The French Gardener(11)

Gus was sobbing noisily. Miranda entered his room, which smelled of old biscuits, and sat down on his bed. He stopped crying when he felt her presence and lifted his head off the pillow. She looked at him in bewilderment and placed her hand on his head where his dark hair had grown sticky around his hairline. “Gus,” she whispered. “It’s over now. Daddy’s not angry anymore.” Gus’s face seemed to implode and he began to sob again. “Darling, it’s all right. We’re not cross anymore.” Then more insistently, “Gus, pull yourself together.” Gus continued to sob. Miranda grabbed him under his arms and pulled him onto her knee so that she could hug him. He buried his face in her neck the way he had done as a small child. “What is it, darling?” she asked, holding him tightly.

“I don’t know,” he replied at last, his voice hoarse and his breathing ragged. “I don’t want to go to boarding school.”

There was nothing more she could do. She held him until he calmed down, then put him back into his bed, kissed his forehead and turned off the lights. He went to sleep quickly, his pale face suddenly sweet and innocent in repose. She gazed at him for a while, asking herself why she had such a troubled child. She didn’t imagine for a moment that it had anything to do with her.

David finished his bath and changed into a pair of chinos and a blue Ralph Lauren shirt. He was handsome, with shiny black hair, tanned skin and navy eyes framed by long eyelashes that would have looked too feminine on a less masculine face. David was strong and muscular from taking the time to work out every morning in the gym beneath his office. He was also vain. He dressed well, wore expensive after-shave, and worried constantly about hair loss. He was a man of self-confidence, having made a lot of money in the City, married a beautiful woman and bought a large country house while investing in a small pied-à-terre in Kensington. David had it all: the perfect family in Dorset and the perfect mistress in London. Two separate lives. Everything was as it should be. He felt he was only doing what every man had a right to do. He loved his wife; he didn’t love his mistress. But his wife could hardly expect him to remain celibate all week. Surely that was the deal. She gets the house in the country, he gets laid in London; no one gets hurt.

Downstairs, Miranda finished cooking the liver. She laid the table for two and waited for her husband to appear. Lighting a candle now seemed too theatrical, so she blew it out and put it away. It was all very unfair, she thought to herself. She cooked, washed up, kept the house clean, did the laundry, drove to Sainsbury’s once a week to do the shopping, looked after the children, on top of which she had her career. David just had the career. He didn’t have to think of anyone but himself. “Sod it,” she muttered and poured a third glass of wine. “It’s as if he doesn’t see me anymore.”

David was in a good mood when he appeared in the kitchen. Miranda was light-headed. He helped himself to dinner, then sat down.

“Darling, you’ve gone to so much trouble tonight.” He looked her over appreciatively. “I have a very beautiful wife.”

Her spirits leapt like a rekindled flame. “Thank you. Tell me about London, then I can live vicariously through you!”

“The same as when you left it, only colder,” he replied. She swallowed her disappointment and pressed for more details.

“Who have you been hanging out with?”

“Usual crowd, when I have time. I’ve been in the office until ten every night this week. I’m shattered.”

“How’s Blythe?” She had bumped into her old school friend at Gus’s judo class in Chelsea. After years of not seeing one another they had grown close again as Miranda supported her through an acrimonious divorce. “I keep trying to call her but I just get her answering machine. That’s what happens when you move to the country, all your friends forget about you!”

“She hasn’t forgotten about you. She’s been busy with lawyers and accountants, as you can imagine. In fact, I’ve been giving her a little advice,” he replied pompously, holding his fork in midair. “I told her she needs to manage her divorce like a business. She’s her own biggest client. She’s got to cut the best deal possible. It’s no good expecting the lawyer to sort it all out for her. He doesn’t know what she wants. He’s only thinking in terms of how much money he can get her and, as a percentage, how much he can get for himself. He might be the best in town, but she’s still got to tell him what she wants. I told her to write a list. This is the last-chance saloon. Once she’s closed the door, that’s it. There’ll be no going back to ask for the things she didn’t bother to mention. He’ll get away with everything and she’ll be left regretting her procrastination.”