The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore Read Free Book Online Page B

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 theroom. 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.
     
    The following morning Gus wandered around to the front of the house and saw an old Fiat parked on the gravel. He looked at it curiously. It was rusting, muddy and the pale gray paint was peeling. In the backseat sat a springer spaniel breathing fog on the windows. He tapped his knuckle againstthe glass. The dog wagged his tail. Gus wondered who the dog belonged to. When he walked away the animal began to bark. “Shut up, you silly mutt!” he shouted.
    “Who are you calling a silly mutt? Not my Ranger, I hope.” Gus was stunned to see a strange woman standing at the front door of his home, her hands on wide hips, who fixed him with narrowed eyes. “You’ll be young Gus, then,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. Her jaw was as square as a spade. The boy knew instinctively that this was a woman one didn’t