by Anna Cheska
‘Point me in the right direction,’ he said. ‘And we’ll go.’
‘We’re going to walk?’
And yet after a few minutes Imogen found the fresh air not so much cold as … well, bracing. The streets in town were hung with Christmas lights and most of the bars and restaurants were still open.
‘And now,’ he told her, ‘you can fill me in. I want to know all there is to know about this husband of yours.’
* * *
Jude was filling the kettle when she felt it – the sense of a man getting closer. She had very well-developed antennae as far as such things were concerned. And a need for her own space. She froze. But as she felt his breath on her neck she swung round. That was too close. ‘Roger?’ She sounded as if she were sending a message by radio waves. ‘Roger?’
He raised a hand in what she supposed to be apology. ‘Out of order?’
She nodded. Did he have to ask? ‘I thought it was friendship we were moving towards.’ Only, she of all people should have known better. And she didn’t much like the look in those pale eyes of his.
‘Right. Yeah, of course. Friendship.’ He sounded as if the word was new to him. ‘So you’re not into sex then?’
‘Sex?’ Jude decided not to risk turning her back on him at this point. The coffee could wait. ‘Not until I know someone really well,’ she lied, adopting her primmest expression. Or unless she fancied them like crazy, of course.
He smirked. ‘And you’re saying you don’t know me well enough yet?’
Yet? Jude took a deep breath. ‘What kind of woman are you looking for, Roger?’
‘Someone soft and fluffy.’ He reached out towards her.
Jude stepped smartly away, taking refuge behind one of her high kitchen stools. ‘Well, that’s it then.’ She tugged at the black skirt, but there was no way it was ever going to reach her knees. ‘The only time I get remotely soft and fluffy is when I see a traffic warden standing next to my car.’
‘I bet.’ He took another step towards her. The stool was between them and the cooker was behind her. Any second now she’d be trapped against it, not a pleasant fate for any woman. ‘It’s true,’ she insisted, trying to sound more forceful than she felt.
‘I reckon you’re soft as anything under that … under that…’ He trailed off, apparently unsure of what was on her outside. ‘And I can think of lots of ways you could get to know me better.’
‘I’m quite sure you can.’ Seeing Roger move the stool aside, Jude took a neat side-step to her right, thus leaving him face to face with an oven hob stained with whichever pasta sauce Hazel had been practising making tonight. Whatever it was, it had included a lot of tomato. ‘But sex isn’t on offer here. Nothing heavy, you said. Otherwise I would never have invited you back.’
He spread his hands little boy pleading style. ‘But what if I can’t resist you, Jude?’
‘Try harder,’ she snapped. If he pushed her any further she’d make it bloody easy for him to resist.
‘Hey – why don’t you loosen up a little?’ He was on to her again and Jude was getting seriously annoyed. So was he – at her lack of co-operation presumably. The thick neck above the chunky cable-knit sweater was flushed and his mouth was tight. ‘What is it with you? You got a problem or something?’
‘Only you.’
At this he grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to kiss her.
‘Get off!’ Jude turned her head and got her cheek slobbered on. Pathetic. She lifted her arm to wipe it away. ‘I think it’s time for you to go.’
‘You prefer dykes, do you?’ He tried for a lunge and lift of the black pencil skirt, but was no match for the super-cling lurex or the medium-control front panels of her new knickers which were determined to give nothing away.
‘Nothing doing,’ Jude growled, and kicked him in the shin.
‘What did y’do that for?’ he moaned, clutching his leg.
Whatever had happened to male enlightenment? she wondered. ‘You’d better make yourself scarce,’ she advised. ‘Before I call for the lodger and get you thrown out.’
This ploy to get rid of Roger without further ado might have worked had Hazel not wandered into the kitchen at that very moment, wearing only a face mask and a white towel. As a threatening lodger, she didn’t quite look the part, Jude realised, though she did, undeniably, look odd.
‘What on earth is going on?’
‘Jesus wept!’ Roger stared at Hazel, and her mother had precisely the effect that Jude had been hoping for.
Roger ran.
* * *
Alex Armstrong didn’t know what to make of Imogen West. He had never known a woman’s moods change so rapidly, and when she’d turned up at Marisa’s earlier … Well, he’d thought his eyes must be popping out of his head. Not just because she was the ultimate in unexpected visitors, but because she’d clearly been drinking (before this he’d had her down as perfectly in control at all times whether running a flower shop or visiting Santa Claus in a department store). She looked different too – beautiful, sophisticated but distant; he’d never felt such an urge to paint a woman. And as for her agenda … He had soon known that he had to find out more.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,’ she’d said, veering to the left to walk down a driveway half-blocked by a small Vauxhall Nova and apparently belonging to a cottage set back from the road. ‘I don’t even understand half of it myself.’
The exterior security light flicked on to reveal a mixture of old and new – flint walls, a heavy oak door but double glazed and immaculately painted – all in the best possible taste. It made him feel strangely uncomfortable. This Edward must have been pretty well-heeled.
‘Because I asked?’ He took the key that Imogen was waving ineffectually in front of the solid front door. ‘Here, let me. Is there an alarm or anything?’
‘Thank you, Marisa’s boyfriend,’ she said.
Alex winced as he inserted the key. ‘Alex, please. You see, she’s not really my…’ No, he had no right to say that. Not yet. ‘Alarm?’
‘Yes, but I always forget to switch it on. Edward used to get so cross…’
He pushed the door gently and stood back.
‘I would invite you in.’ Imogen had taken a step inside and was hanging on to the door as if she might fall. ‘But I’m in no fit state for visitors. And…’
‘And?’ He wanted to kiss her. What the hell was happening to him? He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.
‘And I need to go to bed.’ She wrinkled her nose and he wanted to kiss her even more.
‘Will you be all right?’ Yes, he wanted to kiss her, but he wouldn’t take advantage of this woman. Quite the opposite. Alex was surprising himself. He actually wanted to take care of her.
‘Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.’ She closed her eyes, seemed to drift away from him and then snapped them open again.
He couldn’t see in this light but he knew they were grey. Warm ash. But they were sad too, and she was almost too thin – her ankles and wrists so slender. He could probably encircle her ankle with one hand …
‘You’re sure?’ Why the hell had Marisa’s father ever bothered with Naomi Gibb when he had this woman waiting at home? Alex asked himself. They might not have been blissfully happy – she had asked Alex if he’d ever been in love and looked sort of wistful when he said, no, he wasn’t sure he knew what love was. But she hadn’t walked out on this Edward chap; she had stayed. Was that why tonight’s revelation seemed to have hurt her so much?
‘I’m sure.’ She seemed very serious. She wasn’t smiling, but neither was she shutting the door in his face.
‘Take care of yourself then.’ But he couldn’t leave without touching her. Gently, Alex ran his fingers down one cheek. Her skin was soft and cool from the night air. His fingertips touched the corners of her mouth.
She stared at him.
They stayed motionless, his fingers on her face, her eyes still and unblinking. For what seemed like minu
tes …
Until she broke abruptly away from him and at last slammed shut the heavy oak door.
Chapter 14
Christmas Eve – hardly a day for coping with revelations about one’s late husband. It was at times like these, Imogen thought, as she hastily brushed crumbs from her kitchen table, straightened chairs, and chucked the remainder of a granary loaf in the terracotta bread bucket, that a girl needed her mother.
In the hallway, she grabbed her black woollen coat from the banister. This time of year should be renamed the festering season. Imogen sighed. Some people had started in October, for goodness’ sake. A greedy article was Christmas – everyone consumed more than was good for them while IT consumed the rest of the year; August to January wrapped in tinsel, bows and silver paper.
She switched on the answerphone. No matter that at thirty-five a girl was a girl no longer. Where was that mother when her daughter was trying to cope with infidelity and a hangover from hell? Doing head stands in Delhi or heading for darkest Darjeeling on a narrow-gauge track into the Himalayas? Imogen picked up her bag and opened the front door of the cottage. She’d prefer to go back to bed. But it was no use feeling sorry for herself, she had a shop to open.
What with the head and everything, she needed all her concentration to negotiate Chichester’s early-Christmas Eve traffic, before turning into the tiny car park behind South Street. She locked up the Nova and walked round to the front. It was milder today and thankfully not raining.
‘Good God.’ Tiffany was waiting outside Say It With Flowers – never been known before – nails and hair beglittered, five tiny Santa studs in one ear and three snowmen in the other.
‘Shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, my mum says.’ She caught Imogen’s look. ‘What? Nothing wrong with being Christmassy is there?’
‘’Course not.’ Though the Santas made her think of Alex. And the thought of him probably made her face look Christmassy-red with huge Christmas carrier bags under the eyes. But no one could accuse Tiffany of not looking interesting. She even had a plum pudding stencilled on the back of one hand.
Very interesting … No sooner had Imogen unlocked the door than Tiffany bolted out back. ‘Where d’you think—’
‘I need to check the greenhouse.’ She was gone.
Imogen frowned. She switched on the heating, began to check the flowers, and then Warren strode in.
‘All right?’ Big, greasy and beleathered, he didn’t seem to expect an answer.
So she gave him a question. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it? Tiffany’ll be back in a mo. She’s just gone out the back.’
While Warren lurked by the chrysanthemums, Imogen began preparing the cut flowers. They and the red and cream poinsettias would sell well today – everyone wanted fresh flowers in the house for Christmas. She stripped off the lower leaves. Especially the white lilies, the red and white carnations, the freesias. Christmas … Oh, God. Once again, it all threatened to sweep over her. Imogen glanced across at Warren who was scratching an acne-infested chin, and felt even worse.
A guilty-looking Tiffany returned. She gave a start at the sight of Warren, promptly retreating with him to the far corner of the shop where they began whispering furiously by the potted ferns, glancing every so often towards Imo. Interesting, hmm? Right now she would prefer plain old boring and reliable.
Imo gave them two minutes – and that was generous, she felt. Then: ‘When you two have quite finished…’ She would swear she saw Tiffany pass him something. But what? ‘There’s a lot to do this morning, Tiffany.’
Warren stuck his hands – and the whatever it might be – into his pockets as he and Tiffany sprang apart. ‘Yeah, right.’ he said, articulate as ever. She supposed he had more than twenty words in his repertoire but you’d never guess.
‘Sorry, Imo.’ Tiffany pulled off her denim jacket and replaced it with green overalls with a white poppy embroidered on the lapel.
Imogen was stripping off more leaves than strictly necessary. Calm, be calm, she told herself. Get in the Christmas spirit – but she’d had more than enough of that last night. ‘What’s going on?’ She handed Tiffany a heap of carnations. ‘A quarter-inch off the stem, please. At an angle.’
Tiffany blushed to the roots of her bleached and glittered hair and shuffled her feet. ‘Nothing.’ She was wearing high black patent wedges that made Imo feel uncomfortable just looking at them. And when teenagers said ‘nothing’ in that defensive tone, you could be sure there was something. Imogen decided to try the reasonable approach. ‘Tiffany, I like you.’ Positive reinforcement was meant to work wonders. ‘But I have a business to protect here.’ She grabbed a bucket from the drainer, put it in the sink and turned on the tap.
Tiffany looked outraged. ‘I blatantly wouldn’t do anything to hurt the business, Imo.’ She stopped snipping and gave Imogen the wide-eyed innocent treatment.
Imo spoke louder to compete with the running water. ‘I don’t like Warren.’ Perhaps she was being childish, but she had certainly felt threatened by him before and she was sure he was up to no good. She turned off the tap sharply. ‘And I don’t want him in the shop, OK?’ It was her shop, her decision, her right. And if nothing was going on then Tiffany would leap to his defence.
She didn’t. ‘OK,’ she agreed, without so much as a whisper of a fight. ‘I’ll tell him.’
OK? ‘And if there’s anything you’d like to tell me…’ Imogen let this hang, took hold of the bucket with both hands and heaved it out of the sink towards the cut flowers. She should use a hose but somehow she could never be bothered. She would make the time today to have a good look round that greenhouse, she decided. Could Tiffany be hiding something there for Warren? Something stolen perhaps? Or was Imo’s imagination working a night shift?
‘I love it here, Imo,’ was all Tiffany said. Followed by, ‘Can I help you with anything?’
With her back to the shop door, as she positioned the bucket for the chrysanthemums, Imogen hadn’t realised anyone had come in. She swivelled round and looked up to meet the clear gaze of Marisa Gibb. Oh, hell. It was too early for this. She hadn’t got her aching head round the events of last night yet, let alone those of this morning.
‘Imogen…’
‘Marisa.’ So, they knew one another’s names. Big deal. How should she handle this? Imo had no idea. This girl who was cool, so cool, was virtually her step-daughter. Virtually? Hellfire. She took the flowers laid by Tiffany on the counter and began placing them in the bucket. At least, she would have been her step-daughter if Imogen had met her when Edward was alive. Was that how it worked? What happened to step-daughters when the step bit was no longer operative? When the father had gone?
‘I wanted to apologise.’ Today Marisa was dressed all in black, she noted.
And why shouldn’t she grieve? She had lost her father, Imo reminded herself. And yet even the grieving seemed contrived. It was all so carefully chic – the skintight black leather trousers, two-tone fleece jacket, black silk-chiffon scarf, perfectly manicured (by Jude presumably) nails – although one hand remained gloved, she observed. She could see from Tiffany’s scathing expression what she thought about this vision of perfection.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’ Running out of chrysanthemums, Imo picked up a vase of freesias and moved them into the display area of the shop. Theirs was a delicate scent, but they were part of the whole. Fragrance, Imo thought, was a matter of balance. And apologies? Look at her own behaviour. Apart from being the purveyor of bad news, she had practically accused Marisa of having an affair with her own father. And … Imogen thought of Alex. No. She wouldn’t think of Alex – bad idea.
Marisa brushed this impatiently aside. ‘You weren’t to know.’
She had to ask. ‘How is your mother?’ Edward’s mistress, Edward’s other woman, that awfully nice customer who had come into her shop – so tentative, so polite – to buy lilies.
Marisa’s face hardened. ‘She’ll survive.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ But Imogen looked away. She didn’t like this girl. She had thought it last night, but blamed the gin, and she thought it again now. She didn’t like this almost-step-daughter with her hard eyes and cold way of dismissing her own mother. Imogen wanted nothing more to do with her. Only – was it possible now? Despite Edward’s death they seemed irrevocably connected.
‘Will you come to see us tomorrow?’ Marisa asked.
‘What?’ Her jaw must have dropped practically to the floor. ‘But tomorrow’s Christmas Day.’
‘I know.’ The clear eyes flickered. ‘But we’d like you to.’
Imogen found this hard to believe. Marisa perhaps, but … ‘Your mother too?’
She nodded. ‘There’s a lot we’d like to know – if it isn’t too painful,’ she added. ‘A lot she wants to ask you.’
The feeling was mutual. But on Christmas Day? ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you both,’ Imogen murmured.
‘My mother feels awful about the whole thing.’ Her voice was emotionless. Imogen could almost imagine her reaching into some mental compartment to check her script. Have I said all the right things? Can I leave now? ‘She loved him, of course,’ Marisa added. ‘Always has.’
‘Of course.’ Imogen paused in the act of separating gypsophilia. Hang on, though. Why, of course? He had married Imogen, hadn’t he? ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ she said. In fact, it was a ridiculous idea.
‘Please?’ Marisa moved closer, so close that Imo could smell her perfume – subtle and expensive. She probably always got what she wanted in life, and that would mean nice things. But how? And where did Alex fit in?
Imogen shivered. No, she mustn’t think of Alex. She must concentrate on this slice of ice here in front of her. A more unlikely daughter for Edward and Naomi, she couldn’t imagine. Edward and Naomi … The horror of it was that the two of them seemed as if they would have been ideally suited. She closed her eyes.
‘A quick drink? My father would have liked that.’