The French Gardener(133)
That night they had dinner in their suite, in their dressing gowns. The waiter brought it in on a trolley, the dishes kept warm beneath large silver domes. Henrietta was so enchanted she drank far too much wine and ate everything on her plate including the little red pepper which she hated.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a terrible friend,” said Miranda, fortifying herself with a glass of wine. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that David and I have separated for the time being. I caught him sleeping with an old friend of mine. A girl I’ve known since school. He’d been having an affair with her for months.”
“I had heard something along those lines. I didn’t want to ask…”
“I hadn’t seen her for years then bumped into her in London. Her son’s the same age as Gus.”
“You don’t expect to be betrayed by a friend like that.”
“But she wasn’t a real friend, was she? Just because we were close at school. A lot of water’s gone under the bridge since then. We’re very different people. School bonded us, but besides Gus and Rafael, we don’t have anything in common—except David, of course.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. Life’s a bummer. I would have told you, but I needed to get it all sorted in my head first. Anyway, he’s apologized.”
“Do you still love him?”
Miranda took a swig of wine and narrowed her eyes. “I think I do.”
“You think you do?” Henrietta wondered how it was possible not to know.
“I’ve been rather distracted lately.” Miranda deliberated whether or not to tell her. She had to tell someone, the secret was burning a hole in her heart.
“What could possibly distract you from worrying about your marriage?”
Miranda laughed. “I know, it’s silly. I don’t really understand it myself. To be honest, I’m glad something’s hotter than David. It’s Jean-Paul.”
“You’re not in love with him, are you?”
“No, and that would make two of us,” said Miranda, grinning knowingly at her friend. “You’re not in love with Jean-Paul either, are you?” Henrietta shook her head. “Who then? There’s someone, I can tell by the look on your face.” Miranda needed to hear of someone else’s happiness like a ray of light through the darkness that now enveloped her.
“I want to hear your story first,” said Henrietta.
“I’ll only tell you, if you tell me who you’re in love with.”
“Jeremy Fitzherbert. There, now I’ve said it.”
Miranda was surprised. She sat back in her chair and stared at Henrietta, suddenly seeing her in a completely different light. “Jeremy Fitzherbert. I’d never have put you two together. But now you mention it, I can’t believe I never did. How far has it gone?”
“Oh, not very far,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes and turning the color of the pepper she had foolishly consumed. “We haven’t even kissed. Maybe he doesn’t want to.”
“Don’t be silly. If you’re not kissing, what are you doing?”
“We’ve spent some time together. He comes into my shop.”
“He must have a shop of his own by now,” said Miranda.
“He’s sweet.”
“He’s handsome. I remember the first time I met him, I noticed his eyes. They’re very blue.”
“Yes, they are, aren’t they?”
“Well, get on with it. Why don’t you make the first move?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Then you have to give him more encouragement.”
“I’m sure he knows.”
“Then why isn’t he making a move?”
“Because he’s shy.”
“No, he isn’t. He’s not sure you feel the same way.”
“Perhaps he just wants to be my friend.”
Miranda nearly choked on her wine. “No man is going to go to all that trouble for friendship—unless he’s gay.”
“Like Troy,” said Henrietta, her smile turning wistful. “So, what’s your secret?”
Miranda drained her glass and poured another. “I’ll begin at the very beginning…”
“That’s always a good place,” giggled Henrietta, feeling deliciously light-headed.
“…with a scrapbook I found in the little cottage on the estate…”
Henrietta listened while Miranda told her of Ava Lightly, her affair with a mystery man she called M. F. and the gardens they had planted together. “The man Ava referred to as M. F. is Jean-Paul.”
“Oh my God!” Henrietta gasped. “Are you sure?”