by Anna Cheska
‘We literally bumped into one another in a department store.’ Naomi shook her head. ‘We had tea. I was with Marisa. He asked me her age, I saw his mind going into overdrive, and then he said: “You didn’t waste any time, did you?”’
Imogen could almost hear him. ‘How long before he guessed?’
‘Not long at all.’ Naomi put a hand to her head. ‘I think it was her looks that gave it away.’
Imogen scrutinised Marisa’s perfect features. She had Naomi’s colouring but there was not a freckle to be seen on her clear skin. Her hair was lighter too – blonde with just a hint of red. On Edward the eyes might have been a little softer, the chin not quite so firm. But it was true, she was like her father, and Imo understood now why the girl in the photograph had seemed familiar. Familiar and yet very different. He had been attractive; she was stunning. But he had never been so cold.
‘Was he angry?’ Imogen asked her. ‘That you’d lied to him?’
‘Shocked. Baffled.’ Naomi frowned at the memory. ‘Yes, and angry too.’
‘And who the hell could blame him?’ Marisa jumped to her feet and stalked to the window. It looked out, Imogen could see, on to a small patch of winter garden. Neat square borders, pruned shrubs, a dampness visible in the grey air and the heaviness of the grass.
‘What happened next?’ Imo turned her attention back to Naomi.
‘We wrote occasionally. He asked us to move back nearer Chichester. He wanted to be able to see Marisa.’ She leaned forward in the easy chair. There was nothing between us. Not at first. But he did offer us financial help.’ Once more she glanced at Marisa. ‘It wasn’t easy to say no.’
She didn’t need to explain that Marisa wanted things. She was the sort of girl who would always want things. ‘It was your right,’ Imogen murmured.
‘Well, I felt it was only fair to her—’
‘Hip-hip-hooray!’ came sarcastically from Marisa by the window.
‘There was nothing to keep us in Hereford.’ Naomi shrugged. ‘Marisa seemed to have taken to him. So back we came.’
She got to her feet, placed a hand gently on Imogen’s arm. ‘I was never looking to take him away from you, my dear,’ she said. ‘Not in any shape or form. I told him that he should come clean to you, tell you about us. It was all such a long time ago. There had been no contact between us for so long…’
‘But you still loved him?’ Simple as that.
Naomi barely hesitated. ‘I still loved him. He came round often – to see Marisa. He said he didn’t want to upset you because you’d not had any children of your own. He wanted everything to be kept separate.’
Compartmentalised. That made sense.
‘He was kind. And he seemed to need something.’
Marisa hooted in derision.
‘It was too easy to fall back into,’ Naomi admitted. ‘He had a way of looking at me – as if he really saw me. It made me feel known.’ At last her eyes filled with tears.
‘Although he was married?’ Imogen couldn’t resist the barb. Naomi might have had him first but she was still the other woman.
‘I didn’t let myself think about you. I believed him when he said that we weren’t hurting you, that he would never hurt you.’ Naomi crossed to the window and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. For a brief moment they formed a tableau of togetherness. Two women alone and grieving at Christmas-time. Edward’s women …
‘I’m sorry,’ Naomi said again. ‘I shouldn’t have agreed to it. But it was him telling me that—’
‘Yes?’ Imogen braced herself.
She paused. ‘That I gave him the comfort he needed. I couldn’t deny him that, you see.’
Chapter 16
‘Well, that’s one word for it,’ Jude said with some scorn. ‘Comfort, indeed.’
Imo could almost see the dark fingers of a grey sky stretching out to consume what was left of the daylight on this Christmas afternoon. There were only a few intrepid walkers in Christmas scarves and gloves braving the City Wall walk. Like Jude and Imogen – who had left Vanessa, Hazel and Daisy back at the flat playing Cluedo – they were probably trying to walk off an indulgent Christmas lunch, Imo thought, as they cut along Canon Lane towards the Cathedral.
The past half an hour had been spent discussing Roger and what an arrogant prat he had turned out to be. ‘He could have forced me,’ Jude said, eyes blazing. ‘D’you think we should consider self-defence classes?’
Imogen had steered her away from this by changing the subject to Naomi and Marisa Gibb.
‘Why not just call it a good screw and be done with it?’ Jude continued now, wrapping the lime-green-and-purple scarf Daisy had given her closer around her neck. ‘Comfort? I ask you.’
Imo shot her a sidelong glance. Today her auburn hair had streaks of ash blonde and was tied in a pony-tail, cheerleader-style. Her eyes were bottle-blue, and with the scarf she wore multi-coloured Mr Men gloves. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Though Imo was no expert – her marriage had hardly been a hotbed of passion.
They linked arms as they turned up St Richard’s Walk. On either side of them the built-in turreted flint walls loomed high, bordered by winter flowers: crimson pansies, late-flowering white daisies, a few over-eager spring bulbs already pushing their shoots out of the earth, Imo noted. Would they survive a heavy frost?
The heels of Jude’s clogs clacked on the paving slabs. ‘How bad did it make you feel, hearing the whole grisly story? Honestly?’
‘Worse than I expected.’ Though for different reasons. Imo looked up at the Cathedral, towering in front of them, a lighter grey than the darkening sky. She had ended up feeling like an obstacle to true love.
‘And what about the money from the bank account?’ Jude was never one to avoid getting down to the nitty gritty. ‘What was that all about?’
‘He paid maintenance – for them both, I suppose, though Naomi was working until recently, and Marisa…’ Who knew? ‘I do some modelling,’ was all she’d say. ‘And he paid the mortgage on their house.’ Naomi had been reluctant to tell her all this but Imogen had prised it out of her over another small sherry and a mince pie.
Jude spun round to face her as they reached the cloisters. ‘Jesus!’ She flipped the scarf back in place.
‘What?’ Imo kept walking, knowing what was coming.
‘I know you too well, Imogen West. You’re thinking of carrying on paying the mortgage and the maintenance, aren’t you?’
Imogen thought of the black leather trousers, the soft cashmere, the manicures. ‘Marisa isn’t a child. I don’t think she needs to be maintained. She’s doing just fine by herself.’
‘And the mortgage?’
‘Ah.’ That was a different matter. Imogen paused for a moment, wanting to savour the atmosphere of the cloisters which was all the more potent today of all days. The paving slabs were uneven here, in different colours, shapes and sizes, worn down by time; the battered flint walls broken up by arched windows and tiny old doorways, plaques, carvings and bronzes. On the other side of the passageway huge arched windows looked out on to what Imo knew was a former burial ground, known as Paradise. Paradise? Hah! She’d be lucky …
‘Naomi’s lost her job,’ she explained to Jude. ‘If she can’t pay the mortgage, she might lose the house too.’
‘You’re not responsible,’ said Jude fiercely.
‘A girl could take that two ways.’
‘Shut up, Imo. You know exactly what I mean.’
But she was responsible, wasn’t she? And she needed to think things through. She needed some time alone – to go walking alone instead of waiting for Jude to examine another of South Street’s window displays. There were plenty of places to walk. Chichester was thought of as a seaside city but most of it was inland. Even the canal was over four miles long and came out in the harbour opposite Bosham Hoe.
‘I might walk down to the harbour tomorrow,’ she told Jude, whose mind seemed to be on a three-piece suite cut down to half-price a
nd labelled Sizzling Super Saver.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ she said, rather unfairly, Imo thought. ‘I told you you’d be sucked in.’
They arrived back at The Goddess Without, walked down the side alley and up the black spiral stairs. In the living-room, the discussion was becoming heated.
‘Granny wanted to be Miss Scarlet,’ Daisy was complaining. ‘So I had to be Colonel Mustard – again.’
Jude sniffed and regarded her parent. ‘Miss Scarlet’s a bit teenybopper for you, isn’t she, Ma?’
‘Not a bit of it.’ Hazel moved the candlestick into the ballroom. ‘You’re as young as you feel. Now…’ she smiled sweetly ‘… I accuse Reverend Green…’
‘Oh, hell,’ said Vanessa, moving herself from the conservatory. ‘I was heading for the secret passageway.’
‘Isn’t that blasphemy?’ Imogen enquired mildly, sitting on the edge of her mother’s chair.
‘Tell her she’s not responsible for them, Vanessa,’ Jude demanded. She wandered over to the window and peered out into the gloom. ‘You know, earlier on, I’m sure I saw—’
‘Tell who what?’ Vanessa peered at her cards for inspiration. ‘Can’t help you, Hazel darling. Sorry.’
Honestly, sometimes Jude was like a dog with a bone, Imogen thought.
‘The Gibbs.’ Jude disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plate of M & S mince pies. She took one and nibbled it absent-mindedly. ‘Scarface wasn’t here today, was he, Ma?’ she asked, an odd expression on her face.
‘James?’ Hazel made them sound like the best of buddies. ‘No, dear, why would he be?’
‘Thought I saw his car earlier, that’s all,’ Jude mumbled. ‘But you’re right. No doubt he’s tucked away in some posh country mansion doling out champagne to his wife and family.’ She snorted her dismissal of her landlord and turned back to Imogen. ‘You can’t evade the issue, Imo. And you mustn’t do anything without talking to your solicitor.’
‘Mmm.’ But Imogen didn’t agree. To her, it was a question of doing what felt right.
Jude switched on the living-room wall lights. ‘Miss Scarlet seems to have acquired a ghostly pallor since lunch,’ she said. ‘Are you all right, Ma?’
‘Tip-top.’ Hazel tapped her cards. ‘With a rope,’ she declared.
Jude frowned. ‘Have you been using my new foundation?’
‘New foundation?’ Hazel peered at the card offered to her by Daisy. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Barely Frost.’ Jude stood hand on hip.
‘Hint of Snowdrop, actually.’
‘Hah! Caught you.’ Jude thumped the table in triumph. Colonel Mustard, Reverend Green, Miss Scarlet and Co. all jumped to attention.
‘I was in the library,’ Vanessa complained. ‘One never has time to read these days.’
‘One would if one didn’t go off gallivanting here, there and everywhere,’ Imogen put in, watching the game with amusement. Unnoticed by anyone else, Daisy was assembling a set of suspects. Imogen threw her a wink.
‘I rather thought it suited me.’ Hazel sounded wistful, but Jude remained unmoved. ‘And I thought you told me I could use any of the samples?’
‘You can. But—’
‘I accuse Miss Scarlet,’ Daisy said.
‘And so do I,’ Jude agreed. ‘It’s a bit, well…’
‘What?’
‘A bit Snowdrop?’
‘In the ballroom,’ Daisy said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Snowdrop.’ Hazel looked most put out. ‘Snowdrops are charming.’
‘In the right place,’ Jude muttered.
‘With a dagger.’ Daisy leaped to her feet and did a passable improvisation of a fiendish murder. As she thrust the dagger deep into her mother’s breast she simultaneously checked the secret packet on the Cluedo board and then whooped with glee just as the doorbell rang.
‘Well done, darling.’ Remarkably unharmed, Jude went to answer it, followed closely by Hazel.
‘Hello, hello, hello.’
‘The police?’ In the living-room Vanessa teased Daisy.
But it was Giorgio who came through, half hidden behind a huge bunch of red and gold chrysanthemums.
Not from Say It With Flowers. Imogen examined them surreptitiously for signs of wilting. With her practised eye she guessed they were a week old – at least. But chrysanthemums could take it. They went on forever.
Giorgio was exactly as she’d expected, smooth and yet effervescent, smiling with very white teeth and kissing everyone on both cheeks. In the meantime Hazel fluttered quietly in the background.
‘Charmed,’ Vanessa told him when the introductions were made by Jude. Imo hid a smile.
At last Giorgio turned to Hazel with skilful dramatic timing. ‘My darling.’
‘Giorgio.’ The Snowdrop fluttered a bit more.
Jude exchanged a cynical eyebrow-lift with Imo.
‘I’m so glad you could come.’
‘Ah.’ He practically threw the chrysanthemums into her waiting arms.
Imogen winced. She always became very protective when there were flowers around.
‘I would go to the ends of your earth for my English rose.’
Hazel’s blue eyes flashed ‘Told you so’ at Jude.
Jude leaned towards Imo. ‘Utter crap,’ she muttered. ‘English tea rose – white and windblown.’
‘Stop it.’ Imo dug her in the ribs. It was all very well being brittle and cynical – and who could blame her after Roger? But this was Christmas Day and Jude was overdoing it. ‘Offer the man a drink, for goodness sake.’
Further games of Cluedo were clearly out of the question. But it didn’t matter. There was tea. And later – better still for some – Christmas being what it was, there was an old Disney movie on the television.
* * *
‘Does your mother know what she’s doing?’ Vanessa enquired mildly of Jude as they stood by the front door of the flat about to leave. In the living-room, Hazel and Giorgio could be heard singing an impromptu duet from Porgy and Bess.
Jude winced. ‘You tell me.’ She grabbed Imo’s arm. ‘And you tell your mother about the Gibb thing.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘And…’
Imogen sighed. There was more?
‘Don’t forget our night out.’
‘Night out?’
‘The singles dance at the White Rabbit. You promised. I’m not a grieving widow any longer, you said.’
‘Did I?’ Suddenly the singles dance at the White Rabbit held scant appeal.
‘You’ve got to come, Imo.’ Jude leaned closer. ‘You see, I’ve got this funny feeling…’
Not again. She’d had her fill of Jude’s funny feelings.
‘That I’m going to meet him.’
‘Him?’
‘Oh, you know, Imo.’ Jude smiled. Roger might never have existed. Heart to Heart had been chucked out of the window. Jude – being Jude – had bounced back and moved on. ‘The one I’ve been waiting for,’ she said with a flick of the pony-tail. ‘My prince, the man of my dreams.’
* * *
‘So what do you think?’ Marisa demanded.
‘What about?’ Naomi was washing up, Marisa drying – a job Naomi knew she loathed. But that was not her present concern. She was keeping busy, trying not to face it. Edward, dead. It seemed unbearably harsh that she’d rediscovered him only to have him taken away. As if even with that extra time she hadn’t bargained for, there still had not been enough. And not even the chance to go to his funeral, to say goodbye.
‘I don’t need to tell you, Naomi,’ he had once said, quite soon after she and Marisa had come back to Chichester. (Had he ever doubted that they would?) What hadn’t he needed to tell her? she had often wondered. That he loved her? That she was as comfortable as an old slipper and just as easy to slip into? Gosh, that was crude. She added another plate to the meagre stack of washing up and glanced at Marisa. But thankfully she hadn’
t spoken aloud.
‘It’s always been so good between us, Naomi.’ He had said that too.
Yes, always good. But, ‘No. How can we? You’re married, don’t forget.’
‘In name only.’
‘Oh, Edward.’ How many husbands had said that? How many affairs had begun that way? It was enough to make you laugh, only she couldn’t because her stomach was churning and she was suddenly afraid she would burp or fart or do something so unacceptable that he would run away again.
‘In name only,’ he insisted. ‘And missing…’
Her? Was he missing her? She’d been missing him for years. Never got over him, in fact.
‘Warmth,’ he said. ‘And comfort.’
Ah, yes, warmth. Well, that she couldn’t deny him … Naomi sighed as she added more water.
‘What do you think about her, of course.’ Marisa flapped the tea towel. She was impatient, but then she often was. ‘His wife. This Imogen.’
Imogen. Naomi swished the water around to create more soapsuds as, mentally, she played with the three syllables. Im … o … gen. And Na … o … mi. Despite everything, Imogen was someone she didn’t mind thinking of.
She had been staggered, of course, that the tall, grave lady from the flower shop (and Naomi had almost asked about a job!) should be Edward’s wife. And no sooner had she made that discovery than – well, she’d lost him again. Story of her life, but this time with no going back.
Never had him, Marisa would say. Not really. But she’d had a part of him. They couldn’t deny her that.
She took a deep breath. ‘She seems nice enough.’ Marisa was so hard to please. Often, she wondered why she bothered, frequently she had no idea what her daughter wanted from life. Other times she knew only too well.
‘Yes, she’s nice.’ Marisa made it sound like a character flaw. She dried, using only the precise amount of energy required. Wipe round, wipe under, place in pile, transfer to cupboard. ‘But do you think she’ll help out?’
‘Help out?’ Naomi was rather in the habit of echoing Marisa. In a sort of amazement at some of the things she came out with. Like this. What did she mean – help out?