probably married with his own family by now,’ I mused aloud. ‘Even if Rosie
were
his he wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Divorced,’ said Carrie knowledgeably. ‘His only daughter lives with her mum in America, but his name’s been linked with quite a few other women since.’
‘I bet it has,’ Nia said drily.
Carrie regarded me admiringly: ‘Well, you’re a dark horse, Fran! It’s so romantic, just like
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
.’
‘I can’t see where
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
comes in,’ Nia said critically. ‘Gabe Weston looks more like Meryl Streep than Fran does.’
‘And I certainly haven’t been waiting for him to come back,’ I objected. ‘In fact, I’m going to try and forget I ever recognised him. Let’s just let sleeping gardeners lie – that’s seemed to work for me pretty well so far.’
‘Then perhaps you should stop humming “Look What You’ve Done to Me”?’ suggested Nia.
Mal phoned late that night after they’d gone home, and strangely enough I felt as guilty while I was talking to him as if I’d just spent the night with Adam the gardener all over again.
I would have liked to have blotted the memories out in Mal’s arms, but instead I simply had to obliterate them with leftover cake and a bar of chocolate.
Cool Runnings
In the early hours of this morning I got up, found a torch that worked and went to hide the
Restoration Gardener
DVD in my studio in the box marked ‘Miscellaneous’.
At that hour the oddest things seem strangely logical.
As I made my way back I saw the pallid glimmer of one of the Wevills watching me from their bedroom window, so I suppose this will go into their next report to Mal, along with my girlie night in transformed into some kind of orgy. I don’t know what made them look out at that time of night because I’m almost
sure
I wasn’t singing.
They must use mirrors on sticks to watch me some of the time – it’s the only way they can know so much about my movements – but fortunately my rose garden and studio are on the other side of the house, bordering the lane, so once I go through the pergola they’ve lost me unless they have radar.
After that I was wide awake, so I made some hot chocolate, got out the mosaic kit Ma’s cousin sent me for my birthday and started to transform the boring, dead-white-tiled fireplace in the sitting room. I could use some of that box of broken china in the studio too: I knew it would come in handy one day.
It was a chilly day even after the sun came up, so I took to running between the house and my studio with sandwiches and Thermos flasks, watched by the cold, bored hens.
My roses were all frozen in time like so many sleeping beauties, and glittered in the sunlight, although there were still deep-red flowers on my Danse du Feu until just before Christmas.
I felt a bit weak and trembly, as though I had received a severe shock … which, thinking about it, I suppose I had. But, in reality, nothing much has changed except I now know Adam’s real identity, so I firmly put it out of my head while I got on with my work.
I completed the final illustration for the calendar of a dog rose trailing over one of the half-ruined Fairy Glen grottoes, then began putting the finishing touches to the cover, which is taken from my studio in its thorny bower, rendered a bit more picturesque than it really is.
It was a good day’s work, and tomorrow I will be able to pack them up and send them off, together with some cartoons that I’ve got circulating; batches of them come and go in the post, some finding a home, some not. Two have just appeared in
Private Eye
, and three they didn’t want have been taken by the
Oldie
instead. I’ve got one or two other projects on the back burner, but the cartoons seem to be bringing in the most cash lately – perhaps because I’m constantly dashing them off between other things. Sheer volume.
This hit-and-miss aspect of my work drives Mal mad, since I never
were
his he wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Divorced,’ said Carrie knowledgeably. ‘His only daughter lives with her mum in America, but his name’s been linked with quite a few other women since.’
‘I bet it has,’ Nia said drily.
Carrie regarded me admiringly: ‘Well, you’re a dark horse, Fran! It’s so romantic, just like
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
.’
‘I can’t see where
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
comes in,’ Nia said critically. ‘Gabe Weston looks more like Meryl Streep than Fran does.’
‘And I certainly haven’t been waiting for him to come back,’ I objected. ‘In fact, I’m going to try and forget I ever recognised him. Let’s just let sleeping gardeners lie – that’s seemed to work for me pretty well so far.’
‘Then perhaps you should stop humming “Look What You’ve Done to Me”?’ suggested Nia.
Mal phoned late that night after they’d gone home, and strangely enough I felt as guilty while I was talking to him as if I’d just spent the night with Adam the gardener all over again.
I would have liked to have blotted the memories out in Mal’s arms, but instead I simply had to obliterate them with leftover cake and a bar of chocolate.
Cool Runnings
In the early hours of this morning I got up, found a torch that worked and went to hide the
Restoration Gardener
DVD in my studio in the box marked ‘Miscellaneous’.
At that hour the oddest things seem strangely logical.
As I made my way back I saw the pallid glimmer of one of the Wevills watching me from their bedroom window, so I suppose this will go into their next report to Mal, along with my girlie night in transformed into some kind of orgy. I don’t know what made them look out at that time of night because I’m almost
sure
I wasn’t singing.
They must use mirrors on sticks to watch me some of the time – it’s the only way they can know so much about my movements – but fortunately my rose garden and studio are on the other side of the house, bordering the lane, so once I go through the pergola they’ve lost me unless they have radar.
After that I was wide awake, so I made some hot chocolate, got out the mosaic kit Ma’s cousin sent me for my birthday and started to transform the boring, dead-white-tiled fireplace in the sitting room. I could use some of that box of broken china in the studio too: I knew it would come in handy one day.
It was a chilly day even after the sun came up, so I took to running between the house and my studio with sandwiches and Thermos flasks, watched by the cold, bored hens.
My roses were all frozen in time like so many sleeping beauties, and glittered in the sunlight, although there were still deep-red flowers on my Danse du Feu until just before Christmas.
I felt a bit weak and trembly, as though I had received a severe shock … which, thinking about it, I suppose I had. But, in reality, nothing much has changed except I now know Adam’s real identity, so I firmly put it out of my head while I got on with my work.
I completed the final illustration for the calendar of a dog rose trailing over one of the half-ruined Fairy Glen grottoes, then began putting the finishing touches to the cover, which is taken from my studio in its thorny bower, rendered a bit more picturesque than it really is.
It was a good day’s work, and tomorrow I will be able to pack them up and send them off, together with some cartoons that I’ve got circulating; batches of them come and go in the post, some finding a home, some not. Two have just appeared in
Private Eye
, and three they didn’t want have been taken by the
Oldie
instead. I’ve got one or two other projects on the back burner, but the cartoons seem to be bringing in the most cash lately – perhaps because I’m constantly dashing them off between other things. Sheer volume.
This hit-and-miss aspect of my work drives Mal mad, since I never
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