The Year of Taking Chances (22 page)

Saffron’s stomach curdled at the smell and she recoiled, shaking her head.
‘I can’t,’ she said when Bunty raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘I mean .
.
.
I’m not
drinking.
Because I’m ill, remember.
Ill, and on the wagon.
Allergic.’

A look of perplexity crossed Bunty’s face at this torrent of rambling, one lie after another.
Then her eyes narrowed.
‘What’s going on?’
she asked.

Shit.
She must have guessed about the pregnancy.
‘What do you mean?’

‘You said you were ill.
Is it contagious?’
Bunty was up on her feet again and backing away.
‘Because my immune system is already in tatters with all this stress.
I’m
taking extra vitamins and wheatgrass supplements, but I can’t cope with any more strain.
I’m supposed to be auditioning for
Wanna Be A Dancer?
next week, darling.
I’ve got
to be at the top of my game, health-wise.’

Saffron’s sympathy evaporated in a flash, swiftly followed by the last dregs of her patience.
That would teach her to be a sucker for a sob story.
‘Oh right, because it’s all
about
you
, isn’t it?’
she said, breathing hard as she stood up to face this dreadful, horrible, shallow person who’d invaded her space without a second thought.
‘Well, I’ve had enough.
I quit.
Do you hear me?
I’m through with trying to help you and look after you.
So you can just bugger off back to London and leave me alone.
Find some
other sap to put up with you, because I can’t bear it a minute longer!’

Bunty stared at her open-mouthed, eyes boggling.
‘You can’t
quit
, just like that,’ she said, taken aback.
‘What about Troy, and the tape?’

‘I couldn’t care less about Troy and your mucky little tape,’ Saffron said, her voice rising in pitch.
Sod it, she might as well go for broke.
‘You have absolutely no
idea, do you?
You turn up here, uninvited, and expect me to drop everything for you.
Then, when I tell you I’m ill, you immediately think of yourself.
You don’t even bother to ask how I
am, or why I’m here.
Well, I’ll tell you, shall I?
I’m waiting for a test to see if my baby’s okay.
Is that good enough for you?
Will that do?
Now get out!’

Bunty looked stunned.
A full five seconds passed before she spoke.
‘I’m .
.
.
I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything, because I don’t want to hear it.’
Saffron pointed magisterially at the door.
‘Please just go.
I’ll ask Charlotte to find someone else to
represent you.’

Bunty didn’t take any notice of the pointing.
In fact she sat right back down again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.
‘I didn’t know you were
pregnant.’

‘Yes, well,’ Saffron said, already wishing she had kept her mouth buttoned.
She lowered her arm, feeling spent.

‘And you’re right, I shouldn’t have turned up like this, expecting you to drop everything for me.
Bad habit of mine.’
She pulled out a plastic cigarette and sucked hard
on it.
‘Do you want to talk about the baby?’
she asked hesitantly.

‘Not really.’

‘That’s fine.
I understand.
I’m sorry.
You’re not really going to quit, are you?
Please don’t.’

Saffron’s fury was ebbing away as quickly as it had flared up.
She couldn’t exactly afford to quit right now, however badly her client behaved.
‘No, I’m not going to
quit,’ she mumbled, looking at the floor.
She gritted her teeth.
‘And I’m sorry I shouted at you.
I’m a bit hormonal.’

‘Of course you are.
Anyway, I asked for it.
I’ve been too wrapped up in myself lately.
Wasn’t thinking straight.’
Bunty took another slug of the gin, or whatever it was
in her hip flask, wincing as she swallowed.
‘Now, look.
It’s getting on for seven o’clock, and I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.
How about I take you out for
dinner somewhere lovely?
My treat.
You do look a bit pale, you know.
You could probably do with some good hot food.
What do you say?’

It was on the tip of Saffron’s tongue to say a polite
No, thank you, and can you go now, please,
but then she thought about the dull ingredients she’d bought from the shop
earlier – some pasta, packets of rubbery-looking cheese and shiny pink ham, plus a slightly flabby lettuce.
Given the choice, ‘dinner somewhere lovely’ was winning, hands down.
‘Okay.
Thanks,’ she said eventually.
‘There’s a pub along the road – we could go there.’

‘Marvellous!
And then I promise I’ll be on my way and I’ll leave you in peace.
Right, then.
Shall we?’

The Partridge didn’t have any of the fancy-dress and glitter of New Year’s Eve, but it did have a real fire, an excellent list of food chalked up on a blackboard,
and Gemma behind the bar.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise to see Saffron walking in with Bunty, but Saffron gave her a little nod to say,
It’s okay
.

As soon as they stepped foot in the pub, Bunty put on her mingling-with-the-public face.
She walked taller, tossed her hair and declared, ‘What a charming place’ in such a loud voice
that everyone stopped to look.
Just as she’d intended, no doubt.
Saffron rolled her eyes surreptitiously at Gemma.
Ever the professional, Bunty knew when to switch it up a gear.

Gemma looked better than she had done earlier that afternoon at least.
She was wearing a glorious scarlet dress, which gave her a dramatic cleavage, and her hair was pinned up, revealing dangly
gold earrings.
‘Evening, ladies, what can I get you?’
she asked.
‘Would you like to see our menu?’

‘Yes, please,’ Bunty said, taking charge.
She bestowed a toothy smile on Gemma.
‘What a splendid dress that is, if I may say so.’

Gemma looked rather star-struck.
‘Oh!
Gosh.
Thank you very much,’ she said, blushing.
‘It was my Valentine’s dress.
Not that I ever got to .
.
.
’ She stopped
herself.
‘Anyway.
What would you like to drink?’

A mischievous thought struck Saffron.
‘Is that one of your own creations?’
she asked, then turned back to Bunty.
‘Gemma here is an up-and-coming fashion designer.
You know that
gorgeous black dress Nigella wore in her last show?
Well .
.
.
’ She tilted her head meaningfully at Gemma.

Bunty’s eyes lit up.
‘No!
You dress Nigella?’

Gemma shot Saffron an agonized look.
‘Um .
.
.
’

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that.
Pretend I didn’t, okay?
Gemma’s rightfully very discreet about her clients,’ Saffron said quickly.
‘I’m just
proud of her, that’s all.
She’s done really well.’

‘Thank you,’ Gemma said in rather a strangled voice.

‘Well, good for you, darling, good for you.
I could tell, as soon as I looked at it, that your dress was quality.
Very flattering.’

‘Thanks very much.’
Gemma smoothed her hands down the fabric, looking chuffed.
‘I’ve made my own clothes for years,’ she went on, ‘because I got so sick of
nothing fitting me on the high street.
When you’ve got a figure like mine – all hips and boobs – it’s not that easy to buy clothes that actually fit properly, let alone
flatter your shape.’
She was warming to her theme now.
‘The way I see it, every woman can look a million dollars in the right clothes.
And it’s the best thing ever when someone
puts on one of my dresses and I can see they feel really gorgeous in it.’

‘How wonderful!’
Bunty cried, clapping her hands.
‘And I know exactly what you mean.
All woman, that’s me, but most designers seem to think we’re built like stick
insects.
Well, all power to you, darling.
And do you know, I think that particular style of dress would suit me, too.’
She gave a tinkling laugh.
‘I came in for a glass of wine and some
dinner – I had no idea I was going to find myself tempted into a new frock while I was at it!’

Gemma flushed pink.
‘Oh!
I wasn’t trying to give you the hard sell,’ she said, embarrassed.

Saffron couldn’t resist egging on her client.
‘It
would
be nice to have something special for the TV awards next week, though, Bunty,’ she said.
Hell, Bunty owed her,
she figured, and Gemma could do with a lucky break.
‘And this is an extremely flattering style, as you say.’
She paused delicately.
‘Are you
very
busy right now,
Gemma?’

Bunty, however, was frowning as if something had struck her as odd.
‘So wait .
.
.
You’re a full-time dress designer .
.
.
but working here, as well?’
she asked, gesturing
around the pub.

Ah.
Bollocks.
That was where fibbing got you.
Luckily Gemma had her wits about her and let out a peal of laughter.
‘Goodness, no!
Bernie, the landlord, is an old friend of the family.
I
said I’d help out, you know, just as a favour tonight.
I don’t actually
work
here.
What a thought!’

Bunty laughed too, thankfully.
‘I was going to say!
You don’t see the likes of Stella McCartney working behind a
bar
, do you?’

They all chuckled at the very idea of Gemma being employed somewhere so lowly.
‘Anyway,’ Saffron went on, keen to steer away from the subject, ‘I say: go for it, Bunty.
As a
friend and colleague’ – here came that lightning again – ‘my advice is to jolly well treat yourself to a new dress.
At times like these you need a pick-me-up.
Am I right, or
am I right?’

‘You are right,’ Bunty said immediately.
She glanced quickly down at the menu, then beamed up at Gemma.
‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, the beef stew, and a frock just
like yours in a size sixteen, please.’
She clapped her hands with glee.
‘How exciting!
Do you think I can get away with that colour, or will it be a bit mutton on me?
And how much do
you charge, if you don’t mind me asking?
Will I need to take out a second mortgage to afford you?’

‘God, no,’ Gemma replied, seemingly forgetting that she was supposedly a designer to the stars.
‘I could do you one like this for .
.
.
fifty?’

Saffron had an emergency coughing fit to drown out this pathetically low price.
Her client was the sort of person who would go off an outfit if she thought for a second that it was too cheap for
the likes of her.

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
Bunty asked, ferreting around in her bag for her e-cigarette.

‘Three hundred and fifty,’ Saffron said swiftly.
‘Sounds like a bargain to me.
Cheaper than Stella, by a mile.’

Gemma let out a gasp, but recovered herself valiantly.
‘And obviously I’d do a personal fitting with you, in my .
.
.
studio,’ she said, her eyes flashing a mix of panic and
excitement to Saffron.
‘Every dress is made-to-measure, you see.
Here, let me write down my number.
Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and I can book you in?’

Bunty looked up, e-cigarette retrieved, and reached across the bar.
‘Marvellous,’ she said, shaking Gemma by the hand.
‘Marvellous!
You’ve got yourself a deal.’