“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 some 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.
With a racing heart she flicked through letters addressed to Monsieur de la Grandière of Château les Lucioles. Could Jean-Paul live in a château? She recalled him saying he had grown up on a vineyard. She hadn’t imagined he might own it. Her curiosity aroused, she went on looking through the papers. There were balance sheets of figures she didn’t understand, but she could understand vintages and years and the French word for wine. It didn’t take long to convince herself that Jean-Paul de la Grandière owned a vineyard in Bordeaux. That while he was her gardener, he was also a businessman. There was nothing wrong with that, she thought. He had never pretended to live in England. The fact that he hadn’t told her meant nothing. She had never asked. She had hired him as her gardener and he had done his job beautifully.