Chapter Twenty-seven
The first person she saw when she got to Waterstones on Kensington High Street was, to her relief, the quiet, sympathetic
blond girl who had been taking the notes during the publishing meeting. She was looking fresh and pretty in a flippy skirt
and a tomato red T-shirt, simple mules on the end of her long brown legs. Next to her, Imogen looked like a corpse.
She smiled a shy greeting. “You’re early,” she said. “I’m just putting out the press packs.”
“Can I help?” begged Imogen, desperate to have something to do. “I was too nervous to stay at home any longer, thinking about
all those press interviews.”
“If you’re sure,” said the girl. “Thanks. Most of our authors seem to love being the center of attention.”
“Probably because most of them have something to say,” muttered Imogen, shuffling papers together and stapling them like the
girl was showing her.
As they worked, the caterers arrived and started to set up. Damn it, thought Imogen, even the waitresses, with their smart dark blue shirts and perfect, deadpan faces, were more glamorous than she was. The band, showing up shortly after, were engagingly shambolic, though, scraping their chairs around so they could get eye contact and then cocking their eyebrows at each other as they tuned up.
At last, they launched into a jaunty, jazzed-up version of “Teddy Bear’s Picnic,” timing it perfectly to be a fanfare for
Rowena, who sailed in with the most extraordinarily eye-catching headgear that Imogen had ever seen. She tried not to stare
too obviously but was transfixed. A purple velvet turban with a huge jewel in the front was coordinated with the swathes of
purple eyeshadow that very nearly swept up to meet it.
Almost without Imogen noticing, the room filled, the waiters and waitresses gliding smoothly among the guests, trays loaded
with glasses of wine and delicious-looking canapés that she couldn’t face eating.
She found herself making inane remarks to a succession of strangers who passed before her, gushing and smiling. Crowds of
people surrounded her, ebbing and flowing, smiling at her stuttering anecdotes of writing with the real Tango on her knee,
of the beautiful countryside around Middlemass that had inspired her paintings. The way she had painted her illustrations
for each of the seasons in the four books, and how the real-life Ruth had arrived, looking exactly like her mother’s depictions
of her. Moved by her own rhetoric, talking so evocatively about a life that was no longer hers, was agony.
Later, she saw her mother surrounded by women all cooing over Ruth, who was, as Imogen noted, looking completely gorgeous
in her new outfit.
Imogen made her way over to grab a quick cuddle with Ruth, who—thoroughly excited at all the attention—tweaked Imogen’s nose, making her eyes water. Blinking the tears away, her vision blurred, she did a double take. Those broad shoulders were unmistakable. He was across the room with his back to her, talking to a pretty brunette who was fiddling flirtatiously with her hair. It couldn’t be... As if he sensed her gaze, he turned, meeting her eye.
Gabriel! What on earth was he doing here? He was supposed to be more than a hundred miles away, overseeing the refurbishment
of her house and planning his wedding to the ghastly Louise, amongst other things.
Appropriately enough, the band swung into “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” as, brushing off the brunette, he weaved his way across
the room, never once breaking eye contact.
He arrived in front of her, still saying nothing. She reached out and touched his chest, checking he was real. Her hand was
shaking, she noticed with detachment. She raised her eyes again to meet his, gasping at the intensity of his gaze.
“You’re here,” she observed inadequately.
“I am,” he replied, catching her sweating hand in both of his own. “You’re freezing,” he said. His own hands were warm and
dry, and she could feel his strength and solidity like energy pouring into her body.
“Now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. Grabbing her around the shoulders, he pulled her toward the door. The crowds
were pressing in around them, but he pushed his way through, with his other arm, making space.
“Leaving your own party, my dear, we can’t allow that,” said Rowena, grabbing her as they passed. “I was just telling the Bookseller that yours is the most significant launch for the children’s sector since I Will Never Not Ever Eat a Tomato .”
“She would say that, wouldn’t she?” simpered the journalist. “But it’s nice to have some good news for the industry for a
change.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Gabriel pleasantly. “I’m Gabriel,” he added to Rowena, giving a sort of salute.
“Well, hello,” she cooed, fluttering her purple eyelashes.
“Goodbye,” said Gabriel firmly, whisking Imogen out of the door as Rowena’s jaw dropped in shock.
“Mum’s got Ruth,” protested Imogen, turning to go back in.
“Yep,” he agreed, grabbing her shoulders and propelling her firmly away. “And what better babysitter for your child than her
own grandmother? All part of the cunning plan.”
“What cunning plan?”
“First rule of the cunning plan? Don’t talk about the cunning plan.”
“Right. So, you’ve got it all worked out, the two of you,” said Imogen.
“Yep. And there’s a few more than two of us,” he admitted. “It is a complex and wide-ranging cunning plan, requiring considerable
cooperation from a number of parties. I’ll share with you, but not yet.”
He was hanging on to her upper arm and walking so fast Imogen had to trot in her high heels to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he said, hailing a cab.
“The Royal Opera House, please,” he said to the driver as they clambered in. He then ignored Imogen for the whole journey, staring out of the window, his arm resting casually across the back of the seat, his fingertips lightly grazing her bare shoulder.
All around them, workers had spilled out of offices and into bars, the men with jackets slung over shoulders and the women
in summer dresses, tilting their faces up to catch the evening breeze and the last of the sun.
When they stepped out of the cab into the cooling air, goose pimples sprung up on Imogen’s arms.
“Don’t you have a wrap or anything?” said Gabriel impatiently, dropping his jacket onto Imogen’s shoulders. It was still warm
from his body, and she wrapped it around her gratefully.
“I’ve not seen you wearing a suit before,” she said teasingly.
“I doubt you will again anytime soon. Do you want a drink or anything?”
“I’m fine,” said Imogen. “What are we seeing?”
“ Marriage of Figaro ,” said Gabriel.
“My favorite!” gasped Imogen, nearly swooning with delight. “How did you know?”
“I heard you massacring it when you were cleaning out your gutters. I just thought you should hear it sung well, for once,”
he said, still looking stern, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward after he said it.
“So, the cunning plan so far involves abducting me from my party and surprise tickets to my favorite opera,” said Imogen,
beginning to enjoy herself. “Whatever next?”
“Don’t fish,” he told her. “All will become clear. Just enjoy the moment. It’s what I’ve been busy doing for bloody ages, while we’ve been apart. And why the hell haven’t you been in touch?”
It seemed to be a rhetorical question, so Imogen didn’t reply. A bubble of joy started to rise up from her core. She felt
light, as if—at any moment—her feet might leave the floor and she would float to the ceiling of this beautiful, velvet-lined
theater, with its gilding and scrolls and opulent splendor. She could hear the orchestra tuning up below and smell Gabriel’s
aftershave as he sat beside her; she couldn’t remember the last time she had ever dared to be that happy.
They had a box to themselves, and Imogen was transported from the minute the conductor struck up the familiar jaunty overture.
The world receded as the actors played out the tale told through the most sublime music Imogen had ever heard. The trouble
was, the effect of the music, Gabriel’s sudden arrival, and the pent-up misery of the last few months finally beginning to
lift made her cry. And once she started, she couldn’t stop.
By the time the lights went up, she was sobbing in earnest, with a runny nose and swollen eyes.
Unperturbed, Gabriel put his arm around her shoulders and helped her up.
“Hungry?” he said.
She shook her head.
“Yes, I think you are,” he told her, “and I know just the place.”
Within minutes, they were in a cozy, dimly lit booth, private enough for Imogen not to feel self-conscious about other diners seeing her tearstained face. She found she couldn’t meet Gabriel’s eye at all. He ordered for her, and a plate of pad Thai noodles arrived with some cold lager. Sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, she amazed herself by emptying the plate and draining the glass. The gnawing stomach pain she had not consciously acknowledged dissipated.
Imogen took a deep breath. It was now or never. “You didn’t bring Louise,” she said at last, making it a statement not a question.
“Why the hell would I bring Louise on a date with you?”
“Is this a date?”
Gabriel looked away uncomfortably. “If you like,” he said reluctantly.
“Okay, whose idea was this?”
“Mine.” He paused. “All right, fine, Genny and Simon and that lot had this ridiculous suggestion I should take you out or
something,” he admitted. “You know, a show, dinner, all that stuff. I thought it was a stupid idea myself.”
“I think it’s a strange thing for them to suggest when they know you’re engaged to Louise,” she reasoned, her heart sinking
as she remembered this herself. For God’s sake, she knew Gabriel’s friends weren’t Louise’s greatest fans, but using her,
Imogen, to mess up his relationship with the woman he wanted to marry was a bit much. She, personally, could do without it,
for a start.
“News to me!” he said, sounding even more amazed. “Where the bloody hell do you get these ideas from, woman?”
“You proposed to her on Christmas Eve,” said Imogen, bolder now. “She told me.” Gabriel’s brow lowered ominously. “At least,”
Imogen added as the truth slowly dawned, “she told me you were going to.”
“Did she?” he said, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared under his hairline. “Well, I didn’t.”
“But you invited her to supper, it was the night of the flood,” insisted Imogen.
“And you didn’t think it odd that it was Simon and me together when we came to rescue you?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Imogen, who hadn’t given it any thought at all until now.
“I suppose now you think it’s me and Simon that are engaged.”
“Well, if it’s true, I do think someone should tell Genny,” she joked feebly.
“I did see Louise that night. I asked her over for supper so I could make it absolutely clear to her there could be nothing
between us.”
“Ah,” said Imogen.
“Yes, ‘ah,’?” replied Gabriel.
“How did she seem?”
“Thwarted,” said Gabriel, remembering.
“Poor Louise.”
“Save your sympathy. She was never quite as keen after she found out the whole lord of the manor thing didn’t come with a
ton of cash. I gather she’s already snaffled herself some city boy who had the misfortune to come on one of her conferences.
He’s got a helicopter and a villa in Mustique apparently, so I shouldn’t think she’ll be letting him out of her clutches in
a hurry.”
They sat in silence while Gabriel finished his food. Imogen was unable to process any more information. The idea that she had been wrong about such a fundamental thing, plus the pressure of the last six months leading up to the launch, had left her poleaxed with fatigue. The only way she could support the weight of her head was by propping it on her hand. Twice her elbow slipped and she nearly smashed her nose on the table.
“Bit tired,” she muttered to Gabriel, who had finished eating and was watching her silently.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
At this, huge tears started to plop onto the table. The thought of waking up tomorrow in her little rented flat without him
made her want to howl all over again. Unable to explain, she stumbled to her feet and let Gabriel lead her out of the restaurant.
Even though it was well past midnight, the streets were still teeming with people wearily traveling home or those for whom
the evening had barely begun, queuing outside the nightclubs.
His car was in an underground car park around the corner. He opened the passenger door for her and even reached across to
put on her seat belt. Like an exhausted toddler, she let him, slumping limply in the seat. Feeling the chill of her bare arms
with his warm, rough hand, he took his jacket off again and laid it over her. Before he had even negotiated his way to the
exit, she was sound asleep, her head resting uncomfortably on the doorjamb. Later, she was vaguely aware of someone lifting
her head and resting it back on something lovely and soft. A blanket covered her, and she sighed, settling down into an even
deeper sleep, deeper than she had slept for months.