The French Gardener(14)
David returned from Cate’s Cake Shop in a good mood. He strode into the kitchen where Miranda was roasting a chicken and grabbed her around the waist, kissing her neck behind her ponytail. “You were right about that coffee. It’s given me a real buzz. Charming people, too. I can’t think why we never explored before. It’s a quaint place.”
“Do you like it?” She turned to face him, leaning back against the Aga.
“I had a little chat with the locals, gave them a bit of advice about their businesses.” He smiled mischievously.
“Oh, David, you didn’t?”
“Of course I didn’t. What do you take me for, a pompous ass?”
“I should hope not!”
“I chatted to Cate, who’s definitely hot for me. Colonel Pike—asked him a bit about the war. They all knew who I was. Of course, I can’t remember them all by name, but they were suitably deferential. I think I’m going to enjoy being lord of the manor. Should spend a little more time down here. It’s like living fifty years ago. Can’t think why we didn’t move out sooner.”
“That Cate’s a snake in the grass. Watch out for her.”
“Saw your notice up on the board. Sweet!”
“It’s not sweet. It’s practical. You’ll see, it’ll do the trick.”
“Let’s hope so. The lady of the manor shouldn’t be getting her fingers dirty in the garden and cleaning the house. I want my wife to have the smooth hands of a duchess.”
“Lucky my work is all at the computer then, isn’t it?”
“How did your meeting with Mr. Underwood go?”
“He’ll do, for the moment. We still need a proper gardener. He can do odd jobs, raking leaves, mowing, logs, that sort of thing. His wife is coming to cook lunch tomorrow. She used to cook for the previous owners.”
“I’m impressed, darling.” He lifted her chin. “I never thought you’d pull it all together.”
“I’ve been so busy…” He silenced her with a kiss.
“Shhh. Don’t forget your biggest client!”
IV
The crab-apple tree laden with fruit
Miranda awoke in the middle of the night. David lay on his stomach, fast asleep. She watched him for a moment, his back rising and falling in the silvery light of the moon that entered through the gap in the curtains. Lying there beside her he looked like a stranger, remote and out of reach. She could almost feel the heat of his body and yet he was so very far away. They seemed not to connect anymore, as if the miles that separated them had distanced them spiritually, too. She listened to the wind whistling over the roof of the house and felt an ache of loneliness, an ache she usually suppressed by being busy. After a while she climbed out of bed, slipped into her dressing gown and padded into her walk-in closet. She closed the door and turned on the light. Decorated like a boutique with shelves and drawers in mahogany, it was the room she had particularly looked forward to: an entire room dedicated to her clothes. Now the dresses and suits which hung neatly on wooden hangers divided by season and occasion seemed redundant. She laughed bitterly. What occasion? She had nothing to go to down here. She had no friends. Even her friends in London were beginning to forget she existed.
One by one she pulled the dresses out, gazing at them longingly. She was talking to herself. You, darling little Dolce number. With the Celine handbag and Jimmy Choo shoes, you cut a dash at the charity ball at the Dorchester and at David’s fortieth birthday party. Together we turned every head in the room. And you, Tulah trouser suit with your pretty shoulders and long trousers, with those Louboutin heels and Anya Hindmarch handbag, you carried me through those girls’ lunches in Knightsbridge and committee meetings for Haven Breast Cancer. And you, little black Prada dress, a must-have for any woman worth her fashion credentials, now you sit like a ghost from my old life with boxes and boxes of exquisite shoes and barely used handbags. In London I always felt glamorous. I always had confidence. But down here, in Hartington, I’m disappearing. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m losing my sense of self.
With increasing regret she opened each shoe box and took out the shoes, holding them up and turning them around in her hands as a jewelry expert might look at diamonds in the light. She was only thirty-three and yet she felt life was over. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror she was struck by how stringy she looked. She didn’t have the youthful bloom she was once envied for; there were blue-gray shadows under her eyes and her skin was pale and sallow. She had to get a grip. Sort herself out. Go running, meet people, invite friends for the weekend. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow in self-pity, that wouldn’t keep David interested. The thought of hitting Ralph Lauren for a stylish country wardrobe made her spirits rise before she realized she had no one to leave the children with. If only she could get away for a day, Bond Street would surely resuscitate her. Those who think money doesn’t buy happiness just don’t know where to shop, she remembered with a wry smile, turning off the light and returning to bed. David slept on, oblivious of his wife’s unhappiness.