Chapter Seven
‘Hello?’ Imogen pushed open the door and tried to push her trepidation down at the same time. Birdie’s wind chime tinkled in the wind, and everything felt ominous as she slipped off the green coat.
‘Imogen, is that you?’ Birdie called.
‘It’s me!’ She sounded like she was mid-panic attack.
‘Oh, good.’ Birdie stepped in through the back door, wiping her boots on the mat and pulling off her gloves. ‘I was checking on the sprout trees, but they’re not quite ready. Another couple of days.’
‘Great.’ Imogen left what she thought was an acceptable pause. ‘Dexter said Mum called you?’
Birdie scoffed and rolled her eyes, and Imogen felt instantly better. ‘She spoke to me as if the last decade hasn’t gone by without a kind word between us.’
‘Ugh, really?’ Imogen wrinkled her nose. She knew all her mother’s tricks. ‘But she didn’t ask if I was here?’ She followed her gran into the kitchen, and was assaulted by the delicious scents of onion and garlic frying.
‘No,’ Birdie said. ‘She put on her saccharine voice, asked how I was and if I was looking forward to Christmas. She mentioned you as if in passing. The whole thing was ludicrous.’
‘What did you say?’ Imogen slid into a chair at the kitchen table. How could Stella Rowsell pretend that she was on speaking terms with the mother she’d disowned, and think she could get away with it?
‘I said nothing of note. I asked why she was calling, and when she brought you up, I feigned ignorance, asked if the wedding had gone well. Stella muttered something inaudible and changed the subject.’
‘You didn’t challenge her?’
‘My dear,’ she said, sitting in the seat next to her, ‘if I’d told her I knew that she was calling to find out if you’d come here, it would have given the game away. She would know you were here, because how else would I know that you’d escaped your wedding?’
‘I might have called you,’ Imogen murmured. ‘No, you’re right. Mum would have found out. Thank you for not telling her.’
Birdie put her warm hand over Imogen’s. ‘Of course. But it proves that she’s looking for you. I don’t know how often she’s been in touch, but …’
‘I’ve kept my phone off. But I need to call them. Her and Edmund.’
Birdie’s expression softened. ‘I do think that would help ease your anxiety.’
‘Dexter said the same thing.’
‘He’s a good lad. A heart of gold, and big enough to care for everyone – especially considering what he’s been through.’
‘He told me a little bit about Rae. I can’t imagine.’ Imogen ran her finger over a knot in the wood of the farmhouse table. ‘He’s been so kind to me.’
‘He looks out for everyone in Mistingham. He’ll take you under his wing without hesitation.’
‘It’s a good wing to be under.’ Imogen wondered if that made his kindness any less special, the fact that he was a sounding board for the entire village.
But he had made her feel cared for, at a time when she wasn’t sure she deserved it.
It didn’t matter how many other people he was helping.
She dropped her forehead to the table. ‘I’d better make these calls, then. ’
‘You do that, and you’ll be rewarded with garlic chicken and rosemary potatoes.’
‘God.’ Imogen put a hand on her stomach. ‘That almost makes it worth it.’
‘You’ll have earned it after having a conversation with my daughter.
’ The scorn in Birdie’s voice should have made Imogen sad – mother and daughter estranged, no sign of the tension easing anytime soon – but she knew exactly how her gran felt.
There were a lot of challenging things about her mum, even if you approached her with as much magnanimity as you could muster.
‘Imogen Rowsell, what on earth are you playing at?’
Imogen sighed and closed her eyes. She was thirty-one years old, but she felt like she was seven all over again, and had been discovered playing fairies under the duvet when she should have been asleep. ‘I’m doing OK, Mum, thanks for asking.’
‘I wasn’t asking, and I think you should be asking that of us, of Edmund. The man is in bits, his wife-to-be abandoning him at the altar like that. We had to break out the expensive whisky. Where did you even run off to?’
As if there was nowhere for her to go. As if she was only playing at life, choosing to run away from her wedding. ‘I’m with friends, and I’m safe, but I need a few days to get my head sorted out. I didn’t want you to worry.’
‘About the mental state of that poor boy? Or all the money we’ve wasted on a beautiful, important day that was just disregarded, by you, as unimportant?’
‘It wasn’t unimportant to me. It was too important – that’s why I did what I did.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
Imogen could picture her mum, dressed in a smart skirt and blouse, heels on, even though she was at home and it was Sunday, pacing on the rug in front of the fireplace.
The walls of their living room were Capri blue, their glass figurines would be catching the afternoon light.
Everything there was polished: not a onesie, fluffy slipper or hot-chocolate stain in sight.
‘It was too important to get wrong,’ she said.
‘And when has marrying Edmund, becoming part of that wonderful family, been wrong? I have let my guard down and I’m furious with myself. I thought you had finally come to your senses.’
‘I came to my senses just in time,’ she whispered.
She wondered what her mum would do if she told her about the conversation she’d overheard between Edmund and her dad.
Except she already knew the answer, and that was why she’d had no choice but to abscond and find her way to this idyllic coastal town, where she’d encountered a helpful baker with kind eyes, a goat wearing jumpers knitted by her grandmother, and an influx of mistletoe.
The thought of everything she’d already found in Mistingham warmed her, and gave her the confidence to say, ‘I’m really sorry for all the hassle I’ve caused, and I can understand why you’re mad at me, but I can’t face talking about it yet.
I’m going to phone Edmund now, and I’ll be in touch when I can. Say hi to Dad for me.’
She hung up and flung the phone onto the duvet, basking in a small glow of satisfaction. Her mum was horrified with her, but not so distraught that she was showing signs of sympathy, and that was strangely comforting.
‘Right.’ She picked up her phone again. ‘Edmund now. Think of the garlic chicken. Think of the rosemary potatoes.’ She hit favourites, then his number. Her heart hammered in time with the ringing, until she heard a familiar voice.
‘Imogen, Jesus Christ!’
‘Hey.’ The warming fire that had banked inside her was quashed by Edmund’s exasperated tone. ‘How are things?’
She could almost feel his incredulity. ‘I think you can imagine how they are,’ he said tightly. ‘Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me? I am never going to escape being the guy who was jilted at the altar.’
‘I couldn’t do it, Edmund. I heard you and Dad—’
‘Heard what?’
‘I heard what you said to him, about me. About us being married.’
‘You’re being hysterical, you do realize that, don’t you? You can’t have heard anything awful because I didn’t say anything awful.’
‘I disagree.’
‘So, what now? I don’t know if we can come back from this. If I can be seen to take you back.’
‘If you can be seen?’ Imogen echoed. ‘You’re not even listening to me, which I suppose isn’t a surprise after what you said, what I clearly mean to you.’ She took a deep breath, waiting until she was sure her voice would be steady. ‘This isn’t going to work.’
‘Call me back when you’ve calmed down,’ he said. ‘I can’t deal with this right now.’
‘I wondered if you might be a bit sympathetic,’ she tried. ‘If you’d realized that not everything was peachy with me. I know I caused a lot of trouble—’
‘And expense.’
‘But I didn’t do it on a whim. You know me well enough to realize that.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere, Imogen. I need to go; I’m meeting a few of the others for drinks. Phone me when you’re prepared to have a sensible discussion about this.’
‘Edmund, I—’
He hung up with a click, and she stared at the phone.
Had she blocked out any kindness or concern on his part, or had he really not shown any?
She was pretty sure she knew the answer, she just wasn’t ready to believe it, especially since she had been a hair’s breadth away from committing her future to him.
‘How did it go?’ Birdie placed a plate of steaming garlic chicken, rosemary potatoes and buttery broccoli in front of her.
‘Oh, wow.’ Imogen picked up her knife and fork.
‘Imogen?’ Birdie sat opposite her, eyebrows raised.
‘They were both incredibly concerned …’ she started, and Birdie’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher, ‘… about all the money I’d squandered on the wedding.’
Her gran’s expression relaxed. ‘Oh, my dear. Did they want you to come back?’
‘I don’t think they really cared.’ She speared a potato. ‘It wouldn’t have hurt Edmund to show a little bit of compassion, but he’s never been that great at feelings – other than self-righteousness.’
‘Is this an epiphany, darling?’
‘It might be,’ Imogen conceded. ‘I have got this so wrong, Gran. What I did on Friday is the rightest thing I’ve done for ages.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Can we change the subject now? This is delicious, by the way.’
‘Of course. And I’ve got something we can do after dinner. A deep breathing meditation, part of a healing ritual I use. It’ll do you the world of good.’
‘I would love that.’ Imogen usually did a ten-minute meditation through an app, but in the weeks leading up to the wedding, even that hadn’t been able to settle her anxiety. ‘I couldn’t have asked for anyone to look after me better than you are. Thanks, Gran.’
‘Having you here is a joy. Aside from anything else, it’s so nice to have someone else to cook for. Lucy and Dexter come round occasionally, but Lucy’s more of a pizza girl. Her dad isn’t exactly hopeless at baked goods, so it’s a wonder she doesn’t want a mound of vegetables when she’s here.’