The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  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.

  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 t
he 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.

  XXVIII

  Purple shadows on the grass cast by the clipped yews in the evening light

  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.