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.