Chapter Twenty-Six
On Monday, Sophie was back in her stationery emporium, looking freckled and happy and unconcerned that the snow hadn’t yet fallen on Mistingham but the cloud was thicker than ever. Imogen hovered on the threshold, but Sophie saw her and waved her inside.
‘Imogen, how are you? I’m so glad you’re still here.’
‘Did you have a wonderful honeymoon?’
Sophie gave her a dreamy smile. ‘It was perfect. The weather was pretty good for December, and the food and the landscape were lush, the hotel was gorgeous and … well, Harry was the best thing about it.’
Imogen grinned. ‘I’m so glad. You look really relaxed.’
‘I am, which is a good thing considering all the Christmas stuff we’ve got coming up. What about you? You already feel like a permanent fixture here, and one that certain people can’t do without.’
Imogen swallowed. ‘It will be lovely to have Christmas with my gran, and I’m so looking forward to the Snow Show. Dexter’s counting on me.’
‘Of course,’ Sophie said, while she rearranged a display of shimmering ballpoints. ‘And Mistingham is rather inescapable, once it’s charmed you. Do you feel better than when you arrived?’
Imogen nodded, because she certainly felt happier, but how could she have thought that racing to that train in her wedding dress, coming up here on a whim, was as complicated as things would get?
She hadn’t expected to want so much of what this seaside village had to offer.
‘I bet Felix is glad you’re back,’ she said, moving onto safer ground.
‘He’s acting out, worse than he was before we went away.
I think he feels like we owe him for abandoning him.’
‘I’ll get Lucy to send Artichoke round,’ Imogen said without thinking. ‘That’ll calm him down.’
‘Sounds good.’ Sophie’s smile turned into a grin. ‘And I’ll see you at the next rehearsal? It’s in the village hall again, because the manor is in chaos while we get everything ready, but we’ll be done in time for the final warm-up.’
‘I thought you already had your tree up?’ Imogen’s brain was intent on getting her into trouble this morning.
Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘We do, but we want to make some changes, especially to the lounge where the performances will be.’
‘Right.’ Imogen nodded frantically; she knew she’d been busted. ‘I just … I went with Dexter, once, when he was checking the manor for you.’
‘It was good that he had some company,’ Sophie said solemnly. ‘It can get quite spooky when you’re in there on your own.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Imogen said weakly, then hurried out of the shop before she had a chance to put her foot even further in her mouth.
When she left Birdie’s for the village hall the following evening, she was sure she could feel the first dusting of snow against her cheeks, but looking up, with the pink cloud looming and strange now it was dark, and no chance of stars or a moon, she realized it was just the cold air.
She stepped through the door in Birdie’s coat, and someone shouted, ‘Here’s our little gooseberry!’
Before she had a chance to reply, a warm hand grabbed hers and whisked her to the back of the hall. Every nerveending in her body came to tingling, hopeful life.
‘We haven’t rehearsed since the last time,’ Dexter said into her ear, and even though he did actually sound a little bit worried, all Imogen could think was how much his presence calmed her.
She faced him, her breath catching when she realized he hadn’t shaved for a few days, and the stubble that was usually neat was longer and darker – more dangerous, somehow. Ridiculous, that she could be turned on by the length of a man’s stubble. ‘I know,’ she said stupidly.
‘We’ve found time to have dinner together and go foraging for decorations, and …’
‘Other things,’ Imogen finished breathlessly.
Dexter’s eyes darkened. ‘Right. Other things. But no Northanger Abbey. No Catherine and Henry.’
‘We’ll have to wing it.’ She was giddy because concerned Dexter was no less attractive, and when he rubbed his hand over his jaw and she heard the rasp of his stubble, she couldn’t hide her grin.
‘What are you so happy about?’ he murmured.
‘Being here with you.’ She watched his frown lift and his gaze spark, just as Fiona called everyone to order and invited the first person – this time it was May with her already perfect poem recital – up to the front to show them all how it was done.
‘Well.’ Fiona narrowed her eyes at Dexter and Imogen when they came to the flustered, messy end of their scene. ‘It was entertaining, at least.’
‘Yup.’ Jazz folded her arms. ‘I particularly liked the bit where Imogen dropped her script and then banged her head on Dexter’s knee.’
‘And the part where neither of them had a clue whose line it was and they just gazed at each other until Fiona snapped her fingers,’ Mary added.
‘I liked it when Imogen got her voices muddled up and made Catherine Morland sound like she smoked forty fags a day.’
Dexter turned to glare at Harry, who had watched all the performances with his smug, Italy-tanned features, safe in the knowledge that, because he and Sophie were hosting the festivities, they didn’t have to perform themselves.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ Dexter said, without much heat.
Harry shook his head. ‘I’ve had much more fun watching you. It was very … illuminating.’
‘We could try again?’ Imogen was appalled that they’d done such a horrible job.
‘You do that,’ Fiona said, ‘in the comfort and isolation of your own homes.’
‘Isn’t isolation part of the problem?’ Valerie added crossly. ‘When they don’t have an audience, they get up to other things instead of rehearsing.’
‘Now hang on,’ Dexter said, ‘that’s a bit personal, isn’t it?’
All the chatter and tittering in the room evaporated, and everyone turned to look at Dexter.
He hadn’t even sounded angry, but they were all so used to him being entirely amenable – helpful and generous and laid-back – that it was a shock to see him taking a stand.
People were gaping, and Harry looked vaguely concerned, but May, Sophie and Jazz wore matching expressions of delight.
‘I don’t care what you say about me,’ Dexter went on, ‘but Imogen doesn’t deserve your idle speculation.’
‘You’ve not been carrying on together, then?’ Frank asked.
‘What Imogen and I may or may not have been doing is none of your business,’ Dexter said firmly, which elicited a couple of gasps.
‘We might not be up to scratch with our scene, but we still have a few days to get it right, and, aside from that, what we do in our own time is not up for discussion.’ Imogen sucked in a breath at his commanding tone, then he ruined any chance he had of losing people’s interest by taking her hand.
‘Imogen has given a lot to this village already, and she’s only been here a short time, so I don’t want her subject to the usual gossip, OK? ’
‘We can still gossip about you, though, eh?’ Gerry with the wispy hair quipped.
‘I’ve been here all my life, so I’m used to it,’ Dexter said bluntly. ‘Is someone else having a go at rehearsing, or is that it?’ He walked off the makeshift stage, dragging Imogen behind him.
When Jazz and Mary took their places to rehearse their Hallmark spinoff, a lot of people were still looking at her and Dexter.
‘I’m not sure your plan worked as well as it could have,’ she murmured, trying to communicate without plastering herself against him and adding fuel to the fire.
Dexter ran a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t really thinking.
’ He glanced at her. ‘I might have rendered my statement null and void by grabbing your hand, is that what you’re going to say? ’
‘Maybe,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m not sure anyone here is any less convinced that we’ve…’ Been seeing each other? Was that the right terminology?
‘Been sleeping together?’ Dexter finished, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine.
‘It isn’t even “been sleeping together”, because we’ve only done it once.’ Her whisper was low, and she hoped that, even if people were still looking, they weren’t also listening. ‘Once if you count that it was all within the same window,’
Dexter corrected, ‘not if you consider the play by play.’
Imogen gasped, pretending to be shocked. ‘You’ve been doing that a lot, have you? Considering it?’
‘A lot.’ His voice was low and gravelly. ‘Lucy’s staying at Amber’s again tonight, so if you wanted to—’
‘Yes,’ Imogen said, a little too loudly, and someone shouted, ‘Get a room!’ just as there was a lull in dialogue, while Jazz and Mary wrestled an imaginary Christmas tree into their imaginary car.
Laughter rippled across the hall. Dexter sighed, stared intently at Imogen for a second, then said, calmly, ‘That’s what we’re planning to do, just as soon as the rehearsal’s over. ’
Imogen tried to avoid late-night snacks, because her mother always said that if you didn’t have a proper break from food before bedtime then all sorts of things would go wrong: your metabolism, your sleep patterns, your focus the next day.
But when Dexter had pulled her inside his dark hallway, they’d kissed for a good five minutes, and then, as if that wasn’t delicious enough, he’d led her into the kitchen where a batch of cranberry mince pies were waiting on a cooling rack, and offered one to her with brandy cream on the side.
Now they were sitting across from each other at the island, their legs tangled together around the side, the livingroom lights off so only the Christmas tree twinkled, while they dug their spoons into crisp pastry and sharp, spicy fruit, the cream silky and rich on Imogen’s tongue.
Right now she didn’t care about her metabolism or getting enough sleep.
Being here, with Dexter, she didn’t want to sleep.
‘You gave up back there.’ She scooped cream onto her spoon and ran her tongue over it.
Dexter watched her, his eyes narrowed. ‘If you could see you right now, you wouldn’t find that remotely surprising.’
She laughed. ‘What do you mean?’