The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore

Author:Santa Montefiore [Montefiore, Santa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
ISBN: 9781416987154
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2009-05-22T00:00:00+00:00

Miranda had arrived in London early, hitting Peter Jones as it opened at 9:30. She inhaled the smell of carbon monoxide and felt a shiver of happiness. She was back where she belonged. The traffic rumbled, horns hooted, sirens screamed, people shouted, the pavements were crowded with jostling bodies. No one looked anyone in the eye, everyone went about their own business anonymously. She noticed no one smiled. But she did, from ear to ear.

She spent all morning buying presents. She went to Daisy & Tom for the children, where laughing toddlers rode the carousel and upstairs sat enthralled by the Peter and the Wolf puppet show. She bought David a couple of sweaters from Yves Saint Laurent on Sloane Street and a pair of shoes from Tod’s. Finally, inside the temple that was Harvey Nichols, she wandered about slowly, relishing the familiar smell of perfume, gazing at the counters laden with boxed gifts and glittering pots of creams promising eternal youth. It was her wonderland. She bought some Trish McEvoy makeup in celebration of her return.

By lunchtime she had ticked almost everything off her list, except for the children’s stocking fillers, the majority of which she’d buy in Hartington. She made her way to the fifth floor to meet Blythe and Anoushka for lunch. Catching herself in the mirror as she stood on the escalator, she was satisfied that although she lived in the countryside, she still retained her urban glamour. In jeans tucked into leather boots, a gold, fur-trimmed Prada ski jacket and Anya Hindmarch handbag, she felt confident that her girlfriends would be impressed.

She found them already sitting at the table, heads close together, gossiping. “Hello, girls,” she said, standing before them. They sprang apart, clocking the jacket and bag almost before they greeted her.

“Darling, you look gorgeous,” said Blythe, her green cat’s eyes sliding silkily up and down Miranda’s body in appreciation. “No one can say the country isn’t doing you good!”

“Thank you,” she replied, sitting down. She kissed them both, almost tasting their perfume on her lips.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” said Anoushka in her Anglo-American drawl. “Where are the boots from?” She tossed her wavy blond hair, aware of the man at the next-door table appraising her.

“Tod’s,” she replied.

“This season?” Anoushka’s voice had an edge to it.

“Yes.”

“They look great. I wonder if they’ve got any left. You don’t mind if I just call them quickly, do you?” She pulled out her mobile telephone and pressed the numbers with blood-red fingernails.

“So,” said Blythe. “How’s it all going down there?”

“It’s taken a while, but I’m beginning to settle in now. You’ll have to come and stay after Christmas.”

“I’d love to, when I’m back. We’re off to Mauritius for ten days. I’ve rented the private villa at the Saint Géran. The bastard has made me so miserable I have no qualms about spending his money. You know he’s dragging the whole thing on and on and on. I bet he won’t give me a divorce for the full two years.

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