Chapter Thirteen
Imogen turned in the direction of home, holding the bundle of damp fur tightly against her.
Her mind was a whirlwind of possibilities.
What would work as a good wedding speech?
Was there another passage from Northanger Abbey that would make sense?
A poem? There were some beautiful sonnets by Shakespeare that were wedding appropriate, but were they too obvious?
Artichoke made a strange growling sound and then yipped, scrabbling up Imogen’s shoulder, her claws digging in. ‘What is it?’ The dog’s nose was vibrating as she stared at something behind them.
Imogen spun around and blinked, not sure if she could believe what she was seeing.
Artichoke twisted in her arms. ‘Felix?’ The goat was standing on the promenade, wearing a pink jumper with white clouds all over it.
He bleated and trotted towards them, and Artichoke tried frantically to get out of Imogen’s arms. There was nobody else in sight.
Where was Harry? She was sure Sophie had been on her way to the shop, but what about May?
Mistingham seafront was deserted, apart from her, a puppy, and a goat.
‘Felix,’ Imogen said again. He stretched his neck up, and Artichoke scrabbled, her nose edging towards the goat as she whined plaintively.
‘You two are friends, then?’ The animals seemed enamoured with each other, and Imogen, bizarrely, felt like a third wheel.
‘Are you supposed to be out here, though?’ She was pretty sure she knew the answer.
She peered at Felix’s neck, wondering if he had a collar and she could borrow Artichoke’s lead, but there was nothing besides the woolly jumper.
‘We’ll need to ask Gran to build in a harness next time, won’t we? ’
Felix bleated, whether in disapproval or agreement, she didn’t know.
‘Come on, then.’ She grabbed a handful of the jumper, but Felix danced away from her, towards the edge of the promenade, where there was a drop down to the sand.
Imogen swore under her breath. Should she call Birdie, get her to bring some kind of cavalry to help?
But then Artichoke pawed at Imogen’s sleeve and yipped, and Felix trotted towards them again, and she had a better idea.
‘You love Artichoke, huh?’ Felix bleated, the dog squeaked, and Imogen grinned.
‘We’re going this way.’ She strode determinedly along the promenade, glancing behind to check the goat was following, and he was – helped by Artichoke giving him mooning puppy eyes over Imogen’s shoulder.
She cut left then right, onto the cliffs, and slowed down, treading carefully along the uneven path, the sea with its steely tones on her right, Mistingham Manor parkland on her left.
She hoped, when it came to it, Felix would jump the fence.
‘Come along little goaty,’ she sang, feeling like the Pied Piper.
‘This way. Follow your friend.’ And then, because the situation was absurd but she was pleased that her plan was working, she started singing, ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road’ from The Wizard of Oz, and that somehow morphed into ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ by Elton John.
She felt giddy, accomplished, especially when Artichoke stopped struggling, seemingly content to look down her stubby nose at Felix while he trotted eagerly behind.
She imagined Edmund’s reaction if he could see her right now, and her singing was interrupted by her own, stuttering laugh.
But then she moved onto the next verse, belting it out as best she could.
‘Hello?’ The voice came from behind her, warm and amused and with the ability to make Imogen’s skin tingle.
Artichoke yapped happily, and Imogen turned around to find Dexter, dressed in only jeans and a tight grey T-shirt that was darkening by the second, his curls flattened to his forehead by the mizzle, his cheeks pink as if he’d been running.
‘Dexter, hi.’
‘You found Felix.’
‘He found your puppy, which I think was his aim. I was using Artichoke as bait to lure him home. Were you sent to find him?’
Dexter laughed, running his hand through his damp hair. ‘We have a Felix WhatsApp group. Harry sends out a battle cry when he realizes his goat has escaped, and whoever can go looking, does. I left Mandy in charge at the bakery, and … it’s brilliant, using Art as bait.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why would I mind?’ He ruffled Felix’s ears, then did the same to Artichoke, who was still in Imogen’s arms. Close up, he smelled of sugar and baked goods, and how was that fair? How could he be attractive and smell like all the best things? ‘It’s kind of you to take him home.’
‘I’m just glad it worked. Pulling him by the jumper was less effective.’
‘The thing about Felix is he does exactly what he wants.’ Dexter looked up from his puppy ministrations and met Imogen’s gaze. She could see the honey flecks in his brown eyes.
‘So I haven’t really wrangled him?’
‘You have.’ Dexter’s voice was low and soothing. ‘You’ve worked out what his catnip is, and you’ve used it. Do you want me to add you to the WhatsApp group?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Let’s get Felix back to Harry, then we’ll sort that out, then I’ll walk you home and take Artichoke off your hands.’
‘OK,’ Imogen said. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Harry was a mix of frustrated, relieved and affectionate when they returned Felix to Mistingham Manor.
Imogen couldn’t stop looking at the beautiful, grey-stone building, which seemed both steeped in history and newly polished.
The window frames were freshly painted, the double-height wooden doors gleaming, and neat flowerbeds ran along the length of the house, grasses and small shrubs providing interest even in winter.
It was an imposing building, but welcoming too, and she itched to get inside.
She realized she would have to wait until the wedding to see it – Sophie had a workshop at the back of her shop, so they would be doing the notebook crafting there rather than here.
‘It doesn’t matter how many reinforcements I put on his shed or the fence, he finds ways to get out.
I could build him a titanium cage and he’d skip out of it.
’ Harry hugged his goat and then led him, bleating furiously, into his shed and shut the door.
‘There. That might give us thirty minutes’ respite.
’ He turned around, his hands on his hips, and Imogen was treated to a forceful gaze.
‘Thank you, Imogen.’ Then, to her surprise, he wrapped her in a quick, tight embrace.
‘We’ll have to add you to the WhatsApp group. ’
‘I’m already on it,’ Dexter said.
‘And I’m glad you’re coming to the wedding.’
‘You are?’ Dexter looked at her, eyes wide.
Imogen nodded, her lips pressed together in case she blurted out Sophie’s secret request.
‘So things in London aren’t …?’ Dexter’s words trailed off.
‘I’m not ready to go back yet,’ she admitted.
‘Ah. London people,’ Harry said knowingly.
Imogen laughed. ‘Not a fan?’
‘I lived there for a while. Worked in the City. It isn’t until you come somewhere like this – or in my case, come back – that you realize how stressful living in London really is.’
‘It is stressful,’ Imogen agreed. ‘Finding escaped goats is a bit out there, but it’s a whole lot more enjoyable.’
‘I concur,’ Harry said. ‘Even though it is my escaped goat. I’m glad you’re getting a break, and perhaps you can come back more frequently, now you and Birdie have rekindled your relationship?’
‘I’d love that.’ Imogen tried to picture it: being back in London, still working for her dad, seeing Edmund on a daily basis – the awkwardness – then skipping up here at the weekends with her mum giving her the cold shoulder every time she mentioned her gran.
‘I should think about heading back,’ Dexter said. ‘It’ll be the lunchtime rush soon.’
‘See you later.’ Harry and Dexter exchanged manly backslaps, then Imogen walked with Dexter along the manor’s wide driveway, the gravel lined with trees, parkland visible between the trunks on the sea side, the forest thicker where it flanked the house.
She thought it must be spooky when it was dark.
‘Are you happy to give me your number?’ Dexter pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘You’ve made yourself an integral part of the Felix rescue team, so it makes sense for you to be in the group; see how bad things get.’
Imogen recited her number, holding Artichoke close to her.
The puppy seemed subdued now they’d left Felix behind, as if she was miserable without her goat accomplice.
‘Great.’ He put his phone away and they walked in silence for a while, the drizzle thicker among the trees, clinging to the leaves.
With every step the pressure built in Imogen’s chest. Dexter had been such a help already, and he’d asked her about home: she needed – wanted – to be honest with him.
‘I don’t know when I’m going back to London,’ she told him, when they’d reached the road.
Dexter glanced at her but kept walking. ‘You’ve not sorted things out with Edmund? Spoken to your mum?’
‘It’s been two weeks since I last spoke to them, since Dad reassured me it was fine if I didn’t come back to work immediately. I’ve sent a few messages, but …’
‘You’re staying for Sophie and Harry’s wedding, at least?’
‘I am.’ She sighed. ‘Every time I think about London, and Edmund, I just want to immerse myself in everything that’s happening here.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Dexter asked gently. ‘That you’re not thinking about it all the time?’
‘Except it’s just one big stalling tactic. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.’
‘It’s not a burden; I’m happy to be a friendly ear.’
‘You’re more than a friendly ear.’ He was a whole lot more, but she wasn’t about to tell him that – at least not intentionally. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can talk to me whenever you want to.’
‘I’m just …’ She pressed her lips together.
Dexter stopped walking. ‘Just what?’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘Tell me.’