Chapter Nineteen
If Imogen thought too hard about how close it was to Christmas, and how far away she was from everything that constituted her real life, then she might end up running back in the direction she’d come from just over a month ago, Birdie’s bright green coat in place of her wedding dress, which was hanging, like a spectre, in the wardrobe in her adopted bedroom.
But when she thought about that, she realized there wasn’t a lot of her London life that she was looking forward to returning to.
As she walked to Mistingham Manor, the sky a bright blue and the air so cold it was like needles against her skin, she busied herself listing the things she’d left behind that she did care about.
There was Nikki, who she missed like crazy, who was able to cut through her worries and get to the truth; there were the mornings off she’d spent at the local library, reading to toddlers – except that they had finished months ago, when the library had been absorbed into one of the bigger ones and closed its doors.
Her job wasn’t awful, and she was good at it, but she wouldn’t say it was a passion, and now it was tied up with Edmund and her dad conspiring, things being chosen for her without her full knowledge or consent.
She reached the gates at the end of the manor’s long driveway. They were flung open, inviting her in. It was just after lunch, but the string lights from the wedding were still on, wound through the branches of the tall trees. At least they hadn’t been removed along with the mistletoe.
She imagined she was an actress, striding along a sweeping boulevard towards a film festival or a posh, exclusive dinner where her skills, the emotion she brought to each role, would be praised effusively.
She would smile demurely, eyes dropping to the floor, and when she looked up he would be there, his curls tamed, but only slightly; his stubble dark, in defiance of the black tie event, his bowtie slightly wonky. He would smell of warm dough and—
‘Imogen!’
She jolted and turned towards the house, which had come into view while she’d been daydreaming. The object of her fantasies was standing on the front step, waving at her.
‘Are you heading back to the lake fort?’ he asked with a laugh.
‘Dexter!’ She sounded surprised to see him, which was ridiculous since they’d arranged to meet here. ‘You look …’ She was still half in the daydream, imagining their shy exchange of compliments as they met on the red carpet.
His smile was bright but a little bemused. ‘Cold? Harry and Sophie have turned the heating right down, which makes sense because they’re away and technically I’m only supposed to be here to check on the place, but—’
‘What about Darkness and Terror? Poor little Clifton?’ She banished the last fragments of her ridiculous fake future. In the real world, Dexter was wearing a navy hoody with the bakery logo over his left pectoral – not that she was gazing at it. ‘Won’t they get cold?’
‘Felix and the dogs are staying with Ermin and Fiona while they’re away,’ Dexter said.
‘It’s for some returned favour, though I’m not sure what Harry and Sophie could offer to make looking after Felix worthwhile – perhaps their first-born child?
Not that I think they’re having any … Maybe a fifty per cent stake in the manor? ’
‘Perhaps that’s how they’ve ended up hosting the Christmas shebang?’
‘I think they offered to do that.’ Dexter held his hand out. ‘Anyway, I thought that, given our partnership is fairly last-minute and I’m not going to be good at this, we could use our advantage and rehearse in the actual venue. The setting might help us with the scene.’
‘It will help us.’ Imogen took his hand. It was warm and large, his touch all-consuming. ‘Except that I feel like a naughty schoolgirl, like we’re doing something we shouldn’t be.’
Dexter glanced at her. ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not very good at disobeying rules … They’ve got a beautiful wreath,’ she added, because she could feel heat rising up her neck at her admission, coupled with the way Dexter was looking at her.
‘Sophie and Harry go all out with the decorations. A lot of things have changed over the last year.’ He shook his head, as if he was still puzzled by it, and pushed open the door.
There was a gargantuan tree next to the staircase that hadn’t been there at the wedding, covered in bright baubles ranging from sunshine yellow to deep purple.
An ice-white garland was draped over it from top to bottom, thinner than tinsel, and on top was a huge, iridescent star that twinkled in the light thrown out by the golden bulbs twined through the banisters.
Nestled in the branches hung lots and lots of mistletoe, the white berries glowing amongst the deep green.
The space smelt overwhelmingly of pine, presents sat snugly at the base of the trunk, and Imogen felt like she’d stepped into a scene from A Christmas Carol.
She wouldn’t be surprised if someone in old-fashioned clothes appeared, carrying a giant turkey on a golden platter.
‘Wow.’ She breathed out, then breathed in more pine.
‘Sophie wanted it up for the wedding, but Harry was worried it wouldn’t survive the entire village tromping through after several glasses of champagne.’ Dexter was just behind her: she could feel his warmth at her back.
‘Felix hasn’t destroyed it yet,’ Imogen murmured.
Dexter laughed. ‘It’s only been up a few days, and he went to Fiona’s yesterday. When they’re all back and living here, letting their goat have free rein, all bets are off. Come on, let’s go into the lounge.’
‘Oh,’ she said, when they reached the room where the wedding had taken place. It had been turned back into a living space, with huge sofas arranged around the fireplace and a desk in the far corner of the room, looking out on the trees that crowded the back of the manor.
‘Pretty different, huh?’ Dexter said.
‘This is a wonderful room.’
A gold and red garland was draped along the mantelpiece, a twinkling carpet for four carved wooden robins that stood between framed photos: one of Sophie and Harry together; one of Felix and the dogs, Harry crouched and beaming behind them; another that looked much older, the colours faded, of a couple standing outside the manor.
There was a much smaller tree in the corner, this one with decorations in cherry red and gleaming gold to match the garland.
‘This is where we’re practising?’ Imogen asked.
Dexter had crouched in front of the fireplace and was using a firelighter to light crumpled-up newspaper and logs. ‘I can tell them I wanted to warm the place up while they were away, to stop it getting frost on the insides of the windows.’
‘Is that a thing that happens?’ She sank onto a sofa, then jumped when she realized the cushion beside her was actually Artichoke, curled up in a biscuit-coloured ball. The puppy raised her button nose, gave Imogen an appreciative yip, then went back to dozing.
‘It is here, because it’s so big and Harry hasn’t finished replacing all the windows.
There are quite a few other places in the village without central heating, and if you’re going to keep doing Story Time with Jazz, then take a whole lot of layers, because those heaters either run too hot or break down, and then you’re sitting in an icebox.
There!’ He turned to Imogen with a grin that, along with the heat now licking out of the fireplace, had the potential to melt her into the cushions.
She sprang up. ‘Let’s get started.’ She took sheets of paper out of her bag, two copies of the scene she’d chosen.
She hadn’t wanted to bring her beautiful edition of Northanger Abbey, and it was easier like this.
‘You’re Henry and I’m Catherine, and this is the scene where she’s staying in his abbey, which isn’t as gothic as she’d hoped, and she’s formed all these notions about his family and what’s going on with them. ’
‘OK.’ Dexter unzipped his hoody, revealing a grey T-shirt underneath. It looked soft, strokable, and when he rolled up his sleeves, revealing his strong, dough-kneading forearms with a smattering of dark hair, Imogen’s throat went dry.
‘So I think if you stand there.’ She pointed like a platform controller, and Dexter moved so they were facing each other, a chest-cum-coffee table between them.
‘And we’ll start?’
‘We’ll start.’ She opened her mouth to say the first line, and—
‘Can I have a copy of the scene?’ he asked gently.
‘Oh! Sorry.’ She handed him his copy, leaning over the chest to reach him, the tips of their fingers brushing.
‘Right.’ He scanned the page. ‘Does it matter that it’s not from a play? There’s some direction between the dialogue.’
‘That’s OK.’ Imogen recovered a modicum of composure. ‘I’ve cut out quite a bit of it, so it’s mostly dialogue, and with the direction I’ve left in, I’m going to do that in a different voice.’
‘You are?’ Dexter said with a laugh.
‘I am.’ His laughter was so easy, his commitment to this so complete, that she couldn’t help grinning. ‘I’m good at voices.’
‘All right then. Off you go.’
Imogen took a breath, then said her first line. ‘“Mr Tilney!” she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!”’
They read stiltingly through the scene, because it was new and a bit awkward, and Imogen kept forgetting to change her voice, so she would read some of the direction in her higher, slightly breathless Catherine Morland voice, and some of Catherine’s dialogue in her lower, narrator voice.
‘“No, and I am very much” – fuck it, wrong voice again.’ She scooted around the chest to get closer to Dexter/Henry and banged her shin. ‘Ouch!’