Chapter Eight
‘Mistletoe is a parasite,’ Lucy announced, as they laid out bundles of it on a large plastic mat.
They were in the village hall, which still had Halloween bunting strewn up – inside and out – and on this cold November evening the heaters were having a job getting any warmth to reach the middle of the room.
‘I know.’ Imogen moved the sprigs so they all had a good amount of space around them. ‘It clings to the trees and feeds off them, taking their water and nutrients.’
‘So it’s a bit shitty.’
‘Are you allowed to say shitty?’ Imogen sat back on her heels. ‘As a ten-year-old?’
Lucy gave her a beatific smile. ‘Of course I am.’
‘Maybe you’re not the person I should be asking.’
‘Dad will be here soon. He said he’d bring snacks, and not crisps or sweets, but something he’s made. Pastries or cakes.’
‘That sounds amazing.’
‘But you don’t need to ask him if I can swear, because he’ll just say what I’ve said.’
‘You think I’ll be taken in by that?’ Imogen waggled some mistletoe at Lucy, but it was an ineffectual threat. She was trying not to be overwhelmed at the thought of Dexter turning up to her spray-painting session, but she’d corralled his daughter into helping her, so what did she expect?
‘Birdie says butter wouldn’t melt about me, and that means I’m really sweet, doesn’t it?’
‘It means you give the impression of being sweet. And I bet you are, some of the time.’
Lucy laid out the bottles of spray-paint that Imogen had bought off , which had been delivered the next day. ‘It’s sad that Artichoke can’t help.’
‘I know, but mistletoe is poisonous to dogs, which might be the one downfall of my plan.’ She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she’d made a mistake.
‘Not to mention that your puppy would probably finish the evening covered in gold paint,’ said another voice, and Imogen turned to see Fiona, owner of Hartley Country Apparel, walk in, her arms full of mistletoe. ‘Hello, chaps.’
‘Hi Fiona,’ Lucy said with a wave.
‘Lucy.’ She smiled. ‘And you must be Imogen, the runaway bride.’
‘That’s me.’ Imogen got to her feet. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. Birdie’s told me a lot about you.’ She’d pointed her out on their walk the day before, and Imogen was braced for someone formidable, but with her coiffed blonde haircut, wide smile and tweed waistcoat, Fiona seemed brisk but friendly.
‘And I’ve heard snippets about you from various places, so it’s good to put the jigsaw together. I hear you came up with this plan of spreading Harry’s extra mistletoe liberally around the village.’
‘Now I’m wondering if it was the wisest idea. Everyone has dogs here.’
‘We’ll have to keep the mistletoe away from them,’ Fiona said easily.
‘In door wreaths and hanging from ceilings. It’s not the first mistletoe Mistingham has ever seen.
Besides, better we do something useful with it than Harry ends up dumping it on the estate and risking Darkness and Terror getting hold of it. ’
Imogen frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Darkness and Terror are …?’
‘His retrievers.’ Fiona’s eyes sparkled with mirth. ‘You should ask him next time you see him. It’s a story he loves telling.’
‘OK,’ Imogen said with a smile. ‘Now, which colour are we going to spray first? We have gold, silver, rose-gold and shimmering white.’
‘Shimmering white is like snow,’ Lucy said, ‘so that’s the best one. Then gold.’
‘Let’s do shimmering white first, then. I’ll show you how to spray it safely. Birdie had these goggles and masks in her shed, though don’t ask me why, but you should use them, and that way you’ll be extra safe.’
‘I’ll look like a scientist,’ Lucy said gleefully.
Imogen exchanged a smile with Fiona. She wondered if she could steal some of the girl’s enthusiasm and bottle it for later use.
May and Sophie were the next to turn up, carrying rolls of metallic ribbon in red and green, gold and violet.
‘It’s such a great idea,’ Sophie said, once they’d exchanged greetings and Lucy had got hugs from the two women.
‘Giving the mistletoe to the village, using it as decorations throughout Mistingham. Harry was so relieved when he told me about it.’ She looked at Imogen.
‘But he didn’t try and take credit for it. He said it was all you.’
Imogen shrugged. ‘If you’ve got something and you don’t want it, you just have to figure out who else might. And we’re all here, doing this together, which proves that Mistingham is a close-knit community.’
‘Nobody would leave one person to do this by themselves.’ May got a vicious-looking pair of scissors out of her bag and started scything off strips of ribbon.
Imogen thought of all the late nights she’d spent at Rowsell her dad patting her on the shoulder, telling her she was an angel, before heading off to a fancy dinner somewhere.
‘I suppose making decorations is a lot more fun than report collation.’
May and Sophie glanced at each other, but before they could say anything, the door burst open and Harry came in, followed by a young woman with purple streaks in her jet-black hair. ‘We brought wreath bases,’ the woman said. ‘And holly and pine cones.’
‘It was Jazz’s idea.’ Harry dumped his armfuls of foliage and twine onto the mat. ‘Jazz, this is Imogen.’
‘Hey.’ When her hands were empty, Jazz walked over and gave Imogen an unexpected hug.
‘Hello,’ Imogen stuttered.
‘I heard you’ve had a rough time of it.’
‘I created my rough time, really.’ It felt like the hundredth time she’d said it. ‘But I’m glad I’ve got some breathing space, staying with Gran and doing this.’ She waggled her mistletoe, the glittering white leaves twinkling in the light. ‘Thank you all for welcoming me.’
‘What were we going to do?’ Fiona asked. ‘Banish you from the village for bad behaviour? Mistingham’s not like that.’
‘Thank you for helping us with our mistletoe forest,’ Harry said, as he twisted holly around a twine wreath. ‘We might have got here in the end, but I’m humble enough to admit I was on the verge of panicking when I met you.’
‘He thought Sophie was going to put him on the naughty step,’ May said with a laugh.
Sophie tilted her head at Harry. The adoration in her expression was unmistakable. ‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe a couple of nights sleeping with Felix would have done the trick, but I’m not sure Felix has done anything to deserve it.’
‘Felix has always done something,’ Fiona said with feeling. ‘And despite that, he’s the most spoilt creature in the whole of north Norfolk.’
‘I think I’d prefer the naughty step, wherever that is,’ Harry said.
‘Enough steps in your place to be spoilt for choice,’ Jazz pointed out. ‘I bet it’s got a dungeon.’
‘Mistingham Manor does not have a dungeon,’ Harry scoffed. ‘A cellar, but not a dungeon.’
‘There you go. Can I use it for my story sessions sometime?’
Harry looked incredulously at Jazz. ‘You want to take your hordes of young, impressionable children and stick them in our spidery cellar?’
‘It would add atmosphere for the creepy books. They’re all obsessed with the Goosebumps series, even the adults.’
‘That’s because books are safe,’ Sophie said. ‘You can be scared by a book and be happy about it. Not so much in a musty old cellar with spiders the size of mince pies.’
‘Mince pies?’ Lucy’s eyes were wide like saucers.
‘What are your story sessions?’ Imogen asked.
She’d volunteered for a few reading sessions for toddlers at the library near her flat, before it had been closed down due to lack of funding.
It wasn’t as impressive as Nikki’s TV advertisements, but it hit the spot for her in terms of performing after she’d been encouraged to give up her amateur dramatics, and children were always a responsive audience.
‘They’re community sessions I run in here,’ Jazz explained. ‘Something I started at the beginning of the year. I initially did them for children, but the older residents were interested too. This hall doesn’t get used as much as it could, so I just thought …’
‘Jazz is all about getting people together.’ Fiona threw her a fond look. ‘Her mind buzzes constantly with ideas, and the story sessions are a hit – parents of the children and children of the oldies turn up every time, saying they’re chaperones, but really they just love being read to.’
‘Not sure how good I am at it, though,’ Jazz said.
‘You’re very popular,’ May replied, ‘which means you’re good. Don’t do yourself a disservice.’
Imogen grabbed a fresh sprig of mistletoe and the can of rose-gold spray-paint.
She thought about mentioning her copy of Northanger Abbey, or the library sessions she used to help run, but for now she was content to listen.
It was such a warm, happy place to be; she was glad she’d suggested this as their mistletoe solution and that Harry had agreed.
She looked up to find Lucy staring at her, her eyes dark behind the plastic goggles. ‘Are you OK, Lucy?’
‘You’ve got paint in your hair,’ Lucy said, her voice muffled by her mask. Then she giggled.
‘Oh.’ Imogen had forgotten to tie her dark brown hair back, and now a big chunk on one side was rose-gold.
It was a mercy she hadn’t got any on Birdie’s old gardening cardigan, though her gran had offered it to her precisely because it could get mucky.
‘November isn’t too early for Christmas sparkle. ’
‘Does that mean I can have spray-paint in my hair?’ Lucy asked. ‘I like the sparkly white.’
‘Not a chance,’ Fiona said. ‘What would your dad say if he turned up and you’d gone white? He’d go white himself, out of shock.’
‘Dexter would look good with sparkly curls,’ Sophie said. ‘Don’t encourage her,’ Fiona chided. ‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘Making snacks,’ Lucy said. ‘I hope he comes soon. I’m so hungry.’
Everyone murmured their assent, and Imogen tried not to glance at the door every few minutes, waiting for Dexter and his snacks to turn up.
Instead she got lost in her work, spraying then arranging the mistletoe in good-sized bunches, so it was as appealing as possible.
She wondered if it was terrible to colour the leaves and berries, but reasoned that it had already been cut, so in some ways it was too late anyway.
But she’d only bought water-based paint, and at least it would get a second life as someone’s decoration, prompting stolen kisses and brazen snogs.
She listened to the others chat around her, teasing and bickering good-naturedly, Sophie and Harry’s obvious love for each other warming her to her core.
Then there was the telltale creak of the door opening, and she heard a familiar voice.
‘I brought mini pizzas. Better late than never, right? Have I missed all the fun?’
There were choruses of ‘no’, and ‘come and get stuck in’, and ‘let me at the pizza’.
Imogen glanced up just as Dexter kicked the door closed behind him.
He was wearing jeans and his navy jacket, and carrying a large tray covered in foil.
The wind hadn’t been able to resist tousling his hair, and his stubble was shorter today.
She was allowed to think he was attractive, wasn’t she?
It wasn’t a betrayal to Edmund. Her fiancé.
Her ex-fiancé? She couldn’t imagine wanting to go back to him after everything that had happened, the way the wool had been tugged right off her eyes.
‘Imogen.’ Dexter’s greeting cut through her frenzied thoughts.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You OK?’
‘Good thanks. You? Come and get some pizza.’
Lucy chose that moment to abandon her mistletoe, pull her mask down and say, ‘Imogen spray-painted her hair, can you believe that? Can I do it, Dad? Can I have sparkly hair for Christmas?’
Several pairs of eyes turned Imogen’s way, and she resisted the urge to hide.
‘Let’s talk about that later, Lucy.’ Dexter put his tray down, ruffled his daughter’s hair and complimented her bunches of mistletoe.
Then he came over to the back of the hall, where Imogen was sitting on the floor.
With everyone else swarming around the pizza, he crouched in front of her, his elbows on his knees.
Imogen held her breath as he lifted her hair, examining the rose-gold ends.
‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘Celebratory.’
‘That’s what we’re doing here, after all!’ Her grin was verging on manic.
‘What are the different toppings?’ Jazz shouted. ‘This one’s pepperoni, but are there hidden mushrooms anywhere? I can’t be dealing with mushrooms.’
‘No hidden mushrooms,’ Dexter called, then smiled at Imogen.
‘OK?’ he asked quietly. He was so close, and his expression was so warm, and he had a smudge of flour on his cheek.
She thought of her copy of Northanger Abbey, and one of the lines in the first chapter: If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad …
‘I’m good.’ She matched his pitch. ‘Thank you.’
She thought he might say something else, impart more of his wisdom. She would listen to anything he had to say. Instead he stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come and get some pizza with me.’
After only a second’s hesitation, she took it, and let him pull her to her feet.