Cate Sharpe was perched at a round table chatting to Henrietta Moon who owned the gift shop. Cate’s brown hair was cut into a severe bob, framing a thin, pale face with bitter chocolate eyes and a small mouth above a weak chin. “You know, Henrietta,” she said, letting her vowels slip lazily. “You shouldn’t drink hot chocolate if you’re trying to lose weight. If I had a weight battle like you, I’d drink coffee. It gets the metabolism going.” Henrietta smiled, a defense mechanism she had adopted in childhood. She shook her head so that her long chestnut hair fell over her face, and took a deep breath.
“I’ve given up dieting,” she explained. It wasn’t true, but it was easier to pretend she didn’t care. “Life is too short.”
Cate put her hand on Henrietta’s in a motherly way, although Henrietta was thirty-eight, only seven years younger than Cate. “Look, you know I think the world of you, but if you don’t do something about it your life will be a hell of a lot shorter. You’re a pretty woman. If you lost the odd stone you’d have more chance of finding a man. I hate to say it,” she added smugly, “but men are put off by large women. That amount of flesh just isn’t attractive. I can say that to you, can’t I, because I’m your friend and you know I have your best interests at heart.” Henrietta simply nodded and gulped down a mouthful of chocolate. “Quiet today, isn’t it?” Henrietta nodded again. “Can’t be easy, though, working opposite a cake shop!” Cate laughed. Cate, who owned a cake shop and never gained an ounce. Cate, who was always impeccably dressed in little skirts with nipped-in waists and tidy cardigans, whose white apron embroidered in pretty pink with the name of the shop never carried a single stain. Cate, whom no one liked, not even her own husband. Henrietta’s eyes glazed as Cate rattled on about herself.
Henrietta’s mouth watered as she surveyed the cakes on the counter. It was so cold outside—a cake would add some insulation. However, Cate sat between her and the counter like Cerberus, destroying any hope of wicked indulgence. At that moment the door opened and in walked Miranda Claybourne. Both Cate and Henrietta recognized her immediately: the snooty Londoner who had moved into Hartington House.
“Good morning,” said Miranda, smiling graciously. She pushed her Chanel sunglasses to the top of her head and strode across the black and white tiled floor. The place was very pink. Pink walls, pink blinds, pink baskets of delicious looking cakes all neatly lined up in rows. Finding no one behind the counter she turned to the two women. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
“You mean me,” said Cate, getting up. “I’m Cate.”
“Miranda Claybourne,” Miranda replied, extending her hand. “I’ve just moved down here and need to hire some help. Jeremy Fitzherbert, our neighbor, says you’re the person to talk to. Apparently this is the heart of Hartington.” She chuckled at her own pun.
Cate was flattered. She proffered Miranda a hand limp and moist like dough.
“Well, I know everyone and this place is usually buzzing. I have a notice board over there.” She pointed to the wall by the door where a corkboard was littered with small pieces of paper. “Can I offer you a coffee?” Cate was damned if she was going to let the new arrival get away. Miranda was reluctant but there was something in Cate’s demeanor that suggested she’d take offense if Miranda declined.
“I’d love to,” she said, thinking momentarily of Gus alone at home before slipping out of her Prada coat and taking a seat at the round table. Cate brought over a pink cupcake and a cup of coffee and placed them in front of their guest. Henrietta gazed at the cake longingly.
“Gorgeous coat!” Cate said, sitting down. “Oh, this is Henrietta,” she added as an afterthought. “She owns the gift shop.”
“We have met,” said Henrietta, who would never expect a woman like Miranda Claybourne to remember her. “You’ve been into my shop.”
“Oh, yes,” Miranda replied, recalling the hurried purchase of a scented candle and some notepaper. “Of course we have.”
Henrietta lowered her eyes; she’d never seen anyone more glamorous in her life.
“So?” Cate persisted. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” Miranda replied, reluctant to talk about herself. There wasn’t much positive to say and she didn’t want to offend them.
“What sort of help do you require?” Henrietta asked. Miranda noticed what beautiful skin she had, like smooth toffee. She must have been in her late thirties and yet she hadn’t a single line. She wanted to ask what products she used on her face, but didn’t want to strike up a friendship. Miranda took a sip of coffee. It was delicious; she needn’t have lamented the absence of a Caffè Nero after all.
“Well, I need someone to cook and clean, and a gardener. The garden’s a mess.”
“You know that garden used to be a showpiece,” said Henrietta.
“Really? You could have fooled me.”
“Oh yes,” agreed Cate. “The Lightlys created the most beautiful gardens. I can’t imagine that you’re very into gardens, being a Londoner.”
“Ava Lightly was very green-thumbed,” Henrietta added hastily, worried Cate might have caused offense. She had a rather unpleasant manner when confronted by strangers, like a wary animal marking her territory with a mixture of sweetness and spite. “But she left a couple of years ago. It doesn’t take long for a garden to grow wild if it’s not taken care of.”
“Well, I’m not at all green-thumbed,” said Miranda, glancing at her prettily polished nails and inwardly grimacing at the thought of having to manicure them herself. “It depresses me to look out onto a mess.” Henrietta’s mouth watered as Miranda bit into the cake. “Do you make these yourself?”
Cate nodded and protruded her lips so that her chin disappeared completely. “You won’t find better coffee or cake anywhere in Dorset. I hope you’ll become a regular. Once you’ve bitten there’s no going back.”
“I can see why,” said Miranda, wondering how such a scrawny woman was capable of making such rich and succulent cakes without eating them herself.
“I’ll ask around as well,” Henrietta offered helpfully. “I get a wide variety of people coming into my shop. Hartington attracts people from all around and you never know.” She smiled and Miranda found herself warming to her. She had the sweet, self-deprecating smile of a woman unaware of her prettiness.
The door opened again, letting in a cold gust of wind. “Look at you!” cried a man with a wide grin and a smooth, handsome face. “Keeping her all to yourself? Etta, you’re a shocker! Cate, your secrecy doesn’t surprise me at all. From you I expect the worst.”
“This is Troy,” said Henrietta, her face opening into a beaming smile. “He’s opposite if you need your hair done. Not that you do, of course, it’s perfect.”
He turned to Miranda, hands on the waist of his low-cut jeans. “You’ve been here how long and you haven’t even bothered to say hello? We’re all terribly hurt, you know.” He pouted. Miranda’s spirits rose at the sight of Troy’s infectious grin. “Cate, love of my life, I need a cake. It’s bloody cold out there and I’ve got old Mrs. Rattle-Bag coming in for her blue rinse at twelve.”
“You’re so rude, Troy,” Henrietta gasped with a giggle. “She’s not called that at all, and Troy’s really Peter,” she added to Miranda.
“May I?” said Troy, not waiting for a response. “Make that a coffee, too!” He settled his clear hazel eyes on Miranda and appraised her shamelessly. “You’re the most glamorous thing to set foot in Hartington in years. The last time I saw such glamour was in the woods above Hartington, a fox, if I recall, wearing a stunning coat all her own. I can see the Prada label on yours, by the way, and I’m loving your leather boots, so this season.” He sniffed with admiration, drawing in the sugar-scented air through dilated nostrils, then added conspiratorially, “You’re beautiful as well. What’s your husband like?” Miranda nearly spat her coffee all over his suede jacket. “Is he gorgeous, too?”
“God, I couldn’t say. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,” Miranda rep
lied, laughing in astonishment. “I think he’s handsome.”
“You’re posh, too. I love posh. If you have a title I’ll give you a free haircut!”
“I don’t, I’m afraid. Simple Mrs. Claybourne.”
“But Mrs. Claybourne of Hartington House. That’s terribly grand. Beautiful and grand, that’s a heady combination. Enough to turn a gay man straight!”
“She’s looking for help,” Henrietta informed him. “A cook…”
“I can cook,” he volunteered, without taking his eyes off her.
“And a gardener.”
He dropped his shoulders playfully. “There I’m no help at all. Every green thing I touch dies. It’s a good job my cat’s not green or that would be the end of her! It would be a shame to kill off what were once the most beautiful gardens in Dorset.” Henrietta noticed Cate had gone very quiet. She was making the coffee, her back turned. She threw an anxious glance at Troy, who turned his attention to the counter. “How’s my coffee, sweetheart?”
“Just coming,” Cate replied. The atmosphere had suddenly cooled, as it did according to Cate’s moods. It had been careless of them to ignore her.
Miranda, sensing the shift, glanced at her watch. “Goodness, I must get going. It’s been very nice to meet you all.”
“Likewise,” said Henrietta truthfully. “We’ll find you your gardener, don’t worry.”
“Going already?” Troy gasped. “We’ve only just met. I’ve had all of ten minutes in your company. Don’t you like my cologne?”
“I like it,” said Miranda, shaking her head in amusement. “It suits you.”
“You mean it’s sweet.”
“Yes, but nice sweet.”
“The relief is overwhelming.” He shot her a devilish smile. “Do bring Mr. Claybourne in for a trim sometime. I’d love to meet him.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I might not get him back.” She stood up and shrugged on her coat. The girls watched her enviously. It was black and fitted, with wide fur-lined lapels and shoulders sharp enough to graze the air she walked through. “Thank you for my coffee and cake,” she said to Cate. “I really haven’t tasted better. Not even in London.” Cate perked up. “May I stick this on your board?” She took a typed piece of paper out of her bag.
“I’ll make sure they all read it,” said Cate, but she needn’t have bothered; the note was so big there was no way anyone could miss it.
“Well,” gushed Troy when Miranda disappeared into the street. “She’s quite a looker. ‘Thank you for my coffee and cake,’” he said, imitating her accent. “I love it!”
“She was rather cool to start with but she warmed up. I don’t think she knows what to make of you, Troy,” Henrietta teased.
“She’s perfectly nice but I think she’s a little stuck-up, don’t you? A typical Londoner, they always think they’re better than the rest of us,” said Cate silkily, bringing over Troy’s coffee and cake. “She’s one of those women used to lots of servants running around after her. She’s clearly lost without a housekeeper and a cook and a gardener and God knows what else. She bowled in here without any pleasantries as if this were the post office. It’s taken her, what? Two months to come and introduce herself. Too grand for Hartington. Probably thinks we’re all very provincial. She’s pretty though,” she added with a little sniff. “In a rather ordinary way.”
“I think you’re being harsh,” said Troy. Everyone knew that Cate rarely had anything nice to say about anyone. “She wasn’t too grand for your coffee.”
“That showed her, didn’t it? She won’t find a better coffee in London.”
“I should get back to the shop. I’ve left Clare there all on her own,” said Henrietta, referring to her sister.
“I shouldn’t worry, it’s not as if you’re busy,” said Cate. “Would you like a cake to take back with you?”
“A cake?” repeated Henrietta, confused. Hadn’t Cate berated her for eating too much not five minutes ago?
“For Clare, silly,” said Cate, popping one into a bag. Henrietta took the bag and left, feeling thoroughly humiliated.
Miranda returned home to find Gus sitting in front of the fire watching Lord of the Rings. He was eating a packet of chips and drinking a can of Coca-Cola. “Don’t you have any homework to do?” she asked.
Gus shrugged. “I left my bag at school.”
Miranda sighed. “Well, you’d better bring it back on Monday or you’ll be in trouble again. Your father’s coming home tonight. He’s not happy about what you did today.”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Gus, stuffing his mouth with a handful of chips. “I didn’t start it.”
“I don’t want to listen. I’ve got to work. Your sister will be home soon so you’ll have to turn that off. She’s frightened of those ghastly creatures.”
“Orcs,” Gus corrected.
“Whatever. Make sure you turn it off.”
“But Mum…”
“Off!”
Miranda returned to her desk. She could still taste that delicious cake and her head buzzed from the coffee. The people she had just met would pepper her column rather nicely. Troy was marvelously fruity and Henrietta voluptuous and sweet and totally dominated by Cate who was toxic, in spite of her magical recipes. They’d make a nice little trio. The trick was to build characters that featured monthly, then she could write the book, sell the film rights and watch the world turn into a giant oyster. Her fingers began to tap swiftly over the keyboard.
After a while she heard the front door open and close and the soft footsteps of her five-year-old daughter, Storm. “Darling,” she shouted, a little frustrated that Storm had come home just as she was getting into her characters. Storm appeared at the door looking glum. Her brown hair was swept off her face and her cheeks were pink from the cold. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“No. Gus is a bully,” she said.
Miranda stopped typing and looked at her daughter. “A bully?”
“Madeleine doesn’t want to come for a playdate because she’s frightened of Gus.”
“I know. He bit a little boy today.”
“I saw the bite mark, it was bleeding.”
“I’m sure he showed it off like a war wound!” said Miranda with irritation. No doubt the mother would be on the telephone to complain.
“He pulls the legs off spiders.”
“Jolly good thing, too, they’re horrid.”
“They’re God’s creatures.” Storm’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“Darling, who on earth have you been talking to?”
“Mrs. Roberts says all creatures are special. Gus kills everything.”
“Come here, sweetie,” she said, pulling her daughter into her arms.
“I don’t like Gus.”
“You’re not alone,” said Miranda with a sigh. “Why don’t you go and play in your bedroom? He’s watching Lord of the Rings.” Storm pulled away. “Do you have any homework?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come up in a minute and help you with it.” But Storm knew that the minute would extend into an hour and she’d end up having to do it on her own. Her mother was always too busy.
Storm sat in her pink bedroom. The wallpaper matched the curtains, depicting little pink cherubs dancing among flowers. Even the lightbulbs were pink, casting the room in a soft rosy glow. The bookshelves were laden with cuddly toys and books. She had pretty jewelry boxes where she kept trinkets and hair slides, glittery butterflies and bracelets. She had pink notebooks in which she pretended to write with pink pencils, and a Win Green gingerbread playhouse made from embroidered pink cotton full of the pink cushions she collected in every shade and size. It was there that she hid now with her reading book from school. She felt sad and alone. She pulled her favorite pink cushion to her chest and hugged it close, drying her tears on the corner. What was the point of a beautiful room if she had no friends to show it off to?
Miranda finished
her column and e-mailed it off with a sigh of relief. She had forgotten about her daughter’s homework. She wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine, picking a carrot out of the fridge to quell the urge to smoke. It was time for the children’s tea. All she could think of was eggy bread. Gus had already had fish cakes for lunch. As she stared blankly into the fridge the telephone rang. Sticking the handset between her cheek and shoulder she pulled out a couple of eggs. “Yes?” she said, expecting it to be her husband.
“Hi, it’s Jeremy here.”
“Oh, hi.”
“You know you were looking for a gardener?”
“Yes,” she replied, brightening.
“I’ve found someone who might do. He’s called Mr. Underwood. He’s quite old and rather eccentric, but he loves gardening.”
“How did you find him?”
“He used to work on the farm.”
“And now?”
“He’s semiretired. He could do a few days a week for you.”
“How old is he?”
Jeremy hesitated. “Midsixties.”
“Will he be up to it? There’s a lot to be done over here.”
“Just give him a go. He’s a good man.”
Storm padded in, dressed in a pink fairy outfit complete with glittering crown, wings and wand. “Mummy, I’m hungry,” she whined, her large eyes red rimmed from crying. Miranda frowned, hesitating a moment.
“Okay, I’ll see him,” she agreed hastily. “Can he come tomorrow morning? I know it’s Saturday but…”
“I’ll send him over.”
“Good. Thanks, Jeremy.” She hung up and turned to her daughter. “I’m making you eggy bread, darling. Are you all right?”
“Eggy bread?” exclaimed Gus, hovering in the doorway. “I hate eggy bread.”
“Gus, you’re in no position to complain about anything today. It’s either that or spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti,” said Gus.
Storm screwed up her nose. “I like eggy bread.”
“I’m not a restaurant. It’s spaghetti for both of you.” She couldn’t face a tantrum from Gus, and Storm wouldn’t complain. Storm scowled. “You can have as much ketchup as you like,” Miranda added to appease her. “I really don’t have the energy to fight with you today.”
The French Gardener Page 3