The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

  She was only half-joking. She’d come to Suffolk in search of a refuge, a bolthole in which to tuck herself away, far from her ordinary day-to-day life. Despite it not turning out to be the solitary, hermit-like few days she’d anticipated, she’d ended up laughing and enjoying herself more than she’d ever thought possible. Hanging out with Gemma and Caitlin had been great; she and Bunty had managed to get along without killing one another; and for the last few days Bunty had been spending a lot of time in The Partridge, flirting outrageously with Bernie, while Saffron had laced up her hiking boots and set off into the unknown, walking for miles on her own in blissful peace, not thinking about anything other than taking one step after another. In short, it had been the break both of them needed.

  ‘I agree. Glorious countryside,’ Bunty agreed, even though Saffron knew damn well she preferred her ‘countryside’ viewed through the window of a pub or car. ‘Lovely people, too. And there’s something about being out of London and away from all those grabby little show-offs and mucky, snooping journalists . . . Well, it really clears the brain.’

  ‘Yes. There’s space to think.’ Saffron had done a lot of that over the last few days, tramping up hills and through woodland, filling her lungs with the cool, fresh air. Yesterday she’d even driven out to the coast and walked along the beach at Southwold, her hair flying up in the air, her ears ringing with the sound of the gulls. While she wouldn’t exactly say she’d come to terms with the prospect of an amnio, or really thought beyond getting the results of it, she’d made a temporary peace with the situation at least, accepting there was nothing she could do right now but wait.

  ‘Plus, I’ve had a hoot this week with Bernie, and you and the girls,’ Bunty went on. ‘And isn’t my dress glorious? I can’t wait to go out somewhere fabulous in it.’

  Gemma had dropped round the first of Bunty’s dresses that afternoon, and tears had actually glistened in Bunty’s eyes when she put it on and saw her reflection. The vibrant emerald-green fabric looked classy and expensive, and the garment was tailored so skilfully that it clung to all the right places, while skimming over the others.

  A hush fell while Bunty turned sideways to examine her bum in the mirror; her bum, let it be said, that now looked deliciously rounded and pinchable, thanks to the seemingly magic contours of the dress. ‘Wow, Bunty,’ Saffron couldn’t help blurting out. ‘It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.’

  For once Bunty was lost for words, as if the dress had worked an enchantment on her. ‘I feel gorgeous,’ she said eventually, then hugged Gemma and gave her an enormous smacking kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank God I met you,’ she said, only half-joking. ‘I’ve never felt so womanly and . . . well, desirable, frankly, in my life!’

  Gemma looked as if she wanted to cry, too, and seeing them embrace gave Saffron a genuine glow of contentment. She had made that happen, she thought proudly.

  ‘If Bernie sees you in the dress, he’ll probably propose to you on the spot,’ she teased now, stretching a slippered foot along the sofa to nudge Bunty. Troy already seemed like last year’s story, after Bunty and her lawyer had successfully seen off his attempts to smear her. The legal team must have pulled out all the stops, because the sex tape had apparently been destroyed as a result of their proceedings.

  ‘Bernie has asked me if we can . . . you know. See each other again, once I’m back in London,’ Bunty said, an unusually coy look on her face.

  ‘Really? And what did you say? Do you feel ready for a new relationship yet?’ Saffron hoped this wouldn’t be yet another case of her headstrong client leaping recklessly out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. Been there, done that too many times already.

  ‘Not really,’ Bunty admitted honestly. ‘But a fling would definitely put a spring in my step, if you know what I mean. I bet he scrubs up a treat in a suit, too, don’t you think?’

  Saffron laughed. ‘I’m sure he does.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘Just promise me you’ll be more careful this time, all right? I know he seems a nice guy and a bit of fun. But . . . ’ She broke off, unsure how much to say. The client/PR exec boundaries had become blurred over the week.

  ‘But no more sex tapes – yep, got it.’ Bunty pulled a naughty-girl-at-the-head-teacher’s-office face and then reached forward to clink her empty wine glass against Saffron’s cocoa mug. ‘The new, demure Bunty Halsom starts right here, right now. I promise.’

  Returning to her flat in London the next day, Saffron couldn’t help feeling as if she was crash-landing back down to earth. There was nowhere to park near her flat, so she had to cruise around all the side-streets, trying to find a space big enough to wedge her car (how she loathed parallel parking). Then on her way up the High Street she was asked three times for spare change by different men slumped in doorways on pieces of old cardboard. When she finally reached her flat, she was greeted by a pile of junk mail, a dead plant in the kitchen and a gargantuan spider in the bath.

  It was a tip, as well. She’d left in such a hurry that everything was all over the place – several self-help books her mum had lent her after that fateful Sunday lunch still dumped on the side-table unread; piles of old newspapers waiting to be bagged up for the recycling box; two mugs growing beards of blue mould in the kitchen sink. The washing basket was stuffed with dirty clothes and the bed was unmade and rumpled.

  She sorted through the mail in case there was any word from Max, but of course there was nothing. A Jiffy bag with her mum’s handwriting on caught her eye, though, and she opened it to find a tiny white Babygro, with a little hedgehog embroidered on the chest. Saw this and couldn’t resist it, her mum had written on a little card. Hope you’re both keeping well. Lots of love, Mum and Dad xxx

  A lump rose in Saffron’s throat at the word ‘both’. Oh Mum, she thought helplessly. There’s so much I haven’t told you. But where could she begin?

  She laid the soft clean Babygro out on her lap, unfolding the teeny sleeves and legs. It hardly seemed possible that her own baby, small and wriggly, might eventually be tucked into this doll-sized garment. If she had the baby, that was. If they got that far.

  She opened the next letter to see that it was from the hospital, with an appointment for her amniocentesis test in two and a half weeks’ time. Here we go. It was real. It was happening.

  Maybe she should try contacting Max again. She should probably just ring him, pin him down once and for all. Well? What do you think? What have you got to say about this?

  Soon, she told herself. She’d do that really soon.

  She picked up the Babygro and pressed it against her cheek. ‘We’ll get through this,’ she said aloud, clutching the tiny garment close as if a real baby was inside, needing comfort. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be okay.’

  And so real life swallowed her up again as if she’d never been away. Back to work: writing press releases for Yummy Mummy baby foods (why was there no baby food called Yummy Daddy? she wondered churlishly, although she managed to refrain from emailing Head Office to enquire); trying to stir up the sludge in her brain to make creative contributions in team strategy meetings; deflecting flack about one of the more stupid footballers she represented (arrested for taking all of his clothes off and ‘frolicking’, as the Daily Mirror put it, with three semi-clad teenagers in the fountain in Trafalgar Square).

  Bunty, meanwhile, seemed a reformed character. Gone were the hourly phone calls and needy, attention-seeking emails. She had come out of the Troy saga with her dignity intact for once, and had gained much sympathy on social media and in the press, as far as Saffron could tell. Someone had started a #TeamBunty hashtag on Twitter, and apparently Troy had been roundly booed by the other customers when he walked into a Soho bar, if you believed the tabloid gossip columns anyway. She wished she could care more about any of it.

  Then, a few days later, Saffron was on the Tube, flicking through that morning’s Metro, when she turned the page to a fashion round-up from a glamorous black-tie party following a TV magazine’s an
nual awards. And there, right in the centre, was a large colour picture of Bunty looking sensational in Gemma’s emerald green dress. BUNTY-LICIOUS read the caption underneath.

  Oh, my goodness. Did Gemma know about this yet? She fired off a quick text, the minute she had a signal:

  Have you seen Metro this morning? Your dress is on page 5 – amazing photo!!!

  A text came back a few minutes later.

  What?! No way!

  Gemma didn’t know? Her phone wasn’t already ringing off the hook? This was no good, thought Saffron to herself. This was no good at all. Major press coverage should automatically equal major public interest – end of story.

  I’m going to put out a press release, she texted back.

  That okay? Give me an hour and then stand by your phone. Prepare to receive a few more orders! xxx

  Once in the office, Saffron got straight to work, bypassing her philandering soap actor who needed help with a cover story, and ignoring her whinging celebrity chef, Mario Fratelli, who’d been stitched up with an incriminating drugs photo. Oh, get over yourself, love, she thought briskly, opening up a new document and flexing her fingers. I’ve got more important people to help right now. Then she began typing:

  HOURGLASS DESIGNS

  PRESS RELEASE

  It’s the question on everyone’s lips: who dressed Bunty Halsom for the TV Quick Awards? We’ve all seen the stunning photos, the flattering dress of emerald-green crêpe de Chine that dazzled the crowds and viewers at home. We’re proud to announce that the designer behind this outfit is none other than rising star Gemma Bailey, the creative genius behind Hourglass Designs.

  She paused, trying to remember what Gemma had said when talking about her work, then went on:

  Bailey’s philosophy is simple: ‘Everyone needs a dress that makes them feel beautiful,’ she says. ‘I make gorgeous clothes for real women, not stick-insect models.’

  Saffron frowned and back-spaced through the last sentence. No, Gemma wouldn’t have said anything rude. Better to stay positive in a press release anyway, rather than taking potshots. She tried again:

  We’ve all endured the misery of high-street clothes shopping: communal changing rooms, bad lighting and clothes that are meant for a slim build, rather than anything curvier. Gemma Bailey knows that only too well. ‘I started making clothes for myself when I couldn’t find anything in the shops that flattered my shape. When clothes fit properly, they look a million times better – and make YOU feel better, too. It gives me real satisfaction to create an outfit that makes a woman feel she’s invincible. We all need an I-Am-Fabulous dress for a special occasion, don’t we?’

  Saffron read through what she’d written so far. Good, she thought. This is something that a lot of women will really respond to.

  Tucked away in an idyllic Suffolk village, Gemma Bailey’s Hourglass Designs label has so far been a well-kept secret in the little black books of many TV and film stars. With her personal service, sharp eye for detail and vivid sense of styling, however, it’s only a matter of time before all the very best-dressed people have her number on permanent speed-dial.

  ‘I’ve never felt so gorgeous in my life as when I’m in a Gemma Bailey dress’ – Bunty Halsom.

  For more details, or to arrange an interview/feature, please contact Saffron Flint on the number below.

  The Hourglass Designs website is—

  She broke off to check the state of the website, but there was still only a holding page. She’d have to get Caitlin to update that, and fast.

  The Hourglass Designs website is due to go live very shortly. You can register your interest here [she added her personal email address] and we will sign you up to an exclusive mailing list, with 10 per cent discount on your first order.

  Then she added her mobile number, rather than the company one. There was only so much blagging she could get away with before Charlotte noticed. She read through the whole thing again, emailed it to Gemma and Caitlin, marked ‘URGENT!’, and sat back with a smile to await their approval.

  That was when she noticed Charlotte eyeballing her across the office. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

  Saffron flushed. How did her boss always seem to know when she was skiving off? She wheeled her chair closer into her desk, so as to hide her burgeoning bump, and quickly opened a new document on her screen. ‘Great, thanks,’ she said. ‘About to arrange a meeting with Jonah to discuss the fountain episode. Lovely coverage of Bunty in Metro today, by the way – and not even a mention of Troy, so that’s all behind us now. Then I’m onto Ashley P—’

  ‘There’s no need for the full rundown, thank you.’ Charlotte’s face looked pinched. She walked over and perched on Saffron’s desk, smelling strongly of Dior, mingled with a leathery whiff from her ox-blood knee-high boots. ‘Saffron . . . this little escapade which you took with Bunty Halsom . . . ’ Her mouth twitched. ‘It’s all very irregular. I know she’s a bull in a china shop at times, but you must not let her dominate your entire working schedule. We were left picking up the pieces from your absence for the whole of last week.’

  Saffron bowed her head. ‘Yes. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t feel I . . . ’

  ‘I mean, one minute you’re phoning in ill, the next you’re off in Sussex or wherever, and you’re shacked up in some bolthole with a client?’ The potted Christmas cactus on Saffron’s desk would start withering any second, in the heat of Charlotte’s criticism.

  ‘I can see that it must have looked . . . ’

  ‘That’s not how we do things at Phoenix. Bunty is a longstanding client, but she does not automatically take priority. You have other commitments here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Saffron’s mobile chose that moment to start ringing, thank goodness. Both she and Charlotte glanced at the screen. Gemma, it said.

  Charlotte didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. ‘Is this a work call?’

  Yes. New client, I hope,’ Saffron said. Well, it was sort of true. She slid her finger across her phone’s screen to take the call. ‘Gemma. Hi! Oh, good,’ she said. ‘Brilliant. And you’re happy with the copy? Great. Is it all right for me to put that discount offer in, by the way? I just thought it would add an extra . . . Excellent. So what’s the latest on the website?’

  Charlotte, to her relief, slid off the desk and moved away, although she remained in earshot, Saffron noticed.

  ‘Caitlin’s on the case right now,’ Gemma said, her words bubbling down the line. ‘She’s going to pretty up the holding page, she said, and will put a sign-up box on it, so that people can register their interest. She’s going to try and finish some more pages today.’ Her voice was getting higher and higher with excitement. ‘I can’t quite believe this, you know. Thank you so much. It’s just . . . amazing. Beyond my wildest dreams!’

  ‘Just you wait,’ Saffron said. ‘We’ve barely started, mate. Get that website up and running properly as fast as you can, and I’ll circulate the press release. And brace yourself – we’re in for a busy time.’

  She ended the call, feeling energized. Doing this favour for Gemma would be far more satisfying than trying to pick up the pieces of a spoiled-brat celebrity’s tarnished career, that was for sure. Humming to herself, she returned to her press release and began compiling an appropriate contacts list: the gossip magazines, fashion editors at newspapers and glossies, feature editors who might want to interview Gemma as a ‘New Businesswoman Success’ story, local Suffolk press who’d probably want to big her up . . .

  ‘New client, did you say?’ Charlotte must have crept up on her, because the sound of her voice made Saffron jump.

  She faltered. She had not exactly intended to take on Gemma as a ‘real’ client, which would involve getting her to sign a contract with the agency and billing her for any work undertaken. This was more a case of giving a break to a nice person who deserved it, rather than an abject money-making exercise. ‘Hopefully, yes,’ she said blandly.

  Charlotte nodded, lips pursed, then walked away.
She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Her message of I’ve got my eye on you was received loud and clear.

  Sometimes you could send out a press release and it was like throwing glitter up at the stars – a brief sparkle of hope, only to be swallowed up by the darkness. At other times you lucked in with a combination of a good story, a strong visual and a news lull, which saw every journalist’s interest piqued. Today just happened to be one of those golden days. By the time she was leaving the office, Saffron had taken well over twenty phone calls, passed on at least the same number of prospective customers to Gemma and had even taken details of a couple of people who wanted to order dresses right now – and did Gemma take commissions?

  Her heart sang as she imagined the orders pouring in to her friend’s laptop, with the promise of large sums of money to follow. Her only worry was that Gemma would be overwhelmed by the demand. Make sure you start a waiting list, she texted her as she waited for her bus, her phone still warm after constant use all day. And maybe rope in an assistant! Get that husband of yours on the case, all right?!

  It was nearly seven o’clock by the time she reached her flat, and her mobile was still ringing. She’d have to start sending enquiries to voicemail soon, she decided wearily, taking the call without looking at the screen and tucking it under her ear, so that she could rummage for her door keys at the same time. ‘Hello, Saffron Flint?’ she said. Lipstick, gloves, purse, more lipstick, notebook, pen, more lipstick – where were her bloody keys?

  ‘Saffron, it’s me. It’s Eloise.’

  She hardly recognized her sister, she sounded so timid and ground down. Forgetting about her keys momentarily, Saffron leaned against the door, braced for an unpleasant confrontation. They still hadn’t spoken since the Sunday dinner of doom. ‘Hi,’ she said warily. ‘How are you?’