Chapter Twenty-four
“You must come and stay with us, of course,” said Sally firmly when she had stopped shrieking over the birth and gasping over
tales of the biblical flood. “Al and I would love to have you. Also, frankly, what else can you do?”
She was right. Her agent, Rowena, called daily now that Imogen had reluctantly given her Gabriel’s number. Being child-free
herself—Rowena’s own words—she regarded baby Ruth as an inconvenience in the same category as a sprained ankle or a failed
car MOT, briefly acknowledging Imogen’s split agenda and then making no concessions for it as she called for her to attend
this meeting and that, just as soon as circumstances would allow.
Imogen had made the initial call to her insurers the day before. They promised a loss adjuster’s visit but apologized for
the delay in the same breath. They were stretched to breaking with new claims “flooding in,” if Imogen would excuse the expression.
She had examined her car at the same time. The carpets were saturated and stinking, but the little treasure started after only a few seconds’ reluctance and now it was in a ga rage at the Hall with carpets washed and a heater on the back seat to dry it out.
Breaking the news of her inevitable departure to her friends was harder.
“You can’t!” said Genny and Simon in unison, distracted from bickering amiably over the last custard cream.
“You belong here now,” said Genny. “And anyway, imagine how unsettled Ruth will be being carted from pillar to post at such
a young age,” she added. Ruth dozed, impervious, in Genny’s arms, a trickle of spat-up milk running from the corner of her
mouth and her head blissfully lolling to one side.
“I—I just need a bit of distance,” explained Imogen, “to sort things out. Sally’s au pair’s just left, and she needs a bit
of help. I’ve got to be in London for the whole book publishing thing, and then there’s the solicitors dealing with the repair
bills thing...” She trailed off, overwhelmed at the enormity of the task ahead. “There is something else I wanted to ask
you all before I go, though,” she said. “Even if I don’t come back to live here...” Seeing Genny’s stricken face, she added
hastily, “Which I will—probably—I don’t want to lose touch with you all. And I especially don’t want you to lose touch with
Ruth. In fact, I was wondering”—she took a deep breath—“if you would agree to be godparents? Both of you, that is.” She smiled.
“Wow!” said Simon, giving her a hug. “I’ve always wanted to be one of those. I can be an appalling influence and take her
to gambling dens for her birthday.”
“You can see why no one’s asked you before,” Genny joked. “Don’t worry, Imogen, I’ll be the grown-up.”
“What about Gabriel?” asked Simon.
“What about him?” said Imogen, hoping he would drop it. She was trying to be upbeat but having to dredge through the leaving-Gabriel
thing would shatter her composure completely.
“Well, you can’t just cut off contact with him,” said Simon. He and Genny met each other’s eyes with an exasperated look.
“There is—as you say—the whole repair bill thing for a start,” said Genny reasonably, taking up the baton, seeing Simon was
struggling to think how to raise it. “How are you going to pay?”
“No idea. My only asset was the house, and that’s worthless now.”
“Because of the flood damage?” said Simon.
“That, and the impossibility of selling it to anyone with half a brain while the estate repair liabilities are there,” said
Imogen hopelessly. “Let’s face it, only my idiot husband would have bought it in the first place.”
“We don’t want you to leave,” said Genny, cuddling Ruth even tighter.
“Nor do I,” admitted Imogen quietly.
Sadly, Imogen packed up her scant belongings. Gabriel had brought her art materials from Storybook Cottage, and she packed them carefully into the boot of the car. They represented her future now, her success as a book illustrator being the only reasonable way she could ever see herself and Ruth financially secure.
She waited until Gabriel was sweating and swearing over the installation of the baby car seat before raising it again.
“I don’t really want to go, you know,” she said gently.
He didn’t reply.
“I need to pursue my career.”
“Who will look after Ruth?” he said, glaring at her reproachfully.
“I’m not the first single mother who needs to work,” she snapped back. “You forget, somehow I have to find half a million
pounds. Plus, of course, we have to have somewhere to live.”
“Live here,” said Gabriel.
“I can’t,” said Imogen quietly. “I need to get my head straight.”
“What if you could somehow sell Storybook Cottage without the repair responsibility clause? Pay off the current estate repairs
with the proceeds?”
Imogen froze. If he could get the clause removed for her to sell, why couldn’t he get it removed altogether and release her
from this appalling situation?
“You want me to sell?” she said, trying to keep her voice level.
Gabriel put his hands up to his head, massaging his temples hard.
“It might solve a few problems,” he said at last.
There was a silence while Imogen bit back all the responses she could give. There was no point. She hadn’t been able to raise the issue of Louise with him. Nor had she seen her, and she was grateful Gabriel had kept her away. She couldn’t cope with congratulating him or seeing her nemesis any more than she could cope with talking to Gabriel about how he had—for whatever reason—chosen to be with another woman over her. What was it with her and men? First, she married a man who was unfaithful, then she was encouraged to fall in love with a man who bankrupted her and got engaged to someone else. Actions were what counted. And he had made his position very clear.
“I would be grateful if you would keep Tango here for the time being, just until I find somewhere suitable for us all in London,”
she said, stiffly.
“Of course,” replied Gabriel, equally stiffly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Imogen begged him with her eyes
to stay silent. She just couldn’t go there.
They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. It was Imogen who looked away first, not wanting him to see her tears.
Soon there was no further reason to delay. The car seat was in, her bags packed, and Ruth, freshly changed and fed, was dozing
in the car. She couldn’t even find Tango to give him a last cuddle. The lure of his exciting new country-cat life clearly
outweighed such petty loyalties.
Gabriel stared after her with an inscrutable expression as she drove away.
The pressure on Imogen’s chest and the ache in her throat worsened as she turned the corner and lost sight of him. She barely
managed to get clear of the village before the tears began to fall.
Imogen rummaged through her luggage, chucking knickers and socks into empty drawers while Alistair cuddled Ruth. Her country wardrobe had appeared sad even in Devon, but it looked particularly inadequate in Alistair and Sally’s posh London spare room, recently vacated by the posh London au pair. Imogen’s knickers were a post-pregnancy disgrace, showing much less ability to spring back to their previous shape than Imogen, whose dose of flu had had the sort of dramatic effect on her figure that postpartum film stars paid a fortune for.
“It’s really nice to have you here,” said Alistair shyly.
“That is so sweet,” said Imogen. “It’s not everyone who wants their wife’s BFF moving in with them. Actually, never mind ‘not
everyone,’ it’s ‘not anyone,’ now I come to think of it. And that’s the friends without a screeching baby in tow.”
“She’s not a screeching baby, are you, gorgeous?” he cooed at Ruth, who gurgled encouragingly. “And it’s genuinely great having
you here. We’re all fond of you, and—well—Sally’s sort of nicer when you’re around.”
At least Sally and Alistair still have each other, Imogen reflected. Nigel and I had a failing marriage, and I didn’t even
know it. If he’d stayed alive for longer, I could have found out about the blonde, slapped him in the face, and chucked him
out in time-honored fashion. More likely, she thought, I would have become one of those stoic embittered old women who turn
a blind eye in the spirit of duty. No, it was too late to challenge Nigel, but she could sure as hell give the mystery blonde
a piece of her mind.
The next morning, she placed herself by the bus stop in Ifield Road again, watching the morning commuter tableau unfold and keeping an eye on the door of number twenty-three. This time Ruth was bundled up complete with hat in the baby carrier, strapped to her chest with legs dangling. She loved to look down on Ruth’s little crumpled face as she slept and had to keep reminding herself to watch the street. Her memory of Victoria was vivid, and her heart quickened at the thought. At that moment, a lorry rumbled past, blocking the opposite side of the street from view. Damn! When it had gone, a slim blond woman had already appeared from one of the houses, walking briskly away. She wasn’t sure if it was the right house, but even from behind, it was her, Imogen was certain.
“Victoria!” she called.
The woman glanced behind and kept walking.
“Victoria!” she called again. This time, the woman turned around, searching the street for a familiar face. By this time,
Imogen was dashing across the road toward her, holding Ruth’s head to her chest to stop it being jolted as she ran.
“Are you Victoria?” she asked breathlessly, struck again, as she saw the woman’s face, by the strong sense of recognition
she had had before. This was obviously not reciprocated by the other woman, who just looked perplexed and slightly nervous.
“I’m so sorry, do I...? Have we met?” she asked politely, guarded.
“Are you Victoria?”
“Er, yes,” she replied uncertainly.
“The Victoria who knew Nigel Hewitt.”
“What do you mean, ‘knew’?” Victoria replied. “I know him, yes.” And then, higher, she repeated, “What do you mean, ‘knew’?
Where is he?” Her voice shook, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. “Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?” Her eyes met
Imogen’s. “Tell me, quickly.”
Here was the woman she had decided to hate. The woman her husband had an affair with. And yet she felt a rush of pity for
her.
“He died,” Imogen said gently.
The disintegration was dramatic. Imogen grabbed Victoria’s elbow as she swayed. Her face crumpled, and she covered it with
her hands, letting out a couple of gasping sobs. Imogen thought about giving her a hug, but... They had only just met,
after all, and the woman was her husband’s mistress.
After further reflection, Imogen gave her a hug anyway, briefly squeezing Ruth between the two of them.
She remembered reading a piece in the newspaper about mistresses. There had been a woman who had a lover for thirty years,
talking about how she couldn’t be at his deathbed because of his wife. She couldn’t attend the funeral either. Despite herself,
Imogen felt her eyes filling with tears in sympathy for Victoria, who was trying desperately to compose herself as people,
staring curiously, flowed around the three of them as they huddled in the middle of the pavement.
“Come on,” said Imogen at last. “We’d better have a talk.”
She steered the slightly less hysterical Victoria to the Costa Coffee by the station. Bunging her in a chair facing the corner, she got a couple of lattes from the intrigued barista and grabbed an extra handful of napkins for Victoria to mop herself up. Ruth, all the while, was snoozing contentedly in her harness, thank goodness.
Victoria nodded her thanks and cradled the coffee cup in both hands as if she craved its warmth.
“His mobile stopped working,” she said. “First it was on answerphone all the time, and then it just went dead.” She gulped,
trembling. “I thought he had decided to cut off contact with me. There was no other way of getting hold of him, you see.”
“I take it you always met at your flat, then, did you?” said Imogen, trying and failing to eradicate an image of Victoria
and Nigel having sex in her marital bed.
“Well, yes, mainly—after the first time. We met here, then, actually,” she said, looking around the café with a wan smile.
“We sat over there. In the window. I couldn’t believe we had finally got together after all those years.”
Blimey, thought Imogen. It’s a bit rich expecting me to listen to a bunch of we-were-just-meant-for-each-other stories, even
though I feel a bit sorry for her.
Victoria’s eyes widened suddenly. “You’re his sister, aren’t you? Anne, the barrister?”
“Er, no,” said Imogen. No wonder she thought the romantic reminiscences appropriate. “Actually, I’m his widow.” Imogen enjoyed
the soap opera drama of saying it. That’ll floor her, she thought uncharitably.
She was disappointed.
“You’re Imogen!” Victoria gushed, apparently delighted. “Of course, you are. He told me so much about you, about your art and everything. He was really proud.”
“He did? He was?” she managed to mutter incredulously.
“And this little one is his, I take it?” she said, cooing at Ruth, who had started to stir.
“She certainly is,” said Imogen, having another stab at the wronged wife getting vengeance. “I suppose he told you we didn’t
have sex anymore?”
Victoria looked startled. “I don’t remember him mentioning it, actually,” she said, blushing slightly.
Imogen decided to press home her advantage.
“Yes, well, I suppose he told you I didn’t understand him and all that rubbish.”
“No. No...” Victoria looked anguished and puzzled. “He only said nice things about you, honestly.”
“Well,” said Imogen, unable to hide a note of sarcasm, “didn’t you think it a bit odd he was looking for a bit on the side
when he and I were—apparently—so deliriously happy?”
“A bit on the side?” Victoria echoed blankly. And then her face cleared.
“Oh, my goodness! You think Nigel and I were having an affair!”
“Well, weren’t you?” Imogen challenged. “Worse than that, it sounded like you were planning to come out in the open too, all that stuff in your letter about hating to keep your relationship secret, wanting to meet his family and friends but understanding there were ‘obstacles’ to be cleared out of the way... Well, here’s the obstacle,” she said, pointing to herself.
“No, no, no, no... How could you think. Oh, my goodness, no...” Victoria trailed off weakly. Then, grabbing Imogen’s
arm, she looked into her eyes intently.
“Nigel wasn’t my lover,” she said. “He was my brother.”