The French Gardener(69)
When Miranda arrived at Troy’s, Henrietta was already there, biting into a hot croissant. The salon smelled sweet, of shampoo and hair spray, and the heating was on high. She took off her navy cashmere Celine coat—it had looked so forlorn in her closet she felt it was only fair to take it out, although it was much too glamorous for Hartington—and put her sunglasses in their case. Troy hissed at her to hurry to the back before Cate looked out her window. The three of them sat huddled in the little room, amongst boxes of products and a desk piled high with paperwork. The air was charged with excitement. It wasn’t often that they defied Cate. “If she finds out, we’re in shit,” said Troy, handing Miranda a mug of tea.
“Then she’ll never tell us when that gorgeous Frenchman comes in again,” added Henrietta.
“We’re all in love.” Troy sighed dramatically.
“Who with?” Miranda asked.
“He’s a mystery Frenchman,” said Henrietta breathlessly. “He first came in October. We thought he was a tourist. Now he’s back. We’ve spotted him across the road. He has black coffee and a croissant for breakfast. But as much as Cate asks him about himself, and you know her, she can be quite persuasive, he won’t reveal anything!”
“You’re not talking about my Frenchman, are you?” They both stared.
“I didn’t know you had one, darling,” said Troy.
“I don’t have him. He works for me. In his fifties, very good-looking, deep-set brown eyes, longish graying hair, devastating smile.”
“Oh my GOD!” Troy gasped. “He is your Frenchman! What does he do for you?”
“He gardens.”
“Gardens?” they repeated in unison.
“Yes, he’s a gardener.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Henrietta. “He’s a film producer or a writer. He can’t be a gardener!”
“Well, he is,” Miranda replied simply.
“How on earth did you find him?” asked Troy.
“He found me, actually. It’s a long story.”
“We have all morning.”
Miranda recounted the tale during which time neither Troy nor Henrietta said a single word. “So,” she concluded, “he brought Storm home and we got talking. I asked him what he did and he said he gardened. I asked him if he’d do ours and he accepted without hesitation. It was very bizarre.”
“Is he married?” Henrietta asked.
“No,” Miranda replied.
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed, determined to start a new diet as soon as she’d finished her croissant.
“Is he gay?” asked Troy.
“That I don’t know,” said Miranda. She flushed as she recalled her improper thoughts. “But I doubt it. Just a hunch.”
“How do you control yourself during the week when your husband’s in London?” Troy asked.
“I don’t fancy him,” she lied, giving a little shrug.
“That just goes to show what a happy marriage you have,” said Henrietta, sighing with envy.
“Your husband must be mad with jealousy,” said Troy.
“Miranda’s husband is very attractive, Troy.”
“But not as attractive as the Frenchman. What’s his name?”
“Jean-Paul,” said Miranda.
“Oh God! How sexy! Jean-Paul. Isn’t it irritating that Cate was right all along?”
“What do you mean?” asked Miranda, sipping her tea.
“She insisted you found your gardener thanks to her notice board.”
“Well, she’s wrong then, isn’t she,” Miranda retorted.
“No,” said Henrietta slowly. “We saw him in Cate’s in October. He asked her about the house, who lived there. That’s why we assumed he was a tourist.”
Miranda put down her mug and frowned. “Did he see my notice?”
“He couldn’t miss it, darling,” said Troy. “Everyone in Hartington saw your notice.”
Miranda suddenly felt uncomfortable. “He never said anything about it when I spoke to him.”
“You probably jumped in there before he had a chance,” suggested Henrietta.
“Yes, you’re right. I think I did. I barely gave him a moment. I get like that when I’m nervous. A little too loquacious.”
Troy grinned. “So you did fancy him?”
Miranda grinned back. “A little, but not anymore,” she added hastily.
“What a relief!” he exclaimed. “She’s human after all!”
Miranda drove home, dispelling her doubts about Jean-Paul. There was no reason for him to mention her advert. Perhaps he hadn’t considered the job until she spoke to him about it. After all, it was Storm who brought him to the house. He might not have come otherwise.