Hitched!

Saffron clearly felt much more at home with Roly’s uncritical adoration. George had teased her and flattered her, but it was obvious that he wasn’t bowled over by her.

I tried really hard not to feel pleased about that.

* * *

The Whellerby Arms was a traditional village pub. It had a low, beamed ceiling, plain, serviceable wooden furniture and was mercifully free of slot machines, piped music or padded banquettes.

I found a table in the corner while George went to the bar, and got out my notebook and pen. Gathering up the cardboard coasters and stacking them in a neat pile, I watched George under my lashes. There was a lot of laughing and back-slapping and hand-shaking going on. I saw him bend his head down to an elderly man who was leaning on the bar. He was listening intently, nodding, and then he smiled and a strange feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach.

Hunger, I told myself firmly. I hoped George would bring some nuts.

He did. I pounced on the packet as he tossed it onto the table and tore it open.

‘No lunch,’ I said through a mouthful of peanuts.

I had chosen to sit on the wooden trestle with my back to the wall, assuming that George would take the stool opposite. Too late, I remembered that it was a mistake to make assumptions as far as George was concerned, and to my dismay he sat beside me and stretched out his long legs.

He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I mumbled, edging surreptitiously away.

I really resented the way George made me nervous. I wasn’t the type to lose my head over a handsome face. I’d done that once before, and I was never going to make that mistake again. I believed that integrity and humour and intelligence were far more attractive than looks, and yet the moment my gaze caught the lean line of his jaw or the creases around his eyes or that telltale dent in his cheek, which deepened when he was trying not to smile, my heart would stumble and a warmth would uncoil unnervingly inside me. It was all very unsettling.

To distract myself, I brushed the peanut crumbs from my fingers, pushed my hair behind my ears, and picked up my pen. ‘SAFFRON’S PARTY,’ I wrote neatly at the top of the page. ‘1. Invitations. 2. Costumes. 3. Caterers.’

‘You’re very organised,’ said George.

‘I’m going to manage this like any other project,’ I said, pausing to pop a few more peanuts in my mouth. ‘That means have a clear plan, and setting SMART goals.’

‘Sounds efficient.’ He lounged beside me, his solid thigh only inches from mine. ‘What’s a smart goal when it’s at home?’

‘Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Time-bound.’ I ticked them off on my fingers.

That dent in his cheek deepened. ‘It’s a party, Frith. There’s only one goal for a party, and that’s for everyone to have a good time.’

‘That’s all you know.’ I clicked my teeth pityingly. ‘This party is about a lot more than that. It’s about impressing all Saffron’s friends and boosting her reputation. People only get to have a good time once that’s achieved, and that means I’m going to have to do more than shove some white wine in a bucket of ice and put out a few bowls of crisps.

‘That’s where the goals come in,’ I told him, tapping my pen against my list. ‘You’ve got to be specific about what needs to be done. Take the dinner.’ I had managed to talk Saffron out of a full-scale ball and we had agreed a formal dinner for a maximum of thirty guests in the state dining room. ‘I can barely manage cheese on toast,’ I admitted, ‘so I’m going to have to find some local caterers who can produce a spectacular Edwardian banquet.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mrs Simms?’ said George.

‘I thought she was the housekeeper?’

‘She is, but she’s a brilliant cook too. She’d need some help, of course, but she’s got various nieces in the village, and extra work is always welcome.’

‘OK, that sounds good.’ I drew a neat arrow next to ‘Caterers’ and wrote ‘Contact Mrs Simms.’ ‘Excellent.’ I tapped the pen thoughtfully against my teeth, then added ‘Menu, Accommodation, Decoration, Games???’ to my list before noticing that George wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at my knees instead, and I wriggled a bit so that I could tug my skirt down.

‘Do you run your whole life like this?’ he asked, sounding distracted.

‘All the time,’ I said.

‘What about relationships?’

‘What about them?’

‘You can’t plan a relationship.’

‘I disagree,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for a serious relationship in my current-five year plan, but that will definitely figure in my next one. I’ll be thirty-three by then, and it might be time to think about settling down.’

George was staring at me. ‘You’re kidding? You actually have a five-year plan? Like a totalitarian regime?’ He laughed. ‘Do you give yourself quotas and send in the secret police if you don’t make them?’

Colour crept up my throat. ‘It’s well established that clear goals are the key to a successful career,’ I said stiffly.

‘So what’s your plan for finding that serious relationship?’ George picked up his beer and eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘Do you have a smart goal for that too?’

He obviously thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. ‘It’s too early to be specific. I’m working on this five-year plan for now.’

‘How does Whellerby fit into your plan?’

‘Hugh was my mentor when I first joined the firm in London,’ I said. ‘He was really supportive, and I missed him when he left to set up his own design and build company up here, although I knew he wanted to come home to Yorkshire. His wife always stayed here, and he’d go down to London for the week, and I think he got fed up of the travelling.

‘It was such a shame that he had the heart attack just when he’d got the big contract with the Whellerby estate. The conference centre will make his reputation locally, so it’s just as important for us that it’s a success and we stick to the budget as it is for you.’

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