Chapter Twenty-five
Finishing their coffee, they decamped to Victoria’s flat so Ruth could have a clean nappy and a feed—Imogen was still shy
about whipping her tits out in public. As Ruth snoozed on a blanket, they exchanged stories.
“I only found out I had a brother and sister eighteen months ago,” said Victoria sadly. “My mum never wanted to tell me about
my father. I only knew that he sent her money to support me—quite a lot, actually—but it stopped when he died. That was about
ten years ago. It was hard on both of us, because I had to be taken out of private school just before A levels.”
“So, you’re about my age, then,” said Imogen, doing the maths quickly.
“Thirty-two,” confirmed Victoria, smiling.
“I was jealous when I first saw you,” Imogen confessed. “You were like me only prettier, blonder and everything, you know...
I even thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out why.”
“We look a bit like each other, Nigel and me, don’t we?” she asked. “We decided we did—same nose and mouth but different coloring.”
Imogen nodded, smiling sadly.
“It’s so hard to lose him before we’ve had a chance to get to know each other better,” Victoria said. “ I was always desperate
to have a big brother when I was growing up. It was just mum and me, of course. She was great, but it was a bit lonely a lot
of the time.”
“Was?”
“She died two years ago. It was only when she knew she was dying she let me have my father’s name. She hoped I would be able
to trace some family for myself. She didn’t want me to be completely on my own when she’d gone.”
Victoria was impressively lacking in self-pity, Imogen noted. And what a story... It even made her want to call her own
mother to arrange a visit, spend some time with her. Well, almost. Chances were, when Sally and Alistair got fed up, she and
Ruth were going to have to move back home. Her mother would love it, of course, but the idea filled Imogen with dread. Guiltily,
she dragged herself back to what Victoria was saying.
“Anyway,” Victoria continued, “his details took me to the national records office, so I found out he had a son and daughter,
Nigel and Anne. Trouble is, since they had grown up and moved away, it took me a while to track them down. I only found Nigel,
and that was a bit of a long shot. Hewitt’s a pretty common name.”
“With the address you were given, you could have just contacted your father’s wife,” suggested Imogen, thinking, with a wince,
of her ghastly mother-in-law, who would certainly be needing a visit soon.
“I promised Mum I wouldn’t,” she explained. “Appar ently his wife never knew about the affair, although my own thoughts are that she probably did know or at least must have found out after he died. Presumably the money we got from him over all those years will have showed up when they went through his estate.”
“I suppose it might have come up,” said Imogen slowly. Not having met Nigel’s mother until after his father’s death, she began
to wonder if the corrosive bitterness that consumed her had developed after finding out about the affair, either before or
after her husband’s death. She’s a miserable, self-obsessed old rat bag, Imogen opined to herself, not for the first time.
But she may have had her reasons.
“Anyway,” Victoria continued, “you saw my letter to Nigel, so you know he was sort of preparing the way for me to meet Anne,
my sister.” Tears threatened again. “She’s the only family I have left.” Victoria dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the
sodden tissue. “God, sorry, all the time, I just can’t stop—”
“I’ll get you two together,” promised Imogen. “She’s not, though.”
“Not what?”
“Not your only family. There’s me for a start, if in-laws count. More importantly, how about Ruth? Tragic to lose a brother,
but you’ve gained a niece today.”
“Oh, my goodness! Yes, of course. Little Ruth.” This time the tears really did start again, and Imogen had to give her another
hug.
“What I don’t understand,” said Imogen, trying to disguise the hurt in her voice, “is why Nigel didn’t tell me ?about you. I can see the difficulty with his mum, sure, but there’s no obvious reason—”
“I’m sorry about that. You must be angry that he didn’t confide,” empathized Victoria, squeezing Imogen’s hand. “I can’t speak
for him, obviously, but—if it makes any sense at all—we were kind of enjoying this golden ‘thing’ together, and that was partly
because it was a secret. I got the impression Nigel was quite grown-up and commanding in the rest of his life, but the two
of us together? We were like giggly kids. It was nice.” She looked out of the window, misty-eyed. “I’m so glad we had that.”
Victoria looked back at Imogen, imploringly. “Does that make any sense at all? If it’s any consolation, I think he was gearing
himself up for the big reveal. He was dreading telling his mum and paranoid that she would find out. I suppose he thought
telling as few people as possible made us safer.”
In other words, thought Imogen, he didn’t tell her because he was worried she couldn’t keep a secret. Okay, fair enough. She
did have a reputation for putting her foot in it—for blurting things out—especially when it came to his mother, because the
old baggage made Imogen feel so nervous.
With relief, she noted that the pain from the thorn in her side that was Nigel’s perceived infidelity had gone. She could
start to make her peace with his death at last.
“Now, just let me do the talking,” said Rowena firmly. Imogen nodded, only too happy to comply. She knew nothing about marketing, and the publishing house’s invitation for her and Rowena to attend their planning meeting felt more like a trip to the dentist than the privilege her agent assured her it was.
“Are you up to this?” she barked, looking doubtfully at Imogen’s slight frame. “You certainly don’t look like you’ve just
had a baby,” she said, “although I can see the sleep deprivation is having an effect.”
It was true. Her face was gray and her eyes heavily ringed, although not much of it was down to Ruth, who slept angelically
and was only waking once a night for a feed, despite being just two months old.
In the end, the meeting was amazing. Imogen was introduced to the marketing team, whose names she immediately forgot.
There was a little, pretty blond girl with pearl earrings who had made the coffee, said hi shyly, and spent the rest of the
meeting assiduously taking notes in silence.
The marketing director was a tall, dark Hooray Henry in a pink shirt with cuff links. He kept talking enthusiastically about
“parent power”—which Imogen thought she understood—and “vertical audiences”—which she absolutely knew she didn’t. As he talked,
he was scribbling notes on a whiteboard, and soon it had Tango and Ruth in the middle of a big circle with lines flying out from it to point at random words, which were apparently meaningful to
everyone else. It looked a bit like a giant spider with massive shoes on, thought Imogen vaguely, beginning to enjoy herself.
She was given to understand that the launch of the first four books was being heavily supported by marketing spend, including a significant linkup with a supermarket chain, and that they were hopeful of some media coverage if they could wangle it.
A sharp-faced press officer had asked her if there was any personal reason for the choice of the character names.
“Well, I do have a cat called Tango,” said Imogen tentatively, with a pang of regret that she had not seen him for so long.
The press officer was guardedly pleased.
“So, is the character like your cat?”
“Oh no. The Tango in the book is much nicer. The real Tango’s a bit of a sociopath,” she added, missing him terribly.
The press officer looked disappointed.
“They’re the same color, though,” added Imogen, trying to be encouraging. “And of course, my daughter is called Ruth.”
“No way! That’s fantastic, you called the character after your daughter. It’ll be like Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh.
How old is she?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Ah, the books aren’t inspired by her, then,” he said, disappointed.
“Absolutely they are. Or she’s inspired by them. I’m not sure which...” said Imogen, wondering if it was appropriate to
drag Ruth into it at all. Perhaps she should change the character’s name.
“Mind you,” said the press officer, brightening, “I love that you’re a widow.” The pretty blond girl caught her eye and smiled apologetically. “That’s just sooo great!” he continued. “It’s the whole single mother fighting against adversity thing—we can definitely use that. I’m thinking Sunday Times Magazine Best of Times, Worst of Times column or Loose Women maybe—yeah—definitely Loose Women.”
Imogen trembled at the thought of having to talk to the press. She couldn’t imagine what she could possibly say that would
be of interest to anyone.
Still fretting about this, she hardly noticed as the talk moved on, incomprehensibly again, to residuals and overseas distribution
and merchandise licensing deals. Rowena got quite strident over some percentages, which seemed important, although Imogen
couldn’t see why. She was impressed at her agent, though, as the whole publishing team looked scared and seemed to be capitulating
over these incomprehensible battles.
Spring barely registered in a London that still seemed unrelentingly gray, or perhaps that was just Imogen’s mood. She wondered
if the crocuses were out at Storybook Cottage. They must be by now. Wanting to check up on Tango but too shy and upset to
call Gabriel, Imogen phoned Genny instead. Touchingly, she seemed pleased to hear from her.
“So, how is he?” she said eagerly once they got through the preliminaries.
“To be honest, Simon and I think he’s very unhappy at the moment,” Genny said.
“Oh no!” Imogen felt appallingly guilty. “Is he off his food? Because if he is, I find warming it up before you give it to
him really helps.”
“Right. Well, he is looking a bit thin, now you mention it, although I took him round a shepherd’s pie a couple of days ago, and he’s brought back the empty dish, so I assume he ate it. I would imagine he heated it up first. I probably should have told him to—I just didn’t think...”
Imogen was flummoxed. Tango hated shepherd’s pie. “Oh, you mean Gabriel!” she said eventually. “Hmm. Well, it’s not up to
me to make sure he’s happy.”
It’s that woman Louise’s job, she thought bitterly. God, I must be a bitch. If I’m honest, I like the idea Louise isn’t making him happy.
“Is he really unhappy?” she queried.
“Oh yes,” said Genny. “He’s not been this miserable since—well—since Annabel was killed. Plus, he’s just so busy with the
conferences—that Louise girl is useless as well as horrible—and all the other hours of the day, he’s in the forge working
away. Then, of course, everyone is cracking the whip to get Storybook Cottage repaired.”
“That’s so sweet of you all,” said Imogen. “I should be there, not just leaving it to you.”
“It’s fine, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like it was a problem. As for the practical site management stuff, Gabriel does
most of it, of course, because he has the keys. I know he’s been checking their work and so on. He said something about dragging
the plasterer back because he wasn’t too impressed with the job they did in the hall or something.”
“I could come back,” said Imogen longingly, despite her mixed feelings about seeing Gabriel again.
“Ye-e-s. I mean—no. I don’t think you should,” said Genny slowly. “For one thing, you wouldn’t have anywhere to stay.”
Imogen was a tiny bit hurt. It was true Storybook Cottage was uninhabitable, and staying with Gabriel probably wasn’t an option with Louise around, but she was a little bit surprised Genny wasn’t offering a room.
“The insurance company has offered to pay for me to rent somewhere. I could easily find something in the village, couldn’t
I?” said Imogen, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. “It’s wintertime, so there must be a holiday let available.”
“I can’t think of anywhere,” said Genny dismissively. “Anyway, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. You’ve got all that work
to do in London with your books, and well”—she paused—“it would just be difficult for you to be here now.”
“I see,” said Imogen in a small voice. She’d thought Genny was a friend. Obviously, her loyalty to Gabriel came first, and
naturally Genny understood how awkward it would be for everyone with Gabriel and Louise being together. Imogen could hardly
expect anything else.
“Actually,” she added experimentally, “I was thinking I’ll just sell it when it’s fixed. I think it’s what Gabriel wants too.
He was talking about getting the repairs liability clause removed in return for payment of the current bill.” He had mentioned
this before she left but, rather than being grateful, she had bitten his head off that he could remove the clause but wouldn’t
until he had his pound of flesh.
“Oh, really?” said Genny. “That’s not a bad idea. You’ll get a reasonable price when it’s all done up, I’m sure.”
Imogen felt like she had been thumped in the chest. They had moved on without her, all of them. Even Genny, she thought sadly.
“...and brush your teeth!” yelled Alistair after his son, who was dragging himself up the stairs.
“Why?” came the reply.
“Because they’ll fall out if you don’t,” shouted Sally wearily, in support.
“Good. I want them to fall out,” Ed shouted back. “Sam got five quid for one of his last week.”
They all laughed, but only once they were sure Ed was out of earshot.
“Kids, eh?” said Alistair, sighing. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Anyway, tell us about your high-powered publisher
meeting,” he added as he poured Imogen another glass of wine.
“Well, I am just blown away,” said Alistair once she had told them all the bits she could remember and understand. “Getting
a four-book deal and talking about merchandise and animation deals before they are even launched is exceptional. You do realize
that, don’t you?”
“Only because Rowena keeps telling me,” she admitted. Apparently, it’s something to do with them losing the whole Terence
the Tractor series to a rival publisher six months ago. Not only are they furious and feeling deeply competitive, they also
have a whole load of budget allocated to this business year and nothing to spend it on until Rowena dropped my stuff into
their laps. It’s just a timing thing, really.”
“Nothing to do with your genius, then,” said Sally. “Honestly, honey, I am just so bloody proud of you. You’ve had the crappiest year ever. During which I’ve been a rubbish friend—no, let me finish,” she said as Imogen demurred. “And, after all that slog getting nowhere for years, you’ve pulled this amazing triumph out of the hat less than twelve months after losing your husband. Respect. They don’t come more impressive than that.”
“Talking about amazing triumphs,” said Imogen, “my other, far more impressive achievement this year seems to be making her
presence felt.”
They listened. Ruth had woken up and was making polite but strident noises to let them know she was ready to join the party
again.
“I’ll go,” said Alistair, leaping up. “I expect she’ll be needing a nappy too...”
“It’s about time I found a place for me and Ruth to stay,” announced Imogen when Alistair had reappeared with Ruth in his
arms.
“You’ve got a place here,” protested Alistair.
“Yes, plus you don’t want to waste money on rent,” added Sally sensibly. “You’re not a multimillionaire author yet, after
all.”
“We need to have our own space,” explained Imogen. “And so do you. You’ve been really kind, but I outstayed my welcome with
Gabriel, and I don’t want to do the same with you both.”
They were a little mollified when she told them about the insurance company money and the little two-bed flat she had found
just a couple of streets away. Alistair even offered to help settle her in at the weekend.