Page 27 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘It would be great to have you there, and you’remorethan welcome. Birdie’s got a plus one, and Felix is Page Goat so he can’t take that spot.’
‘Oh my God.’ Imogen pressed her hands to her face. ‘Your goat is going to wear a little wedding outfit?’
Sophie nodded, her smile wry.
‘It’s why Sophie isn’t too worried about things goingwrong on the day,’ May said, ‘because Felix is obviously going to cause a shitload of havoc, and will upstage anything else that happens. It’s a genius plan.’
‘I was sold before you mentioned Felix, and I absolutely cannot miss that,’ Imogen said. ‘But I also have a lot of free time, and you’re snowed under, so please let me help. Whatever you need.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘More sure than a sure thing.’
‘That’s really lovely of you, thank you. I will take you up on that offer. Swap numbers?’ Sophie sounded genuinely pleased, and Imogen was thrilled – and relieved. She loved stationery, shedidhave a lot of free time, and often, when you were tormenting yourself over a decision, the best thing to do was keep busy and not think about it, and the answer would work itself out in your subconscious and come to you like a gift, all done up with a sparkly bow.
After they’d swapped numbers and said goodbye, Imogen walked back towards the village, the dark clouds crowding the shoreline, the wind strong enough to send sea spray prickling against her skin.
Being invited to Sophie and Harry’s wedding, offering her help and being taken up on it, felt like real acceptance, and it was a long time since she’d felt that particular warm glow, even while planning her own wedding. She strolled back to Birdie’s, eating her cinnamon bun, not caring about the pastry and sugar dusting her cheeks.
Chapter Eleven
On Thursday evening, a little before six, Imogen walked the five minutes from Birdie’s house to the village hall, marvelling at how close together everything was in Mistingham, and that most of it was within sight of the sea. Now nearly three weeks into November, it was fully dark, the grass damp and spongy underfoot. But the hall windows glowed and there was a large, shimmering sprig of mistletoe adorning the front door. She pushed it open, stepping into a wall of light and chatter, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the dark night.
‘Imogen!’ Jazz was wearing a rainbow-striped jumper, and jeans that had far too many rips to be sensible at this time of year. ‘I’m so glad you could come. Here’s our motley crew.’ She gestured, and some of the children who were sitting on giant cushions in a circle waved at her.
‘Hello!’ Imogen put on a perky voice without thinking about it, and two identical-looking girls giggled.
‘Everyone, this is Imogen,’ Jazz said, and Imogen sawthere were as many adults there as children. Some she assumed were parents, as they were sitting on chairs directly behind the children, and some looked to be in their seventies and eighties. ‘She’s one of the newest residents of the village.’
‘Hi everyone.’ Imogen greeted them a second time and immediately felt foolish.
‘You’re responsible for the mistletoe,’ an older man said. He was wearing a thick red scarf, despite the hall being hot almost to the point of stifling. ‘Painting it unnatural colours.’
‘Christmassycolours,’ Jazz said.
‘And it’s water-based spray-paint,’ Imogen added.
‘It looks ghastly!’ This came from the woman sitting next to the old man. Her greying hair was permed into tight curls, her blue floral dress reaching to her ankles. ‘You wouldn’t go around spray-painting Christmas trees, would you?’
‘We decorate them, though,’ said a woman with long blonde hair, sitting behind a boy whose colouring matched hers exactly. ‘We cut them down, then decorate them.’
‘And you get white trees,’ added another mum, with dark eyes and shiny black hair, her little girl playing with a cuddly tomato. ‘All those fake ones with LED lights. I think they look lovely.’
‘Fake trees,’ said the older woman. ‘Just awful!’
‘Frank and Valerie,’ Jazz said firmly, ‘please be nice to Imogen. She’s new, she’s already helped the village out—’
‘Helped out Harry, you mean,’ Valerie muttered.
‘And she wanted to come tonight because I told her this was a great group, and it was a lot of fun. You’re starting to prove me wrong.’
The old man – Frank – looked chastened. ‘Sorry, Jazzy.
We do want to be here, don’t we Val?’
Valerie folded her arms. ‘What’s the point if we can’t voice our opinions?’
‘This isn’t a village forum,’ Jazz said.
