Chapter 9 Alison
Alison
Imogen is standing at the entrance to the abbey, her arms wrapped around her body as though trying to make herself look smaller.
She used to do it as a little kid, and usually only when something was troubling her.
Alison wonders if she’s got a juicy case at work.
Journalism is perfect for Imogen. Even as a child she was always asking why this and why that.
It used to drive Alison mad. ‘Just because!’ she’d often snap back.
Thank goodness she’s more patient now she’s a mum.
Imogen looks fresh and young in her black jumpsuit and denim jacket.
She’s wearing a beautiful pink scarf, her long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, and Alison feels a maternal tug at her heart.
Why do they have such a distance between them?
Why can’t she throw her arms around her sister?
She steels herself. She’s been dreading this conversation.
She doesn’t know how Imogen is going to react, and the last thing she wants to do is upset her.
‘You just need to rip the plaster off,’ Gareth had said that morning. ‘You can’t keep it from her. It’s not fair. She has a right to know.’
Gareth, her lovely, even-tempered and kind husband.
Primary-school teacher and voice of reason.
With his large, welcoming family and bantering siblings, it’s hard for him to understand the fractured dynamics of the Cookes.
When Alison first met him she didn’t tell him for months about her dad, worried he’d see her differently, think she was weird or damaged or dark.
How could this man, from a family of cockapoos, ever relate to her family of wolves?
Alison pulls at her blunt bob, momentarily regretting cutting off her long hair when she sees how lovely Imogen looks.
She strides across the square towards the abbey, weaving in and out of people who are standing around listening to a busker – a woman in her twenties – singing ‘Hallelujah’ sweetly into a microphone.
Imogen looks up when she arrives and adjusts her expression from one of mild anxiety into a welcoming smile. ‘Ali, hi,’ she says. ‘Thanks for coming to meet me.’
‘I asked you to meet me,’ replies Alison curtly, and then inwardly berates herself for sounding so abrupt.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry.’
‘You don’t need to say sorry.’
‘No. Sorry.’ Imogen laughs and it breaks the ice.
Are they always this awkward around each other?
They fall into step as they head towards the restaurant Imogen has booked.
Imogen asks about Lila and the school play, but every now and again, when Imogen thinks she’s not being watched, her expression floods with anxiety.
‘Okay, what’s up?’ Alison says eventually once they’ve been shown to their table by the window and sat down, menus in hand. She moves a small vessel of fake carnations to the side so that she can see her sister clearly.
‘I have something to tell you, something totally mad,’ Imogen blurts out. ‘I’ve inherited a house.’
Alison is thrown. ‘What? Which house?’
‘Dorothea’s. The villa.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who the hell is Dorothea?’ And then it clicks. The boho arty woman their mum had worked for. ‘Do you mean the artist?’
‘That’s right.’ Imogen rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘That’s not why you’re here? You haven’t heard from the police?’
Alison shakes her head, confused. ‘No. But now that I am, you better tell me what’s going on.’
The waitress arrives to take their order.
Alison hasn’t even had a chance to glance at the menu, and it doesn’t look like Imogen has either, but her sister orders the avocado on sourdough and Alison follows suit.
Once the waitress has gone, Alison leans in to meet her sister’s gaze. ‘Come on, spill.’
Imogen sighs, something she often does when she is putting off telling the truth, but those sighs speak volumes.
‘Remember when Mum and I went to stay with Dorothea after Mum had left Dad that … that last time?’
Alison nods, biting her lip. She remembers how relieved she’d been that her mum and little sister had left at last and how excited that she could just concentrate on being a twenty-one-year-old girl, dancing and flirting and drinking, without the weight of her family on her shoulders, and how gut-wrenchingly disappointed she’d been when she found out that her mother had gone back to him.
‘Your dad’s changed, love. He’s given up drinking and he’s so sorry for everything,’ her mum had said during that last phone call.
Her words still so fresh in Alison’s mind that even now, all these years later, just thinking about them can bring tears to her eyes.
‘He’s going to get counselling for his anger. He’s promised. No more flare-ups.’
And he had appeared to have changed. He did go to counselling. He did stop drinking.
‘Well, she left me her house! It’s mad, Ali, totally mad! I still don’t fully understand why – although actually I might just be beginning to – but …’
‘Wait.’ Alison sits up straighter. ‘Let’s get this straight. A woman you haven’t seen for years left you her house? Her actual house? Her whole house?’
Alison can feel a white-hot flame of envy ignite in her belly as Imogen explains about wills and Regency villas in Bath worth millions and antique furniture and bluebell woods and burnt-out studios, and, as she speaks, an image comes back to Alison, one she thought she’d forgotten, of an attractive older woman in a sombre black dress, her face drawn as she spoke to her at their mother’s wake.
She remembers she had beautiful grey eyes that had seemed both watchful and full of sadness that day.
Dorothea Roe. She’d met the woman twice.
The first time had been the day they found out their mother was dead.
Dorothea had been waiting at their family home in Keynsham with Imogen when Alison had arrived from Cardiff.
But they’d barely spoken then. Dorothea had tried, but all Alison had wanted to do was be with her sister so had ushered the older woman out, assuring her that the two of them would be fine by themselves.
Alison doesn’t want to be jealous. She wants the best for Imogen, of course she does, especially after everything that has happened to their parents.
And there is some part of her that is pleased for her sister, but another part of her can’t stop thinking about the mounting bills and the extra hours she has to put in at the salon to make ends meet when she’d much rather be spending time with Lila.
Imogen falls silent as the waitress reappears with their food and Diet Cokes.
‘And I’m not allowed to sell it – at least for a year,’ Imogen continues when the waitress has gone.
‘I still don’t know why Dorothea put that stipulation in her will.
’ She looks up at Alison with a guilty expression on her face.
‘But I also get royalties too – from Dorothea’s artwork – which I can use to keep up the villa and also … to help … you.’
‘I don’t need help,’ Alison finds herself saying even though this isn’t true. But how can she accept anything from her little sister? She picks up her knife and fork. ‘So, you’re saying that this woman has left you everything? Why?’
Imogen launches into – what sounds like – a well-rehearsed speech about her job as an investigative journalist and how she believes Dorothea knew her life was in danger.
‘Christ, murdered!’ Alison can feel the knot of worry in her chest. Why do dark things seem to follow them around?
Isn’t it enough that their father is in prison for killing their mother, for crying out loud?
And now this. More drama. More crime and heartache and darkness.
All Alison wants to do in this moment is hotfoot it back to Cardiff to be with Gareth, kind, cuddly Gareth who always makes her feel better.
She wants to be curled up on Lila’s bed, amongst Lila’s teddies, in her lovely pink bedroom with the fairy wallpaper, listening to her daughter talking about her friends and the school play. Not this. Not murder and death.
Imogen nods gravely as she chases a cherry tomato around the plate with her fork. ‘The police have evidence that the fire was started on purpose, and they think that Dorothea was pushed down the stairs.’
‘And now you’re living in the house? Is that safe?’
‘I think so. I hope so …’ Imogen’s eyes cloud over, which makes Alison wonder what else she’s hiding.
‘What?’
‘It’s nothing. It’s safe, yes.’
‘Well,’ Alison says, swallowing a mouthful of sourdough, feeling like it might choke her.
‘I’m pleased for you. What does Josh think?
He must be over the moon.’ Alison has never taken to Josh, truth be told – although she’s never said as much to Imogen.
She prides herself on getting the measure of people, yet Josh is a hard one to read.
It doesn’t help that he keeps her and Gareth at arm’s length, never making an effort to get to know them even though he’s been with Imogen since they were eighteen.
Alison had voiced her concerns to her sister when she said she was following Josh to Nottingham University.
Imogen hadn’t listened, of course, and it had all worked out fine, but she wonders if Josh harbours some resentment towards Alison because he knows she didn’t approve.
Imogen insists on spending every Christmas with Josh and Jackie (‘because she’s on her own’) and Alison gets it, she does.
Jackie is a surrogate mother, just like Gareth’s family are to her.
Apparently – according to her sister – Josh doesn’t like large groups and, she suspects, he doesn’t much like kids.
Every time Alison asks her sister about marriage and babies she is dismissive, trotting out the same story about how Josh doesn’t believe in marriage after his dad abandoned him, but maybe kids one day.
Alison can’t help but feel it’s all an excuse. Which is fine, if Imogen is happy.
‘He is over the moon. We moved in yesterday. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to. I haven’t told him everything, about Dorothea.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve said about the arson. Not about her being pushed. He worries.’
An uneasy feeling washes over Alison. Why is Imogen keeping things from Josh? She tells Gareth everything.
‘What about your job? Won’t it be a bit of a commute to Bristol every day?’
Imogen shifts. ‘It’s about an hour at that time of day. Anyway, it won’t matter because I’m … er … taking a break.’ Imogen flushes and takes a sip of her drink.
‘But you love being a journalist!’
‘It’s … just for a bit.’ She puts the glass down but she’s avoiding eye contact. ‘I might go freelance. I haven’t decided yet.’
Another jab of envy hits Alison under the ribs. She’d love to take time out from working.
Imogen finally meets Alison’s eyes. ‘Hey, why don’t you come back with me and you can see the villa?’ And then her face falls. ‘Only if you want to. I don’t want it to look like I’m …’
‘Rubbing my face in it?’ Alison laughs to take the sting out of her words. ‘I’m pleased for you. Honestly.’ And she really is trying to be. ‘It’s about time something good happened to our family. Some light in all that darkness.’
‘Thanks, Ali. I would really love to help you out, though. I don’t need all the money.’
Alison shakes her head. ‘No way. Gareth would never hear of it. It would wound his stupid male pride. You know what men are like. Josh must be the same?’
‘Nope. Not Josh. He’s only too happy to embrace my new-found wealth. Lila, then. Can I do something for her? Give her some money? Put it in savings?’
Alison hesitates. ‘Look. Let things settle first. You don’t know how much money the upkeep of a Regency villa is going to take. If you still want to do something for Lila in the future, then that would be lovely, thank you.’
Imogen’s expression floods with relief and Alison knows this will go some way to appeasing her sister’s guilt. Although Alison has got enough guilt of her own to contend with.
‘Now there’s something I need to tell you,’ Alison says.