Chapter Four
It was worse than she had expected.
Imogen sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress firmer than she was used to at home, and watched her phone screen fill up with missed calls, voicemails and WhatsApps, the small bedroom a cacophony of discordant pings.
Her mouth dried out as she saw the names: Edmund, Mum, Dad, Nikki.
Her aunt Marjorie, even. She caught brief flashes as the messages popped up: Where are you?
What’s happened? Please, just tell me … Are you OK?
Imogen loved drama – she had wanted to be a performer for as long as she could remember, had taken some classes and been in a couple of amateur productions – but she wasn’t a drama queen in her real life.
Over the last few years, she had squashed down her performative instincts, had done what was expected of her, and …
what? Was this the result? One big blow-up?
Ruining a whole lot of lives in one fell swoop?
A notification pinged to the top of the pile and she zeroed in on it.
It was from her best friend, Nikki. Nikki who had made it to drama school and beyond, who had been in a couple of adverts shown on prime-time TV, and who was auditioning for theatre roles for the new year. Nikki who had never warmed to Edmund.
Hope you’re OK. Get in touch when you can. All of this will work out, all right? I promise. xx
Imogen breathed a sigh of relief and, knowing she couldn’t be long, that she needed to send messages to her mum and Edmund, she found her friend’s number in favourites.
‘Imogen?’ It didn’t even ring before Nikki picked up. ‘Where are you? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ Imogen said. ‘Ish, anyway.’ Ish is good, Dexter had said.
‘Where are you?’
‘With a friend.’ She wouldn’t put it past her family to wheedle the truth out of Nikki.
‘A guy friend?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘There’s nobody else, then?’ Nikki asked in her slightly gravelly voice. ‘You didn’t leave because you’re desperately in love with another man and couldn’t live a lie any more?’
‘No way. I wouldn’t do that to Edmund.’
Nikki made a noncommittal noise. Imogen knew her friend wasn’t convinced that Edmund had always been loyal to her, but she thought that was simply her dislike for him showing. Imogen didn’t think Edmund was a cheater, although it turned out he was a lot of other things. ‘So what happened?’
Imogen rubbed her forehead. ‘I was standing in the doorway of the church, and everyone was looking at me. And it wasn’t – it wasn’t how I imagined it. Edmund seemed … self-satisfied.’
‘Finally!’ Nikki said.
‘And I always imagined my husband-to-be would be overwhelmed, you know? Not necessarily crying, but—’
‘Damn right they should be crying. Edmund isn’t right for you; I’ve been saying this all along.’
‘I know, but—’
‘And I’m glad you realized it in time. I mean, you cut it pretty fine, and sent Edmund’s whole family into apoplexy. I’m proud of you.’
‘Proud of the apoplexy?’ Imogen murmured.
Proud was the last thing she felt, but then she hadn’t told Nikki about the conversation she’d overheard. She hadn’t told anyone, because she was still rolling it around in her mind, wondering whether it had really happened, or if she’d misinterpreted it.
‘Have you spoken to him?’ Nikki asked.
‘I’m about to text him saying I’m safe, but I can’t do anything else right now. I’m still reeling from my own behaviour.’
‘You’ve woken up. This is a good thing. You’ll see that soon enough.’
‘Where are you?’ Imogen walked to the skylight. It was dark now, the windows of the house opposite glowing softly, but it was also cloudy, so she would have to wait to see the stars in a Mistingham sky.
‘At home. I suggested to your mum that we should still have the party, make use of all the food and drink because it would be a waste otherwise.’
This made Imogen snort. ‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing. I was felled by her withering glare, though.’
‘I’m sure the hotel will work something out. They won’t want to waste anything either.’
‘Don’t think about that right now. Just take a few days, with whatever friend you’ve gone to see, and stay in touch, OK? I don’t want to have to keep worrying about you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Imogen was reminded that if her actions had worried Nikki, they would have worried Edmund and her parents even more. ‘I’d better go.’
‘I’ll call you, chick. Stay strong.’ Nikki rang off, leaving Imogen listening to dead air.
It took her twenty-five minutes to construct two text messages, telling first her mum and then Edmund that she was OK, she was sorry, and that she would call them in the next couple of days.
It made her feel sick, her hands sweaty as she typed, and then – because she knew signs of life would result in immediate calls – she switched her phone off.
‘I’m proud of you.’ Birdie put a plate in front of her on the kitchen table: golden-yellow scrambled eggs on toast, wilted spinach and baby tomatoes. A large mug sat on a coaster, the liquid inside smelling faintly of liquorice, and with some sort of dusting on the top.
‘Special tea?’ Imogen asked.
‘It’s fennel and camomile, plus a couple of other ingredients. It’s guaranteed to soothe you.’
‘OK.’ Imogen picked up the mug and inhaled the scent; it was still too hot to drink but, after all these years, she trusted her gran’s remedies.
‘Nikki said that she’s proud of me too, but I don’t think making a huge mistake and then taking a first, tiny step to try and repair the damage I’ve caused is something to be proud of. ’
‘Are you saying running away was a mistake?’
Imogen closed her eyes at the first, perfect bite of her gran’s scrambled eggs. ‘No,’ she said, when she’d finished her mouthful. She felt the truth of it in her bones. ‘But the way I did it, waiting until today, not talking to Edmund first … That was all a mistake.’
‘You’ve given everyone who was there a story they can tell for the rest of their lives.’ Birdie sat opposite her, clasping her own cup of tea. ‘A few core people won’t appreciate it right now, but it’s certainly a conversation starter.’
‘Edmund will be OK,’ Imogen said, because he was the one she’d hurt. But then she thought of what had happened the day before the wedding, and wondered if it was his heart that she’d speared, or just his ego. She finished her food, then got up on weary legs to do the washing-up.
‘We’ll catch up properly tomorrow,’ Birdie said. ‘But you’re dead on your feet, so off you pop. Leave your phone off, and I’ll wake you in the morning.’
‘At a reasonable time?’ Imogen said with a smile.
‘Of course.’ Birdie’s knowing glint made Imogen think that their idea of ‘reasonable’ wasn’t the same thing.
But she didn’t have the energy to argue, so she kissed her gran and made her way upstairs, brushing her teeth before crawling under the duvet in the attic room.
She closed her eyes, the beginning of the day replaying in her head before exhaustion caught up with her.
Imogen blinked as she stepped outside Birdie’s cottage and wrapped the oversized coat around her.
It was a puffa jacket, fleece-lined, the bold green colour of spring shoots.
Birdie had told her she hadn’t worn it in years, and Imogen could believe that – it was so bright it was almost neon – but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she only had on a thin pair of jeans and a light jumper, the warmest clothes she’d packed for her honeymoon, so she needed extra layers.
She inhaled cold, sea-fresh air, and no traffic fumes.
Mistingham felt full of possibility, despite the grey sky and lack of sunshine.
The houses in Birdie’s road had well-tended front gardens, and there were elegant sculptures of sea birds and sailing boats in some of the windows.
She turned towards the centre of the village, intent on exploring the shops after spending the whole of Saturday inside, in her pyjamas, distractedly reading a thriller from Birdie’s collection of paperbacks.
‘You going to turn your phone on today?’ Birdie had asked her that morning, and Imogen had said, ‘Later, after I’ve been round the village.
’ Which meant she actually had to do it.
She wanted to delay seeing how Edmund and her mum had responded to her messages for a little while longer, so she was going to have a proper explore.
She passed a couple walking a boisterous Labrador; a young family, their two small children rugged up in woolly hats and gloves, getting in the wintry spirit even though it was only just November; several people heading towards the sea.
She didn’t know if the looks she was getting were because of her bright green coat, or because Mistingham was small and everyone knew everyone else’s business.
She followed a group of older women heading towards Hartley Country Apparel, but before she reached it she saw the Stationery Emporium.
The title conjured up an elegant world of pen and notebook possibilities, and the interior looked enticing.
There were two women inside, one on either side of the counter, having an animated discussion, and Imogen was happily surprised that it was open on a Sunday.
The woman serving was tall and athletic-looking with reddish-brown hair, while the customer was slighter, her hair a glossy mid-brown – a couple of shades lighter than Imogen’s own – and she was wearing a burgundy coat and a long, floaty skirt.
Imogen pulled open the door, and it gave a quaint little tinkle. She looked up and saw that there was a bell above it.
‘Do you like it?’ the woman behind the counter asked. ‘I wanted an old-fashioned vibe to go with the name.’
‘It’s lovely.’ Imogen took in the rest of the shop. The counter and the door behind it were painted candy shades of blue, green and yellow, but the shelves were white, showing off the notebooks and pens, ceramic pen pots and colourful bottles of ink. ‘Wow.’