The French Gardener (27 page)

“But life is unbearable without it.”

“Then how do you bear it?” she asked before she could stop herself. She realized that David had shifted away from the center of her world. Jean-Paul had taken his place in her affections. She loved him. She couldn’t help herself.

“Because I have no choice,” he replied. She walked away, turning as she reached the gate, hoping that he might still be watching her. But his head was bent over the sweet peas, lost in thought.

It occurred to Miranda that her life was beginning to mirror Ava’s. The parallels were startling. Both women had fallen in love with their gardeners. David appeared in her mind like a small boat drifting away on the current. If she shouted would he hear her? Would he care? Would he take the trouble to row back?

Suddenly she was inspired to write. With a pounding heart she realized she had found her story. A great love story in the grand style of
Anna Karenina
and
Gone with the Wind
. It was right here beneath her nose. She was living it. If she couldn’t have Jean-Paul she would satisfy her desire in a work of fiction.

While the children played in the gardens, she opened the windows in her study, filling the room with the honey-scented blossom from the orchard. She chose a CD of light classical music and sat at her desk, in front of her computer screen. The music carried her deep into her imagination where her longings lay like dormant seeds in a bed of rich and fertile soil. Her fingers tapped over the keys, faster and faster as she watered those seeds with expression and felt them grow. She inhaled, sure that she could smell the tangy scent of orange blossom.

That night, as she read the children a bedtime story, Gus snuggled up against her, resting his head on her shoulder. She was moved by the transformation in her little boy; he was no longer the troubled child he had been in London. But she could tell by his frown that something was troubling him now.

“Mummy, why doesn’t Daddy ever play with us?”

“Because he’s very busy, darling.”

“But you play with us.”

“That’s because I’m here all week and he has to work in London.”

“But on weekends?”

“He’s tired.”

“I wish J-P was my daddy.” Miranda felt a cold fist squeeze her heart.

“You don’t mean that, Gus,” she replied.

He wriggled uncomfortably. “J-P loves us like Daddy should.”

“Daddy loves you very much.” Gus looked unconvinced. “He would love to spend all day with you like Jean-Paul does. But he has to work in the City to earn money so we can live in this beautiful house and so you and Storm can go to school…”

“But he’s going to send me away to boarding school.”

Miranda took a deep breath. She couldn’t deny that boarding school was on the cards for both children. “You’ll love boarding school, Gus. You’ll play sports all day and make loads of friends.” He looked away. “And you’ll come home on weekends. Only big boys go to boarding school.”

“I don’t want to be a big boy,” he whispered.

When David came home that weekend he was tired and irritable. Miranda was in high spirits. Having acknowledged her love for Jean-Paul she had put the children to bed after reading them
The Three Little Wolves
in a very theatrical voice, and returned to her computer to write until four in the morning, stopping only to make herself a cup of coffee. The words had spilled out from deep inside her. Inspired by love, and Ava’s secret scrapbook, she had written prose so lyrical it was as if someone else were writing through her.

David strode into the hall enveloped in a cloud of fury. For the first time Miranda was impervious to his mood. She kissed him cheerfully, smelling of lime, basil and mandarin and announced that she had tried a new recipe for dinner. “Salmon pancakes. Why don’t you have a glass of wine, darling. You look exhausted.” David was startled by the change in his wife. She seemed in her own happy world, unaffected by him. He sensed the shift but couldn’t guess how or from where it came. He followed her into the kitchen. She looked good, too. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed and she walked with a spring in her step. Her exuberance made him feel all the more bad tempered.

“How are the children?” he asked, taking the glass of wine she handed him.

“They’re on very good form. Gus has asked to bring some school friends home. They’re coming for tea tomorrow. It’s a big step for him. He’s never had friends before. Storm has invited Madeleine. They’re all going fishing with Jean-Paul. He’s made them all nets. I’m sure they won’t catch anything, but I’m going to make them a picnic. You can join us if you like.”

“I might,” he replied noncommittally.

“Good wine, isn’t it?” she said, taking a sip. “Fatima’s son, who owns the convenience store, recommended it to me. He says it’s as good as Château Latour.”

“I hope it’s not as expensive as Château Latour.”

“Twelve pounds a bottle.”

He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.”

“Dinner will be at eight-thirty. I’ve got one or two things to do in my study. Why don’t you have a nice bath? Oh, by the way, I’ve asked Blythe down next weekend.”

He looked even more furious. “Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen her since Christmas and I’ve been meaning to ask her for ages. I want her to see the house. Why? Do you have a problem with it?”

“No,” he replied hastily.

“Good.” She disappeared up the corridor. David was left in the kitchen wondering why everything felt wrong.

Miranda printed out the novel so far. It began the day Jean-Paul had turned up with Storm, although she had changed the names of all the characters and added a little invention to detach it as best she could from her own life. She was particularly pleased with the central character, whom she called Angelica. She could see her clearly in her mind’s eye: small, slight, with a long straight nose, tousled hair the color
of sun-dried hay, twisted up on the top of her head and secured casually with a pencil. Her eyes were pale green, the color of early leaves, and her smile was wide and infectious. She made her eccentric, a great entertainer with a dark, solitary side to her nature. She came to life on the page as if she already existed and had suddenly found a channel through which to express herself.

While Miranda wrote, little else mattered. She was overcome by the need to put the story down on paper and her fingers seemed to move automatically, the story writing itself. She reread the first couple of chapters and was impressed. She never knew she had the ability to write like this.

That night, while David made love to her, her mind was in the gardens with Angelica and Jean-Paul, with Ava and the enigmatic young man who dominated her secret scrapbook. She closed her eyes and imagined David was Jean-Paul. Swept away on her imagination, more fertile now than ever before, she enjoyed his attentions. Afterward he seemed satisfied that she still belonged to him. That his world was still as it should be. He rolled over and went to sleep, but Miranda lay awake, staring at the ceiling through the darkness, her mind jumping about like a restless cricket.

In the morning she got up early, leaving him asleep in bed. Gus and Storm were in a state of high excitement anticipating the afternoon with their friends. Miranda slipped into a pair of jeans and a shirt, not bothering to apply makeup. She tied her hair into a ponytail and skipped about the kitchen humming to herself while she made breakfast for her children.

She had just poured herself a cup of coffee when Jean-Paul appeared at the window. The children waved excitedly. “Do you want to come in for a coffee?” she asked, holding up her cup in case he couldn’t hear her through the glass. He grinned and nodded. Since their conversation in the
vegetable garden Miranda felt as if the wall between them had lost a few bricks in the middle. She could see him through it and he seemed to welcome their newfound intimacy. A few minutes later he appeared in the kitchen in his socks, having left his boots at the front door.

“
Bonjour
,” he said. The children replied in French, their small faces beaming.

“Fred and Joe are coming to play today,” Gus reminded him.

“And Madeleine,” added Storm.

“And we are going fishing, no?” said Jean-Paul. He took his coffee and perched on a stool. “Then we will make a fire and cook what we catch.”

“Do you think you’ll catch anything?” Miranda asked.

Jean-Paul shrugged. “If we don’t, I have a fresh salmon in my fridge.”

“Ah,” she replied, grinning at him conspiratorially. Jean-Paul stared at her a moment. There was something unfamiliar about her. She was all fired up as if her heart were a burning coal. She no longer looked dry and stringy. He recognized it instantly as love. Ava had glowed like that, too, before the sun went in and the rainbow faded. Things must have improved between her and David. He was pleased.

After breakfast, Jean-Paul took the children off into the vegetable garden. Miranda telephoned Henrietta, her new friend, and asked her over. They had been seeing a lot of each other, their friendship blossoming with the apple trees. Cate had tried to inveigle herself into joining them for coffee, but Miranda didn’t like the way she patronized Henrietta and lately they had met in Troy’s or in Miranda’s kitchen instead.

Henrietta arrived, looking flushed. Miranda poured her a cup of coffee and they sat at the table gossiping. “How’s the diet?” she asked, observing that it had so far made absolutely no difference.

Henrietta’s eyes glittered. “I can’t do it,” she replied, turning pink. “I’m fed up with it. Abstaining from all the good things in life just makes me miserable. Every time I go for a croissant I see Cate’s thin face looking disapproving.”

“Oh, Etta. What are we going to do with you? You don’t know how lovely you are.”

“I don’t feel it. I love a man who’ll never love me back.” She stopped suddenly, aware that she had said too much.

“You’re in love?” Miranda asked. “Who with?”

Henrietta bit her lower lip. “I can’t say. I’m embarrassed. It’s silly.”

“Jean-Paul?” Miranda volunteered, pulling a sympathetic face. But Henrietta shook her head.

“I would never set my sights so high. I admit I fancy him, who doesn’t? But it’s like fancying Robert Redford. No, I love Troy.”

Miranda stared at her for a moment. Of all the men to lose one’s heart to, Troy was the very deadest of dead ends. “Troy,” she repeated.

“I know. It’s impossible. But I really love him.”

“Does he love you back?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t want to have sex with me. He wants to have sex with Tony the postman.”

Miranda sighed at the scale of the obstacle. “I wish I could give you some advice, but there is none. He’s gay. He’s not going to give you children and snuggle up to you at night. He’s probably repulsed by a woman’s body. You’ve got no chance.”

“I know.” Her eyes began to well.

Miranda frowned. “We’ve got to do something about you. It’s spring. The most beautiful time of the year. You should be feeling happy.”

Henrietta pulled out a piece of paper. “This was posted on the board in Cate’s Cake Shop.” It was an advertisement
for a new Pilates class which had been set up in a studio behind the church. “I thought, I don’t know…I’m sure I’m not fit enough, but…”

“This is brilliant!” Miranda exclaimed. “I did a class like this in London. They use these incredible beds with straps you loop over your hands and feet. It’s tough. Really hard work, but the results are quick and lasting. This is definitely for you, Etta.”

Henrietta looked encouraged. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll do it with you. We could do it a couple of mornings a week when the children are at school. We could start next week.”

“Would you really do it with me? You’re so slim, you don’t need it.”

“It’s not about being fat or thin. It’s about feeling good about yourself and keeping in shape. By the way,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve got to do something about the way you dress. You can’t hide under big shirts and sweaters anymore. You should celebrate your shape.”

“Like Dawn French?”

“She’s not a bad example, but you’ve got a way to go before you’re her size. Have you ever watched Trinny and Susannah?”

“Of course, I wish they could give
me
a makeover.”

“Their message is brilliant. It’s not about killing yourself with diets, but dressing the best way for your shape. The results are instant and it really works. I’m going to buy you their book. Then we’re going to hit London!”

“Oh, Miranda!” Henrietta couldn’t believe someone other than Troy was prepared to go to all this trouble for her.

“I’m going to give you a makeover. Consider it a present. It’s not about finding a man but about feeling good in your skin.”

“I’ve never had a friend like you,” she sniffed.

“Well it’s about time you did. Cate’s a bad influence. By putting you down she pushes herself up. She’s a bitter old cow! You’ve got a really pretty face, lovely soft skin, thick hair and a sweet, endearing smile. I’m not at all surprised that Troy loves you. But God made him gay. There’s someone out there who isn’t gay who will love you and give you marriage and children. I want you to look your best for him. I’m going to arrange for someone to look after the children while we’re in London. We’ll spend the morning in Richard Ward where Shaun will give you the best highlights you’ve ever had, and the afternoon in Selfridges. Leave it to me. We’ll have fun over a glass of champagne and we’ll spend an obscene amount of money.”

“Oh, Miranda. I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. It’s not my money!” she replied with a wink.

Jeremy Fitzherbert sat alone at his kitchen table in front of a plate of bacon and eggs and a cup of tea. Mr. Ben lay on the floor watching him, hoping for another slice of bread and butter, while Wolfgang chased rabbits in his sleep. There was a lot to do in the garden, cutting back shrubs and trees and planting vegetables. However, he didn’t feel inspired. Ever since he had met Henrietta Moon up at the house, he had been able to think of little else.

Jeremy had never been in love. He had enjoyed the odd relationship as a young man, but for most girls, after the initial excitement of dating a rich farmer with a beautiful big house, the reality of farm life had turned them sour. The odd one who had relished living on a farm had driven him mad with ideas beyond his means. The fact was, he was a simple farmer who loved the land. In Henrietta he saw a woman with simple tastes like his own, a voluptuous and juicy body like a delicious fruit, and a smile that revealed a gentle nature and tender disposition. She was perfect, but
out of reach. That day up at the house he had given her his heart, even though she had clearly only had eyes for the handsome Frenchman.

Jeremy had accepted defeat without complaint. How could a simple man compete with the dazzling good looks and charm of a foreigner? Jean-Paul was exotic. His accent conjured images of vineyards and eucalyptus trees, foie gras and sunshine. Jeremy had bowed to the greater power and made a dignified exit. However, he had found himself going into town for no particular reason, popping into Henrietta’s gift shop under the pretense of buying a birthday card, or a bottle of bath oil for his mother. In fact, he had spent more money on trifles in the last few months than he had spent in an entire year. His bathroom was full of unopened boxes of soap and pretty glass bottles still in their wrapping. She always smiled at him, which caused his heart to sputter and spit like an old engine that hadn’t turned in years. They chatted about the weather, and she always asked about his cows. He wanted to take her a bottle of warm milk straight from the dairy but every time he was on the point of filling one for her, he remembered Jean-Paul and his confidence stalled. He picked at his eggs and bacon and pondered his future. It looked as bleak as a January day. He wasn’t getting any younger and was losing hair by the minute. Soon he’d be an old, bald farmer and no one would want him. He looked down at his dogs. “Thank God I’ve got you,” he told them. Mr. Ben cocked his head and frowned. “You want another slice of bread?” Mr. Ben thumped his tail on the floor. Jeremy got up and buttered a piece of wholemeal. “There you go,” he said, tossing half at Mr. Ben, half at Wolfgang who opened his eyes when he smelled it right in front of his nose and snaffled it up in one mouthful.

Jeremy was tired of holding back. Hadn’t she said she’d like to come and see his farm? Feeling encouraged he finished
his breakfast. He’d take that milk after all and extend an invitation. The worst she could do was decline.

David awoke and stretched, the space beside him empty and cold. He got up and showered. He felt disgruntled, remembering Miranda had asked Blythe down the following weekend. David was trying to distance himself from Blythe. It had been fun for a while, but she had grown needy, telephoning him throughout the day, insisting on seeing him. He had tried to let her down gently, but then she had turned up at his office in a fur coat, opening it a little so that he could see she was wearing nothing but a pair of lace stockings and a little shirt that barely reached her belly. Unable to resist, he had made love to her in the girls’ lavatory, which he now regretted. It had given her the wrong message. Now Miranda had asked her down for a weekend. He resolved to organize a business trip and avoid it altogether.