This is, of course, pure paranoia. Unless a garden is choked almost to the dying point with weeds, or dominated by a threatening plant like purple loosestrife, or has somehow managed to produce a cacophony of clashing colors, there is no one more forgiving than a gardener. Where I, in my anxiety, see a bare spot as a design failure, the visiting gardener probably sees potential — if they notice it at all in their own anxiousness to beg a cutting of that plant in back of it that they don't have yet.
It's the non-gardener you have to beware of. I know. I'm married to one. I see a native plant garden; he sees a weed patch. I see cherry blossoms and he sees scattered petals needing to be raked. Where I see a subtle but intriguing combination of foliage and texture, he sees a boring patch of dirt with no flowers. It can be hard to tell that we live in the same garden.
When I finished planting our own first garden, with all the plants spaced properly to allow for future growth, I could, with a mental squint, imagine future splendor. He looked and could only say "Gee, it looks kind of bare." He swore he was too old to wait for things to grow; "If we must plant, can't they be mature plants?" The sheer pleasure of watching potential grow into a beautiful reality escaped him.
One difference may be that non-gardeners look at the whole area; gardeners tend to zero in on specific plants to admire. If we were art critics, he would be the one standing back and peering at total composition and criticizing the frame. On the other hand I am the critic who peers closely, admiring the way all the little dots in combination work to create an effect. I can get lost in a small portion of that picture, mentally editing each section before I eventually move on.
This leads to problems. While I am stuck in my little area of the canvas, happily contemplating the effect of golden hakonechloa against velvety purple heuchera, he is staring at the area behind me, littered with pots, tools and watering implements. He wants a total, perfect picture to admire. So he puts the hose in the barn somewhere and takes my watering can to the basement. They interfere with his view. No matter that we are in a drought, and that the basement is a couple of acres and a flight of steps away from the things that need watering. He promises me an irrigation system — next summer.
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