The Year of Taking Chances (21 page)

Saffron could not believe the brass neck of Bunty.
To lie like that, so outrageously, pretending to be her sister in order to weasel out her whereabouts .
.
.
It was an
atrocious way to behave.
What was this woman
on
?
And of all the times for her to turn up unwanted, this was definitely the worst.
Saffron could hardly cope with living inside her own head
right now, let alone gear up to deal with Bunty in any kind of professional manner.
In the space of two minutes her place of refuge had become a trap, with the clock now ticking down to the arrival
of her uninvited and decidedly unwelcome guest.
Incandescent with fury, it was only Gemma’s utterly stricken expression that prevented Saffron from going nuclear.

‘I did think there was something strange about the conversation,’ Gemma gulped, wringing her hands.
‘But I thought: I can’t start arguing with your sister and refusing to
tell her anything.
I’m so sorry, though.
I’m really, really sorry.
You can hide at my house if you want.
I’ll deal with her and send her packing when she gets here.’

Saffron’s rage cooled a fraction at the sincerity in Gemma’s brown eyes.
She had only acted as any other normal person would, in assuming that the ‘sister’ on the other
end of the phone was kosher.
It wasn’t Gemma’s fault that Bunty was a complete bloody lunatic.
‘It’s all right,’ she said.
‘If I had an ounce more energy,
I’d just drive back to London right now, but I’ll stay and face the music.’
She pulled a face.
‘I’ll probably turn the air around Pear Tree Lane blue by the time I
finish with her, though.’

‘I’d drive you back myself, but I’ve got a ton of sewing to do, and then I’m working in the pub,’ Gemma said, still with that anxious look.
‘I could juggle
things around, though, if you really want to go.’

Saffron heaved a sigh.
It had taken her an hour and a half to get here; she couldn’t ask Gemma to do such a thing.
‘No.
You’re all right.
Tell me about this sewing then: what
are you making?’

She drank her tea and listened as Gemma described the pale-pink organza dresses she had designed, and her anger subsided a little more.
Privately she couldn’t get over how different Gemma
looked, since she’d been the hostess-with-the-mostest back at the New Year party, with that divine blue dress, her hair coiffed, lashings of lippy.
She hadn’t stopped laughing and
teasing everyone the whole evening.
Now her face was sunken and her eyes had lost all their humour and sparkle.

‘Talking of which, I’d better go,’ Gemma said eventually, glancing up at the clock.
‘I meant it, by the way, about that awful Bunty woman.
If you can’t face dealing
with her, I’ll put a flea in her ear and send her packing.
Or I’ll threaten her with one of Spencer’s crutches.
Okay?’

‘Okay.
And thanks for earlier – listening to me going on, I mean.
I swear I didn’t invite you over just to burst into tears on you.’

Gemma patted her arm comfortingly.
‘Any time.
Seriously.
And hey, thanks for listening to me, too.
Cheaper than therapy, right?
I feel much better for having a bit of a moan.’
She
paused at the front door, then surprised Saffron with a hug.
‘Take care of yourself,’ she said.
‘Pop round if you want some company, all right?’

‘Thanks.
I will do.
Bye, Gemma.’

After she’d gone, Saffron sank onto the sofa feeling wearied by the prospect of Bunty’s imminent arrival and wishing she knew what to do.
Her friend Kate would probably tell her to
see Bunty off the premises with a shotgun, which was tempting, but perhaps not advisable.
In the past, her boss Charlotte had assured her she could take any gripes about Bunty straight to her desk,
but Saffron had always preferred to tough it out, rather than admit defeat.
Anyway she could hardly phone the office for advice now, because as far as Charlotte was concerned, Saffron was at home,
puking over the toilet bowl, rather than in a holiday cottage in Suffolk.

She shut her eyes and put her feet up, too tired to think any more.
She would keep her cool, she vowed, and be polite, yet firm.
Whatever happened, though, she would not let Bunty Halsom step
one foot over the threshold, and that was that.

‘Cooee!
Anyone home?’

Saffron jolted awake at the sound of the voice.
The room was dark.
How long had she been asleep?
She rubbed her eyes and wiped what felt suspiciously like dribble from her mouth, then sat up
straighter as she heard footsteps.

‘Saffron?
Are you in here?’
came the voice again.
A voice that sounded suspiciously like .
.
.
oh no.
Already?
So much for warding Bunty off at the threshold.

Saffron scrambled to her feet as the living-room door opened and Bunty came in and switched the light on.
‘Ah!
There you are.
The door was on the latch, so I let myself in.
Lovely place!
Shall I pour us an aperitif, or do you have wine?
Did you get my message about Troy, by the way?
He has been unspeakably vile, you know.
You’ll never guess—’

It was like being in a nightmare.
Saffron immediately forgot all her plans to be calm and professional.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
she snapped.

Her curt unfriendliness stopped Bunty mid-sentence.
‘I .
.
.
Sorry, what?’

‘Lying that you were my sister so as to get my address.
I have come here to
convalesce
,’ she said angrily – not strictly true, but Bunty didn’t need to know that
– ‘and you have the nerve to invite yourself over to tell me about Troy sodding Blake?
Have you lost the plot?
How dare you?
And how, in any way, do you think this is a good
idea?’

Bunty’s froggy blue eyes looked even moister and more bulging than usual.
‘Well .
.
.
’ she stammered, floundering for words in a most un-Bunty-like way.
‘Well, because
you’re my adviser on these things.’

Her adviser on crap tabloid-stunt boyfriends?
Er, no.
Actually not.
Honestly, for a well-educated, middle-aged woman with a good career record and pots of money in the bank, Bunty was like a
child sometimes.
A helpless, needy child who couldn’t do a single bloody thing for herself.
Saffron took a deep breath.
‘With the greatest respect’ – ha!
– ‘I am
not at your beck and call, especially when I’ve taken time off work to .
.
.
to recover.
Besides, listening to you banging on about your airhead boyfriend is
not
part of my job
description.
Okay?
You can save all that shit for your friends, not me, because I don’t want to hear it!’

Bunty’s pastel-pink mouth quivered and she seemed to shrink in height.
‘I .
.
.
I .
.
.
’ she began, blinking a few times.
‘I thought
you
were my
friend.’

What?
Since when?
And how on earth was Saffron supposed to respond to that, without mortally offending her client?

‘Well .
.
.
’
Deep breaths, Saffron.
Grit your teeth.
‘Ours is first and foremost a business relationship, isn’t it?’
she replied; a polite way of saying No.
‘And of course it’s great that we get on so well’ – she’d be struck down with lightning, telling such porkies – ‘but it’s important we both respect
our positions here.
My job is to help boost your career, to tell the world about your talents, Bunty.’
Come and zap me, lightning, I deserve the full frazzling for that.
‘It’s not my job to .
.
.
’

Then she broke off, noticing that her client had tears streaming down her face, glistening tracks through her makeup.

‘I thought he loved me,’ Bunty sobbed, choking on each word.

Saffron opened and closed her mouth wordlessly.
Oh, help.
She wasn’t used to seeing Bunty as anything other than brash and bombastic.
Now she seemed an absolute wreck.

‘He said he loved me,’ Bunty wept, shoulders shaking.
‘And now he’s gone to the
Daily M-M-Mail.
Some nasty little K-K-Kiss and T-T-Tell story!’

She buried her face in her hands and Saffron suppressed a groan.
No.
Not now, Bunty.
Why, oh why, was she even listening to this?
Why was Bunty still on the premises at all?
She pressed her lips
together, resisting the urge to put her hands around her client’s fat neck.
Much as she wanted to, she could not push Bunty away when she was in this state, though.

‘Go on then,’ she said resignedly.
‘You might as well sit down and tell me the worst.
Let’s hear it.’
Ten minutes, she thought.
Ten minutes and then she would
politely but firmly show her client the door.

Bunty lowered herself onto the far end of the sofa and clasped her hands in her lap.
‘There’s a sex tape,’ she said shakily, not meeting Saffron’s gaze.

Saffron’s mouth fell open, and she closed it with a snap.
Oh, great.
And now her brain had gone on strike at the terrible images this announcement prompted.
‘Right,’ she said,
her heart sinking.
It was already obvious this would take a lot longer than ten little minutes to sort out.
‘And is he enough of a bastard to go public with it?’

‘Probably.’
That parping nose-blow again.
‘I’ve had a journalist from the
Mail
ringing up, wanting to know if it’s true about my love-eggs.
If
he
didn’t tell them that, then who did?’

Saffron did not want to think about Bunty in relation to love-eggs or any other kind of sex toys.
‘I see,’ she said.
Working in PR did throw up these nasty little surprises now and
then.
Last year the agency had had to put a gloss on a story about one of their footballer clients being caught with his pants down during a brothel raid.
Then there had been Charlotte’s
famous actress client with the squeaky-clean, wholesome reputation, who’d been done for possession of some truly filthy pornography; and the restaurateur beloved of the gossip mags for his
fiery relationship with his wife, who’d been stitched up by not one but two mistresses, both of whom were expecting his babies.
They were all at it.

She gazed blankly around the dingy room, wondering if she could possibly shape this predicament into something positive.
Should she advise Bunty to maintain a dignified silence until the storm
blew over, or use the opportunity to gather support instead, cast Bunty as the betrayed victim and maybe sell an exclusive story to a journalist from another paper?
Her mind leapt from one option
to another.
This could even be a new avenue of work for Bunty, she realized: a consultant on magazine sex-columns, or articles about sexual experimentation for the over-fifties .
.
.

Her brain ached.
How she wished this hadn’t come to her door today.
She wasn’t in any fit state to start assembling a press strategy.
‘Bunty, perhaps we should pass you on to
Charlotte,’ she said weakly.
‘I’m not sure I’m up to this at the moment, whereas she’s had a lot of experience with this kind of thing.’

Bunty’s mouth turned down at the corners.
‘But I don’t like Charlotte,’ she confessed.
‘She looks down her nose at me, like I’m not good enough for her.
Lady
Muck.’
She rummaged in her handbag for a monogrammed hip flask and brandished it in the air.
‘Shag it all, darling, let’s just get sloshed.
Maybe I’ll send some heavies
round to kneecap Troy instead.
That’ll shut him up.’
She unscrewed the lid and took a hefty slug.
‘Can I tempt you?’
she asked, holding it out towards Saffron.