Page 52 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Oh! Sorry.’ She handed him his copy, leaning over the chest to reach him, the tips of their fingers brushing.
‘Right.’ He scanned the page. ‘Does it matter that it’s not from a play? There’s some direction between the dialogue.’
‘That’s OK.’ Imogen recovered a modicum of composure. ‘I’ve cut out quite a bit of it, so it’s mostly dialogue, and with the direction I’ve left in, I’m going to do that in a different voice.’
‘You are?’ Dexter said with a laugh.
‘I am.’ His laughter was so easy, his commitment to this so complete, that she couldn’t help grinning. ‘I’m good at voices.’
‘All right then. Off you go.’
Imogen took a breath, then said her first line. ‘“Mr Tilney!”she exclaimed in a voice of more than common astonishment. He looked astonished too. “Good God!”’
They read stiltingly through the scene, because it was new and a bit awkward, and Imogen kept forgetting to change her voice, so she would read some of the direction in her higher, slightly breathless Catherine Morland voice, and some of Catherine’s dialogue in her lower, narrator voice.
‘“No, and I am very much”– fuck it, wrong voice again.’ She scooted around the chest to get closer to Dexter/Henry and banged her shin. ‘Ouch!’
‘Are you all right?’ Dexter’s fingers closed around her shoulder. She was wearing one of her new jumpers, red with silver snowflakes, but she’d gone for style over substance and it wasn’t that thick. Now one side of her was blazing from the fire, the other was chilly, she couldnotget the scene right and Dexter’s touch was adding to her distractions.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘except that what we’re rehearsing right now is in comedy territory, and althoughNorthanger Abbey isreally funny and tongue in cheek, I don’t think Jane Austen meant it to be slapstick.’
‘Probably not.’ Dexter ran a hand through his hair. ‘But I’m sure we can get the hang of it. It’s not like it’s the West End or anything.’
‘But Frank and Valerie are performing, too—’
‘A music hall number, Jazz said.’
‘Then we’re going to get critiqued likeThe Timestheatre reviews,’ Imogen finished. ‘Valerie told me that my Ghost of Christmas Present was too wishy-washy, that there was no way a ghost would be soft and coaxing when they’d come to give Scrooge a proper seeing-to.’
‘Aseeing-to?’ Dexter coughed.
‘I didn’t think it was worth my sanity to explain why that expression wasn’t appropriate,orthat I was basically basing my ghosts on the Muppets film. I took her criticism on board and amended my approach, but what I’m saying is that we might not be treading any London boards, but I’ve only been here a few weeks and I can already tell that this is going to matter. To a whole lot of people, and …’
Dexter was suddenly closer, having navigated the chest without hitting his shins. When she stopped rambling, all she could focus on was the way he was looking at her; down, because he was taller than her, and frowning, because obviously she was perplexing him. ‘It matters to you, doesn’t it?’ His voice was quiet but firm.
‘Getting the scene right?’
‘Yes.’
‘It does. Everyone here is so nice, they’ve been soaccepting. You made a promise, on a piece of mistletoe, to look after me, and you don’t know me. Not really.’ She realized she had come to care about the people in Mistingham, the ones she’d spent time with, and – besides Birdie – him most of all. In the quiet that followed, the flames crackled in the hearth and branches tap-tapped against the window.
‘I think,’ Dexter said gently, ‘that anyone who met you would realize that you wouldn’t intentionally be callous, or cruel.’ He was even closer, their chests not that far apart, the cheerful bakery logo somehow encouraging her. He reached a hand up slowly, took hold of her chin, his touch both gentle and insistent. ‘I was happy to make that promise, Imogen. To offer to protect you. It felt a bit MarvelSuperhero,’ he gave her a ghost of a smile, ‘but I was flattered that you accepted it.’
‘It felt … because of the mistletoe, it …’
‘It gave it extra meaning,’ he finished. ‘You think the mistletoe has magical powers?’
‘Probably.’ She shrugged, but that shrug ended up with her on tiptoe, leaning ever so slightly forward, so their chests were closer and their noses were almost touching. ‘It probablymakespeople want to get closer, want to kiss each other. It scrambles their brains.’
‘My brain isn’t scrambled.’ Dexter let go of her chin, but then tightened his hand around her waist. There was something so sure about his touch. Even when he was being gentle, he was never tentative, and she wondered how that would translate into a kiss; what it would feel like. ‘Or if it has, it’s been scrambled since the moment you arrived in Mistingham.’
‘It has?’ She tipped closer, felt his breath against her lips, and looked up, into his brown eyes.
‘Completely. Is this OK, Imogen?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, because she would actually go mad if she couldn’t kiss him. She closed her eyes, felt the softest, butterfly-wing touch of his lips against hers, and then—BANG!
Her eyes shot open as Dexter gripped her waist.
