Chapter Thirty-One
She found her mum sitting with Birdie at the kitchen table, a bottle of red wine open between them. Birdie was her usual, slightly rumpled self, and her mum looked perfectly coiffed, her short hair a redder tone than the last time she had seen her, diamonds twinkling unapologetically in her ears.
‘Here they are. Have you two patched things up?’ Stella Rowsell stood up and accepted a dazed hug from Imogen, her thin frame as unyielding as ever.
‘We’ve talked.’ Imogen glanced at Edmund, who was standing in the doorway, looking horrified at the sight of Birdie’s eclectic kitchen. ‘But patching things up was never on the cards.’
Stella narrowed her gaze, and Imogen understood why people banging their heads against tables was a real thing.
‘It wasn’t a blip or cold feet or wedding nerves, it was a real, considered decision that I came to at the worst possible moment. I fucked up the wedding, I fucked up all your lives for a bit, but Edmund and I have talked, and we know we’re not meant to be together.’
‘Have you been reading too many romance books?’ her mum asked.
‘Stop belittling Imogen’s decisions.’ Birdie sounded angrier than Imogen had ever heard her. ‘This is what you do when people behave in a way you don’t understand: you dismiss their feelings as trite or impossible. It’s incredibly tiring.’
Stella turned her aghast expression on her mum. ‘We’ve just been drinking wine together, quite pleasantly I thought.’
‘Yes, but it’s time to give you a few home truths, and to accept some back. This is one of them. You have a very specific way of doing things, and it’s up to you how you live your life, but you cannot impose those ways on others.’
‘On my daughter, I can—’
‘Not even on your daughter. Come on, Edmund, let me show you the garden.’
‘It’s covered in snow,’ Edmund protested.
‘Let me take you somewhere that isn’t this room, so my daughter and granddaughter can have a conversation.’ Birdie slipped her arm into his. ‘You’re not very good at reading a situation, are you?’
Imogen didn’t hear Edmund’s reply because Birdie had hustled him to the back door. She sank into the chair opposite her mum.
‘Edmund brought you on his white knight quest, then?’
‘You really don’t want to give him another chance? He’s a wonderful man.’
‘He will be for someone else, but I don’t think he ever loved me. He loved that I could cement his position at Rowsell that not being with her wasn’t going to dent his chances at her dad’s law firm. ‘I’ll FaceTime you on Christmas Day.’
‘Wonderful,’ Stella said distractedly. ‘I’ll email through our itinerary and we can work out where to squeeze you in.’
‘Great.’ Imogen hovered in the hall while her mum stood at the back door and shouted to Edmund. He and Birdie came back inside, and Stella wrapped herself in metres of cashmere, then they all exchanged brisk hugs.
Birdie handed her daughter a package of Christmas vegetables, and Imogen watched, breath held, wondering if her mum would reject them.
But Stella smiled blandly, offered another thanks, and then they were back in Edmund’s shiny car, pulling away from the kerb, just as the snow started falling again, white flakes swirling in the gloom of twilight.
‘How did that go for you?’ Imogen asked, when Birdie had shut the door. ‘Are you and Mum on better terms?’
‘I think we’ve come to an understanding, and it’s mostly about how we will never really see eye to eye. But things are mildly less frosty than they were. How did it go for you?’
Imogen thought about it. ‘Better than expected. I mean, Mum is Mum, and I doubt she’ll ever approve of what I’m doing, but things went OK with Edmund.
I think he’s relieved to be set free, on some level at least. Maybe he was fighting for me because of Mum and Dad, and now he knows he won’t lose them or his position, he’s happier to let me go. ’
‘Nobody with any sense would be happy letting you go,’ Birdie said, ‘but he’ll bounce back, and you have more important things to focus on now. You’re really staying?’
‘I’m staying, if you’ll have me.’
‘Of course I will. Imogen, I am delighted. And I know I won’t be the only one.’
Imogen thought of Dexter. Should she rush around to his house, tell him the way was clear for them, like a scene in a historical romance? She didn’t know if she’d do it justice right now. ‘One of his ovens is broken.’
‘And maybe,’ Birdie said, ‘your spirit is a little bit broken, after standing up to Stella Rowsell and getting only the vaguest of emotions in return.’
‘She doesn’t really care about me. She was only worried about whether Edmund would be all right.’ She knew she was being petulant, but she couldn’t help it.
‘She is a very particular creature.’ Birdie wrapped her in a hug.
‘You have done the right thing; I’m proud of you for following your heart.
Dexter will be there tomorrow, and you’ll be less exhausted.
Right now we need more wine, a beef stew, and the curtains open so we can watch the snow fall.
Send Dexter a message to put your mind at ease. ’
Imogen returned her gran’s hug, feeling so fiercely grateful that she didn’t know where to put herself. ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ she said, and went to change into her pyjamas while Birdie lit the flame under the stew she’d made earlier.
In her bedroom in the eaves, Imogen sent Dexter a message:
How are the ovens? I’m so sorry about today. Please can we talk tomorrow? Xx
His reply came moments later, her heart leaping at the sound of a new message. But when she read it, she couldn’t help being crestfallen at his politeness.
Oven was stressful, but it’s sorted now. I hope you’re OK. Tomorrow would be good. Dx
Imogen tried to put aside the niggling worries that she hadn’t been fair to him, that, on the day she’d made the decision to stay in Mistingham, she had already ruined one of the very best parts of her new life here.
She went downstairs to spend the evening with her gran, to watch the village she had come to love turn into a perfect, Christmas snow globe.
This was her home now, and she was going to enjoy all it had to offer.