The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore

river,” his mother added. “We have to clean it out for the new gardener.”
    “He’s my friend,” said Storm.
    “What gardener?” Gus asked, feeling cornered. Everyone knew but him.
    “A nice Frenchman is going to do the garden for us and he’s going to live in the cottage.”
    “But it’s my secret place!” Gus protested.
    “You’ll have to find another,” said Miranda. Storm smirked at her brother, thinking of the hollow tree. That was her secret place and she wasn’t going to share it with Gus.
    That evening Miranda called David on his mobile phone to explain about Jean-Paul. To her surprise he accepted the news without question. He was short with her and distracted, which was just as well; had she told him any other time, he might have taken more interest.
    David turned to his mistress with a sigh. “That was Miranda,” he said, tossing his mobile on the bed. “She’s found a gardener.”
    Blythe ran her fingers across his chest. “Lady Chatterley,” she giggled. “Beware!”
    “I don’t think my wife has it in her.”
    “Oh, I think there’s a little of Lady Chatterley in all of us.”
    “She’s too much of a snob,” he said.
    “Have you seen him?”
    “I doubt he’s competition. He’s a gardener, for Christ’s sake!”
    “She might like a bit of rough.”
    “Miranda?”
    “I’m joking.” She kissed him. “Oh Romeo, I’ve really got you going, haven’t I?”
    “And now I will punish you!”
    He climbed on top of her and spread her legs with his knees. He had enjoyed his wife after lunch and now he was enjoying his mistress. The thing about sex was that the more he had the more he wanted. He pressed his mouth against hers and parted her lips, sliding his tongue inside to silence her. She lay like a starfish, open for him to take as he pleased. Her own husband had never been so masterful. Aroused by the thought of the two women in his life, both beautiful, both his, David entered her for the second time with triumph. He was the king of his world.

VI
Our cottage in summer when the sweet scent of honeysuckle is carried up on the breeze
    Cate’s Cake Shop was busy for a Monday morning. Colonel Pike sat in the corner by the window reading The Times , a cup of coffee steaming on the table beside a hot buttered crumpet. Every now and then his mustache would twitch at something he found offensive and he’d mutter under his breath. The Reverend Freda Beeley was enjoying tea with a couple of her choir members, Jack Tinton and Malcolm Shawditch, discussing their plans for Christmas and the carol concert to raise money to repair the church spire. Two elderly ladies sat gossiping about their friend Joan Halesham who had left her husband of sixty-two years for her old school sweetheart. “Sixty-two years!” exclaimed Dorothy Dipwood. “What’s the point of exchanging one old codger for another? After eighty they’re all the same, aren’t they? Especially when one’s as blind as Joan.” William van den Bos, an avid collector of Napoleona who owned the bookshop, was at the table nearest the cakes, tucking into a large slice of lemon drizzle and talking to a man who had telephoned claiming to own Napoleon’s chamber pot. “I’m extremely interested in the chamber pot,” said William, dapper in a three-piece tweed suit, complete with gold dress-watch and monocle. “But I must be sure it’s the real thing. I’ve been offered three penises by three different collectors in the last month. One simply can’t be too careful.”
    Henrietta hadn’t yet opened her gift shop and was sitting with Troy, whose first appointment of the day had been canceled. “She always does this to me,” he complained. “And she asked me to come in half an hour early. Bitch!” But what interested them more than anything else was the attractive Frenchman who had sat alone in the shop the day before. “He barely uttered a word,” said Cate, perching tidily at Henrietta and Troy’s table. “But what