“Phillip?”
“Mr. Lightly. He’s much older than his wife. He suffered a stroke.” She hissed the phrase as if it were a heavily guarded secret. “She looks after him herself. She’s a good woman.”
“Where did they move to?”
“I don’t know. They left quietly. They didn’t want a fuss.” The vicar inhaled, lowering her lids over bulging brown eyes. “A most respectable couple. An example to us all.”
Cate brought Miranda her coffee. “I met your husband on Saturday,” she said, watching Miranda pour hot milk into the cup.
“He enjoyed your coffee.”
“Of course. He was very friendly, talking to everyone in here, making lots of new friends. He’s very charming.” Miranda half-expected her to finish with the words: not like you. Cate hovered a moment, waiting for Miranda to continue the conversation, then moved away with a little sniff. Miranda didn’t mind if she was offended: she didn’t want everyone knowing her business.
She turned her thoughts to her children, hoping Gus was behaving himself at school. Storm had been in a bright mood that morning, chattering away about the magic in the garden that Jean-Paul was going to show her. Miranda had found her in her playhouse talking to her cushions, telling them all about a special friend she had found by the river. Miranda was surprised he had made such a big impression. Storm talked of nothing else but Jean-Paul, the magic, some sort of tree and returning to see the cows. “They know me now,” she had told her mother. “They’ll recognize me when I go back. Jean-Paul said so.” Miranda recalled the kind expression in Jean-Paul’s eyes, the deep crows’-feet that cut into his brown skin. The way his smile had illuminated his face like a beautiful dawn. He didn’t look like a gardener. Mr. Underwood looked like a gardener, but Jean-Paul looked like a film star.
Miranda paid for her coffee and left, striding purposefully into the bright, sunny street. She pulled her Chanel sunglasses out of her handbag and walked up the road towards the car park. The air was crisp, the shadows inky blue from the rainfall in the night. She felt a spring in her step. Was it the coffee or the knowledge that Jean-Paul was returning by the end of the month?
“She didn’t even say thank you!” Cate exclaimed when Miranda had gone. Troy looked at Henrietta and frowned.
“For her coffee?” he said.
“No, for finding her a gardener and a cook!”
“You don’t know that you did,” said Troy.
Henrietta watched him in awe; she would never have dared talk to Cate like that. Cate who was always right. Cate who knew everything.
“Of course I did. Thanks to the notice on my board. How very rude!” She cleared away the cup and milk jug from Miranda’s table with an impatient huff. “I told you she was snooty. Can’t think what that delightful husband is doing married to her.” She walked past Troy and leaned over. “Forget the Frenchman, darling. Miranda’s husband is gorgeous and if she continues to walk around with a face like a boot, he’ll soon be free.” She tossed Henrietta a look. “Lose a stone and you can have him, too!” Troy put a hand on his friend’s and waited for Cate to disappear into the small kitchen behind the counter.
“Don’t listen to her, Etta. She’s in one of her moods. I love you just the way you are. If I were straight, I’d marry you in an instant.”
“Thank you,” said Henrietta, her eyes glistening with gratitude.
“Imagine the bruises poor Nigel suffers from having to lie on her night after night. You’d be delicious to lie on. Soft and warm. No bruises from protruding bones.” Henrietta blushed. “Some man is going to be very lucky indeed to find you.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone,” Henrietta sniffed. “I’m fat and dull.”
“Fat and dull!” Troy exclaimed. “Listen to yourself! You’re neither fat nor dull. You’re lovely and sweet, with no side. You shouldn’t let her treat you like that.” He patted her hand again. “Come on, let’s get out of here before she comes back. She’s a poisonous old thing with a hairy face.” Henrietta looked confused. “Haven’t you noticed? She’s got a face as furry as my cat’s underbelly. She’s chucking up after every meal. You don’t think she stays that thin naturally, do you? She’s got more problems than you’ve got insecurities.”
“She must have a lot then!”
“Riddled, darling. Positively riddled. Why don’t you come in at five and I’ll give you a blow dry. Nothing like a hairdo to lift the spirits.”