The Year of Taking Chances Read Online Free Page A

the cottage, she could easily be waiting until January. Bloody hell. She was just going to have to track him down in person and get this sorted properly.
    Saffron was pretty sure she’d seen The Partridge as she drove into the village earlier: a white-painted timber-framed building with large, lit windows looming on a corner of the main
street. It wasn’t far. And it was either that or falter around blindly, trying to find the fuse-box herself in almost total darkness. She had visions of her limp body flung back by a jagged
bolt of electricity and lying dead in Baker’s Cottage as the New Year rang in. If Bernie Sykes was as slack at checking over his property as he was at answering his phone, she could be
mouldering here for weeks.
    It was raining as she began walking along the road, a spiteful, needly sort of shower, horribly cold. She pulled up her collar and walked faster. Luckily she was used to solving problems. Working in PR with all sorts of divas and egomaniacs, you had to think quickly and get results, however dramatic a hissy fit you were faced with. She’d track down Bernie and drag him out to
the cottage, in a head-lock if need be, so he could sort everything out. In half an hour this would already feel like a distant memory and she’d be back on the sofa, lights blazing through
the cottage once more. With a bit of luck, her only dilemma then would be whether to have a hazelnut praline or a dark-chocolate truffle first.
    Bernie Sykes was a booming ruddy-cheeked giant of a man in his fifties, or thereabouts, with rumpled hair and an un-ironed shirt. He was leaning over the bar pumps when Saffron
walked into the pub, addressing a couple of men with gusto; no mean feat when you were wearing a lopsided purple paper crown.
    She stood at the bar, rain dripping from her hair, waiting for him to finish so that she could catch his attention.
    ‘And then I said to her, “Well, bloody hell, this is not some kind of
circus
, you know, dear, you can’t behave like
that
in here . . . ”’
    Saffron could feel her nose turning pink as the heat from the pub warmed her face. She coughed discreetly, hoping he would notice her before January began.
    ‘And she said – you’ll never guess what
she
said . . . ’
    On second thoughts, this sounded like one of those shaggy-dog stories with no ending. ‘Mr Sykes?’ Saffron said.
    Bernie and his two friends both turned and looked at her. ‘That’s me,’ said Bernie, his face suddenly falling. ‘Oh dear. Not from the
Gazette
, are you? Or the
council again? I’ve said everything I intend to about the horse incident, and it’s all getting rather tiresome, to be honest.’
    ‘I’m Saffron Flint. I’m renting Baker’s Cottage from you?’
    Bernie’s face cleared and he thrust out a large pink hand. ‘So you are! Greetings, Miss Flint. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?’
    ‘Well, no, actually,’ she said. ‘I had to borrow a key from the lady next door – Gemma? – before I could actually get into the property, and now the electrics have
gone.’
    ‘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.