“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.”