The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  At dinner, her mood was buoyant and optimistic, until Blythe did something that caught her attention. It was a minor gesture; if she hadn’t already harbored a grain of doubt she would not have dwelt on it. As it was, it caused her throat to constrict and her happiness to evaporate. When she was at the Aga, pulling out the fish pie, something made her turn her eyes to the table. With a feeling of foreboding, she saw Blythe reach out and take David’s wineglass. She put it to her lips, quite naturally, and took a sip. She was so nonchalant, as if she barely noticed what she was doing. Miranda doubted she would have been so forward had she been at the table. She froze in horror, reeling from the intimacy of the gesture. David listened to Blythe’s story as if it was the most normal thing in the world for her to drink from his glass, then picked it up and took a sip himself. When Miranda returned to the table she noticed that Blythe’s own glass was full.

  This time she did not dismiss it. When David held her hand across the table and complimented her cooking, she smiled at him, masking the fear that had punctured her heart. Had Blythe’s gesture been an isolated one, she wouldn’t have given it so much weight. But it was one of many small things that, added together, made an uncomfortably heavy package.

  Jeremy arrived late at the town hall. The party was well under way by the time he entered in a pair of brown trousers and blue open-necked shirt. He had bathed and shaved, shut the dogs in the kitchen and driven into town with the intention of arriving on time. However, half a mile out of town the car began to wobble, then limp and finally grind to a halt on the side of the road. He swore and hit the steering wheel in fury, but there was nothing he could do. The tire was flat. Instead of dropping to his knees in the mud and changing it, he left it there and proceeded to walk instead. He was damned if he was going to ruin his chances with Henrietta by turning up covered in mud and sweat.

  Henrietta arrived, in a pair of wide black trousers and a long ivory jacket with sharp shoulders and nipped-in waist. She had read What Not to Wear and gone shopping in Blandford with Troy. They had chosen the outfit together. “Monochrome is very in, darling,” Troy had said, helping her slip into the jacket. “It’s a size fourteen.” Henrietta was thrilled. She had always believed she was a sixteen. She scanned the room for Troy, longing to show her new look off. But before she had time to step into the room, she was grabbed by Cate, demanding to know why she hadn’t dropped in for her coffee recently. “I’ve been so busy,” she lied.

  “Rubbish!” Cate snapped. “You’re never busy in that shop of yours. What have you done? You’ve done something.” She narrowed her eyes and studied her from top to toe. “Have you lost weight?”

  Henrietta smiled secretively. “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you have. It’s a good start,” she said. “Well done.” She made the words sound like a rebuke.

  “Have you seen Troy?”

  “No.” Cate looked sour. “I don’t see much of him either. It’s a conspiracy.”

  “It really isn’t, Cate.”

  “If you’re worried about getting fat, you don’t have to gorge yourself on cakes. Why don’t you just come in for a black coffee?”

  “I will,” she conceded weakly, wishing Troy were there to support her.

  “That’s a new jacket. It’s nice. Better not get it dirty.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Wouldn’t want to eat chocolate cake in that.” Henrietta felt uncomfortable. Cate always made her feel inadequate.

  She gazed around the room, longing to be rescued. The vicar was talking to Colonel Pike, her voice rising with indignation. He had clearly said something to offend her. Mary and Jack Tinton were back in contemporary clothes, drinking glasses of warm wine, smiling smugly at the amount of money they had made hassling tourists to take their photographs for a fiver. Mrs. Underwood was in her best floral dress, her lips painted scarlet, her large feet squeezed into a pair of white shoes a size too small for her, talking to Derek Heath and his wife Lesley. Nick and Steve were surrounded by a group of excitable girls, all vying for their attention. Both young men were blond and handsome, prizes yet to be won. Nick raised his eyes at Mrs. Underwood and nudged his brother. With her mouth agape and her formidable eyes fixed on their father, she was an astonishing sight for such a sensible woman. They knew their father was too self-effacing to notice. Mr. Underwood was deep in conversation with their uncle Arthur, sharing his views on edible mushrooms. Even Henrietta’s sister, Clare, was busy talking to William van den Bos. Henrietta felt very conspicuous.

  Then a voice came from behind—like a rope to a stricken vessel just as she was about to sink. She turned to see Jeremy’s long, handsome face smiling diffidently at her. His pink cheeks accentuated the blue of his eyes and the indecent length of his feathery blond eyelashes. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed them before.

  “Jeremy.” She greeted him as if he were her oldest, dearest friend. “It’s so nice to see you.”

  She was more beautiful than he remembered. “You look well,” he said, wincing at the inadequate words.

  She blushed. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the heat,” cut in Cate. “You look like you need some fresh air.”

  “Actually, you’re absolutely right,” Henrietta replied, gaining strength from Jeremy’s presence beside her. “Jeremy, would you come with me? You never know who might be lurking on the green.”

  Jeremy was thrilled by her forwardness. “It would be my pleasure.”

  She slipped her hand through his arm, and turned to Cate. “You know, Cate, you could do with a few more cakes. You’re in danger of disappearing altogether.”

  Cate wasn’t used to Henrietta speaking to her like that. She cast her eyes around the room, searching for her husband, but even he had made an effort to avoid her.

  “My car broke down a mile outside town so I had to walk. It’s a lovely evening,” Jeremy said, descending the steps to the pavement.

  “It’s been very warm, hasn’t it? Do you think it means we’ll have a good summer?”

  “We usually have a hot week in May. June might be warm, but I think July will be a scorcher.”

  “Are you saying that on authority because you’re a farmer?”

  “No, because I’m an optimist.” She giggled and Jeremy’s spirits soared.

  “I’m an optimist, too,” she said.

  “It suits you.”

  “Do you mind walking a little, after you’ve walked so far already?”

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather walk with.”

  Henrietta felt her belly fill with bubbles. From the sincerity in his voice, she knew he meant it.

  XXXI

  White blossom of the may trees and blackthorn in the hedgerows

  That night Miranda couldn’t sleep. She was convinced that David was indeed having an affair with Blythe. She felt sick with hurt and fury, but had no concrete proof of her suspicions. She wondered how he could make love to her, play so naturally with the children, look upon her with such tenderness, if all the time he was betraying them.

  David slept the peaceful sleep of a man without a conscience. Miranda debated silently in the dark. Should she confront him? Should she confront Blythe? Should she telephone Theo Fennell himself and find out what the mystery item was and what was engraved on it? She envisaged the scene. The row. The horrid things they’d both say to each other. The irreparable damage that would shatter their family life forever.

  After breakfast the following morning the children ran outside to the hollow tree, leaving Miranda washing up in the kitchen. Blythe linked her arm through David’s. “Right, m’lord, show me around your estate.”

  “Darling, I’m going to take Blythe around the garden. We’ll go and watch the children for a while. They might like to join us. Do you want to come?”

  “No thanks. I’ll finish the dishes then I’d quite like to wash my hair.” She winced at the underhand way they had manipulated her in order to spend time alone together. Her instincts
told her to go with them, but she remained by the sink. This might be her only opportunity to catch them at it.

  Blythe and David walked to the hollow tree where the children resumed the game they had been playing two days before. Jean-Paul was nowhere to be seen. They’d have to make do without the crocodile. Blythe and David stood watching them scamper around the tree like squirrels and then headed off towards the vegetable garden.

  “I love greenhouses.” Blythe inhaled huskily. “They’re hot and humid. They make me feel horny.”

  “This isn’t a good idea,” said David weakly.

  “Of course it is. We’re quite alone. I’ve missed you.”

  “It’s got to stop,” he added, thinking of his children and longing to be with them. “This affair must end. It’s been fun, but you deserve better,” he said tactfully.

  “There is no better than you, David. Every time we part I think it’s going to be the last time. I love Miranda, I love your children. I don’t want you to jeopardize that, I’m not that kind of girl. But then I see you again and my resolve weakens. I’m afraid I can’t resist you. I didn’t come here to betray Miranda. She’s my oldest friend, for Christ’s sake. If you hadn’t turned up I wouldn’t have minded. Please believe me. I don’t want to seduce you in your own home. I just can’t help myself.”

  “We haven’t done anything wrong this weekend.”

  “And we won’t,” Blythe agreed. “It’s just a bit of harmless flirting.”

  “So you agree that it has to come to an end.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “It’s not because I don’t desire you, but because I respect my wife.”

  “That’s okay. I respect her, too. We should never have embarked on an affair in the first place.”

  They reached the greenhouse and slipped inside. “Wow!” Blythe exclaimed at the neat rows of orchids and tuberoses. The smell was intoxicating. “This is incredible. Your gardener is a wonder!”

  “He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

  “Handsome, too,” she said, hoping to make him jealous. “But you’re better looking. You’re younger for a start.” She placed her hand on his fly. “Well, this is a little disappointing. Shall I wake him up?”

  “Absolutely not!” David replied, backing away. She dropped to her knees and unzipped him. He pulled her up. “Blythe! I said no.” Then as his face melted with desire he added, “Not here.”

  A sudden movement in the greenhouse distracted Jean-Paul on his way to the vegetable garden. It didn’t take him long to work out what it was. He had been there before, many years ago. He stood rooted to the spot beside a cold frame recently planted with herbs. Instinct told him it was Blythe with David. His heart faltered, thinking of Miranda and those children. The parallels were impossible to ignore. He was allied with Miranda and therefore found himself in Phillip’s shoes. It was not a comfortable position.

  The sound of the gate alerted him to Miranda’s arrival. She could tell from his ashen face that something was horribly wrong. He strode towards her. “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand. His tone was firm and masterful as he tried to lead her from the greenhouse.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just come.”

  “No. If it’s Blythe and David I need to know.”

  He stopped and looked at her intently. “You already know?”

  She began to cry. “I suspected…but I couldn’t believe…” She fell against him.

  “I’m sorry.” Miranda was too distressed to speak. He held her close and let her cry. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Miranda shook her head. “No.” Her face was red with fury. “I want to catch them. Then I want to throw them out. I don’t ever want to see either of them again.”

  “It is not a good idea to talk to him while you’re angry. You will only say things you regret.”

  “This is no time to be wise, Jean-Paul. I don’t want them in my life. I’ll never trust him again.” She pulled away and strode up the path to the greenhouse. Jean-Paul let her go. He had no choice but to watch the drama unfold.

  She banged on the door. “Come out!” she shouted. “Come out!” There was a short pause while Blythe ran her hands through her hair. David felt his orderly world fall about his head like the shattered pieces of a beautiful mosaic. He was the first to emerge.

  “It’s not what you think…” he began.

  Miranda looked at him scornfully. “Oh really! Admiring the flowers, were you? Then why is your fly undone?” He looked down, rolled his eyes at his stupidity and zipped it up.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Please do.” Blythe stepped out. At least she had the decency to look ashamed. “You bought her the watch! You know the shop called me for your office telephone number? I thought you’d bought me something and taken the trouble to have it engraved. Big Pussycat has never been my nickname, though, has it?”

  “Darling…”

  “Oh save it. Doesn’t your tart have anything to say or did you swallow her tongue?”

  “You can’t leave a husband all week and expect him not to look for it elsewhere,” said Blythe.

  “Clearly not my husband. I thought better of you than that, David. I put you on a pedestal. You were my hero. Now I know you’re just the same as every other cheating husband. Do you love her?”

  “Of course not!” he exclaimed. Blythe’s face flushed with rage.

  “Then I pity you—losing your family for a shag. If you loved her it might have been worth it. I want you out of the house in ten minutes and I don’t want to see either of you again. If you think you’ve had it bad, Blythe, David’s going to have it much worse. I hope you’ll stick by him!”

  Jean-Paul followed her to the gate where she collapsed in tears. “Come,” he said. “Go to my cottage until they leave. I will look after the children. You have to be strong for them. They mustn’t know what has happened.”

  He watched her go, her shoulders hunched, her arms crossed in front of her chest. For a moment she reminded him of Ava and his heart reached out to her.

  David ran through the gardens and house calling her name, but she didn’t appear. Blythe packed her bag, called Rafael away from the tree and waited impatiently for a taxi. David had no choice but to leave. He kissed the children, his head swimming with the realization that he had risked everything and lost. Only now, as he hugged them, did he fully appreciate what they meant to him.

  “Why are you in a hurry?” Gus asked.

  “Because I’ve been called away urgently. Daddy’s work.”

  “You haven’t had lunch,” said Storm.

  “I know. I’ll have a sandwich on the train.”

  “Where’s Mummy?”

  “In the house,” he lied.

  “Did you make her cry?” asked Gus, frowning. He had seen her hurry down the path towards the river.

  “She’s fine.” The children looked at him in bewilderment.

  Jean-Paul stood some distance away while Blythe and Rafael piled into the taxi. Storm and Gus stood by the tree, silently watching. Then David strode across the grass to talk to Jean-Paul. “Look, I know she likes you. Talk to her, please. This is all a terrible mistake. I don’t love Blythe. I love my wife. I just thought I could have it all.” He rubbed his forehead in agitation. “I don’t want to lose them.”

  Jean-Paul shrugged in that expressive French way of his. “Of course you don’t.”

  “I’m a fool. I’m a damn, stupid fool.”

  “So, you can stop being a fool and be a man.”

  “It wasn’t what you think! I had an affair with her, but it was over. I was telling her it was over!” Jean-Paul didn’t know what to say. David turned on his heel and returned to the taxi. In a moment they were gone. The children remained staring into the void he had left behind.

  Jean-Paul stepped into the breach of Miranda and David’s falling out. “I have seen a warren full of baby rabbits in the wood,” he told the children. “Shall we go and take them so
me carrots?” Gus chewed his cheek. Storm slipped her hand into Jean-Paul’s.

  “Mummy has some lettuce in the fridge. Do they like lettuce?” she asked.

  “They love lettuce, but Mummy might need it for you.”

  “Daddy made Mummy cry,” said Gus quietly, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets.

  “Let me tell you about grown-ups, Gus,” Jean-Paul began. He didn’t modify his tone but talked as he would to an adult. “They argue and fight just like children. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. Your mother and father have had a fight, like you and Storm arguing over what game to play. But they will make up and be friends again. I promise you. Do you know why?” The children shook their heads. “Because they are united by one very important thing.”

  “The garden?” said Gus innocently.

  “No,” Jean-Paul replied with a smile. “Their love for you and Storm.”

  Gus took Jean-Paul’s other hand and the three of them walked off towards the wood.

  Down in the cottage Miranda sat on the sofa and cried. Her instincts had been right. She wondered how long they had been seeing each other. She wished Jean-Paul were there to comfort her. He always had the right words. She stayed there for what seemed a very long time, until she became aware that the children would be wanting lunch. It was midday. The morning had disappeared, swallowed into betrayal and rage. She didn’t know what to do with herself. How to react. How to go on.

  She dried her eyes, got up and wandered around the cottage. She had not been alone there since he’d moved in and was suddenly drawn by the curiosity that had enflamed her since meeting him. How lucky for him the bookshelves are full of French books, she thought as she ran a finger across the bindings. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was full of vegetables and fish. She stole a carrot and glanced around the room. The kitchen was clean but cluttered with books, newspapers, box files, unopened parcels. A jacket hung over the back of a chair, a sweater lay across another. It was a lived-in room. However, there was something about the files that gave her the feeling that he had another life besides her garden. She peered outside to check he wasn’t about to burst in, and lifted the lid of the first box. Inside were official looking papers. All written in French. Her French wasn’t very good but it was adequate to understand the frequently repeated words Château les Lucioles.