The Lavender Garden (24 page)

“No, I know it from my research. I looked you up on the Internet.”

“Then if you know everything about me, why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because I’m interested in what you have to say for yourself. We are now related, after all. And, to be frank, you’re not what I expected. Given your background, I’m surprised you’re not the archetypal spoilt French princess, who exudes self-confidence simply because of her surname. Most young women of your class wouldn’t choose to become a vet, would they? Surely they’d prefer to find a suitable wealthy husband and spend their days flitting from the Caribbean, to the Alps, to Saint-Tropez, depending on the season.”

“Yes, you’ve just described my mother’s life very well.” Emilie allowed herself a smile.

“There!” Alex gave a triumphant flourish of his roller. “So you’ve chosen to live a life which is the polar opposite of your mother’s. And the question is”—he rubbed his chin in a faux pose of thought—“why? Perhaps, Emilie, your mother was so busy being beautiful and social, she didn’t have the time to spare on you. And the glitz, glamour, and excess of her life you found repugnant, because you always came second to it. She was the ultimate chic Frenchwoman, and maybe you felt as though you could never live up to her expectations. You felt unloved and ignored by her. All this meant you grew up with very low self-esteem. So you rejected your birthright, just as you feel
it
—and your mother—had rejected you, and made a decision to live a very different kind of existence.”

Emilie had to grasp the top of the ladder to steady herself.

“And, of course,” Alex continued, unstoppable now in his piercing analysis, “when it came to choosing a profession, again you decided to be a carer, e.g., a vet, which was something your mother had never been. And as for men . . . I’d doubt you’ve had many boyfriends. And then my brother tips up, like a knight in shining armor, and you fall hook, line, and sinker—”

“
Enough!
Stop! How can you say these things when you don’t even know me!” Emilie was involuntarily shaking, the ladder wobbling beneath her. For her own safety, she climbed down the steps and walked over to him. “How
dare
you presume you can speak to me like this? You know nothing about me! Nothing!”

“Ah, now . . .” Alex grinned. “I see I’ve stirred a little of the haughty French princess that lurks somewhere in the depths of your soul, however hard you try to hide it.”

“I said
enough
!”

Before she could stop herself, Emilie’s hand reached out instinctively and she slapped Alex hard across his face. The sound resonated around the kitchen. She stood there, shocked by what she had just done. It was the first time in her life she had struck anybody.

“Ouch.” Alex reached a hand to his cheek and rubbed it.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have done that,” Emilie said immediately, horrified.

“It’s okay, I deserved it.” Alex was cowed. “I went too far, as always. Please, Emilie, forgive me.”

Without answering, she turned away from him and left the kitchen. When she reached the hall, she began to run, climbing the stairs two at a time. Panting as she slammed the bedroom door behind her, she locked it and threw herself down onto the bed.

She sobbed loudly into the mattress. She felt naked, exposed . . . how
could
he presume to know her? To play with her, as though her inner feelings were simply some kind of game to be used as a tool to humiliate her?

What kind of monster was he?

Emilie put a pillow over her head, wondering if she should call Sebastian and tell him she couldn’t stay here, that she was on her way to London. She’d take the Land Rover to the station, board a train, and be in the safety of his arms within a few hours.

No, no,
she told herself. She’d been warned about Alex; he was an arch manipulator and she must not allow him to get to her or go running like an incapable child to her husband, who had so many problems to deal with just now. She must
cope
, somehow . . . Alex was just a bored little boy who enjoyed provoking a reaction. And if he was to be a permanent feature in her future life with Sebastian, she must gain control.

Calmed by these thoughts, but exhausted from the anger that had surged through her, Emilie fell asleep.

But not without thinking first that everything Alex had said about her was true.

It was dark when she awoke, feeling disoriented and drained. Reaching for her watch, Emilie saw it was just past six o’clock. She crept downstairs, switching lights on as she went, hoping Alex had gone back to his flat. Opening the kitchen door with trepidation, she saw with relief that the room was empty. As she switched on the kettle, she noticed that the paintbrushes had been thoroughly washed clean and left to dry on the drainer. A note was propped up against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table.

Dear Emilie, I’m truly sorry for upsetting you. I was too much, as usual. Could we start again? On this note, by way of an apology, I have cooked us supper. Please come and join me next door whenever you are ready.

Sincerely,

Alex

Emilie sighed and sat down heavily at the table, pondering how to react. The note was an obvious peace offering. Despite her antipathy toward him, if they were to live under the same roof, then some state of détente had to be established between them. Besides, she thought, as she made herself a cup of tea, nothing that Alex had said about her had actually been negative. It was simply that he’d presumed an intimacy with her that had not yet been established. He hardly knew her, yet knew her so well . . . this had completely destabilized her.

And, on a practical note, Emilie realized she had no idea if Alex
was
physically capable of caring for himself. Tomorrow, she thought, sipping her tea, she’d contact the agency and set about finding him another temporary carer. Sebastian had left the number by the phone just in case. For tonight, she must at least go and check in on Alex. She didn’t have to stay for the supper he’d apparently cooked. It was probably beans on toast.

The landline rang and Emilie stood up to answer it.

“Hello, sweetheart, it’s me.”

“Hello,
me
.” Emilie smiled at the sound of her husband’s voice. “How are you? And how’s London?”

“Very busy. I’m still trying to work my way through the pile of paperwork that’s been gathering dust on my desk for months. I just wanted to check if everything was all right at home?”

After a slight pause Emilie said carefully, “Yes, everything is fine here.”

“Alex not giving you any trouble?”

“No.”

“You’re not too lonely?”

“Well, I miss you, but I’m fine. I’ve started to paint the kitchen.”

“Great. Well then, I’ll say good night. You have my mobile if you need to get in touch with me. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“Yes. Don’t work too hard.”

“Oh, I will, but it’s all in a good cause. Love you, darling.”

“I love you too.”

Emilie put the receiver back in its cradle and steeled herself to go and see Alex. As she walked along the corridor that led to the east wing, she wondered what she would find. The door leading to the flat was ajar. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on it tentatively.

“Come in! I’m in the kitchen.”

Emilie pushed the door open and walked into a small lobby. Then, following the sound of Alex’s voice, she took a right turn and entered a sitting room. The mayhem of disorder she’d expected could not have been a more unsuitable description for the calm room she was standing in. The walls were painted a soft gray, the windows framed by biscuit-colored linen curtains. A fire burned merrily in a fireplace between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, their occupants immaculately filed. A comfortable, modern sofa took up one wall, above which were placed a series of framed black-and-white lithographs. Two elegant, re-covered Victorian chairs stood on either side of the fireplace. A large gilt mirror hung atop it, and a vase of fresh flowers stood in the center of a highly polished coffee table.

The order, neatness, and attention to detail of this room were so unexpected—especially set against the miserable, decaying state of the rest of the house—it threatened to again send Emilie into disarray. The soft hum of a classical concerto emanated from hidden speakers, adding to the serenity of the room.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Alex appeared at a door on the other side of the room.

“This is . . . beautiful,” Emilie could not stop herself from commenting. It was exactly how she would wish to decorate a room herself.

“Thank you. My theory is that if one has to spend one’s entire life incarcerated, then one should make every effort to make the cell as pleasant as possible. Don’t you agree?”

Emilie only had time to nod before Alex said, “Emilie, I really am sorry about this afternoon. It was unforgivable. I swear it will never happen again. You didn’t deserve that. Please, can we forget it and move on?”

“Yes. And I apologize too, for striking you.”

“Oh, it’s completely understandable. I seem to be an expert at getting people’s backs up. And I fully admit to occasionally doing it on purpose. Must be the boredom.” Alex sighed.

“You mean, you like to test people? Push them to their limits? Use the shock tactic of saying out loud the things that most other human beings wouldn’t dare to? In order to deflate them, to break down their guard, which immediately puts you in control?”

“Touché, madame.” Alex looked at her with new respect. “Well now, with that very piercing riposte, plus the slap this afternoon, I’d say we’re quits, wouldn’t you?” He held out his hand.

Emilie walked over to him and shook his hand formally. “Quits.”

“You see? I’ve already brought out your hidden feistiness. You rose to my challenge, not fell.”

“Alex . . .”

“Yes,” he agreed immediately, “enough of this mental warfare. Now then, I have a very decent bottle of Raspail-Ay, which I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Would you like a glass?”

The silky-smooth taste of the Rhône wine that had graced her parents’ table on many an occasion was extremely appealing.

“Just a small one, yes.”

“Good. And if it makes you feel better, I won’t join you. I can assure you I have complete control over my alcoholic intake. The point is, life can be so much more fun with a moderate amount of it. And, in fact, if you look back in history, our ancestors have always used it to soothe their path through life.” Alex turned to wheel himself back into the kitchen. “Even Jesus was applauded for turning water into wine. And from medieval to Victorian times, everyone would wake to a hop- or grape-based alcoholic beverage in place of our cup of caffeine first thing in the morning. They couldn’t drink the water—they’d have died of typhoid, or Black Death, or some revolting parasite eating away at their stomach linings if they had done. They’d then proceed to drink all day and, by bedtime, be completely smashed.” He chuckled.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Emilie smiled at the thought.

“And what’s wrong with dimming the harsh reality of life a little, anyway? In essence, being alive is a bloody long and hard walk to death. Why not make it as pleasant along the way as you can?”

Emilie had followed Alex into the small but modern and ergonomic kitchen. Glass, stainless steel, and laminated, white cabinets shone pristine. On the top of an extra low center unit stood the bottle of wine, open, but untouched.

“But everything in moderation, surely?” she suggested, looking at him.

“Yes. And that’s where I have sometimes failed. But no longer. As you can see from my home, I’m a bit of a control freak these days. I like everything, including myself, just so.”

“But what is
so
?”

“Good question.” Alex poured the wine out of the bottle and into two glasses. He handed one to Emilie. “
So
is as
so
does. It’s a flabby word that covers a multitude of possibilities. But as for me, having spent, or should I say, misspent my youth, never even getting near
doh,
let alone
ray,
for various reasons which we will discuss another time, the
so
of my life is about controlling what I can. And one of those things is my environment.” Alex took a sip from his glass. “By the way, if I show any sign of getting at all intoxicated, you can skip away from my clutches, fly back to your Edwardian museum and be done with me. So there’s no need to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Alex,” Emilie said staunchly.

“Good.” Alex eyed her in the knowing way he had and raised his glass to hers. “Here’s to your marriage.”

“Thank you.”

“And to starting afresh with me. Now, I’ve banked on the fact that you’re French and would rather change your citizenship to British than announce you’re vegetarian. So I’ve prepared us both a steak.”

“Thank you.” Emilie watched as Alex opened the fridge and placed two marinated sirloins on the center unit. He swung his wheelchair around to the low oven, which was humming with activity and checked something inside it. “Anything I can do?”

“No thanks, just enjoy the wine. I’ve already prepared the salad. Do you mind if we eat in here? The dining room is a bit formal for two.”

“You have a dining room?”

“Of course.” Alex raised an eyebrow.

“No, I don’t mind at all. How did you buy this food?”

“Have you never heard of home delivery?” He smiled. “I phone in a list and the local farm shop drops it off to me here.”

“That’s useful to know,” said Emilie, further disconcerted by Alex’s unexpected efficiency. “So, what can’t you do?”

“In terms of practical stuff, I can do mostly everything, which is why I get so frustrated with carers being foisted on me. Granted, at the beginning I was pretty incapable and needed the twenty-four-hour help Seb found for me. However, over the past two years I’ve adapted and built up a lot of strength in my upper body, which enables me to haul myself around, and in and out of the chair. Yes, there have been occasional instances when I’ve misjudged it and ended up on my arse on the floor, but thankfully they’re becoming fewer and fewer.” Alex tossed the salad in dressing and placed it on the table. “One of the main irritations for me is the amount of time it takes to do anything. If I’ve left my book in the sitting room when I go to bed at night, I have to get back in the chair, wheel myself there and back, and launch myself into bed again. Ditto stuff like taking a shower or getting dressed. Every normal human function has to be planned like a military operation. But like the adaptable species the human race is, my brain has programmed my unusual bodily requirements in, and the routine works quite well.”