Chapter Twenty-six
The garden flat had languished on the rental market for a while, the agent had admitted. Mainly this was because sharers looking
for a two bedder weren’t keen on the narrow, north-facing second bedroom at the front. For Imogen, though, it was perfect.
Her drawing board would fit nicely in the space under the window, the north light in there was ideal, and all the other space
she needed was a few shelves for her art materials. It was hardly as if Ruth needed her own room. She was in with Imogen anyway.
That would change, but Imogen couldn’t bear to think of the longer term.
Alistair was as good as his word, spending most of Saturday moving Imogen’s stuff the half mile from the house. He then spent
hours fixing up the shelves and a few blinds at the windows where the curtains were too awful to stay. Of course, what little
furniture she owned was still in Devon, much of it in a skip by now, she thought.
The flat was basically furnished including a double bed in the main bedroom, which left plenty of room for Ruth’s cot. A bleak, cramped little place with limited natural daylight, the flat was a million miles away from Storybook Cot tage, but she wanted no reminder of what she had lost. It was home for now. It would do.
The two of them settled into a routine of sorts. Ruth was happy with an endless round of cuddles, milk, trips out in the pram,
and naps. Imogen accommodated her completely, happy to work at her drawing board during the daytime naps and the dead hours
of the night. She would rather be at work than enduring the restless dreams that accompanied her sleep. The most common and
upsetting was about Storybook Cottage, where Gabriel would stand in the doorway, holding out his arms toward her. Running
to him, she would find Louise in his place, slamming the door as she arrived.
As Ruth grew, the work intensified. The publisher’s response to Imogen’s prolific output was to pack more and more into the
schedule, their ambitions growing by the month as the launch date for the first book approached.
“Bin... bin... bin,” chanted Sally, as she decimated Imogen’s wardrobe, chucking most of it into a black plastic bag.
As summer arrived, Imogen found her clothes selection was more inadequate than ever, and Sally—sick of seeing her in the same
pair of jeans—had decided on direct action.
“Good grief, woman, you haven’t still got these,” said Sally, holding up a favorite pair of tracksuit bottoms with spotty
patches on the knees. “These were hideous when you were wearing them fifteen years ago.”
“They were very cool, I’ll have you know,” she said defensively. “Ellie Goulding had a pair just like them.”
“I rest my case,” said Sally, snatching them back from Imogen and consigning them to the pile. “Shopping trip, I think.”
“Nope,” said Imogen sulkily. “Mum’s coming to stay this afternoon. Anyway, shouldn’t you be working?”
“Excellent. I love your mum, plus I finished a big proposal last night,” said Sally, “so we’ve got time for lunch at Harvey
Nicks too.”
“We-ell,” said Imogen consideringly, “I do have to find something to wear for my launch party, although I was actually wondering
if I could borrow your little black dress again?”
“The one you wore to Nigel’s funeral?”
Imogen nodded.
“No, you may not. You looked like Little Orphan Annie in it then, for heaven’s sake, and I reckon you’ve lost another dress
size since. Anyway, what’s this launch party all about? Sounds like an excuse for both of us to have a new outfit...”
Luckily Imogen’s mother, June, was all for a trip to the shops and was delighted to have Sally’s company, despite Imogen protesting
that she must be tired, having just got back from a week in Bali with Gerald.
“Nonsense, dear. I’ve been doing nothing but sleeping, eating, and having sex all week. Fantastic for one’s pelvic floor.
Incidentally, darling, that’s what you should be doing if you don’t want to end up in nappies when you’re my age,” she added.
“I shall be thrilled to stretch my legs, and I’m keen to see what I can find for this little darling to wear.” She gave butterfly
kisses to Ruth, who chortled rewardingly.
They started, as promised, with a late lunch at a restaurant where huge white linen napkins and even bigger wineglasses were the norm. It was full of ladies who lunch grazing on smoked salmon and rocket. Sally and her mother urged Imogen to go for something more substantial.
“You’re feeding Ruth, remember,” said her mother. “I nearly disappeared when I was feeding you, until I discovered sticky
toffee pudding, that is.”
Imogen was pressured into ordering double-chocolate cheesecake for dessert. The thick, dry texture stuck in her throat, and
her knotted stomach rebelled against its richness.
After an age of shopping, they eventually decided on a luscious Missoni silk dress for Imogen to wear at the launch. Her mother
and Sally refused to let her see the price. It was striped in all the colors she could imagine, cupping her rather magnificent
breastfeeding bosom. Better still, the high waist lengthened her legs so that—when she wasn’t standing next to Sally, who
was genuinely tall—you could almost be fooled that she too was one of the leggy, insouciant young women who strolled the length
of Kensington High Street. The jeweled sandals they found for her to wear with it added to her height too. Imogen was terrified
about falling off them after years of wearing trainers, flip-flops, or nothing at all on her feet.
Imogen’s mother found some shockingly expensive but utterly gorgeous clothes for Ruth. Imogen at least succeeded in stopping her from buying the onesies, which, as she pointed out, at one hundred percent cashmere, would need dry-cleaning or at least hand washing, which was insane, especially as they wouldn’t even show under the adorable little pinafore dress and cardigan she had bought to go with them.
“Nonsense, darling,” she had said. “Nothing is too good for my granddaughter. And after all, she has inspired a whole new
canon of children’s literature. The least she deserves is a new frock.”
Settling her guests in the flat’s little courtyard garden where the flagstones were radiating the warmth of the day back into
the evening air, Imogen pottered around the kitchen, gathering nibbles to go with the wine they were drinking. Only then did
she notice the little notification tag on her phone. Just a handful of people had her number, so she was guessing it was either
Rowena or Genny. Instead, though, a male voice boomed out. It was Richard.
“The most extraordinary development on Storybook Cottage situation,” he began. “We’ve had an offer from the trustees to take
the house in lieu of the repair fees. What’s more, they are offering a tidy sum to you on top. Not a fortune, but enough for
a deposit on somewhere modest, perhaps? I gather they’ve even had wind of a private buyer for the house, once the repairs
clause is off the deeds.” He went on to mention a sum, which really was—as he said—“modest,” but it was an amount that would
help her and Ruth to make a home somewhere. Somewhere far away from Middlemass.
“What’s up?” said Sally immediately, as she joined them on the terrace.
Imogen shared the news.
“Well, darling, it does seem like a good way out of a sticky situation, doesn’t it?” said her mother.
Imogen nodded. She might hate it, but it was the only way out of a sticky situation. Far from feeling relief, though, she couldn’t remember a time she had ever felt bleaker.
“It would make sense, though, wouldn’t it, honey?” said Sally, her expression mirroring Imogen’s. “Obviously we would love
having you close by, but—our own selfish reasons apart—wouldn’t you want to be in London now that the whole book thing is
going on?”
“I suppose,” she said, feeling hollow. Could her dream life in Middlemass really be totally over? It had been such a short
time, but she had never felt more at home than in the little community. She thought sorrowfully of her friendships—Winifred,
Simon, Genny, and Gabriel, of course. But she couldn’t have him anyhow, so she might as well be anywhere else in the world.
“So, darling, tell us about this exciting launch party,” said her mother, tactfully changing the subject. “I couldn’t be more
proud of you. Brenda—you know, Brenda with the husband who went off with his secretary—has a niece who once got to the final
of some ghastly TV talent show. I’ll tell you, darling, I got sick of hearing about the child and her amazing singing voice.
I can’t wait to tell her how clever you’ve been.”
“I’d have thought my life was complete if I’d sung a song on the telly,” said Imogen dreamily. “Actually, I’d still think
it was pretty amazing—”
“So anyway,” pressed Sally, returning to the matter in hand, “what, when, where, how, and—most importantly— who does your launch party involve?”
“I think friends are allowed to come,” said Imogen tentatively. Rowena had just said to let her have a vague idea of numbers.
“I don’t think it’ll be so smart there will be Rottweilers at the door asking for details. They probably wouldn’t let me in, knowing my luck.”
“Seeing as the pressure is on, darling, why don’t I stay here for a few days? I can look after Ruth for you while you work,”
said her mother. “Plus, I wouldn’t miss this party next week for the world.”
“That would be great, Mum,” said Imogen, smiling weakly.
“Fab, so that’s you, me, your mum, and anyone else we can think of,” said Sally, grabbing a pen and paper to write a list.
“This is going to be the event of the century.”
Imogen was embarrassed to call Genny again. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she had had the occasional call from her
Devon friends, but it was like they couldn’t get rid of her fast enough and now she was chasing Genny for information like
some deranged stalker.
She called anyway.
“I don’t know much about it,” said Genny, sounding uninterested. “But—yes—there’s already a buyer lined up. I vaguely heard
it’s a couple. And they’ve got a baby. That’s right, yes, it’s a young family. Apparently, he’s a bit of a grump, but she’s
all right. That’s what Gabriel says, anyhow. He’s the one who’s been dealing with it. Anyhow, I’ve really got to dash. We’ve
got the Local Education Authority sending their funding gestapo over again today.”
“Okay, well, good luck and everything,” said Imogen. But Genny had already gone.
“Are you there, darling?” came the voice from a distance. “Cooee.” A hand was being waved across her face.
“Sorry, Mum,” said Imogen. She had been making a cup of tea for them both. Somehow the kettle had boiled dry and Imogen was
staring into space with a pint of milk in her hand. She went to pour it into cups that weren’t there.
She really had to pull herself together, but she had forgotten how to do it. Her mother made sure Ruth was fed, changed, and
put down for naps, watching Imogen with silent concern. Night after night, Imogen stared into the darkness, her eyes stretched
wide, and then dragged herself through the days that followed in an exhausted stupor.
The success she had dreamed of for years was in her sights, and she had her precious baby too.
She had never been so miserable in her life.
Putting on her new dress, Imogen noticed her skin stretched thin across her collarbone, the shadows it created matching the
hollows under her eyes. The dress hung even looser on her frame than it had just the week before when she bought it. Without
her still full bosom, thanks to feeding Ruth, it would have dropped straight to the floor.
Despite the heat of the June day, she was cold. The chill had settled over her days before and wouldn’t lift. Her hands had been dripping with icy sweat as she had opened her post the previous morning, upset that the paperwork for signing over Storybook Cottage had arrived so soon. She had riffled through the pages to the end, where Duncan had marked the places for her to sign. Scribbling her signature without looking, she stuffed the papers into the return envelope and walked straight down to the postbox at the end of the road, shoving them in before she changed her mind. What was the point in delaying?
Sally, who had come over to the flat to help her get ready, tutted impatiently when she saw her.
“You can’t afford to let that dress wear you. It’s got more life in it than you have at the moment.” She sighed. “Thank goodness
for makeup.”
Imogen didn’t generally bother with a lot more than mascara and a bit of much-needed blusher, but resistance was futile. Sally
refused Imogen a mirror while she carried out her work. Once satisfied, she led Imogen into the bathroom.
“There,” she said. “What do you think?”
Her eyes were huge and dark. The two streaks of blusher with highlighter above emphasized her newly hollowed cheeks with their
razor-sharp cheekbones and made her complexion look dramatically pale rather than just wan.
She might just pull off the neurotic author look, Imogen thought, even if she couldn’t look as glossy as all the pretty publishing
PR girls who would also be there.
Sally and her mother had declined to come with her for the beginning.
“You need to go early, it’s your party,” they both said. “We’ll follow on behind with Ruth when it’s started to swing a bit.”