The French Gardener(12)

“Did she listen to you?”

“I think so. The trouble is she’s overemotional, can’t see the forest for the trees. At the moment she just wants out. I told her money is important, at least for the sake of her son. She knows what’s good for her. I’m happy to help. I never liked her husband anyway. A real ass!”

“It’s shocking how many of our friends are divorcing,” Miranda sighed. “Once we get sorted we should invite Blythe and Rafael for the weekend. He’s a dear little boy and might be a good influence on Gus. Typical, isn’t it? We meet again after years, discover we’re neighbors, then I move down here. The boys were just getting to know each other.”

“So long as Gus doesn’t bite Rafael.”

“Let’s give it some time. Gus will settle.” Her face darkened a moment. The problem with Gus wasn’t going to go away.

“Do you think he should see someone?” she asked tentatively.

“A shrink?” David was appalled.

“Well, a child psychologist.”

“Over my dead body am I letting someone interfere with my son. There’s nothing wrong with Gus. Nothing that boarding school won’t put right.”

“But he doesn’t go for nearly another year—and he doesn’t want to go.”

“It’s a stage. He’ll grow out of it. You’ve just got to stay on top of it, Miranda. You’re the one around all week. It’s up to you.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me to run my family like a business. That Gus is my biggest client.” She let out a shallow laugh.

“No darling, he’s the business,” David corrected, quite seriously. “I’m your biggest client.”

After watching the news they both went to bed. David sat up reading The Economist while Miranda, drunk and exhausted, curled into a ball with a pillow over her eyes to block out the light, used to having the bed to herself. They didn’t make love. David made no advances and Miranda, while affronted that he didn’t desire her after a week apart, was rather relieved.

The following morning, Storm entertained herself playing in her bedroom, while Gus, banned from television, wandered into the woods to set traps for unsuspecting animals. David read the papers over breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, which Miranda cooked. She prepared to interview the gardener. “Do you want to see him with me?” she asked David, who, without taking his eyes from the Telegraph, replied that it was her department. “You’re Minister of Domestic Policy,” he said.

“And who are you?” she asked, irritated by his lack of interest.

“I’m prime minister,” he replied. “If you want a second opinion I’ll gladly give it. Otherwise, darling, I trust your judgment implicitly.”

Miranda sent David off to sample Cate’s coffee and waited in her study. She was tired of having to do everything herself. She recalled the army of builders and decorators she had marched down to Hartington to transform the house into her dream home. David had let her decorate it as she wished—her good taste was one of the reasons he had married her—and dutifully paid the bills without resistance. As minister of domestic policy, she was expected to build a home for him and their children. It didn’t occur to him to step down from his high office and help. It struck her that there was nothing they shared anymore. Even the children fell under her jurisdiction while he was the prime minister puppeteer, holding all the strings.



As she pondered the state of her marriage the doorbell rang and she hurried across the hall. She took a deep breath and prayed that Mr. Underwood would be the perfect gardener and added, while she was on the line to the Lord, that a cook and a housekeeper might follow. She opened the door to find a gnomelike man dressed in a brown jacket and trousers with a tweed cap set on an abundant crown of curly gray hair. When he saw her he hastily took off the cap and held it against his waistcoat.

“I’m Mr. Underwood, come about the gardening job,” he said in a broad Dorset accent. Miranda didn’t extend her hand; he looked as though he wouldn’t know what to do with it.

“Do come inside, Mr. Underwood,” she replied, stepping aside to let him pass into the hall. A gust of damp wind blew in with him. “Gosh, it is wet today,” she exclaimed, closing the door behind him. “I hate drizzle.”

“Global warming,” he said dolefully. “One day it’s as hot as summer, the next it’s as cold as Siberia! These days you don’t know what to expect.”

“Please come into my study, Mr. Underwood.” He followed her, casting his eyes over the flagstone floor and freshly painted cream walls. There was a large, empty fireplace where logs should have been burning and a pretty rug where one would expect a couple of sleeping dogs. When the Lightlys had owned Hartington there was always a fire in the grate and a cheery flower arrangement on the wide refectory table in the hall. The round table that now took its place looked lonely with only a lifeless sculpture positioned on top.