Chapter Twenty-One
‘What are you doing?’ Birdie asked Imogen the next day, when she found her in the hallway, trying to angle herself so there was only a blank bit of wall behind her, her phone up in front of her.
‘Mum wants a photo of me. Proof of life, apparently, like I’ve been taken hostage and the messages and phone calls have all been faked by my kidnappers. I don’t want to give away where I am.’
‘You really don’t think she knows?’
‘I mean, probably.’ Imogen changed the angle of the phone, but it was impossible to have any kind of featureless background.
There was too much on the walls and surfaces – paintings and ornaments – that was so uniquely Birdie.
If she went outside, was there even a normal brick wall she could stand against, or were all the buildings in Norfolk flint, giving away where she had run to?
‘But if she knows, then you have to accept that she hasn’t come to find you.’
‘Or she’s respecting my wishes and giving me the space I asked for.
’ They smiled at each other, resisting the laughter that – if it came – would be tinged with bitterness.
Birdie handed Imogen a mug of coffee, and she sat on the stairs, giving up on her mission for the time being. ‘That’s not it, is it?’
Birdie sat two steps down from her, her back against the wall.
‘How are you feeling about everything? I promise this isn’t me trying to find out how long I get to keep you, because you know I’d have you for ever.
’ She was in a grass-green dress with little red apples on it, and Imogen thought it would go perfectly with the coat she’d commandeered. Was it time to give it back?
‘It’s all very confusing,’ she said slowly, because how could she begin to articulate it? Especially after yesterday, after a kiss that was so good it belonged in a film, but was somehow actually her life. How was any of the last few weeks her life?
‘I don’t think I’ve been a good grandmother to you,’ Birdie said.
‘What are you talking about?’ Imogen nudged her gran’s shoulder with a socked foot. ‘It’s me that’s neglected you. I could have ignored everything Mum said and come up to see you, rather than sending covert texts and emails.’
‘If that was an easy thing to do, would you have got to the point where you had to flee from your own wedding?’
Imogen sighed. ‘I suppose not, no.’
‘Because you were doing it to please her.’ Imogen opened her mouth, but Birdie kept going.
‘I understand, because Stella is my daughter, and I know how persuasive she can be, how she withholds affection depending on what she gets in return. I do think that’s partly my fault, and I’m sorry that you’ve suffered because of it, and in such a dramatic way. ’
‘I brought the drama,’ Imogen said.
‘You got to the point where all the behaving, all the times you’d put other people first, got the better of you. Are you going back to him?’
‘I can’t.’ The first image that popped into her head wasn’t her ex’s derision when she’d been FaceTiming him, telling him they were over, it was Dexter in his grey T-shirt, post pigeon rescue, stalking towards her as she leaned against the doorway of Mistingham Manor, already weak-kneed.
‘I should have broken up with him months ago. I hate that I’ve caused him heartbreak. ’
Birdie scoffed. ‘So that’s one decision made, what about the others?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m staying for the Christmas performances.’
‘I am very glad about that. You rehearsed with Dexter yesterday? I trust it’s going well?’
Imogen tried to burrow into her jumper, but that would be as obvious as the blush creeping up her neck. ‘We had a first go, but we need a whole lot of work. We were terrible.’ Not at kissing. ‘Hopefully not everyone will be up to RSC standards.’
‘Of course not. It’s just a bit of fun. That’s what you should be focusing on right now.
Having fun, letting loose. God knows you deserve some freedom.
’ She tapped Imogen’s foot, her multiple rings more solid than perhaps she realized.
‘I’m going to get on with lunch. Come down when you’re ready and you can try my sauce. ’
‘Sure.’ Imogen leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Dexter’s face came swimming into view, and she replayed the kiss for what must have been the hundredth time. Freedom, she thought, and a smile crept across her lips.
Lucy found her later that afternoon, leaning on the white-washed wall next to the bakery, about to take a selfie.
‘You look really pretty,’ she said, startling Imogen out of her selfie-mode focus.
‘Hi, Lucy. So do you. I like your uniform.’ It was a smart navy pinafore dress with a jumper over the top – also navy – her white shirt showing at the collar. She had her large puffa coat open over the top, and Artichoke at her feet in a luminous pink harness.
Lucy scrunched up her face. ‘I hate my uniform. I wish it was pink like Artichoke’s.’
‘That would be a lot better,’ Imogen agreed. Her hands were sweaty, so she shoved her phone into her pocket. How had she gravitated so close to the bakery in her quest to find a plain background? Was her subconscious leading her there? If so, she needed to have a word with it.
‘Who are you taking a picture for?’ Lucy held out a paper bag, and Imogen peered inside and saw mini doughnuts: little bonbons of fried dough and sugar. Her mouth watered, despite Birdie’s delicious lunch.
‘Thank you.’ She took one and popped it in her mouth. When she bit down, she discovered it had a gooey caramel filling. ‘Oh my God.’
‘It’s Dad’s new recipe,’ Lucy told her. ‘I’m only allowed one bag after school, if I’ve finished my homework and I promise it won’t spoil my dinner. Now I can tell him I shared them with you and he’ll be happy.’
‘No!’ She hadn’t meant to shout, but she also didn’t want Dexter to know she’d been creeping outside his bakery.
‘Aren’t you meant to have doughnuts?’ Lucy frowned.
‘It’s not just me that thinks you’re really pretty, I know Dad does too.
’ Imogen’s heart fluttered like a frantic butterfly.
‘You know that prettiness has nothing to do with how many doughnuts you eat, don’t you, Lucy?
’ It was hard to sound forthright, because she still remembered the wedding dress fitter’s scorn, the way it had stung.
Lucy nodded. ‘I do, but Cecily at school says boys like girls to be like willow trees, and that has something to do with doughnuts.’
Imogen felt a thud of dismay. She bent down, so she was on Lucy’s level. ‘Cecily is wrong. Boys don’t want girls to be like willow trees, they want them to be themselves; happy and healthy. Treats are important, and so are vegetables and getting out in the fresh air, OK?’
Lucy nodded, her eyes alight with interest.
‘Also, aren’t you too young to be thinking about boys? Scratch that, you are too young. Have you told your dad what Cecily said?’
‘I tell him everything Cecily says,’ Lucy announced. ‘And he says if it gets too much, or if I’m upset, then he’ll speak to the school. And I mostly ignore her, but it’s just that I like willow trees, especially weeping willows, so isn’t it good to try and be like them?’
‘Nope,’ Imogen said. ‘You can like a lot of things and not try and be the same as them. Sometimes the fact that they’re different is what makes them so attractive.’
‘Do you like my dad?’ Lucy held out her paper bag, and Imogen took another doughnut, planning to eat it incredibly slowly so she could delay her answer.
‘I think your dad is great,’ she said, when the second doughnut was gone and her fingers were dusted with sugar. ‘He’s been very kind to me, and we’re doing a scene for the Christmas event together, and … he’s a really good friend.’
Lucy nodded, her eyes on her feet. ‘He thinks you’re a really good friend too.’
‘Lucy, is everything OK?’
The girl looked up and nodded, and for a moment she seemed anxious, her mouth pinched, but then she smiled, all cares forgotten, and took off towards the bakery. ‘I’m going to tell Dad you shared my doughnuts!’ she shouted, and Imogen tipped her head back against the wall and groaned.
Had Dexter told her? She couldn’t imagine him confiding in his ten-year-old daughter about their kiss.
But Lucy was astute, so maybe she’d picked up on something.
This. This was one of the many reasons why kissing Dexter was complicated, and yet Imogen kept being drawn back to the memory.
She couldn’t help getting heated whenever she thought about it, or imagining what else might happen when they were alone, rehearsing.
She realized Dexter might come out of the bakery if Lucy told him they’d been talking, and she was too flustered to face him right now.
She snapped a quick selfie, checked the background was featureless, and sent it to her mum with the caption: Proof of life.
I am absolutely fine. She dawdled for a second, added, Lots of love and a smiley face, and hurried back to Birdie’s.
Her Mum’s reply came moments later. Glad you’re OK, it read, which was effusive from her mum, but you’re looking a bit too happy for someone who has completely destroyed their life. Edmund is still beside himself. He hasn’t given up on getting you back. Mum.
Imogen’s breath caught. She knew why she looked so happy, and her mum’s message was another reason everything was such a tangle.
Despite her conversation with Edmund, he still wasn’t ready to move on?
She swallowed, trying to push the panic back down.
She was on borrowed time, and she didn’t think it was fair – not on him or Lucy, never mind her own feelings – to borrow Dexter too.
She was getting into bed that evening when her phone chimed from the bedside table. She had been about to pick up Northanger Abbey, but she glanced at the screen, her pulse skittering when she saw who the message was from.
Dexter: Lucy said you were here earlier. Sorry, I was rushed off my feet. You OK?
Imogen breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t come looking for her, so she didn’t have to admit she’d run away.
Imogen: Fine thanks. I was trying to find a blank background so I could send Mum a pic and prove I haven’t been abducted by nefarious criminals.
Dexter: She thinks all this decision-making couldn’t possibly be you?
Imogen: Haha, exactly! I’ve surprised her for the first time in 31 years. :)
Dexter: Keep doing it. Keep choosing what you want.
The moment he sent it the bubbles were pulsing again, and she wondered if he’d been including himself in that: trying to reassure himself of something.
Dexter: You OK after yesterday?
Imogen grinned.
Imogen: More than. I know it’s complicated, but I enjoyed it.
Imogen: A lot.
Imogen: Not the cobwebs or the pigeon.
Imogen: The rehearsal was OK. We need to try again.
Dexter: There’s something else I’d like to try again.
The bubbles bubbled, and then:
Dexter: Sorry, that sounded terrible. But I can’t stop thinking about kissing you. I’d like to do it again, sometime very soon.
Could Imogen’s grin get any wider? Not if she didn’t want to split her face open. She rolled onto her side, snuggled under the duvet, and replied.
Imogen: I would, too. Let’s have a second go at both. Let me know when you’re free. xx
She drifted off with his words, I can’t stop thinking about kissing you, playing over and over in her mind.
It wasn’t hard to imagine him saying them in his warm voice, or relive the way he’d touched her, held her, kissed her.
She was congratulating herself on asking him to do a scene for the Christmas event with her when sleep finally took her.