Chapter Six
Scrubbing new potatoes in the stone sink, Imogen gazed through the window. Tango was lounging on a sun-warmed paving stone
by the herb garden, and she could see the bees hovering lazily over the lavender hedge lining the path. The roses in the flowerbed
under the window were so beautiful too. She had cut half a dozen blooms that morning and arranged them in a jug on the kitchen
table. With the sunlight slanting in, they made a beautiful shot for her Insta feed. Mostly her content was focused on her
drawings, but her growing band of followers loved to have little insights into her life in the country too. She always got
lots of likes and follows when she shared anything more personal, and shots of Tango were a guaranteed winner, although she
felt a little bad about exploiting him.
Imogen was mildly excited at the thought of seeing Simon for lunch. It was important for him to see her in a better light.
A normal, relaxed lunch, with her mother on the strictest instructions to behave herself, would do a lot to rescue his image
of her as the neurotic, sobbing patient.
Thankfully her mother had tackled the shopping. Plans for them both to drive to Portneath yesterday had gone awry when Imogen, yet again, was so exhausted she was forced to have another long afternoon nap. Being pregnant was very wearing. She felt permanently as if her brain had been replaced with cotton wool, which was not conducive to getting things done.
She had decided on a simple but hopefully elegant menu. It was high summer; the weather had turned even warmer and had the
lazy summer glow that always felt as if it would go on forever. It was far too hot for a proper Sunday roast. Instead, they
would be having poached salmon with mayonnaise, new potatoes, and French beans. Hardly any cooking involved, thought Imogen
gratefully. She had already made the peaches in white wine for pudding. It was her specialty, mostly because it was easy,
and also Nigel had thought it impressive enough for his smart friends. Her mother had even remembered the crème fra?che to
go with them, and Imogen had dug out a pretty crystal bowl to serve them in.
“Good morning, darling!” exclaimed her mother, breezing in through the kitchen door. “Heavens, is that the time?” she exclaimed,
staring transfixed at the kitchen clock. “Where on earth has that taxi got to?”
“Why? Where are you going?” said Imogen, puzzled.
“To see Amelia, of course,” said her mother. “The train takes an hour, and she’s picking me up from the station at midday.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” said Imogen breathlessly. “Lunch is here. You invited Simon, remember?”
“Yes, I know I did, darling,” said her mother, “but you remember my old school friend Amelia Westbury? No? Of course not, how could you—you weren’t born. Oh well, anyway... She lives in Torquay now—she never married, you know—too fussy, if you ask me—and I promised I’d arrange to meet her while I was down in this part of the country. As for the day, well, would you believe, she’s just about to go on a painting holiday in Bordeaux—can’t imagine what she’s going to paint—grapevines, I suppose. Actually, that might explain it, she’s always been fond of the odd glass, if you know what I mean... I digress, though...”
Wearily, Imogen nodded her agreement.
“The point is,” she continued, “I telephoned her last night.”
“No, you didn’t,” challenged Imogen swiftly. “You didn’t call anyone last night, I was there.”
“Didn’t I, dear?” said her mother, unconvincingly vague. “Well, I must have texted her, then.”
“You don’t know how to text.” That would get her.
“Yes, I do, dear, Gerald showed me. And sexting too,” she said with a wicked grin.
Imogen groaned and held a hand up in self-defense. Her mother won. Again.
“Anyway, I text all the time now,” June added airily. “The thing is, she can only see me today, and she kindly invited me
to join her for lunch.”
A car beeped its horn twice.
“Ah, here it is at last,” said her mother, checking her watch. “Must dash.” With these words, she grabbed her bag and swept
out, gaily waving behind her.
Imogen dumped the potatoes from the colander into their saucepan, muttering to herself about manipulative parents who always told you to tell the truth and then fed you a pack of lies when it suited them. But her mother was such a liability, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing that it would be just Imogen and Simon for lunch.
Dithering as to whether it would be too breezy to eat outside, Imogen put knives, forks, and plates on a tray with the napkins
and wineglasses. She would just have half a glass, to be sociable. Checking the wine was cooling in the fridge and sweeping
the trimmed French beans into a bowl to keep by the cooker until she was ready to put them into boiling water, she settled
down at the kitchen table to read the Sunday papers.
A loud knock on the kitchen window made her start violently, the slew of newspapers under her elbow slithering onto the floor.
Turning to look, she was dazzled by the sun and could only make out the silhouette of a tall figure with wild-looking hair.
It definitely wasn’t Simon. Suddenly, the figure disappeared.
“W-w-what do you want?” she called out tremulously.
“Lunch, actually,” came a voice from behind the kitchen door, as it swung open. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is. Your
mother seemed to think it would be a nice idea for you to meet the neighbors,” Gabriel continued. “I hardly liked to shatter
her illusions and explain that we already had.” He paused briefly as they both recollected their first encounter. “So I thought
the easiest thing would be to just say yes.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” muttered Imogen, who had spent too many years doing “the easiest thing” when it came to her
mother.
“I assumed you were in on the arrangement?” he said, looking at her bemused expression.
“Yes, of course,” she snapped defensively and then, horrified in case he was insinuating she had put her mother up to it:
“That is, I knew she’d invited somebody, but I had no idea it was you .” The last word came out rather emphatically, so Imogen clamped her finger over her mouth to stop anything else spilling
out before she had composed herself.
Trying to remember exactly what her mother had said about her meeting with the “friend,” she had to concede that perhaps it
was she who had first mentioned Simon’s name, probably in a bout of wishful thinking. Mind you, she thought, Mummy was the
one who said he was good-looking—hardly a description you’d apply to Gabriel. She eyed him doubtfully. With those deep-set
brown eyes under heavy eyebrows, he had a disconcertingly glowering expression, presumably even when he wasn’t cross, she
thought, although Imogen hadn’t yet seen him up close in anything other than a state of irritation at best. A major improvement
since they had last met was a recent and thorough shave. With him standing just a couple of feet in front of her, Imogen could
discern the faintest whiff of lemon balm in his aftershave. And those eyes, mesmerizing, hypnotic... Imogen swayed closer,
transfixed.
“Do I pass muster?” said Gabriel quizzically, the corner of his mouth twitching upward at her lengthy appraisal.
“Yes, definitely,” she blurted. “Sorry,” she added, blushing deeply and taking the bottle he was offering her.
“Chablis,” she said. “How lovely—and it’s even chilled already. It’ll go perfectly with lunch. I’ll just put it in the fridge, or perhaps I should just open it, I’ve got the glasses out already, now where did I put the corkscrew...” she continued, hiding her confusion with a driveling commentary.
“It’s a screw top, and where’s your mother?” he interjected, cutting firmly across the waffle.
She stopped short, as if she had been slapped.
“Sorry,” she said. “Erm, my mother. Yes... now...” Imogen gazed at a point somewhere over Gabriel’s head as if searching
for the answer to a particularly testing mental arithmetic question. “She’s not here, actually,” she admitted eventually.
“So I can see. Are we expecting her?”
“Erm, no,” said Imogen, smiling weakly whilst mentally kicking herself, her mother, and anyone else who happened to be handy.
It was bad enough that it looked like Imogen had put her up to asking him over without having to brazen out her absence, as
if the whole situation were a ploy to get him on his own.
Which it totally wasn’t. “We’ve been set up,” she muttered weakly.
“We have,” he said, looking pityingly at her. “Look, give the wine to me,” he added. “You’re just about to pour it all over
the floor.”
Thankfully, she was able to busy herself making the lunch after that, giving herself time to regain her composure as she plunged the beans into boiling water, sprinkled parsley on the new potatoes, and checked the salmon inside its tinfoil parcels. Gabriel had efficiently taken over the wine, offering no resistance to her request for just half a glass. He obviously thinks I’ve had quite enough already, she thought, slightly cross at the perceived judgment, given that she had been teetotal since she heard about the baby. Irritatingly, the hormones racing around her body made her feel permanently like she had had a few.
Without being asked, Gabriel had unearthed an ancient gateleg garden table and two folding chairs from one of the outhouses
and set them up in the orchard. Leaving the bottle of wine in the shallows of the stream to stay cool, he had deftly laid
the table, complete with tablecloth and finishing touches such as salt and pepper grinders, by the time Imogen carried out
the food.
Facing each other over their laden plates, Imogen had despaired of keeping up polite conversation. Surprisingly, though, they
talked continuously—or at least she did. Over the salmon, he prompted her for stories about her London life, and she found
herself telling him all about her rackety single lifestyle with Sally. It was as if it was the same story on repeat, she realized
for the first time. It was essentially Sally and her drinking pals in a London wine bar on more or less every Friday night
from her early to mid-twenties. After graduating, the two women had shared a crummy rented flat in southeast London.
Imogen was permanently broke, she remembered that.
“I can’t imagine you working in an office,” Gabriel mused lazily.
“You’re saying I’m unprofessional?” Imogen replied, nettled and deciding not to tell him how many times she had been let go.
“Not at all. I’m saying you’re unconventional. That’s dif ferent,” mused Gabriel, stroking the stem of his wineglass as he tilted his head back and regarded her from under heavy lids. “Ever been sacked?”
“No comment,” muttered Imogen.
“What kind of jobs?”
“All sorts,” said Imogen airily, trying to think of a single job title she had held that might sound a little bit impressive.
“Greeting card designer mainly,” she added, on the strength of the fact she had sold a couple of her paintings to a stationery
company once. “But my newest thing is I write and illustrate children’s books.”
“Really?”
“Well, no,” admitted Imogen, “not yet, but I’m going to. I’ve started.”
This response elicited a bark of laughter. “I like your honesty,” he said.
For the sake of being entertaining—and somehow because it felt inappropriate to talk to this man about other men—she initially
tried to skim lightly over her marriage to Nigel and his sudden death, searching her memory for funny anecdotes instead, but
his quiet interest and probing questions found her telling him more than she intended. In particular, the expression of deep
sympathy on his face when she told him of Nigel’s accident made her eyes well with tears of self-pity, which she blinked away,
embarrassed. Turning her head, she dabbed with her napkin.
This man knew loss too. She could see it in how his expressions mirrored her own. But he gave away so little of himself, and
she didn’t have the confidence to start interrogating him back.
No, this was a man who was driving the agenda, and his attention was mesmeric. Where most people made politely brief eye contact as they spoke to each other, Gabriel had a habit of fixing her with his gaze while he asked a question and then switching his focus from her eyes to her mouth while she answered. It was extraordinarily intense. Imogen found herself flushing and positioning herself slightly more sideways in her chair to present an appealing angle. Then she scolded herself silently. It was ridiculous to think he might be interested in her. The poor man had been suckered into having lunch with her, for heaven’s sake. And this hyperfocus of his was clearly a tried and tested ruse. It might work on other women, but it wasn’t going to work on her. No sirree.
She suddenly realized she had stopped talking for several long seconds and had been staring fixedly at the triangle of deeply
tanned chest revealed by his open collar. She found herself wondering if the whole of his chest was that incredible chestnut
brown color, and if the promise of his bulging arms was delivered on by equally well-developed musculature of his abdomen.
Raising her eyes, she met his inquiring gaze inviting her to continue.
God, she admitted to herself, it was such bliss to have someone to talk to. Tango was a rubbish listener. Before she knew it, Imogen found herself confiding her doubts over Nigel’s plans, the move to the country, the bit about having lots of children, and his idea that she should give up her career plans as a children’s book illustrator to be the perfect wife. She only managed to stop herself telling him about her pregnancy by physically biting her lip. That would have definitely been too much information at this stage in their acquaintance.
“You shouldn’t give up on your talent,” he said over the peaches and white wine. “It’s a tough old life trying to make a career
of art, but it’s a crime to let a natural talent go to waste.”
Imogen wondered what he could possibly know—as a caretaker—about making a career of art. “How do you know I’ve got talent?”
she asked.
“I don’t,” he replied bluntly, “but nor do you unless you’ve got the guts to keep trying.”
Fair point, thought Imogen, feeling slightly bruised by the directness. She picked up the plates, carried them back into the
kitchen, and then put the kettle on to make coffee. They could have it in the orchard. With all her talking, lunch had taken
more than two hours, but the afternoon was still warm, and the grass in the orchard was perfectly dry for sitting on if they
wanted to stretch out.
Gabriel came in with another pile of dishes and cutlery precariously balanced and dumped them on the draining board. He went
to make the coffee, confidently gathering mugs and coffee together as if he made coffee in her kitchen every day, she couldn’t
help noticing.
Granted, it was hot, but she felt ridiculously warm and flustered having him so physically near, particularly when he put
his hands lightly on her waist. She froze, electrified at his touch, but he just gently moved her out of the way of the fridge
so he could get the milk.
To put some distance between them, and regain her composure, Imogen wandered out of the kitchen door to see whether anything else needed to come in. Walking past the dustbin by the door, her left foot nudged something soft and warm. Instinctively she stepped back.
“Tango, for God’s sake...” she exclaimed, glancing down, expecting him to be walking infuriatingly an inch in front of
her feet as usual.
What she saw instead made her freeze in horror. On its haunches in front of her was a huge brown rat, its fat tummy resting
momentarily on her shoe. Twisting its head up to look at her, the rodent gave her an old-fashioned look before scampering
across her path.
It whipped its naked tail behind it into the hedge, where it disappeared with a rustle, leaving Imogen rooted to the spot.
Suddenly unfreezing, her heart pounding in her throat, she high-stepped rapidly back into the kitchen, flapping her hands
frantically in the air and breathlessly emitting short screams of terror.
Gabriel was halfway across the kitchen, arms outstretched to catch her before she even came through the door.
“Rat!” she eventually managed to squeak, as he wrapped her in his arms. “Rat! Rat!” She gesticulated wildly in the direction
of the open door and stared at him wide-eyed.
To her amazement and rage, he let go of her, threw back his head, and roared with laughter.
She glared at him, furious.
He caught her eye, made as if to speak, but then dissolved again into helpless laughter, wiping the tears of mirth from his
eyes.
By this time, the adrenaline flooding her system had receded like a tsunami, leaving her eyes filling with tears and her legs shaking.
Noticing her distress, Gabriel was contrite.
I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing a napkin from the table. “Come here.”
He tenderly wiped away the tears as if she were a child, and before she had a chance to know what was happening, he swept
her back into a hug. “You’re going to see the odd rat in the country,” he explained. Of course he was right. She was being
ridiculous.
It felt so wonderful to be held. Imogen’s face was pressed against his worn flannel shirt, washed soft over the years, smelling
of fresh air and humanity. With his arms around her, her legs no longer needed to hold her up, and she sagged limply against
him. Mortifyingly, the tears, now they had started, refused to stop. Soon she was sobbing helplessly, feeling his hand softly
stroking her hair, and hearing him shushing in her ear. He rocked her gently and, after a few moments, took her head in his
hands, brushing her hair tenderly out of her face. Then he sank his lips straight onto hers. It was a melting, overwhelming,
drowning kiss. He transferred one hand to the small of her back and held her securely as he explored her mouth delicately.
He tasted of peaches, wine, and cool water. Imogen moaned and tilted her head further back to allow him greater access, which
he took—thoroughly and lingeringly.
Eventually, it was her blocked nose that forced her to come up for air. She grabbed the napkin and honked unattractively into it, not daring to look at him as she felt his eyes range over her doubtless shiny face and puffy eyes.
“Sorry,” he said unrepentantly.
“I should think so,” she snapped, trying hard to deny the melting passion he had just so carelessly evoked in her.
“I couldn’t resist,” he said, bobbing his head down to her level and forcing her to catch his eye. “You okay?”
“I hardly think it’s appropriate for a woman so recently widowed to be snogging some bloke she’s only just met,” blurted Imogen,
aware she was sounding hopelessly prim.
“You just looked—actually, look—so gorgeous.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Just the gorgeous ones.”
“Well, still, a widow,” Imogen persisted, “and in my condition...”
“What condition?” said Gabriel, suddenly serious.
“The usual condition that women get into,” said Imogen, still annoyed at his mirth.
Comprehension dawned visibly on his face.
“Wow,” he said. “You have got a lot going on, haven’t you. When’s it due?”
“Not sure... New Year, more or less.”
“That’s quite a legacy,” he said soberly, whistling low under his breath. “Assuming it’s Nigel’s, of course,” he added.
“Of course, it’s bloody Nigel’s,” she said. “What the hell are you suggesting?”
“You said you weren’t sure about dates, and marriages aren’t always exclusive, are they?” he reasoned.
“Well, this one bloody well was,” she said hotly, before remembering that, actually, as far as Nigel was concerned, apparently it wasn’t. Her eyes threatened to well up again, and she sniffed defiantly.
“How about that coffee?” he said, calling a truce, “although I do wonder about whether you’re supposed to drink it—‘in your
condition,’?” he added, in a faintly mocking tone.
Mollified, Imogen sat at the kitchen table and allowed him to pour her just half a mug, adding milk for her and pushing the
sugar bowl toward her.
“You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” she remarked. And then, realizing she sounded rude, “That is, you look as if you’ve
been here before.”
“Yup,” he said. “My grandmother lived here until last winter. Had done for years, it was my second home in the school holidays.”
“Where does she live now?” said Imogen, keen to return the conversation to social chitchat.
“She’s dead,” he said bluntly. “I thought you’d have known that from buying the house.”
“Sorry, no, I didn’t. Nigel always deals—dealt—with that sort of thing,” she said, feeling an idiot.
“Actually, that reminds me,” Gabriel continued, “I had a note from the trustees saying that they needed me to sanction a letter
to you about something or other. I said it was fine.”
“What trustees?” said Imogen. “A letter about what?”
“Oh, you know, the whole Storybook Cottage, Middlemass Hall thing,” said Gabriel. “Only clearly you don’t know,” he added, reading her expression. “It won’t be anything interesting. It’s probably some acknowledgment of the change of ownership of the house title or something equally dull. It would be going to your husband or—more likely—his conveyancer, if the”—Gabriel paused—“Well, if things were different.”
“Oh, fine,” said Imogen vaguely. “Death does seem to generate a lot of paperwork,” she observed. “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“That’s okay. She was eighty-six, and she had a great life,” he said. “And I’m sorry for your loss,” he added.
“Thank you,” said Imogen, not wanting to talk any more about Nigel. Especially not after what they had just done.
“Still,” Gabriel said, trying to shake off the atmosphere of despondency, “with a baby on the way, it seems to me your life
is more about new beginnings now.”
Imogen nodded glumly. There had been altogether too many new beginnings recently. It was exhausting, and she was struggling
to keep up.
“Whose is the car outside?” said Gabriel, changing the subject. “I don’t imagine it’s yours somehow.”
“It is, actually. Why the hell shouldn’t it be?” Imogen retorted, nettled at his assumption.
“I just assumed you don’t drive, being a Londoner,” he said. “Also, seeing your, er, ‘road-sense’ on a bicycle,” he continued
sarcastically, “perhaps I’m just hoping you don’t.”
“Well, actually, clever-clogs,” flounced Imogen, “I do know how to drive—thank you very much—actually,” she said, before remembering that, in fact, she didn’t—and also that she was possibly failing to maintain the icy dignity she would have aspired to under the circumstances. Did she really just call him clever-clogs?
“Right. Well, that’s all right, then,” said Gabriel, smirking at her reddening face. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let
me know when you’re planning to hit the road so I can arrange to be off it at the time.” He threw this last comment at her
over his shoulder as, dumping his empty coffee cup in the sink, he made for the door.
“Thanks for lunch, by the way,” he said, popping his head back around the door, and then he was gone, leaving Imogen squeaking
with rage.