Chapter Thirteen #2
‘I feel like I have this guillotine hanging over my head. I keep thinking that Mum, maybe even Edmund, will work out that I’m here. Mum knows I’ve stayed in touch with Gran, that I never agreed with her being cut off from us. What if they run out of patience and come up here to drag me back?’
‘Then you’ll tell them you’re not ready; that you’re still figuring things out.’
Imogen looked at Artichoke’s furry head. How could she explain to him that it wasn’t that simple? Not with her parents, or with Edmund. And it was partly her fault, because she’d let them mould her into everything they expected in a daughter, a fiancée.
‘I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that,’ she told him. ‘I have always gone along with things, let Mum and Dad decide what’s best for me. I let Edmund sweep me off my feet, make me believe that we were perfect together, that it was the right thing for all of us. I’ve been weak.’
‘I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself,’ Dexter said. ‘Our parents have a huge effect on our values, on how we live our lives. And you work for your dad, too. I can see how it would be hard to escape that. But you’re doing it right now. You’ve chosen this. Don’t forget that.’
She sighed. How was it that she could admit all these things, and end up feeling better?
Usually when she shone a light on her failings, her insides curdled and she felt nothing but shame.
Dexter wasn’t letting that happen. ‘I think you’re being overly generous to me, but I will take it. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m calling it how I see it. And if your mum turns up at Birdie’s house, or Edmund does, or any combination of people you don’t want to see, and you need someone to stand between you and them, then …’ he looked away from her, ‘I could be that person for you.’
Imogen’s pulse skittered. ‘You could?’
His eyes slid back to hers. ‘Not that I think you need help, or an intervention, but if it makes you feel better, then I will have your back.’
Imogen swallowed. It felt significant, Dexter offering to do this for her. It felt like a lifeline she hadn’t known she needed. ‘OK. Thank you. I am going to take you up on it, I hope you realize that?’
Dexter grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t going to stand by it.’
‘Good. We need to seal it somehow, make it binding.’
Dexter laughed. ‘We do?’
‘Of course.’ She looked around, searching for inspiration. Why was she being like this? Why was Dexter’s offer so important to her?
‘I don’t want to do that blood-swap thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Imogen stared at him. ‘What? God, no way.’
‘Handshake?’ He held his hand out.
Imogen chewed her lip. ‘I don’t know if that’s …’
‘Or, how about this?’ He strode over to one of the trees that had a big bunch of mistletoe tied around it. This sprig wasn’t spray-painted: its leaves were glossy green, its berries plump and white. Dexter undid the shimmering gold ribbon tying it to the trunk.
‘We’re going to seal our promise with mistletoe?’ she asked.
‘We could?’ He sounded less certain all of a sudden, maybe because he’d had the same thought as her: that mistletoe was for kissing under. ‘We could bend the rules, if a handshake doesn’t work for you.’
Imogen nodded. And, even though he’d said they were bending the rules, she still felt a little breathless when he lifted the sprig of mistletoe above his head, his eyes catching hold of hers, brown looking into blue.
She imagined the colours swirling together, like they did in the depths of the sea.
‘Imogen,’ Dexter intoned, ‘I promise on this piece of mistletoe, that I will be your protector, and provide you with shelter, should anyone from London come here to find you.’ They stared at each other – she couldn’t look away from him – and she had no idea what to do next.
‘Thank you, Dexter,’ she said after a few charged moments, aiming for the same solemn tone. ‘And I promise, if anyone from London comes to find me, that I will seek you out for protection and shelter, as my one true saviour.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘That last bit was too much, wasn’t it?’
Dexter’s lips twitched. ‘It was perfect. And now, to seal the deal.’ He leaned in, still holding the mistletoe above their heads and, after a beat, where their gazes snagged again and Imogen felt as if all the air had been sucked right out of her, he brushed his lips over her cheek.
His stubble was sharp against her skin, and her feet and fingers tingled, and she wanted to keep him right there, that close to her, because in that moment he felt like more than her saviour.
‘There.’ He lowered the mistletoe and cleared his throat.
‘It’s done.’
‘It’s done. Our secret mistletoe promise. You need to be on standby, OK? In case I have to call on you.’
‘No problem. If I make a promise, I stick to it. I’ll see you soon?’
‘Yes please.’ She said it without thinking.
Dexter smiled, turned away and then spun back around.
‘Here.’ He leaned towards her again, his gaze intense, and Imogen thought he was going to kiss her properly.
But then he scooped Artichoke out of her arms, his fingers brushing the fabric of her coat, and replaced the dog with the piece of mistletoe. ‘To remind you that I’m here for you.’
‘Oh, I …’ Before she could say anything else, he was striding away from her, in the direction of the bakery, holding Artichoke like she was no heavier than a bread roll, his free hand rubbing at his jaw. Imogen clasped her piece of mistletoe and watched him until he was out of sight.
Without Artichoke to look after or a goat to wrangle, Imogen went back to Birdie’s.
She had wanted today to be an escape from her thoughts, to enjoy being in Mistingham, but everything that had happened – the ice cream and the paddling, Sophie asking her to perform at their wedding, finding Felix and then Dexter’s promise – had set them running again, and that had brought her clarity.
She didn’t know where her future was, and she couldn’t imagine not going back to London at some point, but there was one part she couldn’t go back to, and she’d been stalling, which wasn’t fair on either of them.
It was Friday afternoon and Edmund was likely at his desk, working on paperwork after having had lunch with a client or colleagues.
Imogen put soup in a mug and heated it in the microwave, then took it to her room.
Her gran was either out visiting friends or working in one of the beds at the end of the garden, and Imogen was too nervous to talk to her now anyway.
She swiped to FaceTime, hitting Edmund’s name before she could come up with an excuse not to.
The noise burbled for only a few seconds before he appeared, blurry at first, the screen moving jerkily, until she could see him properly.
The lens was below him, so she was treated to the firm jut of his chin and his eyes glaring down at her, and his fair, tufty hair.
‘Hey,’ she managed, her throat constricting.
‘Imogen, at last! What on earth are you wearing?’
She blinked, then saw from the tiny image of herself in the corner of the screen that she was still in Birdie’s green coat. ‘Oh. It’s G—’ She stopped herself just in time. ‘It belongs to my friend, who I’m staying with.’
‘Well, at least I know it’s not a guy friend.’ Edmund smiled to show it was a joke, even though it came across as bitter. He did have a right to be, though.
‘Of course it’s not,’ she said. ‘It’s a good friend, who I knew would be fine with me turning up the way I did.’
‘Having run out on your life, you mean?’ Suddenly Edmund was gone, and Imogen could only see the ceiling sconce around the light fitting in his office. She heard footsteps, the door closing, then he was back.
‘I’m sorry, Ed. I couldn’t go through with it.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s cost me? I’m the butt of every joke, with friends and colleagues. Not to mention the stress of having to cancel the caterers and the band. Defer the honeymoon.’
‘You should have just let everyone have a party.’
‘Are you going to pay for it all, second time around?’
Imogen chewed the inside of her cheek.
Edmund’s gaze hardened. ‘There’s not going to be a second time, is there?’
Imogen kept her back straight, her shoulders down. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You could if you wanted to.’
‘I don’t want to, then. And if you really think about it, you don’t either.
I heard you and Dad, the day before. You were telling him that once we were married, a part of the family, your position at the firm would be secure.
Dad said you were the son he’d always wanted, that it would make them so much stronger.
’ She heard the emotion in her voice but couldn’t do anything about it.
‘You don’t want me. You want the position, the status.
I was just the best way for you to get it. ’
‘That’s ludicrous,’ Edmund said, but some of the confidence had left his voice.
‘It should be ludicrous, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? And I knew it, really, even before you confirmed it. I had been worrying about it for weeks, everything to do with the wedding made me feel anxious, not excited, and then, when I heard you, I realized—’
‘You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,’ Edmund said sharply.
‘I’m glad I did! Because this is the twenty-first century, and I don’t want a marriage of convenience.
I convinced myself I loved you, and I know I shouldn’t have let it get all the way to the morning of our wedding, and you have a right to be mad at me for ever, but it’s still the right thing, us not getting married.
I should have spoken to you, then we could have cancelled it the day before. I am sorry, but—’
‘Imogen.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You don’t cancel a wedding like that, with that sort of guest list.’
‘It shouldn’t matter what sort of wedding it is, how many people are attending or how much it cost! The only thing that should matter is if the people getting married love each other, if they’re doing it for the right reasons.’
‘I can’t believe you’re still arguing, after all you’ve put me through.’
‘I’m not coming back to London yet.’ If she didn’t move the conversation forward then they would be stuck there, going around in a pitiful circle, for ever.
‘Of course you are.’ Edmund looked away, moving something on his desk.
‘I’m not. I’m staying here.’
‘That’s not acceptable.’
‘It is for me, and it’s my life. You don’t get a say any more.’
‘You can’t do this, Imogen. I’ve told everyone you were simply overwhelmed by the planning, that you needed a few weeks and we would reschedule for the New Year. I’ve kept the venue, the caterers, the florists on hold for us.’
‘You can un-hold them, then. I’m … not coming back until after Christmas.’ Her pulse picked up. Could she really do that?
Edmund opened and closed his mouth. ‘So a New Year wedding is still doable?’
Imogen wanted to scream. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t want to marry you, Edmund.
Not this year, or next year. We were forced together by our families.
That showy proposal in front of the entire firm and hundreds of guests at that party?
I’ve been going along with it but I’ve … I’ve left my heart behind, somewhere.’
‘Imo.’ Edmund’s laugh was incredulous.
‘I have behaved awfully—’
‘No argument there.’
‘—but it doesn’t change the fact that I made the right decision, for me.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Do you love me, Edmund?’
He glared at her, his jaw tightening, as if this was a horrible, unfair question and she’d put him on the spot. It galvanized her.
‘See? You don’t—’
‘We work so well together.’
‘That’s not the same thing. That’s not love. I don’t want to work well with someone for the rest of my life. I want to be passionately in love with them, and care for them, and spend my time doing fun things together. I want to be more than a business opportunity. This isn’t enough for me.’
‘You’re due back at work.’
That was his response? Of course it was. ‘I’ve already spoken to Dad about work, and I know they’re not going to like this – Dad and Mum aren’t going to like any of it – but I have spent a whole lot of time sparing other people’s feelings. I have to do this, for me.’
‘This is hysterical behaviour.’
Imogen closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. Her gaze fell on the mistletoe she’d brought upstairs with her, its gold ribbon sparkling in the gloom of the afternoon. ‘It’s me being completely rational. You can find someone who’s better suited to you than I am.’
‘This false modesty doesn’t sit well on you, Imogen.’ He almost spat her name, and she felt the barb of hurt, as she was meant to.
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry for not realizing it sooner, and for hurting you. But in the long term, this is better for both of us.’
‘Right. Well. Thank you for telling me how to feel. I don’t think you realize the damage this will do to my reputation. The trouble you’ve caused me, and your entire family. Your father’s firm.’
‘My parents will still love you if you’re not married to me,’ Imogen said, the fight going out of her. She had explained it all, and he was unrepentant. At the very least, he’d proved her right. It had never really been about her. ‘I need to go, now.’
He flicked his fingers. ‘Go on, then. Thank you for doing me the courtesy of letting me know you no longer want to be in my life. Quite the turnaround, isn’t it?’
‘Bye, Edmund,’ she said quietly.
He stared at her for a moment, then ended the call.
Imogen was left gazing at the FaceTime menu, a pit of concrete in her stomach.
But she’d done what she should have done months ago, and there was relief there, somewhere, buried deep below her regret and guilt.
She realized that what saddened her the most was that, now Edmund knew she wasn’t going back to him, he wouldn’t come to find her, and she wouldn’t need to ask Dexter to fulfil his promise to her.
That said it all really, didn’t it? But she wasn’t ready to explore the feelings associated with that realization, and would happily keep them buried alongside her relief for as long as she possibly could.