Chapter Ten
Over the next ten days, Imogen found that going out every morning to get something from Dexter’s bakery was the best motivation for getting out of her pyjamas.
She thought of all the effort she’d put into fitting into her wedding dress, the faint look of scorn that Daphne, the fitter, had given her when, six weeks before the big day, she hadn’t lost any weight since the previous fitting.
She remembered the hard yank as Daphne had done the corset bodice up extra tightly, the wash of shame she’d felt at not being a perfect bride.
But so what? She had wriggled perfectly well into the dress even if she hadn’t achieved waif-like status, and now she didn’t have to worry about it at all.
Besides, even in November, Mistingham offered her so many reasons to go outside: seeing what shades the sea had adopted that particular day; walking along the path that abutted Harry and Sophie’s estate and saying hello to Felix, trying to anticipate which jumper he would be wearing; seeing what new stock Fiona had in at Hartley Country Apparel.
She’d ordered a few winter-appropriate things online from her favourite clothes shops, and was relieved that she had some suitable clothing, rather than items destined for a hot, sun-filled honeymoon, or her gran’s castoffs.
She had helped the others distribute the mistletoe around the village, knocking on doors and handing out large bunches to anyone they saw in the street.
Most people had been delighted, only a couple had seemed confused or nonplussed about the offer of free decorations to tie in with Sophie and Harry’s wedding.
She’d also talked to Jazz about the toddler groups she’d run at the library in London, and Jazz had invited her to come to a Story Time session, to see how it worked.
Most importantly, there was the impetus to go to Mistingham Bakery, because Dexter hadn’t been wrong that day in Birdie’s living room, and sampling his cakes and pastries was a whole lot better than sitting inside feeling sorry for herself.
She reached the welcoming bit of grass in front of the bakery, where there was a metal water bowl for dogs and, quite often, a queue.
Imogen preferred it when it wasn’t busy, when she could exchange a few words with Dexter, who was often behind the counter, serving with the other staff members – Mandy and Luke were the two she knew the names of – but she also tried not to linger too long.
‘Hi Imogen.’ It was Mandy, startling her out of the musings that had also become a part of her walks.
‘Hey Mandy.’ She was in her early forties, Imogen guessed, had three children all at the local primary school, and a husband who worked at an insurance firm in Norwich.
The bakery was her way of being useful now that her children were at school, and she talked about Dexter like he hung the moon.
‘He gave me a chance,’ she told Imogen the second time they met.
‘No retail experience, nothing to recommend me except a love of brioche, and now he’s letting me work out the back sometimes, making the pastries. ’
Now Mandy smiled at Imogen. ‘Off on your walk?’ she asked, gesturing to her green coat, which Imogen had fully adopted.
‘I am. At least the sun’s out today.’ That was a bit generous, but the sky was pale grey rather than thick with roiling clouds that promised rain. These ones suggested a light smattering, at most.
‘Apparently the east coast is going to be submerged in snow, right over Christmas.’ Mandy waved her tongs around, bits of sugar and pastry flying.
The bakery was a comforting place, with buttercup-yellow walls, the mingling scents of baking bread and good coffee.
It was also virtually impossible to leave without buying something.
‘That sounds unlikely,’ Imogen said. ‘What with climate change, you’d think it would be warm and wet. Snow at Christmas doesn’t happen anymore.’
‘The universe is grumbling at us,’ said a man behind Imogen in the queue. He was tall, with a ramrod-straight back and a neat, brush-like moustache. ‘It’s the UK’s version of an earthquake or erupting volcano.’
‘Big snow. Oooh.’ Imogen waggled her hands, but lost her smile when the man didn’t chuckle.
‘It’s why they’re thinking about changing the Oak Fest,’ Mandy went on. ‘Usually it’s on the green, a festival with music and stalls and food and Father Christmas. What can I get you?’
‘Oh. A cinnamon bun today, I think.’
‘Great choice. Anyway, apparently Harry has offered to have the Christmas fun at the manor – a series of short plays, in his grand reception room.’
‘That young girl’s turned him around,’ Moustache Man said. ‘Never used to say hello to anyone, and now he’s inviting the whole village to his gaff.’
‘Young girl?’ Imogen asked.
‘Sophie,’ Mandy supplied. ‘Everything’s relative, especially when you’re close to ninety.’
‘I’m six years off, Amanda.’ The man sounded amused, and Imogen wondered if he was as rigid as he was making out.
‘Here you are.’ Mandy handed Imogen her bag with the cinnamon bun inside, and Imogen thanked her, said goodbye to Moustache Man, and left. She wondered if she could get involved in the Christmas play event, except she’d probably be back in London by then. The thought made her stomach clench.
London, of course, had a million Christmas activities she could be part of.
The switching on of lights, parties organized by her father and the businesses he worked with, the soirée that Edmund’s family always held at the end of November.
And it was nice to dress up sometimes, wasn’t it?
To squeeze yourself into dresses and squash your feet into towering heels. It was fun.
She had made it to the beginning of the cliff path, and was debating whether to risk a walk along it or head home, conscious that the clouds over the sea were ominously dark, when she heard laughter, screeching and someone shouting, ‘Wait, Terror! Stop!’
Imogen was almost barrelled over by a golden retriever as it jumped up and put its front paws on her coat.
‘Down, Terror! God.’ Sophie was with May; they were accompanied by a dark-furred retriever to go with the golden one, and a black scruffy mop of a dog that Imogen knew was called Clifton.
‘Imogen, I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘Harry’s in London and I’m on dog-walking duty, which means I get rings run around me by Darkness and Terror, not to mention having to call their names out when they go rogue. ’
‘So this is Terror?’ Imogen ruffled the dog’s head, Darkness trying to join in when he realized there was affection to be had. ‘Beautiful dogs, amazing names.’
‘My fiancé was once a grumpy sod,’ Sophie explained.
‘He named his dogs in a moment of sarcastic frustration, and it has very satisfyingly haunted him ever since,’ May added. ‘They’re very friendly, and only occasionally inspire terror.’
‘And dark feelings,’ Sophie grumbled. ‘How are you? Terror, get away from Imogen’s bakery bag. You’re going to have to hide that, I’m afraid, or it won’t last.’
‘It’s a cinnamon bun,’ Imogen said.
‘One of Dexter’s specialities.’ May smiled at her. ‘We should pop in there, see how he’s getting on with the cake.’
‘I didn’t see him, actually.’ Imogen hoped she sounded nonchalant, rather than disappointed. Talking to him, even if it was only to say hello, had become as important to her new routine as her daily fix of sugar and carb goodness.
‘He’s making your wedding cake?’ she asked Sophie.
‘Yes, and we didn’t even ask him to. He offered, though he warned me he’d never made a wedding cake before, that he was confident about the quality and the taste, but not the appearance. He was going to watch a lot of YouTube videos.’
‘He’ll do a wonderful job, I’m sure,’ Imogen said, even though she’d known him less than three weeks.
‘Of course he will.’ Sophie grinned. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m good. Getting in lots of walks, lots of pastries, reading, helping Birdie in the garden. It’s good for me, having space away from everything. Except now I’ve had a few weeks out of the office, I don’t know how I’ll ever go back.’
It was a throwaway statement, but she worried she’d bared more of herself than she’d meant to; Birdie’s seaside village was clearly working its way into her bones.
‘Is it busy, your law firm?’ May tugged on Darkness’s lead, and the dog trotted over and sat at her feet.
‘It’s super busy. I was in the conveyancing department – I was actually my dad’s PA – but in the corporate division, so supporting lawyers working on big deals: warehouses and apartment blocks and commercial properties.’ She bit her lip, realizing she’d spoken about it in the past tense.
‘Is that where Edmund works?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yeah.’ Imogen looked at her feet. ‘He made partner last year, so he’s always got a big caseload.’
‘Wow. He sounds pretty important.’ Sophie smiled, but Imogen could see through it. The other woman ran a stationery shop and made her own notebooks, and Imogen couldn’t imagine a commercial conveyancing solicitor would be something she would be impressed by.
‘How’s the wedding prep going?’ she asked, wanting to change the subject. ‘Aside from the cake check-in.’
‘It’s fairly smooth sailing,’ Sophie said.
‘Now the town is brimming with mistletoe, everything else is falling into place. We’ve cut down on our other decorations, Harry has finished the renovations he wanted to get done, and the catering is sorted.
Winnie from the hotel is going to be the celebrant, and we’ve got a licence so we can get married inside the manor.
Also, I’m almost halfway through making the notebooks. ’
‘Your wedding notebooks?’ Imogen remembered Sophie mentioning them the first time they met: it was how she’d found out Sophie was getting married.
‘I wanted unique wedding favours, and these seem like a more meaningful gift than a cardboard box full of sugared almonds.’