Sowing Secrets (11 page)

‘Well, that’s a novelty at least,’ he said, grinning. ‘Women I’ve never even clapped eyes on have sold stories to the papers saying they’ve had affairs with me, yet you want me to pretend I never met you.’

‘Yes, of course I do!’ I said angrily. ‘Maybe you think I should be grateful you remembered me, but it’s not like it’s something I’d want to boast about, is it? I have a family now and obviously my husband doesn’t know anything about you so—’

‘OK, I get the idea, Mrs Fran March:
I
won’t tell if
you
don’t.’ He leaned forward so close that one damp curl touched my face, and whispered thrillingly, ‘Fear not, fair maiden, your secret is safe with me! How many years ago was it?’

‘Too many to count – over twenty, at least,’ I said firmly.

‘It’s all coming back to me – and it was quite a night!’

I pushed past him rudely and he followed after me.

‘Sorry, Maddie—’

‘Fran!’

‘Sorry, Fran!’ His voice still sounded annoyingly amused. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing any kiss-and-tell stuff. I’ve been the victim of that sort of thing myself. Besides, it wasn’t such a big deal, was it?’

‘No,’ I said shortly and perhaps with unflattering emphasis. ‘No, it wasn’t!’

I was having another ‘Thriller’ moment, what with him almost silently following me through the Gothic gloom, so I stopped to let him pass me on the landing.

His face looked unfathomably serious, as though he was trying to work out if he’d been insulted or not. He paused uncertainly. ‘Right – so, let’s just start again like we first met up at Plas Gwyn. And much though I’d like to stay and talk to you some more, I’ve got to get off back to London right now.’

‘And
I
need to get home,’ I said pointedly. ‘I’ve got work to do!’

‘Oh? What kind of work?’

‘Graphic design.’

‘Interesting … and look, I love the cottage, so don’t sell it before I come back for a longer viewing, in daylight! An official one this time, with an appointment.’

‘That’s entirely up to my mother, but it has only just gone on the market.’ I followed him back down the narrow stairs, noting how his shoulders brushed the walls on either side and his hair formed little spirals like damp silkworm cocoons all over his head. It was odd and slightly unbelievable to think that I had ever gone to bed with this man … and even more to imagine he had any connection with Rosie.

Oh God,
Rosie
! What if they met and he let something slip so that she guessed he was my mysterious gardener? I prayed he would go away and never come back … and then remembered that poor Rhodri, at least, was desperate that he did.

‘Mr Weston, what did you think of Plas Gwyn?’ I asked cautiously.

‘I think we could be on first-name terms, Fran, don’t you?’ he said, looking over his shoulder at me with a wicked smile.

One good shove and all my troubles would have been over. The thought might have shown on my face, because he stopped smiling and carried on down the stairs.

‘Plas Gwyn is a little gem. I’ll look at the photocopied documents and then make my mind up later, but it certainly made an impression on me.’

It was pouring again, and when he realised I intended walking he insisted on driving me home. God knows what the Wevills will make of that, but something imaginative, I’m sure, despite the tinted windows preventing them from seeing him properly.

His last words were, ‘I’ll be in touch – Maddie!’

I sincerely hope he isn’t seriously interested in the cottage, because there are already more bloody snakes than grass in my little Eden, and the idea of him living here is too disturbing to contemplate.

And even if we
were
in agreement about forgetting our one little bit of shared history, I suspect he wouldn’t be able to resist teasing me about it whenever we met.

I had a horrible feeling my mother would adore him.

‘And
then
he insisted on dropping me home on his way back to London, because it was raining so hard,’ I told Nia on the phone later. ‘And the Wevills’ car was back on their own drive: it’s odd how it almost never seems to be blocking mine whenever anyone else is around, isn’t it? Uncanny.’

‘Maybe they have second sight,’ she suggested. ‘If I hadn’t seen it there myself, perhaps I’d think you were imagining it too.’

‘I bet they saw me with Gabe Weston, though since his car has tinted windows they won’t have known who he was, unless news of his visit has got out.’

‘I don’t think it has yet: you, Carrie, Rhodri and me are the only ones who know.’

‘And Dottie,’ I reminded her. ‘If she hadn’t told Gabe to leave by the tradesmen’s entrance he wouldn’t have spotted Fairy Glen and rumbled me.’

‘Well, it didn’t turn out so bad, did it? If he managed to see through that disguise then you clearly made a lasting impression on him, which must be sort of flattering.’

‘I suppose so … but he seemed to find it amusing that I wanted to keep it quiet that we’d ever met before!’

‘That’s not surprising when you think of those newspaper articles about him, not to mention the paternity-claim stuff! Someone desperately trying to pretend she’d never met him in her life was probably a refreshing change, and he did promise he would keep it secret, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, and I’m pretty sure he meant it, only he couldn’t resist teasing me about it. And I sort of inadvertently cast a slur on his performance in bed too … ’

‘You did? I thought you said you couldn’t remember much about that night.’

‘Um … just bits,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘And I did say “inadvertently”: I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’

‘Oh, well, then all you have to do is send him a postcard with “By the way, your performance in bed left a lasting impression on me too”,’ she said helpfully.

‘I don’t think so, he might ask me what kind. Nia, when we were talking it was really hard to believe that I’d once slept with him! He was sort of familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. What did you think of him?’

‘Tall, attractive, strong, a voice that could charm the birds off the trees, those fascinating greeny-hazel eyes, the cleft in his chin, the way his mouth goes up at one corner when he smiles—’

‘I could see that myself,’ I interrupted. ‘And he’s already charmed this bird off her tree once. I meant, what did you make of the man himself?’

‘Oh, I liked him. He came back and talked to me this morning after you’d gone, and he certainly knows a lot about old houses and garden design. I told him all about the renovations and Rhodri’s plans for Plas Gwyn, and he seemed really interested. Fingers crossed we make the shortlist!’

‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘And at least if he does I’ve got the worst over with now, haven’t I? I’d only have to concentrate on forgetting we’ve got a little slice of shared past when other people are around – especially Mal.’ I looked up and caught sight of the clock. ‘I’d better go and see how the dinner is doing – Mal’s arriving back any minute so I’m cooking something special. What are you doing tonight?’

‘I’m going up to have supper with Rhodri,’ she said, slightly self-consciously. ‘We’re still going through papers trying to find interesting stuff about the garden.’

Long experience of Nia’s touchy, oversensitive nature has taught me when and when not to tease her, so with great self-restraint I merely wished her good luck and put the phone down.

Even after ten years I still get a little flutter of excitement when my darkly handsome husband arrives home, anticipating that sweep-you-off-your-feet hug, but this time he just casually kissed my cheek instead, as though he’d been away a weekend instead of six weeks.

I was a bit disconcerted, but supposed he was tired after the long drive. He wasn’t to know I was feeling especially in need of love and reassurance after the double whammy of the resurgent Bigblondsurfdude and Gabe Weston – and heaven forbid he ever finds out about either of them!

Unlike his namesake, clearly Gabriel is no angel, but I don’t think he
will
tell anyone we once knew each other in the biblical sense if I don’t; and I’m hoping Tom has got the message that I don’t really want to see him again, though I may be rating his intellectual abilities slightly too highly.

I wonder if he’s worn as well as Gabe. He must still be pretty fit if he’s surfing.

Mal usually brings me little gifts when he’s been away, but this time all he gave me were two bags of dirty laundry, folded and colour-coded, and lots of enthusiastic praise for some IT manager he’d been working with called Sarah. Then he added the bonus ball of an extensive update on his ex-wife’s brilliant career and high-flying prospects, so I began to feel completely peed off; but the good news is she’s been head-hunted by some firm abroad and by now will have left the country!

Oh, happy day.

I might have been a little over-enthusiastic about that news until he started going on and on about how much she would be earning, and how slim, toned and smart she was looking.

I immediately felt fat and frumpy – and somewhat miffed again – so I hardly let him sit down before inflicting on him all the minutiae of
my
daily existence, which normally I don’t since his eyes glaze over much like Rosie’s used to do at the thirtieth repetition of Neptune the Fishy Father.

I told him about Ma’s plans to sell Fairy Glen (which elicited a faint interest as to what she was going to do with the proceeds until I said she was going to blow it all on a cruise), Rosie’s assignment marks and Nia’s failure to get planning permission for her pottery. By the time I had got on to Rhodri’s plans for Plas Gwyn Mal had blanked out, though usually any mention of my seeing Rhodri gets the jealous fires raging.

Piqued, I rambled on to even thinner ice, describing how Rhodri’d contacted Gabe Weston, presenter of the
Restoration Gardener
TV programme … and after that I might also have mentioned the hens, my latest cartoons and what I had for breakfast that morning.

In fact, I told him about everything except what was most on my mind – much like the time I
didn’t
tell him who Rosie’s father was when I had the opportunity. All my sins of omission seem to be on the same subject, but had he been paying close attention on either occasion he would surely have noticed my evasions.

Clearly none of my abridged budget of news was of any interest to him whatsoever, and he didn’t even attempt to make a polite show of it, like I do when he waffles on about boats, android wonder women, or Cayman Blue stamps with exciting misprinted bits.

The give and take of married life seemed to be suddenly all give, and I was the one doing it.

‘Have you been cutting your hair?’ he asked, abruptly breaking into my monologue and taking some notice of me at last, but unfortunately the wrong sort.

‘Oh, Carrie trimmed the ends, but it seems to have made it go curlier this time, so it looks much shorter,’ I said casually, and he stared at me suspiciously; but it’s
my
hair, I shouldn’t have to resort to these subterfuges and evasions.

When he spotted my mosaic fireplace he said it looked like something out of a cheap makeover programme, which it doesn’t: it’s
terribly
Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Then he gathered up all his post and went upstairs, and I started to wish I hadn’t bothered cooking his favourite dinner of roast duck cooked the Delia way, with crunchy brown potatoes roasted in the fat, to be followed by mango mousse, especially since I’d had to go all the way to the supermarket in Llandudno for the ingredients. Mangoes don’t grow on trees up the Welsh valleys.

He couldn’t find fault with the dinner, but instead complained that the wine I’d bought was the wrong one.

‘But it’s Chilean Chardonnay,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s what you often have!’

‘Yes, but the wrong
year
, Fran.’

‘It seems just fine to me,’ I said, taking another sip – though actually anything would taste good after those ghastly diet bars and shakes, and the flavour of the melt-in-the-mouth duck had been almost orgasmically wonderful.

‘Yes, well, you think your home-made wine tastes “just fine” too,’ he pointed out before lapsing into a fit of the sulks that probably lasted until his bedtime, but by then I’d left him to it and was fast asleep.

Mal seemed to wake up in a better mood, so perhaps he really was just tired from the journey home last night.

I stuffed the first load of his washing in the machine before breakfast, then suggested we go out for a walk somewhere. ‘Betws-y-Coed? We could take a picnic and flasks and—’

The phone rang and I picked it up impatiently. ‘Hello?’

‘I want to speak to Mal,’ said an odiously familiar voice. ‘Put him on, will you?’

‘We’re just going out,’ I said tersely. ‘Sorry.’

‘Who is that?’ asked Mal, taking the phone as I was about to slam it down.

‘Owen Weevil.’

‘
Wevill
, Fran!’ he snapped, his hand over the receiver, but the name had slipped out quite unintentionally. I must have caught it from Ma.

‘Hi, Owen! No, nothing decided … Yes, love a sail if you feel like crewing … Pick you up in half an hour?’

When he rang off he caught my eye and said defensively, ‘I
deserve
a bit of fresh air after six weeks in Swindon, don’t I?’

‘A walk would give you fresh air, and I thought you might like to spend some time with me!’

‘There’s nothing to stop you coming with us,’ he said, even though he knows I get seasick looking at pictures of boats. Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere with Owen tagging along when Mal always refuses to go anywhere with my friends, who are at least all recognisably human.

‘No, thanks. I don’t suppose you’ll be back until late, and don’t forget I’ve got all your laundry to do. I presume you will be wanting to wear clothes next week?’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, and I
won’t
be too late, because it goes dark early. You don’t need to pack any lunch, either, because Mona’s doing that.’

‘I wasn’t going to, anyway,’ I told him coldly. ‘If you’re going to be out all day I might walk up to Plas Gwyn and see Nia. She spends most of her time up there setting her pottery up and helping Rhodri with the house.’

‘
You’ve
been spending a lot of time up there too, I hear –
and
in the pub, with Rhodri.’

‘And Nia and Carrie – didn’t our friendly neighbourhood spies tell you that?’

‘Come on, Fran!’ he said. ‘The Wevills aren’t spying on you.’

‘Yes they are – and while I remember, I’d be grateful if you’d stop telling them they can park on our drive when you are away. I couldn’t even get my car out the other day!’

‘That’s ridiculous, Fran! You’re being silly and neurotic about two perfectly nice people.’

‘Neurotic? I am
not
neurotic!’

‘Then let’s invite them to join us for dinner at the Druid’s Rest tonight.’

‘No!’ I said explosively. ‘I am
not
socialising with them, haven’t you got that yet? And why can’t it just be you and me any more?’

He sighed long-sufferingly. ‘OK, if you want to be so unreasonable! I just thought it would be an opportunity for you to get to know each other and iron out the misunderstandings.’

‘I already know them more than I want to – and I haven’t seen you for six weeks, Mal, so don’t you think it’s natural for me to want to spend some time with you? Don’t
you
want to be with
me
?’

‘Of course I do, Fran. Look, perhaps you’re right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Book an early table for two at the pub and we’ll talk later – must go and get ready, look at the time!’

Mona always makes them cheese and pickle sandwiches using the malty bread Mal hates: I hope they both choke on them.

Up at Plas Gwyn a camera crew had turned up and was filming the exterior of the house and gardens. I could see Rhodri hovering around them – like an anxious father keen that his offspring should show itself off at its best – but, thankfully, no sign of Gabriel Weston.

I found Nia hiding out in her workshop. ‘You didn’t tell me about the filming,’ I said, joining her at the window so we could watch what was happening. ‘Is this a positive sign?’

She turned a glowing face towards me. ‘Yes – it means we’re definitely on the long list, one step closer! When Gabe Weston went through those documents Rhodri copied for him and spotted the one about the turf maze he was on the phone right away – apparently mazes are a
major
passion, so that clinched it. I don’t know what else he found but he said it was all very interesting.’

‘He hasn’t come down again himself, has he?’ I asked nervously.

‘No, he doesn’t need to for these shots and he’s too busy at the moment, but he said he hoped to pop down soon for another look around and to discuss things with Rhodri. I would have told you the news last night, but I didn’t want to disturb you with Mal just back.’

‘There’s nothing much to disturb—he’s out on the boat with the Weevil as we speak and I was a bit mad about it. But he
is
taking me out to dinner at the Druid’s Rest tonight.’

‘Kiss and make up,’ Nia said vaguely, still glued to the window, her mind clearly on other things. ‘The best thing is that Gabe told Rhodri that at the end of the last of his present TV series he was going to show all six of the long-listed gardens before announcing the three for the vote-off, so Plas Gwyn will get on TV whatever happens.’

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘If only we could get the
Restoration Gardener
programmes, we could watch it!’

‘Rhodri’s having a satellite dish put up specially.’

‘Won’t he need some kind of planning permission to put a dish on a listed building?’

‘Not if he hides it in the wisteria,’ she said optimistically, then stiffened. ‘Oh, no, it’s Dottie! She will probably order the camera crew off the premises, or beat them up with her riding crop or something. I’d better try and head her off.’ And away she darted.

I cravenly left her to it—heading Dottie off was a near impossibility at the best of times—and made my way home. I needed all the time I could get to render myself beautiful ready for this evening.