Chapter Twenty-one
The driving instructor carrying out the test looked such a nervous man Imogen found herself wondering which had come first,
the job or the nerves. If he was inherently twitchy, surely choosing a career as a driving instructor had disaster written
all over it? On the other hand, perhaps he had been virtually horizontal with serenity as a young man but had been ground
down mentally after years of botched emergency stops and sixteen-point turns. Clutching his clipboard, he eyed Imogen’s tummy
with frank alarm. She was feeling pretty jumpy herself.
Her lovely last-minute instructor, Trevor, had gently dissuaded her from driving her own car in the test.
“All I’m saying, my love,” he had explained tactfully, “is that the examiner doing your test isn’t going to be thinking ‘dodgy
handbrake’ when you roll back doing your hill start. He’s going to think—quite wrongly, in my view—that you’re a tiny bit
rubbish.”
He had a point.
That said, she was even more nervous at having to drive one of the school cars rather than her lovely, familiar Ford Fiesta,
even with its ever so slightly knackered handbrake.
Getting into the car with the instructor alongside her, Imogen discovered that—humiliatingly—the previous occupant had clearly been a teeny, slim person with very short arms. By the time Imogen had wrestled the seat far enough back for her to insert her huge tummy in front of the steering wheel and hauled the ridiculously unaccommodating seat belt across herself far enough to do it up, there was a fine sheen of sweat on her brow. Glancing across to her now goggle-eyed tester, she noticed he too had beads of perspiration on his upper lip, and he seemed to have turned puce. She hoped it was just embarrassment and not an incipient stroke.
Driving out of the car park, she tried furiously to concentrate. All she could think about was the scary stories Sally had
told her on the phone the previous evening about other people taking their tests, like the woman who got into the wrong side
of the car and then looked in vain for the steering wheel, or the man who ran over the examiner’s dog on the way out of the
test center car park. Actually, that one was more upsetting than funny, and she preferred to think it wasn’t true. As if Sally’s
tales weren’t bad enough, Trevor had told her that morning about a driver who panicked so much about which way to go around
the roundabout that she, allegedly, drove right over the top, crushing a track through a carpet of lobelia and dianthus spelling
out Portneath in Bloom .
Her parallel parking was going fairly well until it occurred to her that she was maneuvering ridiculously slowly. Could he fail her for being too slow? She gunned the engine, shot forward, and promptly stalled. The instructor gave her an other pop-eyed look, and she stifled a nervous giggle. Trying to focus, she heard Gabriel’s calming voice in her head as she carried out the checks. Handbrake on, gearstick in neutral, turn on ignition, depress clutch. Nothing happened. She tried again. The engine coughed reluctantly into life. Next, they traveled toward the behemoth roundabout that Imogen loathed. She always got flustered about what lane she needed to be in and especially hated turning right.
“Take the third exit from the roundabout,” whined the instructor nasally, “and then follow the road ahead.”
Imogen cursed her luck. She had never managed this maneuver without panicking, even with Gabriel beside her. Middle lane,
left lane, she thought frantically, checking mirrors and whipping her head round right, then left, before tentatively moving.
“Damn!” A car was sneaking up the inside. She slammed on the brakes and whipped in behind it. By the time she was back on
the road with the hated roundabout behind, her heart was pounding. She must have failed by now, she thought, remembering what
Trevor had said about never abandoning a test: “Even if it all goes wrong—which it won’t—you will need to get to the end.
Unless you are an appalling danger, they won’t let you stop.”
Blinking back tears of frustration and despair, she stole a glance at the instructor, who was gazing stonily ahead. She could see his Adam’s apple in profile; it stuck out so much in his scrawny neck, and it was bobbling up and down as he swallowed. At least he hadn’t told her to pull over. That meant she must at least have avoided being “an appalling danger.” Either that or he was catatonic with fear and no longer had the communication ability to stop her killing them both.
At last, they pulled into the test center car park. Imogen’s body felt so heavy she thought it quite possible she would spend
the rest of her life welded to the car seat.
Staring fixedly through the windscreen, she heard a distant voice.
“...so, I am pleased to tell you—er—Ms. Hewitt...” He stressed the Ms. slightly as he gazed, still apparently fascinated, at her belly. “That you have passed your driving test.”
Imogen took a huge breath and turned. Seeing her move toward him, his eyes widened in terror, clearly afraid she was going
to involve him in an unseemly display of joy—possibly involving touching.
She was. Catching his expression, though, and more to the point, catching a whiff of stale perspiration wafting from his polyester
shirt, Imogen regained her self-control without difficulty.
By the time she had—thrillingly—driven herself home from the test center, Imogen was beginning to feel more confident at being
alone in a car. Parking neatly outside the house, she stroked the bonnet of her dear little red Ford Fiesta, promising it
a proper car wash with wheel wash and wax to celebrate their newfound freedom.
“And the first big adventure needs to be shopping for the baby,” she told it excitedly.
The sense of the world opening up was exhilarating, making Imogen realize how trapped she had begun to feel, in her big house with no easy way of getting further than the confines of the village.
“Not long to go now,” came a female voice, making Imogen jump. She spun around to see her arch-irritant and love rival. Louise
was looking with faint disapproval at Imogen’s huge belly and disheveled appearance. As always, she was immaculately groomed
and looked, Imogen thought, like a glamorous advertisement for country living, with her far-too-clean waxed jacket and brand-new
Hunter wellies.
Imogen attempted to smile. “I’ll be glad when the baby comes, to be honest,” she admitted. “Being pregnant has now officially
become a bore.”
“I’m sure,” said Louise with a barely suppressed shudder. “It must be really weird losing control of your body like—er—that,”
the subtext clearly being like you totally have .
“Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” Louise added.
“About what?” said Imogen.
“Well, about meeting your share of the repair bills,” said Louise, apparently irritated that Imogen was so slow on the uptake
and managing to intimate that this must only be because she didn’t treat the issue nearly responsibly enough.
“And you’re involved how?”
“Well,” Louise said smugly, “of course, Gabriel and I—sorry, Lord Havenbury,” she corrected with a simper, “are very close.” She glared at Imogen to ensure she got the point.
Yeah, right, pillow talk—I get you, thought Imogen, planting her finger over her lip to physically prevent it coming out. She confined herself to a nod, distantly astonished at how furious and betrayed she felt that Gabriel was not only frolicking with the ghastly woman but discussing her most private business with her too.
“Yes,” said Louise, getting into her stride, “Lord Havenbury has an enormous range of responsibilities—being in his position—and
I like to think I ease the burden by offering a sympathetic ear.”
Imogen wondered if she called him Lord Havenbury in bed.
“Actually, I am frequently able to offer helpful advice too,” Louise added. “Then, of course, I hold a rather responsible
position within the company, which is what threw the two of us together in the first place.” Her smile invited Imogen to join
her in marveling at how fate had conspired to unite them. “Lord Havenbury says it was my professionalism that first impressed
him.” She smiled into the middle distance.
“How nice,” muttered Imogen. Not just your big tits, then, she added to herself. God, the woman really was a monster. Yet
again she asked herself why she felt anything at all for a man who not only wanted to ruin her but who also had such unspeakable
taste in women. That said, given their own—undisputed, if former—mutual attraction, it probably said nothing flattering about
her either.
“So, what are you doing for Christmas, then?” she said, determined to change the subject and seeing that Louise had no intention
of leaving.
“Ah, well,” Louise simpered again. “Hard to say at the moment, but Lord Havenbury has just asked me to join him for an intimate
dinner tomorrow. We have a—how shall I describe it—an important agreement to celebrate together.”
“Mm. Christmas Eve, eh?” said Imogen, trying hard.
“Well, quite,” said Louise, bridling. “I rather think he might...” She left the end of the sentence unsaid but wafted her left hand at Imogen, her ring finger prominently displayed, leaving her meaning in little doubt.
“And then, of course, we will need to break the news. Christmas is such a lovely time to do it, don’t you think? With families
already together. A double celebration.”
Imogen felt utterly bleak and desperately wished Louise would go away. “Great, yeah. Bye, then,” she said firmly with the
last of her reserve.
“Oh! Goodbye,” said Louise, managing to convey with arched eyebrows how puzzling she found Imogen’s rudeness, at the same
time as intimating that she expected nothing else from such an unsatisfactory specimen.
A couple of minutes later, Imogen was still muttering to herself furiously as she polished the Fiesta’s bonnet with an energy
she had no idea she had.
“It’ll never love you back, you know,” came a shout from the lane.
Imogen whipped around, flushing scarlet to match her little car. Joining in his laughter, shamefaced, she walked toward Simon’s
car.
“I wasn’t talking to the car, you know. Actually, I was talking to myself,” she explained, not feeling that she was being
particularly successful at reclaiming her dignity.
“Whatever you say,” he teased. “I generally find the baby addles the brain at around this stage in the pregnancy.”
She was absurdly pleased to see him, though, and told him the good news about passing her test.
“Champagne to celebrate, I think!” he exclaimed about the test. “Not that I happen to have any about my person, but I would happily join in if you’ve got some.”
“Shouldn’t you be healing the sick or something?” asked Imogen when they had jointly decided—okay, Simon decided—that sparkling
elderflower was more suitable than alcohol.
“Probably,” he said, propping his feet onto the tea towel bar on the stove and holding his glass to the light to admire the
bubbles. “But I’ve just done my house calls, and it’s not my turn to do evening surgery today. Thankfully, I think the inhabitants
of Middlemass can survive until tomorrow without my help.”
They drank in companionable silence for a minute, Imogen taking tiny sips for fear of setting off the heartburn that plagued
her almost continually now.
“So, who’s sick and who’s well?” she asked at last, just to make conversation.
“Well, obviously it’s all strictly confidential,” he said.
“Of course,” replied Imogen, feeling chastised, but Simon was grinning.
“So, if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” he went on. “You know about Mrs. Marshall, the headmistress, of course?”
Imogen nodded. “Genny told me she hasn’t got long,” she said, choked to remember Genny’s distress, but then she could barely listen to the news on the radio without bursting into tears. It must be her hormones. How wonderful to be Simon and to have such composure when talking about things like that. Imogen was sure that, even if she had been clever enough to be a doctor, she would have been hopeless, probably in permanent floods.
“I’ve just seen your mate Winifred Hutchinson too, actually,” he added. “She asked after you. Mentioned you’d dropped by to
commiserate after the dog died?”
“I did, but that was weeks ago,” admitted Imogen, feeling a pang of guilt she hadn’t been back. She had barely seen Winifred
since then, being so wrapped up in the pregnancy and her work.
“Is she all right?” Imogen asked, cringing.
“Fine. It’s nothing other than old age, really,” he said reassuringly. “And she’s lonely. She should get another dog, but
she says she won’t consider it because she doesn’t want to risk a dog outliving her and needing to be rehomed.”
Imogen’s eyes filled. “That’s so selfless, but—yes—it must be lonely. I don’t know what I’d do without Tango,” she said, looking
down at him. Overwhelmed with emotion, she gathered him up for a hug, but he locked his legs rigid to push her away, jumping
off her lap with a bad-tempered yowl.
“Yep, he’s a peach, all right.” Simon grinned as the cat crashed through the flap and stalked down the garden path, twitching
his tail. “You might want to find someone a bit more reliable than a grouchy old cat, you know. Like Gabriel, for example,”
he added mischievously.
“Oh right, yes. I’ll swap a grouchy old cat for a grouchy old bloke any day. Good plan.”
There was an awkward pause while Imogen decided not to mention the conversation she had just had with Louise. She didn’t think Simon would be thrilled to hear that she and Gabriel were getting hitched, and she didn’t fancy being the bearer of bad tidings. It was unutterably bleak just knowing about it herself.
“Genny mentioned you bumped into each other in the post office,” he said instead. “She was cross with herself because she
meant to ask what your plans were for Christmas, but she forgot.”
Briefly, Imogen considered making up a visit to her mother. “Nothing, really,” she admitted.
“I hoped you’d say that. I can’t imagine you’d want to be traveling far with the baby due so soon. Genny and I would really
love it if you would come to us on Christmas Day.”
“And be a third wheel? No fear,” said Imogen. “It’s really kind of you, but honestly—”
“You won’t be.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything worse for you than having me crashing your day—”
“I’m trying to persuade Gabriel to join us too.”
“Except that,” Imogen said, with finality.
“Honestly, you two are the limit!” Simon said, exasperated. “Here we are, me and Genny, trying to pull off a perfectly legitimate
bit of matchmaking, and you are both kicking and struggling against it like a pair of Tangos.”
Imogen, open-mouthed, felt bound to protest but couldn’t think of a thing to defend herself. “How can you think for a minute
that we’re suited?” she said, eventually. “We can barely be in the same room together. You know about the money. He wants
to ruin me.”
“He doesn’t want to ruin you.”
“He doesn’t care enough not to.”
“I don’t believe that. And he’s steamed in to the rescue a couple of times,” added Simon persuasively.
“He’s got Louise,” Imogen said, adding provocatively, “She seems to think she’s in with the main chance too.”
“God, not that Louise woman, surely?” said Simon immediately. “He’s been so weird the last few months—”
“Even more than normal?”
“Yes, even more,” acknowledged Simon with a nod. “Pretty much since you got here,” he said. “I thought it was because of you, but maybe
she’s the real reason why. And she’s probably the one pushing him to get the repair money from you too.”
“No one seems to think much of her,” said Imogen, taking some satisfaction that her view was so widely shared.
“Loony Louise,” said Simon with a faint shudder. “We think we’ve managed to prise him away from her for Christmas Day, thank
goodness.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Imogen muttered under her breath, remembering Louise’s confidence in the outcome of her Christmas
Eve dinner à deux.
“Good, that’s settled, then,” said Simon, jumping to his feet and popping his dirty glass into the dishwasher. “We’ll see
you for Christmas lunch at about midday.” He pulled a teasing face as she remonstrated helplessly.
“Good grief, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” he said. “God help me. I must get into Portneath and do some shopping.” He was
shrugging on his jacket, his mind elsewhere already. “Goodbye, little Imogen,” he said, gathering her up in a big, warm hug.
Not expecting it and starved of physical contact with anyone, she found his warmth and strength meltingly comforting. How lovely it would be to find such a kind man, she thought longingly.
“Genny’s so lucky,” she said when, eventually, he let go.
“Be sure to remind her of that on Christmas Day,” he said. “She should appreciate me more. I’m always telling her... See
you then, but”—he waved a finger admonishingly—“Anything happens with the little one? Anything at all? You call me. Promise?”