Chapter Three #2
‘I expect I’ll need lots of cake over the next few days,’ Imogen said. ‘Once I’ve got out of this dress, anyway.’ She put her hands on the waist of the constricting bodice. ‘Thank you again.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Dexter said. ‘You look beautiful, by the way. Though I don’t know if that’s a lot of help at the moment.’
‘Oh, I … Thank you.’ They held eye contact for a second, then she watched him sling his arm around Lucy’s shoulders as they walked back to the van.
Imogen gently closed the door and turned around to lean against it.
‘I’m so sorry for turning up like this.’
‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to the Maldives?
’ Birdie placed Imogen’s suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.
Despite looking like a witch’s cottage from outside, the inside was bright and airy, with eclectic furniture and furnishings in a clash of cozy colours.
Paintings and embroidery hung on the walls alongside photographs with a sepia tint; glass birds and moons were displayed on shelves; books sat haphazardly on bookcases.
It felt like a warm embrace, and on this October evening, lamps oozing light from every corner, Imogen couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be.
‘Mauritius,’ she said, ‘but I picked Mistingham instead.’
‘Darling.’ Birdie closed the distance, wrapping Imogen in a tight hug. She smelt of patchouli. ‘I am so sorry. Whatever has gone on, it had to have been bad for you to do this. I thought your course was set.’
Imogen rested her head on her grandmother’s shoulder, having to stoop to do it. ‘I don’t really know what happened,’ she said, except that wasn’t wholly true, was it? ‘I just … couldn’t.’
‘No need to talk it out now,’ Birdie said soothingly. ‘Anything useful in that suitcase of yours?’
‘I’m not sure it’s bikini weather.’
‘I’ll find you some pyjamas, then how about scrambled eggs on toast? I can’t imagine you picked up a sandwich as you fled.’
‘I didn’t, and I’m starving.’ And Birdie’s buttery scrambled eggs were her favourite. Little acts of kindness were threatening to upend her, especially as she didn’t think she deserved them.
‘Go and get sorted.’ Birdie gestured towards the stairs.
‘OK. Thanks, Gran.’
‘I’m just glad you felt you could come to me.’
Imogen didn’t know how to explain just how safe Birdie made her feel, so she nodded, then tiptoed carefully up the narrow staircase, with her pink suitcase and her flouncy wedding dress, to the bedroom in the eaves of her grandmother’s cottage.
It took Imogen a long time to untie herself, but eventually she was able to slip out of her dress and hang it on a solid wooden hanger she found in the wardrobe.
Her bedroom was snug, with a plush carpet and a single bed up against the wall.
A dreamcatcher made of purple and silver thread hung above the headboard, dancing gently in a breeze that Imogen couldn’t feel.
A tiny desk had an age-spotted mirror on top, and the skylight looked out over the rooftops of Mistingham, though it didn’t have a view of the sea.
She realized, as she stood there in her fancy underwear, a strapless lace teddy in soft ivory, that she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the sea since arriving.
There was a knock on the door and Imogen said, ‘Come in.’
‘Here you are.’ Birdie bustled in and handed Imogen a soft bundle of dusky pink pyjamas with daisies all over them. ‘A bit different to that fancy getup.’
‘These look really comfortable. Thank you.’
‘Have you let anyone know where you are?’
‘You mean Mum and Dad?’
‘Or Edmund. They’re bound to be worried about you.’
‘I don’t want them to know I’m here.’ Imogen could imagine her parents, Edmund, and Edmund’s family coming after her, desperate to understand what had happened, concern mingling with outrage at her behaviour.
Except that her mum, Stella Rowsell, had made it clear that she never wanted to come to Mistingham again.
Would that change, if she thought Imogen needed her?
Birdie put a hand on her arm. ‘Just let someone know you’re safe. I’d do it, but I think that would rather give the game away, don’t you?’
Imogen matched Birdie’s smile. ‘I will. After scrambled eggs?’
‘That feels like a stalling tactic.’
Imogen laughed, the relief at no longer being in her restrictive wedding dress making her light-headed.
‘I ran away from my own wedding. And I literally ran, like a character in a film.’ She covered her eyes.
‘Can’t I be forgiven for wanting to hold off a bit before I get in touch with the people whose lives I messed up? ’
‘One text message.’ The look on her grandmother’s face told her she wasn’t messing about. ‘One to Edmund, and one to your mother, letting them know you’re safe. That, Imogen Rowsell, is non-negotiable. I will gate-keep your scrambled eggs until you show them to me.’
Imogen sighed, but Birdie was right. If nothing else, she should let them know she was physically OK. ‘Fine. You know, I should have been Imogen Goddon by now.’
‘That is going to take longer to unpick. See you downstairs in ten minutes, phone in hand.’
‘Understood.’ Imogen felt like saluting, but she waited until Birdie had closed the door. She replaced her lacy underwear with the soft pyjamas, then she took her iPhone out of her clutch bag.
She sat on the bed, pressed her feet firmly into the carpet to ground herself, and an image of Dexter’s dark eyes and stubbled jaw, his compassionate expression, intruded on her thoughts.
You look beautiful, by the way. She hadn’t given Edmund a chance to say that to her.
Would he have? She couldn’t think about that now.
Two messages, that was all. She could do this.
She could turn her phone on and see what was waiting for her. She had no choice.
Imogen Rowsell, people-pleaser extraordinaire, shut her eyes, took a deep breath and pressed the ‘on’ button, and waited to be connected to all the people she’d escaped from, and the reactions to the completely out-of-character thing she’d done.