The French Gardener(134)

“Mr. Frenchman—I thought it was a coincidence when he just happened to saunter into my home and offer his services as gardener. You know, now I think about it, when I asked him what he did, he said ‘I garden.’ He never said he was a gardener. ‘I garden, why not?’ It’s only now, with hindsight, that it sounds odd. He owns a beautiful vineyard in France. No wonder he never asked about money. He’s a rich man. Only love could make a man of his means and status work as a lowly gardener and live in a little cottage! He said he’d bring the gardens back to life and he has. But he can’t bring Ava back to life. She’s dead.”

Henrietta paled. “Dead?”

“I rang her up and spoke to her daughter.”

“Have you told Jean-Paul?”

“Not yet. I’m too frightened.”

“You have to tell him! You have to give him the scrapbook. It’s his by right.”

“At least he’ll know how much she loved him.”

“You have to tell him that you found the cottage as a shrine to their love. The table laid for two, the teapot and cups. The house kept as if they had just gone out for a walk and never returned. It’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

“But there’s more, Etta.”

“You have to tell me. I can’t stand it!”

“Peach, the daughter I spoke to, is his.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain. She writes it clearly in the book. After Jean-Paul returned to France, Ava realized she was pregnant. She writes that Phillip thought the baby looked just like her, but she saw Jean-Paul’s smile. She called her Peach, which is what Jean-Paul called her—ma pêche.” Miranda began to cry. “Do you know what she said? She said that every smile her daughter gave her was a gift.”

The two women sat at the table, tears streaming down their cheeks. The waiter came to take the trolley away, took one look at them, apologized and withdrew like a scalded penguin.

“What must we look like?” said Henrietta, laughing through her tears.

“There’s only one thing that doesn’t add up. If Ava knew she was dying and wanted him to have the scrapbook, why didn’t she just send it?”

Henrietta looked as perplexed as Miranda. “Maybe she only wanted him to have it if he kept his side of the bargain. She couldn’t send it out of the blue, just in case he had married and forgotten about her. It had been over twenty years. But if he came back for her, as he promised he would, then he’d find it. He’d deserve it. Do you see?”

“You know, that’s possible. I’m amazed you can think clearly with the amount of wine you’ve drunk.”

“It’s made me more lucid.” Henrietta laughed. “Do you think he’ll be hurt that Ava never told him about Peach?”

“Yes, but the M. F. of the book would understand. She couldn’t tell him. Can you imagine the complications? The only way she could protect her family was to keep it secret.”

“Do you think Phillip ever wondered?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. She never thought that he suspected.”

“It’s the stuff of a novel.”

“I know,” said Miranda.

“You could write it,” Henrietta suggested.

“I could, but would that be fair?” She didn’t dare tell Henrietta that she’d already written it. It suddenly felt wrong, like walking over Ava’s grave.

“Artistic license. You could base it on truth, but make it your own.”

Miranda leaned forward. “You know, I think Ava would want me to write it.” She remembered the smell of orange blossom that filled the room whenever she sat down to work. “Don’t ask me how, but I think she would.”



The following day Miranda and Henrietta hit the shops. They went to Harvey Nichols, wandered up Sloane Street, then headed to Selfridges after lunch at Le Caprice. The celebrated Pandora awaited them with flutes of champagne and her own confident sense of style. Miranda sat in a comfortable chair in the private room while Pandora pulled dresses and coats, trousers and jackets off the rail she had prepared earlier. Henrietta did as she was told and tried everything on. “I know a lot of these are shapes you’ve never imagined you’d wear,” said Pandora, her perfect teeth pearly white against her summer tan. “But Miranda said she wanted you to have a complete makeover—a Trinny and Susannah makeover.” Pandora held up a bra and laughed. “The secret of their success is the bra! Now it’s going to be the secret of your success.”

The bags were too big and too numerous to carry back to the hotel themselves, so Pandora arranged for them to be delivered that evening. Henrietta was overwhelmed by Miranda’s generosity. “This is giving me more pleasure than it’s giving you,” said Miranda, slipping her hand through Henrietta’s arm. “I used to live for shopping, now I don’t care for it as much. I’m looking forward to my massage though.”