12
Imogen
I mogen drove carefully down the icy lanes toward Winterbury. She’d left early and the drive from London had been easy, but as she drew closer to the address Dorothy had given her, the impact of the overnight snowfall was visible everywhere.
The roads were glassy in the pale winter sunlight, the hedges and fields white with snow. She drove through picturesque villages with rows of pretty cottages and shops with windows illuminated and decorated for Christmas. She passed an ancient church, its roof coated with snow, and crossed a bridge over a stream that was frozen.
She’d thought that by leaving London she’d be avoiding Christmas, but it seemed as if this place had been designed for the season, and as if that wasn’t enough, nature had added the final sparkly flourish to the landscape. And with that pale winter beauty came the cold.
Fortunately years of saving on heating bills meant she’d amassed a wardrobe of warm clothing.
Her suitcase was full of wool sweaters and outdoor gear. She’d also packed sturdy boots because she liked the idea of walking to the village Dorothy had described.
Fresh air, country walks, maybe a few hours with a book in the village café—it all sounded perfect. Not completely perfect, of course. Completely perfect would have been spending time with family, but for someone spending Christmas alone, this was good. Better than being alone in London.
Alone.
The word seemed to settle on her like one of the snowflakes drifting in front of the car.
Perhaps because of that encounter with her mother, she was more aware of it than usual. Everywhere she looked, people seemed to be in groups. There was a woman with two excited children trying to feed ducks that stood bemused on the frozen surface of a pond. A family laughing together as they dragged an oversize Christmas tree along a snow-covered path and a couple walking hand in hand looking like something from an ad for vitamins (or maybe winter coats).
Imogen watched as the woman laughed up at the man, and he lowered his head to kiss her slowly.
“Ugh,” she muttered. “Get a room.” And they probably had a room, most likely in a five-star hotel where they’d order room service and sip champagne and talk about how much they loved everything about Christmas. Perhaps he was going to propose and they’d remember this particular Christmas forever.
Everyone seemed content.
Everyone had someone.
Imogen felt a pang of envy and forced herself to focus on the road. She knew that wasn’t true, but right at that moment it felt true. Part of her hoped to pass a couple in midfight, or a child having a tantrum. Anything that might remind her that she wasn’t the only one living a less than perfect life. She knew Christmas was a difficult time for many people, but there was something about snow and sparkle that made her forget that.
As she left the village, the roads worsened. She gripped the wheel, hoping she didn’t slide the rental car into a ditch. Trees bordered each side of the narrow road, their snow-covered branches creating a frozen archway. It was pretty, but also deadly, and she slowed as snow fluttered down, reducing her visibility. Maybe driving hadn’t been such a great idea. She was used to living in the city, where snow swiftly melted and rarely interfered with daily life.
“You have arrived at your destination,” said her phone and Imogen breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you.”
She shook her head. And now she was talking to her phone as if it were a person. She was losing it.
She took the turn indicated, past a stylish sign saying Winterbury Estate and Vineyard and then stopped. A pair of large wrought-iron gates had been left open and she could see the driveway winding ahead through an avenue of snow-laden trees.
Dorothy lived here?
It was a good thing she was on her own in the car because she was pretty sure her jaw dropped. She’d seen pictures, of course, when Dorothy had explained that she wanted to hold the summer event on her land, but pictures didn’t capture the magical setting or the sheer scale of the place.
She drove through the gates and there to the right, sheltered from the road by a dry stone wall and mature trees, was Holly Cottage. The name had no doubt been inspired by the large holly bush that dominated the front garden. It was crowded with scarlet berries, although with weather this cold she had no doubt the birds would soon strip it bare.
She pulled into the parking space and gazed at the place that would be her home for the next few weeks.
The cottage was chocolate-box perfect, brimming with Cotswold charm. Snow clung to the roof and dusted the rose that climbed its way up the pale stone walls, and she could see in a single glance that everything Dorothy had said about it was correct.
It was the perfect Christmas cottage. The ideal romantic bolt-hole. The dream honeymoon destination. A paradise for the selfie obsessed. But Imogen didn’t fit into any of those categories, and there was something about the idyllic cottage that intensified the ache of loneliness inside her.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea.
By coming here all she’d really done was change her surroundings. Everything else had come with her. All her feelings about this time of year, her guilt at having deceived her colleagues, the hurt caused by her mother. The whole mess that was her life. Had she really thought that “getting away from it all” would actually mean getting away from it all?
She sat for a moment, feeling sorry for herself, and then remembered that feeling sorry for herself achieved nothing.
She turned off the engine and took a deep breath. She’d made it through Christmases that were worse than this one. So her mother didn’t love her. That wasn’t exactly a shock, was it? Deep down she’d always known that. There was no reason why hearing it spelled out so brutally and publicly should have this effect on her. What did it matter if a bunch of strangers knew her sad tale? Hopefully, it would make them appreciate their own families, and in a way her mother had done her a favor because now she was going to stop deluding herself that this little “family” of hers existed. It existed only in her head, a figment of her imagination, conjured by yearning and hope. Her mother was so damaged by her own family’s rejection that she was incapable of trusting anyone with her love.
She was on her own in the world, and the sooner she accepted the reality of that, the sooner she’d stop feeling so bruised.
And she had much to be grateful for. She still had a job she loved (she wasn’t going to think about how she was going to unravel the lies she’d told her colleagues, at least not now). She had somewhere to live, and she could afford to feed herself.
And for the next few weeks she was going to be staying here, in this wonderful place.
Yes, she would still be alone, but it would be better than London. The wintry isolation was glorious, and so much better than streets crowded with stressed-out Christmas shoppers. And it was all hers.
Having given herself a sharp talking-to, she stepped out of the car and stepped onto a soft blanket of fresh snow studded with pine cones from the surrounding trees.
All she saw for miles around were snowy trees and fields. It was blissfully peaceful, the air cold but crisp and clean.
Her spirits lifted and with a surge of new determination, she dragged her case to the cottage. Dorothy had left it unlocked and she opened the door, tugged off her snowy boots and stepped onto the stone floor. Warmth seeped through her socks and she stood for a moment, savoring the welcome heat. At least she wasn’t going to be cold.
She abandoned her suitcase and explored the cottage. The place was flooded with natural light, something that was lacking in her home in London.
There was a stylish living room with oak beams and windows that overlooked a walled garden, now covered in snow. Deep, comfortable sofas faced each other across a low coffee table stacked with books, but the focus of the room was an inglenook fireplace that was home to a wood burning stove. She imagined curling up in the evening in front of that fire, snuggled under one of the warm throws with a book. Leading off from the living room was a pretty kitchen. The cabinets were painted a soft creamy shade, there was a small kitchen island and everywhere she looked there were stylish hints of country living. In a corner nook by a window there was a dining table that overlooked the fields beyond.
There was a door on the far side of the kitchen and she opened it, expecting a storage cupboard.
“Oh—” She stared and then smiled, because the door led to a cozy den with a large flat-screen TV and an enormous modular sofa that encouraged the occupants to sprawl. Two of the walls were exposed stone, and the third was covered in well-stocked bookshelves.
She could happily have spent the entire holiday in this room alone, but she still had the upstairs to explore, so she headed back through the kitchen and up the stairs, feeling considerably more cheerful.
How lucky was she that Dorothy had offered this to her? How completely perfect.
She opened the door to the master bedroom. It had a vaulted ceiling and views across the countryside. Across snowy fields she could see a church spire. Presumably that was the village Dorothy had mentioned.
The bed was large and draped in pale shades of duck-egg blue. She was so tired after a run of sleepless nights that she had to stop herself from sliding between those sheets and closing her eyes. There was a bathroom tucked into the eaves and a small second bedroom, which had a desk facing across the garden.
The place was small, but luxurious and infinitely welcoming. She could see why it was popular with the influencer generation.
“Imogen?”
Dorothy’s voice carried upstairs, and Imogen took a last wistful look at the bed and headed back down the stairs to the front door.
Dorothy was standing in the doorway, wrapped up in a thick coat and a warm scarf. She was clutching a cake tin and by her side was a spaniel, who bounded across to Imogen, tail wagging.
Delighted, she stooped to pet him, comforted by his enthusiasm and the warmth of his greeting. “Aren’t you gorgeous?”
Dorothy looked interested. “This is Bailey. You like dogs? Do you have one of your own?”
Imogen straightened. “I do like dogs, and no, I don’t have one.” She wasn’t going there again. From now on it was the truth all the way.
She’d called the woman from Facebook and explained that it was all a big mix-up. Fortunately, the woman hadn’t questioned her too closely on how her dog had featured in the “missing dog” post. Janie had been messaging her, and Imogen had told her that it was all a misunderstanding and that she’d explain when she saw them next.
Exactly what explanation she was going to give was something she had yet to figure out.
She felt Bailey nudge her leg with his nose, and for a moment she wished he was hers.
Dorothy tugged off her boots and left them on the doorstep. “How was your journey? The roads are pretty icy around here. They clear the main roads first when there is a snowfall, and we’re often last.”
“It was fine, thank you. I only arrived about ten minutes ago.”
“And you’ve looked around? Is everything all right for you?”
“It’s gorgeous, Dorothy. I can’t believe you’re letting me stay here.” It was something she’d wondered about frequently over the past few days. She and Dorothy had always got on well, but still—lending her a cottage?
Why?
Dorothy was obviously more generous than even Imogen had thought, although she did intend to pay her, obviously.
“It’s my pleasure, Imogen. I brought you a cake I baked earlier.” She held out the tin. “Shall we have a cup of tea and I can tell you a little about the place? There’s a local map in the file in the living room, but it’s almost easier if I point out of the window.”
Imogen made tea, finding her way around the kitchen under Dorothy’s direction, and then they sat at the table together.
“The village is worth a visit.” Dorothy stirred sugar into her tea. “It dates back to Roman times and it’s pretty, with some interesting shops. It’s an easy walk from here. Even with snow on the ground the footpath should be easy to find. It leads straight across the fields. You’ll see the church spire in the distance. It’s visible from everywhere. Use that as a landmark to guide you.”
“It’s so cozy and comfortable here I might not step out of the front door for my entire stay.” Imogen leaned down to stroke Bailey.
“I should have said that if there is someone you want to invite—” Dorothy picked up her mug “—a friend—someone special—please go ahead. Treat the place as your own.”
Who would she invite?
She spent most of her life at work, and the people she was closest to were her work colleagues. She was fond of them, but she couldn’t imagine inviting Anya or Janie to stay here with her. For a start, they didn’t really know anything about her. And anyway, they both had family and plans for Christmas.
“There isn’t anyone. But I’ll be fine.”
Dorothy cradled her mug. “I don’t like to think of you all on your own.”
All on your own. Why did people say that? Why not just on your own ? Did the sentence really need the extra emphasis?
“There’s no need to worry about me. I like my own company. It will be good to just relax.”
Dorothy put her mug down. “Come for lunch tomorrow,” she said quickly, “up at the house.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes. I insist. It will be wonderful.”
Imogen had the sense it was a totally impulsive invitation, driven by the fact she’d said she would be alone. What Dorothy didn’t realize was that she was almost always alone. She was used to it. And she liked being alone most of the time. It was only at Christmas that she found it difficult.
“Honestly, I’ll be—”
“It will be fun. I can introduce you to the animals. Have you ever met an alpaca?”
“You have an alpaca?”
“Five of them. Also two goats, a couple of sheep and a Shetland pony much beloved by my granddaughters. Sara says that soon I’ll be able to open a petting zoo.”
Imogen was intrigued. “It will be good to finally meet Sara. I’ve heard so much about her. It’s a shame she couldn’t make the event last year.”
“Mmm. She had...complications.”
“That’s right. I remember you telling me.” Still, it seemed odd that she’d never met Sara. But it was a small family business, so maybe not. She knew Dorothy didn’t believe in wasting people’s time unnecessarily. “So you care for all the animals yourself?”
“Mostly. I occasionally enlist the help of family, and my vet, Miles, is very good. Do you like animals?”
“I don’t really have any experience with them.” Apart from fake ones, and presumably that didn’t count. “I’m a city girl.”
“Why don’t you come a bit early tomorrow and I can show you around before lunch? It’s easy to find. Carry on up the driveway and the house is directly in front of you. It will take you about ten minutes to walk, or you could drive it if you prefer.” Dorothy finished her tea. “I think you’ll love the alpacas. Everyone does. They are such characters, particularly Benson.”
“You name them?”
“Technically, my granddaughters named them, but yes, they all have names.”
Lunch at Dorothy’s and a meet with a herd of cute alpacas.
It was too tempting to refuse.
“I’ll be there.”