limbo.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to know I was getting
ahead of myself and I made sure I was back on earth before he
parked opposite the school.

This time, I joined willingly in the tour of the brick building
with steeply pitched roof. It even had a little bell tower on top,
although the ivy covering half the school was threatening to claim
that too.

‘What would you turn it into?’ I’d asked as we
waited outside for the agent to arrive.

‘Either flats or offices,’ he’d replied.
‘Probably flats. The residential market is strong round
here.’

‘Is it listed?’ I asked, proud that I knew this
could be a barrier to conversion.

‘No, thank God,’ he said, reading through the
information he’d downloaded. ‘I think the biggest
problem will be whether the old git wants to sell.’

He’d shut up quickly as a silver Volvo drew up and I
surmised that insulting the owner wasn’t in the game
plan.

As we looked around the school, I kept an eye on Scott, trying
to guess what he was thinking. Clearly, he’d make a good
poker player: he showed no emotion at all. That said, the windows
had been boarded up, so the light was dim and I had to concentrate
to avoid a face full of cobwebs. Scott took photos and measurements
and I tried to picture the space divided into flats, but
couldn’t see how the windows might work. It seemed whoever
built the original school didn’t believe that daylight was
necessary in the care and nurture of children.

‘Okay, I’m dying to know what you think,’ I
said, only restraining myself until the agent drove away and we
were alone again.

‘Might be worth some further research.’ Scott was
looking up at the roof, then reached for his camera to get a few
more pictures.

‘It’d make a lovely tearoom,’ I suggested,
imagining the gentle vanilla scent of cakes fresh from the oven,
the waitress in her starched white apron and perhaps an array of
local crafts for sale too.

He laughed. ‘Sorry, Grace. Tearooms don’t make me
much dough.’

My expectations of cobwebs and broken windows
were pleasantly shattered when we pulled up outside the hotel which
was for sale. The place was still very much open for business, and
although not exactly thriving on a Monday in October, it
didn’t look close to bankruptcy, either.

Inside, we found it was furnished in traditional style. We
ambled through the peach damask reception area, stuck our noses
into the quiet residents’ lounge, and found ourselves outside
the dining room. Each table boasted white linens and multiple
glinting wine glasses.

‘I don’t mean to be tactless,’ Scott turned to
me, ‘but have you any room for lunch after all that
toast?’

I could hardly object to his teasing. ‘I could manage a
salad,’ I said coyly, knowing full well I would probably
order something more substantial.

‘Excellent.’ He nodded in approval. ‘Fish and
chips – with salad – for two.’

‘I wasn’t expecting it to be this
nice,’ I said, as the nervous eastern European waiter cleared
our plates carefully. I had been restrained and had declined
Scott’s suggestion of battered fish. Instead, chicken salad
and two glasses of Chardonnay left me feeling relaxed but not
stuffed.

‘Me neither,’ Scott agreed. ‘The photos
don’t do it justice.’

I was glad the derelict school was still a possibility. I
didn’t want him to look back on a day spent with me as a
total waste. ‘Will you ask to look at the rooms?’ I
said.

He looked up at the ceiling of the dining room, with its
cornices and ornate mouldings. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.
‘It’s not run down enough to give much room for
profit.’ He shrugged. ‘I get more excited when I see
cracks and flaws.’