Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘An amazing time not a long time,’ Imogen chanted as she walked to the village hall for the last Story Time session before Christmas.
It was a party, really, because while most of the villagers would be at the Snow Show, Jazz wanted to do something for their little group. ‘An amazing time and not a long time.’
Despite her reservations after Dexter’s honest talk a couple of nights ago, there had been no reservations physically, and Imogen was having to come to terms with extricating herself from the person who made her feel happier than she had done for years, who understood her more than anyone else did, with whom she was having the best sex of her life.
It made no sense, when she thought of it like that.
Then she thought of her mum’s message that morning, when Imogen had sent her another proof-of-life photo, and told her – again – that she wouldn’t be back for Christmas.
You’ve eked out this ridiculous quarter-life crisis for long enough, Imogen. It’s time to come home. Be sensible. We can talk about Edmund.
She had wanted to say there was nothing to talk about, that she and Edmund were over, and she’d found someone else and he was wonderful. But then another message had come through, and it had made her stomach twist unpleasantly.
Wherever you’ve gone, you went there after jilting your fiancé at the altar. Nobody is taking you seriously.
Was that true? Did they see her as some intriguing novelty, rather than a serious person?
She pushed open the hall door, stepped into the warmth and chatter, inhaled the heady scent of mulled wine, and someone shouted, ‘Here’s our Christmas elf, in all her finery!
What have you brought us today?’ Imogen returned the smile and wondered if her mum had been right all along.
‘Hey.’ Jazz wrapped her in a hug. ‘You OK? You look worried.’
‘I’m good. Just thinking about … things.’
Jazz laughed. ‘Enlightening. Come and get a drink. We’re all going to read The Snowman, so you’re going to need it.’
‘Sounds excellent.’ She relaxed at Jazz’s friendly, nononsense attitude.
She couldn’t imagine the young, confident woman tearing herself apart over men and mothers and life decisions.
From what little she knew, Jazz had had a turbulent upbringing, had been homeless for a time, and Mistingham was the first place she’d felt at home.
Imogen’s problems were small, wincingly first world, in comparison.
She accepted a cup of mulled wine and settled herself at the front of the room, where her beanbag was set out next to Jazz’s.
She picked up a copy of The Snowman, and felt eyes on her. She looked up.
‘Hello, Imogen!’ Lucy grinned at her from the front row. ‘Oh! Hey … hello, Lucy. It’s lovely to see you.’ It was a faultless maiden aunt impression. Brilliant.
‘Dad’s working late on Christmas orders, and I could have helped him but then I remembered you were doing Story Time. Jazz says it’s OK.’
‘Of course it’s all right. It’s extra special having you here.’
‘Really?’ Lucy brightened, and Imogen cursed herself. She was supposed to be extricating herself, not encouraging the girl.
‘Shame your dad couldn’t make it,’Valerie said from a couple of rows behind, sitting on a chair rather than a beanbag. ‘He would have loved this.’
‘Loved it,’ Frank echoed with a chortle.
‘He would have,’ Lucy said, unaware of the innuendo they were levelling in Imogen’s direction. ‘But he’s got to get everyone’s mince pies ready, so he can’t come.’
‘You two, no mischief.’ Jazz pointed a finger at the older contingent.‘You’ve caused enough trouble with the mistletoe.’
‘We did nothing.’ Valerie folded her arms. ‘Just voiced our opinions, is all. We didn’t take it down.’
‘Let’s see if we can have a fun, festive storytelling session, shall we?
’ Imogen said perkily. She opened the book, hoping it would act as a prompt, and after some grumbling, everyone settled down.
Jazz started them off, and with several copies circulating, the group made their way, haltingly but enthusiastically, through the story, the children getting help with their lines, most of the adults taking it very seriously.
Imogen wondered what it would be like to do this every week, through the cold nights of January and February, as the frosts weakened and the sun grew in confidence, snowdrops and then daffodils breaking through the soil.
Could she keep working at the community hub?
If she proved herself volunteering there, could she find a paid role somewhere in Mistingham, or even further afield – Norwich, maybe – or would it have been better not to try anything at all, and see if her dad would take her back in the new year?
She’d been straddling two lives, committing to neither one, and it was because she’d been reckless, listening to her heart instead of her head.
She’d come here without any kind of plan, then got caught up in village life, the kindness of strangers, the temptation of Dexter.
This was what happened when you didn’t follow the rules.
‘Imogen.’ Jazz nudged her side. ‘It’s your turn. You’re on the wrong page!’ She flicked ahead for her, and pointed to where they’d got to. Imogen read her lines haltingly, until all eyes were off her and the story went rippling around the room again.
‘Sure you’re doing all right?’ Jazz murmured.
‘Of course.’ She couldn’t keep drifting, and she was much more organized when she was in London. She’d been so annoyed at other people’s plans for her, she hadn’t examined her own, and the last few weeks had set unrealistically high expectations for her life.
Dexter, the most perfect man she’d ever met, wasn’t a possibility. She’d jilted her fiancé less than two months ago, so it wasn’t time to start something new. She was volunteering at Story Time and in the hub, but neither of those things was a proper career.
She needed to lower her expectations, go back to London and face the music.
Dexter had basically said as much – neither he nor Lucy expected her to stay.
That was the truth. She tuned back into the last few pages of the book, where the boy wakes up to discover the snowman is no longer there: he’s gone for ever, leaving only his hat and scarf behind.
Mistingham was her snowman, and it was time to stop living a fantasy. The book finished and everyone clapped and cheered, congratulating each other on a story well told. Avoiding Lucy’s gaze, Imogen went to get more mulled wine for herself and Jazz.
The next day, she bundled herself up in hat, scarf and gloves and the green coat, her head pounding with a mulled wine hangover, and took her tote bag through the village.
She had agreed to deliver sprout trees, carrots and packets of herbs that Birdie had assembled and promised to some of the villagers.
The cold hadn’t abated, but Mistingham looked beautiful even when it was grey.
She knocked on Mrs Waters’ front door, and didn’t have to wait long for it to open.
‘Imogen, love. Birdie said you’d be by. Are these my carrots?’
‘Yes, and a little gift.’ She handed her the package.
‘Some of her damson jam! How glorious.’ Mrs Winters’
wrinkles tightened as she smiled. ‘She must love having you here.’
‘I think so, but I—’
‘I’ll see you at the Snow Show.’ The old woman closed the door before Imogen had a chance to reply.
She walked back down the path, checking the next destination on the list she’d written on her phone, and bent when a shaggy dog she vaguely recognized came to greet her, its tail wagging.
‘So sorry!’ A plump woman bustled up, pulling the dog away on its lead.
‘No problem.’
‘Good luck with the performance. We’re all coming to the Snow Show to see it. Everyone says the chemistry between you and Dexter is electric.’
‘Thanks.’ Imogen swallowed. An amazing time, not a long time, she repeated in her head as she climbed the hotel steps.
‘Is that my Birdie special jam?’ Winnie was sitting behind the curved hotel reception desk.
The Christmas tree glittered, filling the foyer with the scent of pine, and Imogen was already scanning the space, looking for jobs she could do, stray things that needed tidying.
‘With Birdie’s compliments.’ She reached into her tote bag.
‘Lovely. You know, you’re already a hit at the hub. I’ve had so many compliments, phone calls from villagers checking when you’ll be in next.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘Mark, who runs the local allotment, wants help creating a website, along with a spreadsheet of members and lease lengths to keep track of all the plots, so he’ll be in to see you at some point.’
‘Great.’ Imogen pictured her neat London desk, collated reports piled on the corner, the swanky coffee machine that broke down at least once a week.
She knew she was supporting her dad, but she only ever got to greet his clients, show them into the conference room and provide them with refreshments.
She didn’t make a life-changing difference to any of them, and everyone at Rowsell & Patterson Law would laugh at how meaningful she’d found it untangling balls of wool.
‘We’re looking at the budget in the new year,’ Winnie went on, oblivious to her turmoil. ‘Now we have the kitchen, post office and hub, we’re going to need someone to manage our community endeavours – separate it properly from the hotel side of the business.’
‘These things do have a habit of getting unwieldly,’ Imogen agreed.
‘Exactly.’ The older woman beamed up at her. ‘It would, all being well, be a paid role. We’d need someone organized, good with people.’
‘Sounds great,’ Imogen rasped out. Then she wished Winnie well and fled the hotel before her brain exploded under the weight of all her conflicting emotions.