Page 71 of Deep Blue Lies
“Alright.”
“And then,” I carry on, quicker now, “when she left, Mum would always warn me about her, saying I had to make sure I didn’t mess my life up like Imogen did, that I had to be strong, not weak.” I pause now, but Sophia’s face is screwed up.
“I don’t understand.”
I puff out my cheeks. “OK, so I think basically Imogen’s on a lot of drugs, and has been for a long time. Like, depression drugs – Prozac, Valium? That sort of thing. I think that’s what Mum meant. There’s this state they taught us about in medical school, it’s called benzo-haze – people who are properly addicted to these types of drugs, and they’re slow, they’re kind of out of it the wholetime. That’s what Imogen’s like. She’s not quite there, because of all the medications she’d been on for so long.”
“OK. Why’s she so depressed?”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that. Depression doesn’t need a reason. Some people just are depressed.”
Sophia cocks her head on one side, thinking this over. “And Imogen’s one of those people?”
“I guess so. I amonlyguessing,” I clarify. Then add, “I’ve maybe seen her a dozen times in my whole life, and talked to her maybe half of that. But those times, they’re hard to forget, and Mum talks about her a lot, warning me not to end up like her.”
Sophia studies me, and I don’t know what she’s thinking.
“So can you talk to her now? Or is she too far gone?”
I consider this before answering.
“I think so. She’s…functioning, in that sense.It’s more that it’s awkward, since she’s Mum’s friend, and I don’t really know her at all.”
This time Sophia considers for a moment. But she doesn’t seem to consider “awkward” much of a problem.
“So what will you ask her?”
I draw in a deep breath now. In a way it’s the hardest question of all.
“I guess I could ask if she remembers Karen being pregnant. Like at any time after they left the ADR. And if not, if she knows anything about how I turned up, and when. I just need to know something?” I make it a question, and Sophia thinks for a while then nods.
“Yeah. It has to be worth a shot. Do you have a number for her?”
“No.” I look at the roses again. “But I know she works in a florist. In London – Clapham High Street.”
SIXTY-THREE
It takes Sophia less than five minutes to find her. There are three florists on the high street in Clapham, and when I saw them I even remembered the name of hers, because she must have told me once. But anyway, it has a website, and it helpfully lists “our people” with a photo and a picture of all the staff. Here’s what it says about Imogen:
Imogen Grant – Senior Florist
Imogen has been with us for over 15 years and brings a wealth of experience in floral design. She has a particular passion for wildflowers and delicate, seasonal arrangements. Whether you’re looking for a wedding bouquet or just something to brighten your day, she’s always happy to help!
In the picture she looks like the smile is an effort, you can see the camera-shyness in her eyes.
“I think I see the benzo-haze,” Sophia says, as she clicks around the site. She stops at the Contact Us page, which also has the opening hours.
“What’s the time difference between Greece and England?”
It takes me a few moments to remember. “Two hours, I think. Why?”
“It says it closes at seven. It’s only just past nine now here, so she might still be there. If she’s working today. You could call and find out?”
Both of our eyes go towards my phone, resting on the cushion beside us. I see Imogen in my mind, as if she were already coming to answer my call. She has a way of moving that’s more drifting than walking, her legs hidden under long flowing dresses. I let the picture in my mind run on, seeing her reaction when I tell her it’s me.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
