The French Gardener(6)
Cate Sharpe was perched at a round table chatting to Henrietta Moon who owned the gift shop. Cate’s brown hair was cut into a severe bob, framing a thin, pale face with bitter chocolate eyes and a small mouth above a weak chin. “You know, Henrietta,” she said, letting her vowels slip lazily. “You shouldn’t drink hot chocolate if you’re trying to lose weight. If I had a weight battle like you, I’d drink coffee. It gets the metabolism going.” Henrietta smiled, a defense mechanism she had adopted in childhood. She shook her head so that her long chestnut hair fell over her face, and took a deep breath.
“I’ve given up dieting,” she explained. It wasn’t true, but it was easier to pretend she didn’t care. “Life is too short.”
Cate put her hand on Henrietta’s in a motherly way, although Henrietta was thirty-eight, only seven years younger than Cate. “Look, you know I think the world of you, but if you don’t do something about it your life will be a hell of a lot shorter. You’re a pretty woman. If you lost the odd stone you’d have more chance of finding a man. I hate to say it,” she added smugly, “but men are put off by large women. That amount of flesh just isn’t attractive. I can say that to you, can’t I, because I’m your friend and you know I have your best interests at heart.” Henrietta simply nodded and gulped down a mouthful of chocolate. “Quiet today, isn’t it?” Henrietta nodded again. “Can’t be easy, though, working opposite a cake shop!” Cate laughed. Cate, who owned a cake shop and never gained an ounce. Cate, who was always impeccably dressed in little skirts with nipped-in waists and tidy cardigans, whose white apron embroidered in pretty pink with the name of the shop never carried a single stain. Cate, whom no one liked, not even her own husband. Henrietta’s eyes glazed as Cate rattled on about herself.
Henrietta’s mouth watered as she surveyed the cakes on the counter. It was so cold outside—a cake would add some insulation. However, Cate sat between her and the counter like Cerberus, destroying any hope of wicked indulgence. At that moment the door opened and in walked Miranda Claybourne. Both Cate and Henrietta recognized her immediately: the snooty Londoner who had moved into Hartington House.
“Good morning,” said Miranda, smiling graciously. She pushed her Chanel sunglasses to the top of her head and strode across the black and white tiled floor. The place was very pink. Pink walls, pink blinds, pink baskets of delicious looking cakes all neatly lined up in rows. Finding no one behind the counter she turned to the two women. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
“You mean me,” said Cate, getting up. “I’m Cate.”
“Miranda Claybourne,” Miranda replied, extending her hand. “I’ve just moved down here and need to hire some help. Jeremy Fitzherbert, our neighbor, says you’re the person to talk to. Apparently this is the heart of Hartington.” She chuckled at her own pun.
Cate was flattered. She proffered Miranda a hand limp and moist like dough.
“Well, I know everyone and this place is usually buzzing. I have a notice board over there.” She pointed to the wall by the door where a corkboard was littered with small pieces of paper. “Can I offer you a coffee?” Cate was damned if she was going to let the new arrival get away. Miranda was reluctant but there was something in Cate’s demeanor that suggested she’d take offense if Miranda declined.
“I’d love to,” she said, thinking momentarily of Gus alone at home before slipping out of her Prada coat and taking a seat at the round table. Cate brought over a pink cupcake and a cup of coffee and placed them in front of their guest. Henrietta gazed at the cake longingly.
“Gorgeous coat!” Cate said, sitting down. “Oh, this is Henrietta,” she added as an afterthought. “She owns the gift shop.”
“We have met,” said Henrietta, who would never expect a woman like Miranda Claybourne to remember her. “You’ve been into my shop.”
“Oh, yes,” Miranda replied, recalling the hurried purchase of a scented candle and some notepaper. “Of course we have.”
Henrietta lowered her eyes; she’d never seen anyone more glamorous in her life.
“So?” Cate persisted. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” Miranda replied, reluctant to talk about herself. There wasn’t much positive to say and she didn’t want to offend them.
“What sort of help do you require?” Henrietta asked. Miranda noticed what beautiful skin she had, like smooth toffee. She must have been in her late thirties and yet she hadn’t a single line. She wanted to ask what products she used on her face, but didn’t want to strike up a friendship. Miranda took a sip of coffee. It was delicious; she needn’t have lamented the absence of a Caffè Nero after all.