The Year of Taking Chances Read Online Free Page B

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