The Year of Taking Chances Page 3

  ‘Oh, Bernie,’ said one of the men at the bar mock-sorrowfully. One of his front teeth was missing, Saffron noticed, as he wagged a finger at the landlord. ‘Not good.’

  ‘Standards, Bern,’ said the other man, making a tsk-ing sound. ‘Standards are falling.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Bernie said. ‘That sounds an absolutely dreadful way to begin your visit. Can I pour you a drink, by way of apology? I’ve got some very good malt whisky, which is just the ticket on a night like this. Or I’ve a rather tasty Chilean red, if you’re more of a wine-drinker.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Saffron replied. ‘I’d just like you to come and put the electricity on, please. I’d do it myself, only I don’t have a clue where the fuse-box is and it’s very dark.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Bernie said. ‘Absolument.’ He peered around the busy pub. ‘Tell you what, I’ll find my son. He’ll sort the whole thing out for you – very competent lad, much more use than his idiot father. Where’s Harry gone?’

  The man with the missing tooth scratched his beard. ‘Harry? Off to Spencer’s tonight, isn’t he?’

  ‘Course he is. Bother.’ Bernie frowned thoughtfully, then brightened. ‘Wait, that’s right next door to you, Miss Flint – perfect. Go back and knock at The Granary – the big farmhouse alongside the cottage – and ask for Harry, tell him his dad sent you and you need him to sort the electrics. He won’t mind popping round for two minutes to fix things.’

  Saffron hesitated, feeling awkward at the prospect of bothering her neighbour again, let alone hauling out one of her guests on New Year’s Eve. ‘Unless you could maybe nip down and have a look yourself?’ she suggested weakly.

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love. On my busiest night of the year? I’m needed here.’

  As if to prove his point, a group of rowdy women burst into the pub in fancy dress. The cowgirl twirled a lasso around her head, nearly knocking off the wall a large photo of Bernie holding an enormous fish. The naughty nurse screeched in delight and slapped the cowgirl’s fringed bottom. The fairy started running around the pub in her pink kitten-heels, flinging silver glitter over everyone.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ said missing-tooth man with a gappy smirk.

  ‘It’s the Village People,’ sniggered his mate, as the last woman, dressed as a Native American, complete with towering feathered headdress and war-paint, entered, announcing ‘HOW!’ to the room in a loud voice.

  Bernie looked thrilled and dropped into a bow. ‘Ladies, good evening,’ he cried. ‘How splendid you all look tonight. Can I tempt you with some rather delicious Lambrini? A cocktailette?’

  The women thronged at the bar, all orange faces, cleavage and hairspray, demanding Bernie’s attention in shrill voices. Saffron knew when she was beaten. ‘Okay,’ she muttered and slipped back into the night.

  It was only when she was ringing the doorbell of The Granary that she wished she’d had the foresight to ask Bernie to phone his son in advance, give him some kind of warning that she was about to descend for the second time that evening. She wished, too, that she’d thought to bring an umbrella with her to Suffolk, as she was now thoroughly drenched after walking to and from the pub, her long hair plastered unbecomingly around her face and her feet soggy where water had seeped into her old boots. Uggh. This was not how she’d envisaged her peaceful getaway turning out.

  She heard footsteps coming towards the front door and then it was pulled open, golden light spilling out into the darkness.

  Standing there was the woman she’d spoken to earlier, now dressed in the most gorgeous dark-blue party frock, with her hair piled on her head. ‘My God,’ she cried, her mouth dropping open at the sight of the soaked, bedraggled creature on her doorstep. ‘Are you all right? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ Saffron said, her teeth chattering with cold. ‘My electrics have gone, and Mr Sykes – Bernie – said his son Harry was here and that he might be able to help.’

  ‘Course he will. But come in for a minute, you look half-frozen. Honestly, Bernie – I could cheerfully strangle that man sometimes. No clue whatsoever, has he? Can I get you a drink? I’m Gemma, by the way.’

  Saffron could hear music and laughter from further inside the house and felt like an intruder. Bloody Bernie Sykes and his brilliant ideas! ‘No thanks,’ she said, twisting her fingers. She wished now she’d tried to find the fuse-box herself, dealt with the problem in the first place. ‘I’m Saffron – and I’m really embarrassed about turning up here in the middle of your party. Should I come back later?’

  Gemma looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘Don’t be daft. I can’t let you go and sit there in the dark,’ she cried. ‘Look, why don’t you join us? It is New Year, after all. Nobody should be on their own on New Year’s Eve! Besides,’ she added, dimples flashing in her round cheeks, ‘the more people we have here, the harder it’ll be to see all the peeling wallpaper and damp patches. You’d be doing me a favour, really.’

  A dark-haired man had appeared now, handsome and rather rakish, with a mop of unruly curls. ‘Everything all right, Gems?’ he asked, putting a proprietorial hand on the small of her back.

  ‘This is Saffron, she’s staying next door,’ Gemma explained. ‘Bernie’s sent her round for Harry, because the electrics have gone in the cottage.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, we can sort that for you,’ the man said. ‘Half the local building trade here tonight, love. We won’t even charge you.’

  Gemma elbowed him. ‘I was just saying Saffron should join us for a drink.’ Then she checked herself, turning back to Saffron. ‘Unless you’re in a rush, of course?’

  Saffron thought quickly. Much as she had looked forward to some peace and quiet on her own, the thought of being with a group of other people for at least part of the evening in this warm, bright house was kind of appealing. Although she would feel pretty self-conscious venturing in like this . . .

  Gemma seemed to read her mind. ‘Leave your coat on the radiator to dry,’ she said, ‘and follow me. I got a new hair-dryer for Christmas and it’ll sort your hair out in seconds, I swear. Come on!’

  Chapter Four

  By the time it was eleven o’clock Gemma had drunk enough margaritas and Prosecco to be pleasantly squiffy and was enjoying herself enormously. People were dancing, led by Spencer’s gorgeous gay cousin Jonny, who was moving up to Newcastle in a week’s time and seemed to be treating this party as his last chance to buff up some signature moves. The canapés had been devoured – even the ropiest-looking ones – and nobody had been rushed to A&E with food poisoning (yet). Several of Spencer’s football mates had turned up in drag, for some unexplained reason (Gemma had been secretly thrilled to see how twittery and giggly even the snootiest school mums went at the sight of all those muscled, hairy legs in fishnet stockings) and almost everyone had been lovely about the house, apart from Sarah Russell, who had said, several times now, ‘God, it’s going to need a lot of work, isn’t it? You are brave!’ in such an annoyingly patronizing way that Gemma had been tempted to strangle her with the fairy lights. Still. Up yours, Sarah Russell. Everyone else was making it a brilliant night.

  Spencer had been right: this was a great house for a party. The rooms were generously sized with high ceilings and, despite the large number of guests, it still felt spacious rather than cramped. Besides, having a rafter-shaking party definitely christened a place. A house wasn’t a home until you’d shaken your thang under a glitterball to ‘Like a Virgin’ on your very own living-room dance-floor, after all. Wasn’t that what the property experts always said?

  Weaving her way unsteadily into the kitchen, Gemma headed for the cocktail shaker and the sticky collection of bottles lined up on the work surface. ‘Cocktails!’ she announced. ‘Who’s up for another?’

  A woman with dark hair and a long, pale face, who was standing looking rather awkward on her own, raised a hand. ‘Twisted my arm,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Cool,’ Gemma said, sw
aying on her heels. ‘What do you reckon: vodka, raspberries, Cointreau . . . ’ She began sloshing in ingredients with reckless abandon. ‘What else?’

  The dark-haired woman looked alarmed. ‘Oh God, I don’t know. I’m not very sophisticated when it comes to things like that.’

  Gemma snorted. ‘I’m the least sophist—’ she stumbled over the word; too many syllables for this time of night, damn it, ‘sophisticated person in the world. As you’ll realize when you drink this.’ She added some crushed ice and edible gold glitter – well, it was New Year – and shook up the mixture. As she did so, she noticed that Saffron, the woman from next door, now with dry hair, borrowed make-up and a squirt of Gemma’s Chanel No. 5, was currently trapped in a corner with Spud Morton, the most boring potato-headed man of Larkmead. Was that an actual raisin stuck in his beard? Catching her eye, Saffron made a Help! face, and Gemma hurried to the rescue.

  ‘Spud! There you are!’ A wicked idea popped up in her mind. ‘Hey, Sarah Russell was looking for you. Said something about having a big, smoochy New Year’s kiss she wanted to give you . . . ’

  He left immediately, the raisin trembling with the momentum as he hurried away. Ha, Sarah Russell, that’s what you get for dissing my house, Gemma thought with a grin.

  ‘Thanks,’ Saffron said.

  ‘No worries. Sorry you got lumbered with him – pickled-onion breath and all. Now, let me pour you a glass of this gorgeous little concoction.’ She took the lid off the cocktail shaker and filled three Martini glasses with the dark-red liquid, admiring the shimmering effect from the glitter. ‘Yum! Knock yourself out with that, ladies. Not literally, mind.’

  The dark-haired woman took a long slug of hers and smacked her lips, but Saffron shook her head. ‘Um . . . I don’t drink,’ she said apologetically. ‘Thanks, though. And thanks for letting me gatecrash your party as well, by the way.’

  ‘Me, too,’ the dark-haired woman started saying, just as a group of basque-wearing footballers burst into the room, chanting a song about beer. One was wearing long turquoise feathers in his hair for some reason, and the dark-haired woman – who was she anyway? Gemma wondered – shrank back self-consciously.

  Despite being three sheets to the wind – four sheets, now she’d just necked that delicious cocktail – Gemma couldn’t help noticing there was something fragile about the dark-haired woman. She was all long, gangly limbs and held herself at uncomfortable-looking angles, as if she’d never quite grown into her height. Gemma leaned closer as the lingerie-clad footballers cut a noisy path past them and out the back door for a smoke. ‘I’m Gemma, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘Caitlin,’ said the woman. Her fingernails were nibbled down and she had a gaunt look about her. ‘Oh. You’re married to Spencer, right?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Caitlin, Gemma thought, her brain feeling misty. Caitlin? The girlfriend of one of the football crowd, maybe? No. One of the mums from school? Definitely not. Then she remembered Spencer coming back from the newsagent’s the other Sunday looking shifty, before confessing that he’d invited to their party yet another person Gemma didn’t know. Ah, got it. She was the one whose mum had died, whom Spencer knew from primary school or something. No wonder she looked a bit shell-shocked.

  ‘Well, bottoms up!’ she said cheerfully, sharing the dregs of the cocktail between the two of them. ‘Glad you’re both here. Have you got anything amazing lined up for the New Year? Any life-changing resolutions or adventures? Tell me you’re not going on mad diets or . . . I don’t know, competing in triathlons or something sickeningly worthy and impressive.’

  ‘As if,’ Saffron said, stuffing the last wedge of quiche into her mouth. ‘I can’t think of anything more soul-destroying than cottage cheese and celery sticks. In January? As if. Bring on the pies and chips.’

  Caitlin smiled. ‘Maybe we should resolve to eat more,’ she said. ‘Make some anti-resolutions. I might take up smoking,’ she went on. ‘Pipes, perhaps. Or cigars.’

  Gemma giggled. ‘Yeah, I might try to do less exercise. If I try really hard, I might not do the London Marathon this year.’

  ‘Oh, I’m going to try not to do that, too,’ Saffron said. ‘And I’m definitely not going to do a single press-up or star jump, either.’

  ‘Just say no,’ Caitlin put in, draining her glass. ‘But just say yes to more cocktails. What else have you got?’

  Gemma grinned, pleased that Caitlin seemed to be warming up. Ah, the magic of cocktails. She quickly invented another, this time chucking in apricot brandy, gin, orange juice, ice and some mint leaves. ‘Oh my Lord, that’s absolutely rank,’ she said, tasting a mouthful. ‘Sorry, Caitlin. I think my career as a mixologist is over.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my career at Cambridge Graphics is also over,’ Caitlin said, raising her glass tipsily. ‘Made redundant two months ago.’

  Ouch. There was such pain in her eyes, Gemma wanted to hug her. She wished she’d made her a better cocktail at least. She grabbed the Christmas cake and cut Caitlin a slice instead, as the next best thing. It was probably every bit as alcoholic, besides. ‘Have that,’ she said, ‘with my condolences.’

  ‘I kind of wish my career at Phoenix-sodding-PR was over,’ Saffron added. ‘I would love to stick two fingers up at my boss and walk out.’ She pulled a face. ‘We’re a right bunch, aren’t we?’

  ‘Balls to it, ladies,’ said Gemma, biting into a mini-sausage roll,’ let’s go into business together. What shall we do? Cake-testers? Chocolate . . . um . . . eaters?’

  ‘Holiday reviewers,’ Saffron suggested.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Caitlin agreed. ‘We could go round checking out all the hotels and beaches, testing the pools and spa facilities . . . ’

  ‘I could definitely manage that,’ Gemma said. ‘Or,’ she added, as a brilliant new idea came to her, ‘we could form a girl band. I’m always up for a bit of karaoke.’

  ‘Good one,’ Saffron laughed. ‘I reckon I know all the dance moves to “Single Ladies”. I knew that would come in handy one day.’

  ‘Fame and fortune guaranteed,’ Gemma said with a grin. Then she leapt up suddenly, her memory jogged. ‘Oh! I forgot the fortune-cookies!’

  She lurched over to the cupboard above the fridge, pulling down the box and ripping open the packaging. ‘Here,’ she said, proffering the contents and taking one herself. ‘Let’s see what the magic fortune-cookies predict for this year. World domination, a stadium tour for our band, or at least a bit of respect from stroppy children, please!’

  Snapping it in half, she unfolded the paper strip inside and read the message inside. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘“For success today, look first to yourself.”’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not sure about that.’ She’s just a mum, Darcey said again in her head, and Gemma looked away. Exactly. She was just a mum. What kind of success would she ever achieve, except perhaps a clean house and the children handing in their homework on time? ‘What did you two get?’ she asked.

  “Do not trust hapless pub landlords renting out mouldy cottages . . . ” No, not really.’ Saffron squinted at her paper. ‘“Have courage! Mistakes can become adventures.” Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘Who comes up with this tosh?’

  ‘I like to think it’s an incredibly wise, wrinkled old Chinese man sitting on a golden throne,’ Gemma said. ‘But I reckon it’s probably a soulless computer program. How about you, Caitlin?’

  Caitlin looked uncertain. ‘“Your destiny is within your own grasp,”’ she read. ‘“Take a chance!”’ She pulled a face. ‘I was hoping for “Tall, dark stranger” or “Lottery win”, or even “Don’t worry, someone else will sort your destiny out for you – take the year off.”’

  ‘Bloody rubbish.’ Gemma took another cookie. ‘I think we must have picked the wrong ones last time, ladies. Try again.’ She snapped a second cookie in half and pulled out the fortune. ‘This is more like it. “Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were once only walls.”’

  ‘Follow yo
ur bliss, eh? Sounds like a romantic weekend away with your hubster,’ said Saffron.

  ‘Or that chocolate-testing job. I’m not sure which I’d rather.’ Gemma took another glug of the horrible cocktail and gagged. ‘Ugh. Well, that’s not blissful, anyway.’ She tossed the fortune-paper over her shoulder. ‘I was hoping for a more exciting prediction. Something extraordinary, not just another same-old humdrum year.’ She glanced up at the ceiling comically. ‘If that’s all right with you, dear kind Universe – thank you.’

  The others smiled. ‘I’d like a new man for the new year, if we’re putting in requests,’ Caitlin said. She rolled her hand into a megaphone and spoke through it, addressing the same corner of the ceiling as Gemma had. ‘Did you catch that, Universe? New man for Caitlin Fraser, please, preferably with a hot bod and no frigging issues.’ She winked. ‘Then I’ll take a bit of action.’

  Harry Sykes chose that moment to burst through the kitchen door, wearing somebody’s pink Stetson. ‘Did somebody call?’ he asked.

  The three women collapsed in laughter. ‘That was fast,’ Saffron gurgled. ‘Good work, Universe.’

  ‘Harry, you knobhead,’ Gemma said affectionately. ‘Nobody called you. And what’s that on your head?’

  He took it off and bowed low. Harry was Spencer’s best mate – charming, funny and blond, with quite the most complicated love-life in Larkmead. ‘Just thought I heard . . . ’ Then his eyes fastened on Caitlin and he broke off. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Tell me it isn’t.’

  Caitlin flushed, looking awkward. ‘It isn’t,’ she replied deadpan.

  ‘It is, though, isn’t it? It’s only Caitlin Fraser, last seen with goth make-up and a leather jacket.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Never forget a face.’

  ‘Um . . . ’ Caitlin looked lost for words.

  Gemma helped her out. ‘This is Harry. Harry Sykes?’

  ‘Oh God! From school.’ Caitlin turned even pinker. ‘Hi.’