Chapter Nine
Imogen had been in Mistingham a week, had spoken to the man she was supposed to be married to only once, and had spray-painted roughly five hundred sprigs of mistletoe and made a thousand Christmas wreaths.
OK, so that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like, and yet she would happily do it all over again.
She would twirl foliage through twine for eternity if it meant not having to work out the tangle of her failed wedding and her uncertain future.
Every day in the north Norfolk village felt like a precious and very temporary gift, especially since she’d started turning her phone on more frequently, responding to messages from her mum and dad, and Edmund, as vaguely as she could.
They all wanted her to come home. They didn’t understand why she wasn’t already there, fixing the things she’d broken.
On Friday, everyone in the village was busy being gainfully employed, Lucy was at school, and most of the mistletoe was ready to be given out to villagers. At ten a.m. Imogen was still in her – or rather Birdie’s – pyjamas and, without anything to distract her, the panic was creeping in.
‘Maybe I should go back,’ she said, as she shook coffee beans into her gran’s swanky machine.
‘Nonsense.’ Birdie was sorting wool at the kitchen table, separating out balls of different colours and thicknesses. ‘Do you know what you want to do? Are you going to reschedule your wedding or kick Edmund to the kerb?’
‘I’m not going to “kick him to the kerb”.’
‘No?’
‘Not literally, anyway.’ She pressed the ‘go’ button and the kitchen filled with the sound of angry beans, grinding to powder in front of her eyes. ‘I don’t know if—’
‘You do know what you want to do, but you don’t know if you’re ready to admit that you know,’ Birdie said.
‘Such clarity.’ Imogen grinned.
‘This is your future, Imogen. You need to do the right thing for you.’
‘I’ve been away for a week.’
‘You were due to be away for three on honeymoon. Give yourself that long, at least.’
‘Edmund is getting impatient.’ He had been impatient since the day she’d met him, in one way or another.
Impatient to get on with his life, and so sure about every aspect of it.
Why hadn’t Imogen noticed earlier? She had been blinded by his charm, but the moment she misbehaved it was nowhere in sight.
‘Do you love him?’ Birdie asked.
Imogen stared at the coffee powder, waiting for it to tell her the answer. Waiting for someone, something, to tell her it was OK to admit what she already knew.
‘You don’t need to go home yet,’ Birdie said. ‘Edmund can wait. I can’t imagine he’s used to that, so it will do him good. If you want to take until the new year to decide what you’re going to do, then that should be your right. It’s a huge decision.’
‘I’ll lose my job.’ She thought of her organized desk, the invoices and phone calls, reports and meeting minutes, managing every aspect of her father’s work life.
So different to getting gold paint in her hair and eating delicious pizza on a dusty floor, the wintery scents of pine all around her.
Though of course none of that had been an actual job.
‘Your father would fire you?’
Imogen shook ground coffee into the cafetière, then stood on one leg while the kettle boiled. ‘Maybe not, but he’d be very disappointed. Even more than he is already.’
‘What about you? Would you be disappointed in yourself if you went back to a life you didn’t love? Better to take the time now, before it’s too late, than realize a year into your hastily rearranged marriage that you’re not doing anything that makes you happy.’
‘I just want to stop thinking about it for a little while.’
‘There you go,’ Birdie said smugly. ‘You need more time here. Let your mum and Edmund know that you’re not coming home any time soon. It’s right to be courteous, but they can’t dictate what you do.’
‘You think?’
‘Darling, if they’re not prepared to give you time, then you should be walking away from them for good.’
‘OK.’ Imogen nodded. ‘I’ll call Edmund again, and let my dad know about work. It’s not like he’s expecting me for a couple of weeks anyway. I’m meant to be sunning myself on a beach in Mauritius.’
Imogen wished she had Birdie’s forthrightness.
Her call with Edmund was, predictably, horrible.
He didn’t understand why she was feeling discombobulated when she was the one who’d run away.
Her dad was kinder. He sounded concerned, and said she didn’t need to worry about work, that they had a pool of PAs who could take over while she was gone, and she almost cried with relief.
Then he ruined it: ‘I have faith that you’ll realize everything you have here.
Edmund is a key part of the business, and he’ll take good care of you.
There really couldn’t be a better arrangement, Imogen. It was all working out so perfectly.’
As Imogen dropped the phone down on the sofa cushion, her first thought was: for who?
Because she didn’t think that she’d ever been the most important part of the arrangement.
Or at least, her feelings hadn’t. She dreaded to think where she’d be right now if she hadn’t overheard her dad and Edmund talking, plotting their perfect business deal.
But at least she had told them she needed more time, and what could they do about that?
Resting her head in her hands, she realized the sad truth was that they were concerned about her, but not concerned enough to expend any energy on finding her.
She was a pothole of a problem, rather than a sinkhole.
They could skirt around her if they wanted to.
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she said into the empty living room – Birdie was in the garden – making her voice boom like Ian McKellen playing Gandalf.
It felt good, like expelling her pent-up anxiety with a scream.
‘You caused this, and you Must. Fix. It. For you as well as them. You matter too. You can fix this for everyone. You are strong and you can be forthright and—’
‘Err, hello?’
Imogen jumped, almost falling off the sofa. She realized that she recognized the voice, and also that she was still in her pyjamas.
‘Birdie said I could come in through the back.’ Dexter stood on the threshold, holding a large book. ‘But if you’re having some alone time, then—’
‘No!’ Imogen sprang up, flustered, and then, after a second of Dexter staring at her, grabbed the knitted blanket that was laid along the back of the sofa and covered herself. ‘I was giving myself a pep talk, but …’
‘I thought Brian Blessed was kidnapping you.’ He gave her a tentative smile.
‘I was projecting. It makes me feel better.’
‘Are you an actor?’ Dexter came further into the room and put the book on a side table.
‘Not really. It was my dream once, I did a few plays with an amateur dramatics society, but then … other things got in the way. And actually, it turns out I’m not very good. Voices, I can do. The rest of it – the physical stuff – needs a lot of work.’
‘What do you do – in London?’ Dexter perched on the arm of Birdie’s chair.
He was wearing navy cargo trousers and a black T-shirt, and she wondered if his lack of layers was because it got so hot working in the bakery.
Could she go and watch him kneading the dough, crafting his pastries and loaves and cakes? Were there tours of that sort of thing?
He would make a lot of extra money if he offered them, she was sure.
‘I’m my dad’s PA. At his law firm.’
‘That’s why the mistletoe decorating was so organized. I was amazed that anyone had managed to get that unruly bunch working so well together.’
‘Oh no, that wasn’t me. Everyone was happy to do it.’
‘You came up with the plan.’
‘It seemed obvious.’ Imogen tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear. She’d washed it every day since Tuesday, but there was still a faint shimmer of pinky-gold in the strands. So much for water-based paint.
Dexter’s eyes followed the movement, and the air in the room seemed to disappear.
She pictured Edmund, standing in his best navy suit in the doorway of their London flat, the way his fair hair looked so good when it was slightly mussed.
But everything was different with hindsight – it was all so much sharper now, and the truth was like a punch in the stomach.
You never loved him, a little voice said, as Imogen’s eyes were drawn to Dexter’s curls and the short sleeves of his T-shirt, the way it put his forearms squarely on show, even though it was November and she shouldn’t be treated to such things right now. A special winter bonus.
‘You saved Harry’s bacon,’ Dexter said.
‘He could have told Sophie what happened. I’m sure she would have forgiven him immediately – they love each other so much.’
‘He didn’t want to go to her without a solution. He’s a proud guy.’ Dexter grinned, clearly fond of Harry, and Imogen felt its warmth from across the room. ‘Now everyone will thank him for the free decorations and feel included in their wedding.’
‘A win-win-win, then.’
‘Is it hard?’ Dexter asked. ‘Coming here, only to find out there’s another wedding happening so soon?’
Imogen was glad Dexter had asked the question, rather than simply saying it must be hard, as if it was a done deal. ‘No. I still think people getting married is a wonderful thing, if they’re happy and in love.’
There was a long pause, then, ‘You don’t love him?’
She pressed her lips together to ward off the sudden, impending tears.
‘It was more of an arrangement,’ she said, borrowing her dad’s word.
‘Edmund works for my father; I met him when he started at the firm. He was incredibly charming, and my parents seemed so happy we were going out, and it all just … fitted.’
‘You fitted together?’
‘I thought so for a long time, but it was never a whirlwind. It never felt …’
‘What?’ Dexter probed gently.
‘It was never passionate. It never felt like there was an us, a me and Edmund, outside of the rest of it – the family and the firm. Law firm, not like a gangster firm.’ She shook her head, and Dexter smiled.
‘You know I was going to be a Halloween bride because Edmund’s Mum and Dad got married on Halloween, and we had to follow tradition? ’
‘You didn’t get a say?’
‘I was told why it had to happen like that.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to be seen as unreasonable, or upset anyone by suggesting a different date; summer or spring, one of those kooky options.’
‘So you have a habit of putting other people first?’
‘I used to.’ Her laugh was sad. ‘Until my wedding day.’
‘A lot of people would say that you should absolutely put yourself first on your wedding day, even if that means not going through with it.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Do you think it was the right decision?’
‘Right decision, wrong execution. I’m glad I ended up in Mistingham, though, and I’m so lucky to have Birdie.’
Dexter crossed his arms. ‘She’s almost like family for us, too. She was a huge help, and comfort, after Rae died. Lucy adores her and so do I, even if she is teaching my daughter about spells and potions.’
‘Harmless ones, though. We’ve been meditating, drinking fennel tea, and even if they’re placebos, I’m a lot calmer than I was. And I’ve never seen her with frogs’ legs or baby birds or eye of newt in the kitchen, if that helps.’
‘Good to know,’ Dexter said with a grin. ‘What are you going to do while you’re here? You’re not going to spend all your time wallowing.’
She might have been imagining it, but she thought he flicked his gaze up and down her pyjama-clad, blanket-clad body. There wasn’t anything to see, but she still shivered. ‘Hey, I’m allowed a little wallow, aren’t I?’
‘A little one. But you know what’s better than wallowing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Cake. Come and get a big slice of cake, or a Danish, or a pie, from the bakery. I have to get back, but I expect to see you there soon.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’
‘Yup.’ He stood up. ‘I will be very disappointed if I don’t.’
‘Right then.’ Imogen returned his smile. This was the sort of negotiation she could get behind; one that encouraged cake instead of wallowing in pyjamas. ‘I guess I’ll see you in a bit, then.’
‘I guess you will,’ Dexter said, and strode out of the living room. Imogen heard the intrusion of bird song as he opened the back door, then the return of quiet as he closed it gently behind him.