Chapter Two
Imogen hauled herself, her flouncy skirt and her suitcase off the train when it reached Norwich, a little after lunchtime.
Her stomach rumbled but she couldn’t face eating anything, not just because her bodice was tightly fitted, but because her insides were knotted with anxiety and guilt.
She had never believed it in books when characters were too upset to eat – she always went straight for food – but now she discovered it was a real thing, and that made her feel even more disappointed in herself.
‘The next train for Mistingham leaves from platform three in ten minutes,’ announced the disembodied voice of the loudspeaker, and Imogen cursed quietly, picked up her skirts and her case and shuffle-ran around to the ticket machine, then platform three.
This train was much smaller than the London train and mostly empty, and Imogen breathed a sigh of relief as she squished herself and all her layers into a seat.
As it juddered away she watched the low-slung October sun dusting the bulky Norwich buildings, then the fields and rivers of the Norfolk countryside, with its golden light.
She should find Birdie’s landline number and warn her she was coming, but the relentless beeping when she’d turned her phone on again to buy her Mistingham ticket had not been encouraging, and she felt safer with it off.
It was an hour up to the coast, and then she would feel better, or – at least – less alone in her misery.
She must have drifted off, because she woke with her forehead pressed against the cold window, the announcer telling her they had reached the end of the line.
She hauled her stiff, constricted body up and jerkily carried her suitcase to the door, and thought she must look like the full, authentic Corpse Bride right now.
The wind whipped around her as she stepped onto the platform, and the sea scents in the crisp air gave her such a strong pang of nostalgia that she smiled for the first time in hours.
The tiny, Toytown station was deserted, and it was a little way out of the village, so she knew she had a twenty-minute walk to get to the centre of Mistingham, unless by some miracle there was a taxi idling outside.
Grinning at the hopefulness of that thought, she made her way through the empty foyer and out of the front of the station.
Ahead of her was a single-track road, the tarmac dusted with mud, a tall, leafless hedge flanking it on the other side.
Beyond that there was nothing – no buildings or trees visible above the tangle of dark branches; no hills.
This was wild, flat, beautiful north Norfolk.
Imogen waited for the calm of being back here to hit, but the temperature was dropping and her aunt’s red blazer wasn’t that warm.
She silently thanked the wooden signpost reminding her to turn right for the village, extended her suitcase’s handle, and started walking.
She tried not to think about the mud and the delicate silk covering the low heels of her wedding shoes, the floor-length hem of her expensive dress.
Could she return it, or save it for next time, perhaps?
‘You are OK, Imogen Rowsell,’ she said aloud, projecting her voice in the way her old drama teacher, Mrs Bligh, had taught her. A blackbird screeched and flew out of the undergrowth, and Imogen startled as it almost collided with her pink suitcase. She took a breath, then kept going.
‘You. Are. Fine.’ She enunciated each word, aiming for Tom Hiddleston in one of his serious roles.
‘This is a bump in the road, and at least you made a decision. For yourself. Even if it was at the very worst time, and … possibly the wrong one.’ She’d lost the Hiddleston diction pretty quickly, and as she turned left, following another signpost, she faltered.
There was something up ahead, a glint of red in the afternoon sun.
She took another step and saw that there was a bicycle leaning against a hedge.
Imogen looked around, but couldn’t see anybody. She kept going.
‘You have given yourself breathing space,’ she went on, the steady rumble of her suitcase’s wheels a backing track to her pep talk.
‘From what?’ a voice said.
Imogen’s heart missed a beat and she came to an ungainly stop, her suitcase rolling over her hem.
She turned around. There was a girl standing there, with long, curly dark hair and curious dark eyes, wearing a thick red parka with a fur-lined hood.
She had a tiny dog on a lead, a caramel-brown scruffy thing that couldn’t be more than six months old.
‘Hello,’ Imogen said. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Which was ridiculous because the girl had startled her.
‘What do you need breathing space from?’ the girl asked. ‘Is that a wedding dress, or a Disney princess dress?’
There was the explanation she should have used since hightailing it out of the church. She could be Elsa, or Snow White. Sleeping Beauty, maybe. Sleeping for a hundred years would be preferable to all this.
‘It’s a wedding dress,’ she said, because she didn’t want to collect any more black marks by lying to children.
‘Why are you wearing a wedding dress?’ The girl sounded remarkably composed, considering how Imogen must look. She could feel chunks of her hair brushing the back of her neck, her up-do having collapsed completely.
She sighed. ‘Because I ran away from my wedding.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘I had second thoughts. I’d been having them for a while, and … Should you be out here on your own?’ She could see a couple of roofs now that she was closer to the village, but it was still a bleak bit of countryside and she didn’t think the girl could be more than twelve.
‘Dad said I could have an hour. I’ve got a timer on my watch, and I have twenty-three minutes left. And I’m not on my own. I have Artichoke.’ She lifted the dog into her slender arms, and it wriggled and squeaked like a guinea pig.
‘Your puppy is called Artichoke?’
The girl nodded. ‘And I’m Lucy. Who are you?’
‘I’m—’
‘I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,’ Lucy cut in, ‘but you don’t look very scary. And I don’t think you could run very fast in that dress.’
‘You don’t know what I’ve got in my suitcase,’ Imogen said, slightly hurt by the girl’s assessment.
‘What have you got in your suitcase?’
‘Bikinis,’ Imogen admitted. ‘Summer dresses.’ Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘I was supposed to be going to Mauritius after the wedding.’
‘But you didn’t complete the wedding.’
‘No, I didn’t complete the wedding. I failed the wedding.’
‘So you’ve come to Mistingham instead?’ Lucy sounded sceptical, as well she might.
The puppy, Artichoke, licked her owner’s cheek, and made another guinea pig squeak.
‘I’ve come to see my grandmother.’ Imogen suddenly felt very, very tired, the events of the day – of the last few weeks – catching up with her.
Wedding prep was exhausting enough when you weren’t also having an existential crisis.
‘Who’s your grandma?’
‘Birdie. She’s—’
‘A witch!’ Lucy screeched, and with her dark eyes wide she looked properly girlish. Artichoke whimpered and she apologized and shushed her dog.
‘She does have some alternative ideas,’ Imogen said. ‘But she’s lovely. Harmless. You know her then?’
‘She’s one of my best friends,’ Lucy announced. ‘She’s shown me her spell book and everything. She’s your gran?’
‘She is. I haven’t seen her for ages, though.’
‘Have you come from London?’ Lucy was suddenly much more animated, as if she could allow Imogen into her inner circle now she knew she was related to Birdie. ‘And have you really run away from your wedding? Today?’
‘All those things.’
Lucy looked thoughtful. ‘OK. But you can’t get to the village that way.’ She pointed in the direction Imogen had been intending to go until she’d been ambushed.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the path is all muddy. Your dress will get ruined.’
Imogen resisted the urge to say that everything was already ruined, never mind the dress. ‘OK, so—’
‘But my dad has a van. Here.’ She thrust the ball of fuzzy brown fur at Imogen, and she took it automatically: a pair of wide eyes looked up at her, framed by tiny ears and possibly the cutest nose Imogen had ever seen.
‘It’s really hard carrying Artichoke on the bike.
Stay there,’ Lucy added firmly, and Imogen wasn’t sure if she was talking to the dog, or to her.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes, with my dad. ’
‘I can walk—’
‘Don’t kidnap my dog,’ Lucy called as she raced to the red bike, pulled it away from the hedge and secured her helmet – a matching cherry red – then climbed onto it and pedalled away, out of sight in moments.
Imogen wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she was glad to have instructions to follow, even if they had come from a twelve-year-old.
‘I’m not going to kidnap you,’ she told the dog, and Artichoke snuggled closer, her nose inside Aunt Marjorie’s red jacket, clearly happy with the assurance. ‘You’re very cute.’
So many people had told her that dogs were great companions, a source of comfort, but Imogen had been wary of them ever since she’d been chased by a Dalmatian at the park when she was small. It hadn’t done anything other than lick her, but it had stayed with her as a disconcerting experience.
Edmund was very much a dog person. He had talked about them getting one – something large and stately, not small and fuzzy – when they were married.
He worked long hours at her dad’s law firm, but had said that Imogen, who was her dad’s PA, could cut her days or give her job up completely, and look after their dog, and then – eventually – their children.