Page 9 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
It took her twenty-five minutes to construct two text messages, telling first her mum and then Edmund that she was OK, she was sorry, and that she would call them in the next couple of days. It made her feel sick, her hands sweaty as she typed, and then – because she knew signs of life would result in immediate calls – she switched her phone off.
‘I’m proud of you.’ Birdie put a plate in front of her on the kitchen table: golden-yellow scrambled eggs on toast, wilted spinach and baby tomatoes. A large mug sat on a coaster, the liquid inside smelling faintly of liquorice, and with some sort of dusting on the top.
‘Special tea?’ Imogen asked.
‘It’s fennel and camomile, plus a couple of other ingredients. It’s guaranteed to soothe you.’
‘OK.’ Imogen picked up the mug and inhaled the scent; it was still too hot to drink but, after all these years, she trusted her gran’s remedies. ‘Nikki said that she’s proud ofme too, but I don’t think making a huge mistake and then taking a first, tiny step to try and repair the damage I’ve caused is something to be proud of.’
‘Are you saying running away was a mistake?’
Imogen closed her eyes at the first, perfect bite of her gran’s scrambled eggs. ‘No,’ she said, when she’d finished her mouthful. She felt the truth of it in her bones. ‘But the way I did it, waiting until today, not talking to Edmund first … That was all a mistake.’
‘You’ve given everyone who was there a story they can tell for the rest of their lives.’ Birdie sat opposite her, clasping her own cup of tea. ‘A few core people won’t appreciate it right now, but it’s certainly a conversation starter.’
‘Edmund will be OK,’ Imogen said, because he was the one she’d hurt. But then she thought of what had happened the day before the wedding, and wondered if it was his heart that she’d speared, or just his ego. She finished her food, then got up on weary legs to do the washing-up.
‘We’ll catch up properly tomorrow,’ Birdie said. ‘But you’re dead on your feet, so off you pop. Leave your phone off, and I’ll wake you in the morning.’
‘At a reasonable time?’ Imogen said with a smile.
‘Of course.’ Birdie’s knowing glint made Imogen think that their idea of ‘reasonable’ wasn’t the same thing. But she didn’t have the energy to argue, so she kissed her gran and made her way upstairs, brushing her teeth before crawling under the duvet in the attic room. She closed her eyes, the beginning of the day replaying in her head before exhaustion caught up with her.
Imogen blinked as she stepped outside Birdie’s cottage and wrapped the oversized coat around her. It was a puffa jacket, fleece-lined, the bold green colour of spring shoots. Birdie had told her she hadn’t worn it in years, and Imogen could believe that – it was so bright it was almost neon – but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she only had on a thin pair of jeans and a light jumper, the warmest clothes she’d packed for her honeymoon, so she needed extra layers.
She inhaled cold, sea-fresh air, and no traffic fumes. Mistingham felt full of possibility, despite the grey sky and lack of sunshine. The houses in Birdie’s road had well-tended front gardens, and there were elegant sculptures of sea birds and sailing boats in some of the windows. She turned towards the centre of the village, intent on exploring the shops after spending the whole of Saturday inside, in her pyjamas, distractedly reading a thriller from Birdie’s collection of paperbacks.
‘You going to turn your phone on today?’ Birdie had asked her that morning, and Imogen had said, ‘Later, after I’ve been round the village.’ Which meant she actually had to do it. She wanted to delay seeing how Edmund and her mum had responded to her messages for a little while longer, so she was going to have a proper explore.
She passed a couple walking a boisterous Labrador; a young family, their two small children rugged up in woolly hats and gloves, getting in the wintry spirit even though it was only just November; several people heading towards the sea. She didn’t know if the looks she was getting were because of her bright green coat, or because Mistingham was small and everyone knew everyone else’s business.
She followed a group of older women heading towards Hartley Country Apparel,but before she reached it she saw the Stationery Emporium. The title conjured up an elegant world of pen and notebook possibilities, and the interior looked enticing. There were two women inside, one on either side of the counter, having an animated discussion, and Imogen was happily surprised that it was open on a Sunday.
The woman serving was tall and athletic-looking with reddish-brown hair, while the customer was slighter, her hair a glossy mid-brown – a couple of shades lighter than Imogen’s own – and she was wearing a burgundy coat and a long, floaty skirt.
Imogen pulled open the door, and it gave a quaint little tinkle. She looked up and saw that there was a bell above it.
‘Do you like it?’ the woman behind the counter asked. ‘I wanted an old-fashioned vibe to go with the name.’
‘It’s lovely.’ Imogen took in the rest of the shop. The counter and the door behind it were painted candy shades of blue, green and yellow, but the shelves were white, showing off the notebooks and pens, ceramic pen pots and colourful bottles of ink. ‘Wow.’
‘Is there anything particular I can help you with, or are you just browsing?’ the redhead went on. ‘If there’s anything specific you’re after, then I can either order it or make it for you.’
‘Makeit?’ Imogen asked. ‘Which bits did you make?’
‘The notebooks – that’s where I started out. The shop has only been open since the summer, but it’s doing well so far. Nearly all of the notebooks are handmade, whichmeans I can make anything you want – the notebook of your dreams – depending on how long you’re here.’
‘I don’t … I’m not sure yet,’ Imogen admitted.
‘Don’t forget the wedding notebooks, Sophie,’ the customer prompted quietly. She had a kind, pretty face and intelligent brown eyes, but what she said made Imogen freeze.
‘Weddingnotebooks?’ Her voice came out as a scratch.
The redhead – Sophie – frowned. ‘I’ve agreed to make notebooks as wedding favours for all my wedding guests. One of those things that seems like a good idea at the time, then turns out to be a lot more work than you imagined. But it wouldn’t stop me from making you a notebook, if you know what you want?’
‘That’s … thank you. That’s kind.’ Imogen laughed nervously, trying to settle her heart rate after the mention of weddings.
‘Are you all right?’ the brown-haired woman asked.
