Prologue #2
Imogen’s eyes filled instantly. She hated that the camera could probably see. Hated that strangers would watch this moment and discuss whether she deserved it. Share it so more people could see. She stood. “Please turn it off.”
Chelsea scoffed. “God, Imogen, not everything is about you.”
Not everything. As if Chelsea hadn’t summoned her there under false pretences.
As if Chelsea hadn’t just caused her unbelievable pain and used it for content.
As if she hadn’t engineered every angle of this humiliation.
Something inside Imogen gave way. Not loudly.
Just finally. Months, maybe even years of apologising when Chelsea had turned from sweet to cruel out of nowhere.
Years of walking on eggshells to avoid arguments.
Years of waiting for kindness to return.
She looked at Chelsea and felt the last of her hope die.
“I don’t understand. You asked me to come because you said you were having a bad day. ”
Chelsea shrugged. “I needed you here for context. My followers deserve my whole, authentic truth.”
The words hit harder than the breakup itself. Context. Not girlfriend. Not partner. Not person. Imogen was simply a prop.
With one final look at an unrecognisable version of the woman she had mistakenly given her heart to, Imogen turned and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Chelsea asked, her tone full of annoyance.
“Anywhere else.” All Imogen knew was that she needed to get out of there. The torrential rain outside was warmer than Chelsea’s flat.
“Fine. Go. Oh, and, Imogen?” Chelsea called after her. “Leave your key on the table.”
In a daze, Imogen somehow managed to take the key off her bunch and set it beside the Tesco bag before she hurried out the door. She didn’t look back. If she had, she might have shattered. At least she made it to the stairs before the first sob tore out of her.
The video probably had a thousand hits before Imogen had even hit the street.
And by morning, it had gone viral. After that came the edits—they received a lot of traffic too.
Then there were the comments. Strangers praising Chelsea for “choosing herself.” Thousands calling Imogen bitter, controlling, jealous, dead weight.
Some said Chelsea had glowed up and left her behind.
Others said Imogen looked plain, miserable, possessive.
One person had said they hoped Imogen felt like she had a hair stuck in her mouth forever.
And that was one of the kinder messages.
There were even some who wished Imogen actual harm.
Imogen had always thought she had a thick skin, but apparently it wasn’t thick enough. The reactions hurt. Along with her broken heart came the horror of what people thought of her—all because they watched an edited rendition of Chelsea’s life for eight minutes a day.
A couple of days after the breakup, someone found Imogen’s phone number and bombarded her with hate texts.
Then someone else found it. Then dozens more after that.
She had to change the number not once, but twice.
And to make it worse, Chelsea kept posting different edits of the video because apparently breaking up with your girlfriend and recording it was great for hits.
And six months later, people at Clover Insurance still whispered when Imogen walked by.
Imogen’s phone buzzing with a text message was a welcome interruption, yanking her sharply from the nightmare she replayed too often. She glanced down at the screen.
URGENT MEETING REQUIRED. SECOND FLOOR BATHROOM. NOW!
Imogen huffed out a laugh. Piper.
Another message appeared beneath it.
Seriously, it’s important. Piper’s not Piper-ing for no reason today. Hurry. That one was from Niamh.
Now, if Niamh said it mattered, it mattered.
Imogen wasted no time. She grabbed her jacket that she had only just draped over the back of her chair and headed for the stairs.
By the time she reached the second floor—a strange choice considering none of them worked there—she was moving fast enough to feel her feet burn despite her choice of sensible heels.
She pushed through the bathroom door so hard it banged against the wall.
“Ssh!” Piper rushed at her, seized her arm, and dragged her towards the sinks where Niamh stood waiting with folded arms.
“Why are we shushing?” Imogen asked. “What is this?”
“Did you not get that this is covert?” Piper whispered sharply. “We’re on the second floor for Christ’s sake.”
“Pipes, I told you, there’s no one else in here,” Niamh said, speaking at a reasonable volume. “I know because you made me check all the cubicles. Three times.”
“It’s called due diligence,” Piper snapped.
“Why are we on the second floor by the way?” Imogen asked. “I did wonder.”
“Because we couldn’t risk having this conversation on our own floors,” Piper said, flinging her arms up in the air. “Or worse, fifth. HR? Imagine someone overhearing.”
That clarified nothing. If anything, Imogen was more confused. She looked between them. “What conversation?”
Piper and Niamh looked at each other, seemingly having some kind of silent conversation with their eyes. Then Piper nodded a few times, and Niamh stepped forward. “Okay. You’re going to say no immediately.”
“That’s a terrible start,” Piper muttered. “I knew I should have been the one to ask her.”
“But after you say no,” Niamh continued, blatantly ignoring Piper, “We’d like you to think about it anyway.”
“You’re making it sound like it’s something terrible,” Piper said, practically whining now.
“Fine, then you ask her—”
Imogen raised her hand to try and stop the two of them bickering. “Think about what?” she interjected.
Piper inhaled dramatically and held out her arms like her moment had finally arrived. “We’re leaving Clover, moving halfway across the country to run an adorable wee pub in an adorable wee village, and we want you to come with us.”
Silence.
Imogen stared at her. Then at Niamh. Then she laughed. Paused for a second. “No.”
“See?” Niamh said.
Piper folded her arms. “You didn’t even consider it.”
“I don’t need to consider it. You just asked me to quit my job and move to the middle of nowhere to run a pub.”
“A charming pub,” Piper corrected her.
“With zero experience.”
“Experience is learnable.”
Imogen turned to Niamh. “And you said yes already? How has she talked you into this?”
“She hasn’t,” Niamh said. She bit down on her bottom lip. “It was my idea.”
That stopped Imogen in her tracks. “What?”
Niamh smiled. “Hear me out. Remember I went away last week because I needed to switch off? Well, I ended up in a village on the coast called Ballyluck.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Neither had I. But I loved it.”
Piper took out her phone. “Look.” She thrust it forward.
Imogen took it reluctantly. The first photos showed a tiny village painted in soft pastel colours, clustered around a circular square. Purples, greens, yellows, pinks, blues, peaches.
There was a small main street with maybe eight or nine buildings on either side, a mixture of well-kept homes and businesses. The next few photos revealed the scenic backdrop of Ballyluck. Cliffs. Sea. Rolling green hills stretching for miles. Imogen could admit, it was annoyingly beautiful.
“Isn’t it great? Keep looking. The pub’s called the Wishing Well,” Piper said reverently. “And it has an actual well. A well, Immy.”
“Well, that changes everything,” Imogen deadpanned.
Piper swatted her arm.
Imogen grinned and swiped some more until she found the pub.
Sure enough, it had an old stone well outside its door.
It was a quirky feature, probably dating back many years judging by how worn and weathered it looked.
Imogen wondered if people threw coins into the well hoping that it held some kind of magical power to make their wishes come true.
Whoever had named the pub the Wishing Well had probably thought so.
“The place needs saving,” Niamh said. “The owners are selling. I got chatting with some folks. The village doesn’t want to lose their pub. It’s an institution. I saw it and…something clicked.”
Imogen flicked to the next images. The pub was a dunderin-inn for sure.
Worn wood, cracked windows, tired furniture.
A faded, tattered, old sign outside. “It also needs bleach,” she said.
She refrained from stating that what it really needed was knocked down and rebuilt.
It looked like the place hadn’t seen so much as a lick of paint in at least thirty years.
There was retro and then there was outdated, and this was the latter.
Every part of the place was crying out for an upgrade, from the dirty floors to the shabby fittings.
“It needs vision,” Piper countered.
“It needs money.”
“It needs us,” Niamh said quietly.
Imogen looked up. There it was—that dangerous thing in her friend’s face. Hope. But seriously, did Niamh really think that Imogen was going to join in on this wacky notion of hers? Forget it. She wasn’t Piper.
“I’m in a rut here. I want a different life,” Niamh said. “And I want it with my best friends.”
Piper nodded eagerly. “I hate my job, my creepy roommate watches me sleep, and I was born for village-pub glamour.” She flicked her hair to prove her point.
“You were born for dramatics,” Imogen said—though the roommate thing was probably true. He was a touch on the creepy side, and he did tend to stare. Although, in fairness, a lot of people stared at Piper. She was just one of those people who garnered attention. Blond and beautiful.
“That too.”
Imogen handed back the phone. “It looks lovely. I’ll visit often.”
Both of them groaned in unison.
“Speaking of,” Imogen continued. “Where will you live?”
“There are two apartments above the pub, and they are included in the contract. A one bedroom and a two bedroom,” Niamh explained. “If you join us, we could work it out. Two of us share, one of us take the other one.”