Page 37 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘It’s … great,’ she said, which completely failed to convey everything she thought about Dexter and her Felix-wrangling, Sophie and the wedding, the cosy, quiet village adorned with mistletoe, the silvery sea, or how the thoughtof all those things had kept her going through the razorslice of her conversation with Edmund.
‘That was a wistful little “great”,’ Nikki said, and Imogen realized she’d underestimated her friend. ‘Are you going to tell me where you are? I promise I will take your secret to my grave.’
‘I don’t want to put you in a difficult position.’
‘You wouldn’t be. Edmund doesn’t have time for me, and nor does your mum.’ Nikki rolled over so she was on her stomach, her framedMoulin Rougeposter visible above her. ‘Tell me where you are, and then tell me all about it. Stop me repeating the same three lines of dialogue over and over. I’m sending myself mad.’
‘OK.’ Imogen needed someone outside Mistingham to talk to, so she told her friend everything, starting with Lucy and Artichoke rescuing her with Dexter’s help, and ending with Felix’s escape. She explained about Birdie’s green coat, how she’d adopted it, but left out the promise she and Dexter had made, and her call with Edmund. She still felt raw – bruised – from it. It was over between them, but she wasn’t convinced he’d accepted it, and she wanted to talk about positive things with Nikki. Her friend must have picked up on that, because she said, ‘Tell me more about Dexter.’
Imogen froze. ‘Why Dexter particularly?’
Nikki rolled her eyes. ‘Because he rescued you, and because every time you say his name it’s like you’re puffing your chest up, like your heart swells when you think of him and you need more room in there.’
‘I still, technically, have a fiancé,’ Imogen said, even though she didn’t. She’d only just spoken to him, and shewasn’t ready to face what that decision inevitably led to. She and Edmund were over, so she could end her countryside crisis, go home and start the process of moving out of their flat – it was his before it was theirs – and rebuilding her life. She couldn’t face that yet.
‘Do youreallythough?’ Nikki gave her a sceptical look. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘At least until after Sophie and Harry’s wedding, and then I don’t think there’s any point in coming back until after Christmas.’
‘You want to have a Christmas like inThe Holiday, don’t you? The cottages and the snow and the wintry romance of it all.’
‘The weather’s meant to be awful.’
Nikki tutted. ‘If I hear one more thing about how magical a white Christmas will be after all these years, I will scream. Don’t people realize how fucked the roads will get? If it’s as bad as they’re saying, nobody will be where they want to be for the big day.’
‘They can just hunker down sooner. And I’ll get to see what the beach looks like covered in snow. Snowy beaches are strange, don’t you think? They’re never how you imagine them.’
‘You’ve imploded your life – for the better, let me add, so you’re completely clear on how I feel about it – and you’re worrying aboutsnowy beaches?’
Imogen laughed, feeling lighter now she was talking to her friend. ‘Maybe Mistingham really is having that big an effect on me.’ She made it sound flippant, because she didn’t want Nikki to realize how true a statement that was.
‘Sophie says you’re doing a speech at their wedding,’ Lucy announced on Sunday morning, the moment she and Imogen were settled at Birdie’s kitchen table, piles of mistletoe surrounding them. There was still a lot left after their village drop-offs, and Birdie had instructed Harry and Sophie to store it in a cold, dark place to preserve it for the wedding. That had ended up being Birdie’s shed.
Half an hour ago, Imogen had been standing next to a pile of green leaves and white berries, determinedly not looking at the ceiling to see how many spiders’ webs there were, wondering how they were going to move it all to the kitchen. She was also wondering if Birdie had meant it when she said they could work there, amongst her precious herbs and spices, covering the place with Christmas foliage.
But Lucy was full of energy, grabbing fistfuls and running along the cobbled pathways in the garden, through the herb and vegetable beds, depositing it in the kitchen then racing back. She had turned it into a game, as if she was taking Artichoke’s place while the puppy was banished, her eyes bright from exercise and fresh air.
Now the shed was empty and the kitchen was full, and they were tying sprigs together with frosty blue ribbon, the mistletoe itself free of spray-paint, ready to adorn the manor for the wedding on Saturday. The evening before she’d spent hours helping Sophie make notebooks – her wedding design was A5, with pastel-coloured, textured card covers and a ribbon binding, the most elegant of wedding favours – and now she was back to mistletoe. Imogen had never done so much crafting in her life.
‘How do you know I’m doing a speech?’ she asked Lucy.
She had been under the impression that Sophie wanted it to be a surprise for Harry.
‘I heard Dad talking to Sophie,’ Lucy said, as she gathered bunches of foliage in her small hand, ribbon in the other. ‘Here. You hold, I’ll tie.’ Imogen wrapped the ribbon gently around the stems, Lucy keeping her fingers in place until the last minute, when the ribbon cinched tight. ‘Iamdoing a reading.’ She put the bundle on the ‘done’ pile, which was much smaller than the ‘to-do’ pile. ‘It’s Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, which is a classic, but it’s a classic because it’s beautiful. It’s all about love, and how real it is.’
Lucy picked up another bunch, her gaze fixed on her fingers. Imogen refilled Lucy’s glass from the jug of homemade lemonade Birdie kept in the fridge. Still, the girl stayed quiet, and Imogen thought how, now they’d done the giddy, racing part of their task, she was less sure of herself without Artichoke, as if the puppy let her be her wildest, truest self; as if she could match the dog’s chaotic, charming spirit.
‘Are you looking forward to Sophie and Harry’s wedding?’ Imogen asked tentatively.
‘Dad says there’s going to be dancing and tiny sausages on sticks, and all the dogs are going to be part of the wedding party, whatever that means, and I’m going to have a nice dress and some flowers in my hair.’
‘All those things are really great, especially the cocktail sausages and your dress. And you like Sophie and Harry, don’t you?’ She could sense there was something Lucy wasn’t saying, and it wasn’t her place to probe, not really, but she didn’t want to ignore it if Lucy wanted to talk.
‘They’re the best.’ Lucy looked up. ‘Harry pretends to begrumpy, but he’s not really, and Sophie is who I want to be when I grow up.’
‘Me too,’ Imogen said quietly, because Sophie was kind and had her shit together.
A laugh burbled out of Lucy. ‘Youaregrown up. You’reold.’
