Chapter Twenty-Four
Imogen had spent the morning at the community hub, helping a stylish older woman research her family tree. It had been a slow start but, as she watched Cynthia growing in confidence and clicking around the menus of a couple of genealogy websites, Imogen felt as if she’d actually made a difference.
The hub was busy, people coming in and out all the time, festive tunes playing in the background and the constant ding of the hotel bell, and Winnie’s infectious laughter drifting in from reception.
Imogen had helped a delivery man carry boxes into the kitchen, and the chef had asked her to sample her turkey bonbons, which Imogen hadn’t minded in the least. She felt fulfilled and appreciated, and not – as she had in her PA role – as if she was working as hard as she could and still failing to reach some undefined and impossible standard.
She was walking back to Birdie’s at lunchtime, her chin buried in the collar of her coat, when her phone chimed in her pocket.
She grabbed it eagerly, Dexter’s warm, dark eyes dancing through her mind.
It had been a few days since their rehearsal.
Fiona hadn’t told them when the next one was, and she and Dexter had only managed a couple of brief exchanges in the bakery when she went to get a cake.
But then she saw who the message was from, and her spirits sank to her feet.
Imogen felt as though those two kisses had been scratched against her sternum.
She had told her mum she was spending Christmas here with Gran, and yet she thought she was doing that and fulfilling all the obligations she’d had in the past – and new ones too: fifty-pound boxes of crackers, which might be the most pointless, over-the-top task yet.
She hadn’t even thought about sending out cards, and the fact that her mum had been making her buy them from Liberty’s for the last three years suddenly seemed ludicrous.
‘It is all ludicrous. All of it!’ she said, as she walked into Birdie’s warm, incense-scented hallway.
‘What’s that?’ her gran called from the kitchen.
‘Nothing! Just a big, fat wake-up call.’
‘Jolly good! Soup for lunch?’
‘I’ll go and get some crusty bread!’ A spark of happiness lit up inside her, cutting through her outrage.
‘You’ve only just got home.’ Birdie popped her head around the door. ‘But I suppose soup would benefit from a hunk of fresh, delicious bread slathered in butter.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. Her gran had been teasing her mercilessly since she and Lucy had spied on them through the window.
But Imogen had reached the stage where any mention of Dexter perked her up, so she didn’t mind.
She hadn’t even taken off her coat, so she just turned around and went back out into the cold.
‘Come to dinner,’ Dexter said, as he slid the sourdough rolls into a paper bag. ‘Tonight.’
There were four people behind her in the queue and Imogen could feel them eavesdropping, but Dexter didn’t seem to care.
‘OK.’
‘Lucy’s probably going to hang out at Amber’s afterwards. The football team’s got a match tomorrow, and they need to strategize. Amber’s mum said she could stay overnight.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Imogen’s cheeks heated, and Dexter frowned.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I would love to,’ she rushed out, then flicked her eyes to the engrossed onlookers. One of them was Annie from the arcade.
Dexter looked baffled for a second, then seemed to catch on. But instead of blushing like Imogen, he said, ‘I’m glad.
I’ve wanted to have you over for dinner for a while.’ He gave her the bag of rolls, and when Imogen handed over her money, he grasped her hand and held on, squeezing reassuringly before letting go. As she walked back to Birdie’s, she tried to remember when she’d last shaved her legs.
That afternoon, predictably, Imogen fell down a rabbit hole of Liberty Christmas cards and Fortnum the kitchen had peacock blue cupboards and walls covered in white subway tiles above smooth pine work surfaces.
There was a range cooker and a shiny coffee machine, a bright pink mixer that Imogen thought must be Lucy’s: the tools of a family who knew about food.
A Christmas tree in the corner of the living room stood at a slightly wonky angle, its baubles and decorations a mishmash of shapes and colours, a lot of them clearly homemade.
Artichoke was curled up on a yellow cushion on the sofa, her cute puppy bed next to the TV left for half-chewed toys.
It was a cheerful, chaotic home, and Imogen loved it immediately.
‘This is lovely,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ Dexter glanced up from opening the wine.
‘It’s all Lucy and me. She’s involved in every decision, but I have the right to veto.
The living room isn’t decorated in unicorn wallpaper mainly because it was too expensive, but she’s got a feature wall in her bedroom.
’ He held out a glass to her. ‘Except now she wants to replace it with football wallpaper.’
‘The decor will be like her clothes, I guess.’ Imogen accepted her wine. ‘You have to upgrade as her tastes change.’
‘And I still haven’t learnt. I lull myself into a false sense of security, thinking I won’t have to get the ladder out for at least a year.’
‘You have something against ladders?’
‘I am against how high they let me go. Cheers.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’
‘Cheers. Thank you for having me.’ They smiled at each other, and Imogen almost forgot about the tantalizing smells of tomato and basil filling the kitchen.
‘Is the pizza ready?’ Lucy yelled, her footsteps thundering on the stairs. ‘Hey, Imogen. I told Dad to do his homemade pizza because he’s really good at it, and I figured you’d like it because you love Dad’s cakes so much.’
‘Hi Lucy. You’re right, I love pizza, and I bet your dad’s is the best.’
‘It’s not bad.’ Dexter ruffled Lucy’s hair as she tore off squares of kitchen towel. ‘How’s that homework going?’
‘Done, mostly. And I’ve packed for Amber’s. I’m staying over,’ she told Imogen. ‘If you don’t want to go home, you can sleep in my bed, if you like? I have a teddy called Satan; he’ll look after you if it’s too dark.’
‘Thank you,’ Imogen stuttered.
Dexter, curse him, grinned at her and pulled Lucy into a hug. ‘It’s kind of you to offer up your room, Luce. We’ll see how things go. Fifteen minutes until pizza.’
‘I’ll get the salad.’ She got rocket, tomato and avocado out of the fridge, busying herself at the counter. Dexter checked the sauce bubbling on the stove, then took a bowl of dough out of a part of the oven that Imogen realized must be a proving drawer.
‘Take a pew.’ He pointed to the stools next to the island.
‘Can I help?’
‘We have it under control, but we can talk while we work.’
So Imogen sipped her wine, watching father and daughter move around each other in a practised dance.
She asked about Dexter’s pizza recipe, Lucy’s football team, the school’s festive plans in the run-up to Christmas.
It felt light, easy, like there were no expectations hanging over them.
Just three people enjoying each other’s company.
They moved to the table and Dexter slid a perfectly crafted pizza onto her plate, with a rich tomato sauce, gooey mozzarella, slices of pepperoni and black olives.
Her mouth was watering as she added salad, drizzling on the lemon dressing Lucy had made.