The French Gardener (28 page)

The kitchen was empty, used cups in the sink and a pan of hot milk keeping warm on the Aga. He sighed resentfully. There was a time when Miranda had made him breakfast every morning, fussing over him like a geisha. Now she didn’t even bother to stick around. He poured himself a cup of coffee, made a couple of pieces of toast and marmalade, and sat down at the head of the table to read the papers.

After breakfast he went into the garden. The sound of birds was loud and cheery, a background to the excited squeals of his children behind the wall of the vegetable garden. Curious to see what they were doing, he walked up the path and opened the gate to find Storm and Gus chasing each other up and down the gravel pathways that separated the vegetable patches, holding long worms between their fingers. Jean-Paul was on his hands and knees planting. More surprisingly, Miranda was on her knees, too, her face flushed, while her fat friend Henrietta looked on, hands on hips as wide as
a small continent, laughing with them. David felt excluded. They looked like any happy family on a Saturday morning, enjoying the sunshine. He felt resentment claw at his stomach.

He had to admit it was beautiful, though. The white apple blossom, the neat borders of box that enclosed each vegetable patch, the arched frames that Jean-Paul had constructed for the sweet peas and beans. The old wall was covered in white wisteria tangling through blue ceanothus. Doves settled on the top of the wall, gently cooing, and a couple of squirrels played tag, jumping from tree to tree.

Miranda beckoned him over. “Come and join us!” He raised his cup and forced a smile. But he didn’t feel like helping; he felt jealous, an outcast in his own home. The usurper was there with his knees in the mud, slipping into his place while he was in London. He was turning to leave, his heart heavy, when a high-pitched voice shouted after him. “Daddy!” Storm ran up to him. “Daddy, come and see what we’ve done in the garden.” He looked down at her enthusiastic face and was left no option but to follow her. Gus stood watching warily from under his dark fringe. He looked at his son, suddenly so tall and handsome, and wondered how he had grown so much without him noticing.

“What have you been doing, Gus?” he asked.

Gus proudly held out the jar of creepy crawlies. “Say hello to our friends,” he said, and Jean-Paul paused in his planting to watch.

Jeremy hesitated outside the entrance to Henrietta’s gift shop. He shuffled his feet in the sunshine, carrying a bottle of warm cow’s milk, straight from the dairy. He shook off his nerves, took a deep breath and opened the door. The little bell indicated his arrival but it wasn’t Henrietta who emerged from the back room, but her sister, Clare. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “How are you today, Mr. Fitzherbert?”
Clare was slim and pretty with mousy brown hair and glasses. She wore a beaded necklace her six-year-old daughter had made at school and a bright red sweater emblazoned with the words
Naff Off
.

“Very well thank you,” he replied nervously. The shop smelled of incense and soap. “Is Henrietta in?”

“No, she’s at Miranda’s,” she replied. “Anything I can help you with?” She was used to seeing him in the shop. Today, he looked gaunt and pale. “Are you all right?” she asked sympathetically. “There’s a horrid bug going around, two of my children have had it.”

“Quite well, thank you,” he replied. She settled her eyes on the bottle of milk he was carrying.

“What’s that?”

“This? Milk.”

“Milk?”

“Yes, I was going to…I was thirsty,” he replied, changing his mind. He thought of Henrietta up at Miranda’s with Jean-Paul and suddenly felt very foolish for having imagined he might have a chance.

Clare looked at him suspiciously. “Shall I tell her you came by?”

“No. I’ll come back another time.” He left the shop feeling like an inadequate teenager.
God
, he thought bleakly,
I’m forty-five years old. Too old for this sort of thing!
He returned home to his dogs and his farm and the prospect of another day trying not to think about Henrietta Moon.

Blythe arrived with her son, Rafael, on Friday afternoon. She stepped out of the taxi and swept her eyes over David and Miranda’s beautiful house with an uncomfortable mixture of admiration and envy. It was a warm afternoon, the sky a rich blue across which fluffy white clouds drifted like sheep. The birds twittered noisily in the trees and a pair of fat doves sat on the roof of the house lazily watching the hours pass. The sun turned the wildflower meadow golden while a gentle breeze raked through the long grasses and flowers like fingers through hair. In the middle of it all stood an old oak tree where a group of giggling children played, their cries ringing out in joyful abandon. It was an idyllic scene, not at all what Blythe had envisaged. When she thought of the country she imagined rain, mud, gumboots, cold houses and boredom.

Gus shouted at Rafael excitedly from his tree house. Blythe held her son’s hand. Gus was a menace. The last time they had played together Gus had hit him over the head with a heavy wooden train track and given him a swollen egg for a week. She had warned Rafael never to be left alone with him. “He’s a horrid little boy,” she had told him. “You don’t want another egg, do you?” Rafael gazed longingly at the tree house.

Gus was Captain Hook in the eagles’ nest of his ship, scanning the sea for enemies. Inside the hollow Joe and Madeleine were imprisoned Lost Boys, while outside, Tinkerbell, played by Storm, and Peter, played by Fred, were sneaking through
the grass to rescue them. The game was halted while Storm and Gus shouted for Rafael to join them. Rafael hovered by his mother’s side, nervous of Gus who looked so much bigger and more frightening at the top of that tree. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. Pulling his mother by the hand, he dragged her over to the tree.

“Do you want to play?” Gus asked, jumping lithely down the ladder, a broad grin eating up the freckles on his face. Blythe was surprised. He didn’t look like the surly child she knew. “He can be another Lost Boy if he likes.” His politeness grated. She almost preferred him sullen and uncommunicative. It seemed as if Miranda had everything. Then she thought of David.
Almost
everything.

As Rafael was bundled into the hollow with Joe and Madeleine, Miranda stepped out the front door. She waved at Blythe. “I didn’t hear your taxi,” she said as she approached. Blythe studied her carefully. In a pair of jeans and shirt she looked radiant.
I never knew she had quite such long legs
, Blythe thought grudgingly,
even in trainers!

“You look so good, Miranda, I’m feeling sick!” she gushed.

“Don’t be silly!”

“You do. Your house is divine, by the way. Stunning. It’s paradise down here. You’re so lucky. I want it all and I want it now.” She laughed huskily and delved in her handbag for a cigarette. “Do you want one?”

“I’ve given up.”

“Hence the glow.” Blythe sighed before popping a Marlboro Lite into her mouth and flicking her lighter. “I’ll give up once this bloody divorce is done with.”

“How’s it all going?”

“Dreadful. I feel like I’ve been through a mangle.”

“You look well on it.”

“That’s because I have a lover,” she whispered smugly. She couldn’t resist. Miranda’s perfect life was too much to bear.

“Same one?”

“Same one.”

“Come inside and have a cup of tea,” Miranda suggested. Blythe glanced at her son. “Rafael’s fine here,” Miranda added. “Gus will take care of him.”

“It’s Gus I’m afraid of,” said Blythe drily. “He’s Captain Hook!”

Miranda laughed. “Don’t worry. His battle cry is worse than his hook.”

“It’s an amazing tree house. Did David make it?”

“No, Jean-Paul, the gardener.”

“Wow. Some gardener! It’s incredible.”

“He’s wonderful. I’ll show you around. The garden is really beautiful. It used to belong to this fascinating old woman called Ava Lightly. When I arrived no one could talk of anything but her amazing garden. It didn’t look like much when we bought the place. It had all been left to rot. The house was unoccupied for two years. Then Jean-Paul took over and agreed to bring it back to its former glory. He’s done the most incredible job. I’d like to invite Ava Lightly over to see it. I think she’d be really pleased.”

“Or appalled. Old people can be so ungrateful.”

“I don’t know. She sounds such a nice person.”

“Do you have friends down here?”

“Yes. The people range from charming to eccentric. A mixed bag. You’d love Troy, he’s gay and has a hair salon on the high street. Henrietta Moon, who owns the gift shop, has become a good friend. We’ve just started doing Pilates together, which is hilarious. Some of the other girls are really nice. We all have coffee together afterward. It’s hard work, but great fun and the trainer is rather easy on the eye. If he were ugly I wouldn’t do the extra ten!” As they walked into the hall Miranda added, “The vicar is putting on a drinks’ party in the village hall tomorrow night in order to raise
money. It’s twenty-five pounds a ticket. If you’d like to check out the local flavor, we could go. Might be a laugh.”

“Or hell!”

“David will go. He loves lording it over everyone. He’s dragged me to church once or twice just so he can stride up the aisle and sit in the front pew, which I was amused to find was already taken by some oldies who weren’t going to budge for him. You can imagine his disappointment. Once he heard that the Lightlys sat there every Sunday there was no stopping him. He chatted to everyone afterward, dispensing pearls of wisdom no doubt. The generous-spirited person that he is!”

“He’s incorrigible,” said Blythe, smiling as she thought of him. “What time does he come home?”

“In time for dinner.”

Blythe gazed around the oval hall. At the end large French doors gave out onto a leafy terrace where she could see vast urns of tulips and a stone walkway that extended into the distance, lined by big fat topiary balls. In the middle of the hall stood a round table, neatly decorated with glossy books and a luxurious display of pink lilies. Their scent filled the room with the smell of spring. Miranda had painted the walls a warm ivory on which hung a collage of large black and white photographs in silver frames. The look was effective. “Did you get help from an interior decorator?” Blythe asked.

“No,” Miranda replied. “I wanted to do it myself.”

“You’ve done it beautifully. I want to repaint my house. What is that paint?” She pressed her nose up against the wall to take a closer look.

“Sanderson.”

“Of course. Very subtle.”

“I love light.”

“There’s plenty of that here. What happens outside?”

“Let’s get a cup of tea, then I’ll show you around.”

“I think it’s time for a glass of wine,” said Blythe, needing
fortification. Surely no one deserved to live in such a paradise.

Blythe took her glass of chardonnay around the entire house, taking her time to poke her nose into each room, commenting on the wallpaper and furniture as if she were a potential buyer. Once she’d seen inside, she asked Miranda for a tour of the garden. They wandered up the thyme walk, stepping across long shadows cast by the topiary balls, watching the setting sun bleed into the sky. The children’s voices could be heard on the other side of the house, rising into the air like the loud chirping of birds.

Miranda showed her the vegetable garden, telling her proudly about sowing the vegetable seeds. “There was a time I couldn’t live in anything but a pair of heels. Who’d have thought I’d learn to wear gumboots with style?”

“I thought you were miserable down here.” Blythe had preferred it when she had been unhappy.

“I was. Now I love it. I have Jean-Paul to thank for that.” They walked up the meandering path of the cottage garden. Miranda pointed out the shrubs and plants beginning to flower. Blythe was surprised how she knew them all by name. Her friend had changed and she wasn’t sure she liked it. The balance of power had shifted, leaving her at a disadvantage. Only her secret gave her consolation. They walked on until they came to the old dovecote, watched over by towering larches. “I want to buy some doves,” said Miranda. “There’s something very lonely about this place. It’s like a neglected corner of the garden. Sad, somehow. Doves will put the life back, don’t you think?”

At that moment, Jean-Paul strode out of the trees, pushing a wheelbarrow full of dead branches. Blythe caught her breath. “Hello, Miranda,” he said, setting Blythe off balance with a wide smile.

“Wasn’t Mr. Underwood supposed to clear away that tree?”

“Yes, but he’s old.” Jean-Paul shrugged and settled his eyes on her friend.

“This is Blythe,” Miranda said. “She’s come to stay for the weekend. I’m showing her around the garden.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” said Blythe in French, gazing back at him coyly. “You’ve done wonderful things in this garden.”

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling again. “I commend your French.”

“It’s a little rusty.”

“It sounds perfect to me.”

“I’m so pleased. It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to practice it.” She turned to Miranda. “You should speak to Jean-Paul in French.”

“I don’t speak French,” Miranda replied.

“Oh, of course you don’t. Silly me!” She settled her cat’s eyes on Jean-Paul again and shrugged. “
Tant pis
!”

“I think I’ll go and be a crocodile for a while,” he said to Miranda.

“They’ll love that,” she replied, spotting the knowing twinkle in his eye as he departed. Blythe watched him walk away, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his slim hips and low-slung faded jeans.

“Christ, Miranda!” she exclaimed once he had gone. “No wonder you like it down here. He’s delicious!”

“I know. Everyone fancies him.” Miranda turned away so Blythe wouldn’t see her blush.

“Are you fucking him?”

Miranda was appalled. “Of course not! I’m married.”

“So? You said yourself, David’s never here.”

“What difference does that make? I love David. Why would I want to be unfaithful? There’s more to life than sex.”

“Is there? Life would be very dull without it!” They continued to walk towards the field where Charlie the donkey
stood chewing grass. “You’d want him if you weren’t married,” she added with a smirk.

“That’s irrelevant.”

“I’m not married and I want him. How did you find him?”

“He just turned up here one day with Storm. He found her in a field and brought her back.”

“What was he doing in the field?”

“I don’t know. Looking for a job!” On reflection it was all very bizarre.

“In a field?”

“He was on his way here. He’d seen my advert in town. Anyway, what does it matter? He’s a good gardener and that’s what counts.”

“He’s obviously not married. Divorced?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know? Haven’t you asked him? Has he any children?”

“No.”

“What were his references like? Who was he working for before he came here? A grand English family no doubt.”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t check him out?”

“I didn’t need to. I sensed he was right.”

Blythe raised her eyebrows. “You hired him because he’s handsome. He could be a criminal on the run, for all you know.”

“I doubt it.” Miranda grew irritated. “Look, Blythe, I don’t care if he’s a criminal on the run or has three wives across different continents. He does a wonderful job here and he’s good company. I enjoy being around him. I don’t ask him about himself out of respect. I don’t want to pry.”

“You mean you don’t want to look too interested.”

“I don’t fancy him, Blythe!”

“Of course you don’t.” She gave a little snort. “But I do.”

“You’re unavailable.”

“I don’t know. My lover is about to dump me. Once he showered me with gifts, now he rarely has time for me. You know, I turned up at his office the other day in nothing but a fur coat and suspenders. He couldn’t resist me then.”

“You’ve got a nerve.”

“It was fun. I like taking risks.”

“Do you think he’ll leave his wife for you?”

“I don’t know.” She surveyed the estate and fantasized living here. It was an appealing thought. “At the beginning we couldn’t get enough of each other. Now, I’m not so sure. I don’t think I’m wife material anymore.”

“Have you met the wife?”

“Yes.” Blythe cast a sidelong glance at Miranda, relishing her secret.

“What’s she like?”

Blythe chewed the inside of her cheek as she pondered the best way to answer without giving the game away. She knew she was taking a risk even discussing it with Miranda, but there was something about Miranda’s perfect life—and perfect Frenchman—that made her want to burst one or two of her bubbles. “Nice,” she replied carefully. “I’m a bitch!” She gave a throaty laugh, then pushed her wrist out of her sleeve. “Look, this is what he gave me for Christmas.” Miranda looked at the Theo Fennell diamond watch and recalled the strange telephone call in December. Her stomach twisted with anxiety.

“It’s from Theo’s,” she observed.

“Yes. Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m loving the pink strap.”

“Is it engraved?”

“Yes. It says Big Pussycat on the back. Private joke. But that was Christmas. He hasn’t given me anything since,” she pouted.

Miranda took a breath.
No, it can’t be. It’s just a coincidence
, she thought, suddenly feeling nauseous.
We’re not Theo’s only
clients. Anyone could have bought her that watch
. But her mind began whirring with possibilities. Was David Blythe’s lover? Is that why he spent so much time in London? Did Blythe, the friend she had known since school, have the malice to steal her husband? She glanced across at her, still watching the diamonds glitter in the sunshine, and concluded that it was impossible. If David were Blythe’s lover, Blythe would have kept the affair secret.

Once, Miranda would have shared everything with Blythe. They had occupied the same bedroom at boarding school, exchanged stories about boyfriends and tales of family strife, fought and made up as good friends do. But they weren’t schoolgirls anymore, and time had grown up between them, forming an invisible wall. The truth was that Miranda didn’t know Blythe as she once had. Their lives were no longer joined by shared experience. Apart from their children, they had little in common. Instead of communicating her fears, Miranda kept them to herself. She no longer trusted her friend.