A knock at her door jolted her out of her memories. Uncle Martin smiled apologetically. ‘Your parents are here,’ he said.
‘What? Why?’ she said.
‘They just popped in. But, when I mentioned to your mum you were here, she was quite insistent.’
‘OK. Don’t worry, I’ll come down.’
Imogen followed her uncle down the stairs, her heart heavy. She didn’t really want to talk to anyone, let alone her mother.
‘Oh, Imogen,’ Jan said. She was sitting on the sofa in the living room, a cup of tea in her hand. ‘Have you left Finn?’
‘Something like that,’ Imogen said, taking a seat.
‘What a mess,’ Jan said.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, flatly. ‘That helps.’
‘Well, it’s just that the two of you were such a good match. I don’t really understand how all of this has happened. It was only a couple of weeks ago that your dad was helping him make the darkroom for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said, turning to her dad, the thought of his work on the darkroom making her feel worse than she already did.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Tom said. ‘Not for a second. It doesn’t matter. We just want to know that you’re OK.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Imogen said. ‘I think.’
‘You sure you wouldn’t like to come back home? Just for a little while?’ her mum asked.
‘No. Definitely not. Sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Imogen went up to her room, feeling even more deflated. She loved her parents, and knew she was lucky to be close to them, but at times like these she wished that they could stay out of things. When they tried to rescue her like that, it just made her feel like a child.
Up on the top floor, she saw that Clarissa’s door was open, and she was sitting on her bed with a book.
On impulse, Imogen went to her own room to pick up the bottle of Limoncello that she’d bought in duty-free. She went back to Clarissa’s room and knocked on her door gently.
‘Sorry to disturb you. Don’t suppose you’d like to help me with this?’ Imogen asked.
She’d expected a polite no, and to spend the evening drowning her sorrows alone, but, instead, Clarissa’s face brightened. ‘Yes. I would like that. Come in.’
Imogen took a seat on the red-velvet armchair near the bed, and cracked open the bottle, pouring two small glasses. She handed one to Clarissa and downed the other herself.
‘Like that, is it?’ Clarissa asked, kindly.
‘A bit. I think me and my boyfriend have just broken up,’ Imogen said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clarissa said, sympathetically. ‘That must be hard.’
‘It’s my fault. I was an idiot.’
‘You still love him?’
‘Yes,’ Imogen said. The emotions that she’d been working so hard to suppress started to rise to the surface, and her bottom lip trembled.
‘Well, then, there’s hope, isn’t there?’ Clarissa’s green eyes seemed softer then. ‘If something’s worth having, it’s worth fighting for.’
‘Yes,’ Imogen said. ‘But I don’t know how I can expect him to forgive me. I don’t think I can forgive me. And my mum’s already driving me mad, asking about it . . .’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t thinking. I know I’m lucky to have her.’
Clarissa brought the book she’d been holding back into her lap. Imogen saw that it wasn’t a hardback but a linen-bound journal, with a satin ribbon keeping her place. ‘It’s been years since my mother died,’ she said. ‘And I feel like I’m only just getting to know her.’
Imogen resisted her usual urge to fill the silence. Instead, she waited for Clarissa to go on.
Clarissa’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘My stepfather had this all those years, but he only gave it to me just before he died. My mother’s diary,’ she explained. ‘From the time before I was born, and after.’
‘Wow,’ Imogen said. Her problems seemed to shrink in significance.
‘I’m not angry with him. I know he thought about it a lot, what was the right thing to do. Mum didn’t throw the diary out, but she didn’t leave it for me to find, either. She’d left it somewhere she knew he would find it.’
‘It must have been a difficult decision for him.’
‘It was. I know you must think I’m mad. Still here, barely going out. But in a way it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to Mum. I’m seeing part of her life that she never told anyone about.’
Imogen looked at her, confused.
‘And now here I am, talking in riddles,’ Clarissa said, with a wry laugh. ‘Sorry.’
‘What does it say in there?’ Imogen asked, motioning to the diary.
‘A lot of things I didn’t know. I’ve read it already, of course. But there’s only so much I can take in at one time. I go back to it, try and make sense of it little by little.’
‘She stayed here, didn’t she?’ Imogen said.
‘Yes. Mum – Emma, that was her name – she grew up in Brighton, with her parents and her brother. When she was a teenager, she’d go into Sunset 99s with her friends, get a drink or an ice lolly when school was out. That was the part she always told me. But in here’ – she touched the diary gently – ‘is the other part.’
Clarissa took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Then Mum started going there on her own, during school hours. She was only sixteen, so your grandmother felt bound to ask her what was wrong, why she wasn’t in classes. Mum told her she’d left school. She was pregnant, with me.’
‘Oh dear,’ Imogen said. ‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘It wasn’t. She’d been up to London with a neighbour, a married man. She’d told her parents she was staying with a girlfriend that night. Anyway, he’d promised to take her to a show – she’d always loved musicals – and she couldn’t resist. But when they were there he took her to a hotel instead. She hadn’t been willing, not at all, by the sounds of things. But when she got home she couldn’t tell anyone what had happened, because of the lies she’d told. When she couldn’t hide the pregnancy any longer, her parents got the name out of her. They accused her of trying to break up his family, that they couldn’t understand how she could do it. She felt she had no choice but to leave.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Her parents gave her some money, and she stayed in a hostel in Hove. But it was squalid, and, the closer she got to the baby arriving, the more anxious she got. Then your grandmother saw her one night, going in there. She insisted Emma came back with her. She came back here, to Elderberry Avenue. Even though your grandparents had their own young family – your dad and uncle – they made space for her. A fortnight later, I was born.’
Imogen took in the story – it still didn’t seem quite real. And yet it did. It was just the kind of thing she could imagine her grandmother doing.
‘My mum stayed here for three months, until the two of us were stronger.’
‘That’s why Dad . . .’ Imogen said.
‘I think he saw something of my mother in me, when he came round. We looked very alike. He would have been a boy then, but it must have made a mark on him, having us there.
‘Anyway, the time came for Mum to move on, so Vivien helped set her up in a flat in Hastings, and put in a good word for her with a couple of local businesses. She ended up working in one of the shops. But it clearly stayed with her – this place, the kindness your grandmother showed her.’
‘I can see why you wanted to come.’
‘Yes. And maybe now you can see how sorry I am that I was too late. But it’s not been a wasted journey. It’s been wonderful just being here, in these four walls. Where she was, back then.’
‘It’s sad, though. That you didn’t get to meet. She would have loved to meet you,’ Imogen said. Her heart felt heavy from the story she’d heard.
‘Sometimes life brings you to a dead end,’ Clarissa said. ‘You have to turn back around. I’m just stoppi
ng here for a little while first.’
Imogen refilled Clarissa’s glass, and poured herself another shot. As she drank the sweet yellow liquid, sipping it this time, she thought of something. The diaries Anna used to keep when she was younger. Imogen would sneak a look from time to time, only to be disappointed by the noted-down recipes and snippets of conversations with friends and teachers, very little in the way of romantic gossip at all. She remembered, on the inside front cover, in black biro, the name of the cottage in Hove where they’d lived.
‘Could I take a look?’ Imogen ventured, pointing to the book. ‘I won’t read it, I just want to check something.’
Cautiously, Clarissa passed her the diary.
Imogen opened the cover, and there on the marbled end paper was a white space, with writing on it. It had been scratched over in pen until what had originally been there was barely legible. But she could just make it out – 61 Washington Street. She knew it – a friend of hers had lived there once – an ordinary street, a road of small, terraced Georgian houses, in a residential area not far from the Brighton Pavilion.
‘Perhaps this isn’t a dead end,’ Imogen said.
Clarissa looked at her, bringing her eyebrows together.
‘Perhaps – without realising it – you might have come here to meet somebody else.’
‘Not him, not that man, whoever he was,’ Clarissa said, adamant.
‘No,’ Imogen said, shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t him I was thinking about.’
The next day, with no photography bookings on her calendar, Imogen headed over to the ice cream shop to see Evie. From the doorway, she’d seen that Finn’s surf shop was open, and heard sounds of building work coming from the adjacent archway. She’d felt a strong pull towards it – an overwhelming urge to see Finn again, if only for a moment. Even being able to have a look into the building and see how the project was going would have helped her feel a little more connected to him again. When she’d left their home, the fear she’d had about settling, putting down roots, had melted away, and now it was barely there at all. She longed for a feeling of permanence now, when everything around her seemed unreliable and transient.
‘Hello, Imogen,’ Evie said. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise. How was the trip?’
‘Good,’ Imogen said. ‘Good, and not so good. Long story.’
‘Your dad mentioned you’re living at the guesthouse.’
‘Yes. Finn and I have fallen out.’
‘Oh, dear. Well, I am sorry to hear that.’ Evie paused. ‘I just saw him, actually,’ she said softly.
‘Oh, yes?’ Imogen asked, trying to make it seem as if she didn’t care.
‘He looked about as miserable as you do, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Not really,’ Imogen said, feeling a fresh wave of guilt at the pain she’d caused him. She missed him. The feel of his body against hers, his laughter. The way he’d always supported her in what she was doing, in such an understated way that she hadn’t really noticed it until it was gone.
‘Go out,’ Evie urged her. ‘Go and see him. He’s working over with Andy, in the shop. Would it do any harm to say hello?’
Imogen felt conflicted, but she was instinctively drawn to seeing him again.
‘Give me five minutes,’ she said to Evie.
‘You take as long as you like,’ Evie said, kindly.
Imogen left the ice cream shop, her heart thudding in her chest. She could already see Finn, just a few metres away, working just inside the shell of what had been Evie’s shop. In jeans and a T-shirt, his back to her, as he cleared some of the rubble. She stopped, her feet rooted to the spot. She willed them to move, but her body stubbornly refused to cooperate.
Finn was immersed in the task, entirely focused on building something that really mattered to him. When they were still a couple, it had been something he saw as a solid future for the two of them. That had been part of his motivation. Why had that made her want to run? She couldn’t even pin it down now. All she could see was that she had been wrong. Luca might have represented freedom to her, in some small way, but, with his flighty lifestyle and grandiose ambitions, he wasn’t half the man that Finn was. He never would be.
He turned, seeming to sense her presence, and saw her standing there. His hazel eyes met hers, and her heart skipped.
‘Hi,’ he said, coolly.
‘Hi,’ she said back. ‘I was just at Vivien’s. I thought I’d come and . . .’ In that moment it had slipped her mind, why she came, why she had even felt entitled to. If this break was permanent, and the lack of contact between them made it feel that way, then she was nothing to him any more.
He paused, saying nothing.
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Imogen said, a lump rising to her throat. ‘It’s too soon, I guess.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe, yes.’
Tears sprang to her eyes and she turned and walked away. She had no right even to be there any more, to talk to him, and it hurt more than she’d ever imagined it could.
On the guest house kitchen table there was some post addressed to Imogen. A postcard from Bella, a scribble in yellow crayon that Anna had turned into a sun. Imogen read the back: ‘We miss you Auntie Imo! Love Bella x’.
She felt a tug of longing.
Under the postcard was a slim white envelope with elegant handwriting on it. She flipped it over – the return address was in Sorrento.
Curious, she ripped it open and took out the letter inside. ‘Dear Miss Imogen,’ it began. ‘Please excuse my English. A long time since I write a letter like this.’
She knew right away who it was from, and an image of his face flashed up in her mind.
Would you be kind enough to pass on this letter to Evie?
Because you see since you and your sister met with me, I really
don’t think I can stop thinking about her.
Imogen might have messed up her own love life, but she was more determined than ever to make a success of Evie’s.
She called her up on the phone. ‘Evie, I know it’s late, but it’s important. Can I come around and talk to you about something?’
Chapter 36
Sirens rang out through the Sorrento square, and Anna rushed over to the window of the ice cream shop to see what was happening, her pulse racing.
‘What’s going on out there?’ she asked Matteo. A police van sped past, closely followed by an ambulance. A crowd of onlookers had formed nearby.
‘I’m going to see,’ Matteo said, rushing outside. Anna watched as he spoke with a couple of locals, but they were shrugging, and their faces looked blank. He went over to another man by a blue Nissan, and talked with him.
In the time that they’d been in Italy, Anna couldn’t recall hearing a police or ambulance siren. For a brief while, she’d felt sheltered from the harsher realities of life. Bella tugged at her skirt, and Anna picked her up and held her close.
‘Nee-naw,’ she said, pointing to the flashing lights, looking confused.
‘Yes,’ Anna said, working quickly to reassure her. ‘There’s probably a cat stuck up a tree somewhere. That must be it.’ But her heart was still beating fast. She’d lost sight of Matteo in the crowd.
A local, a man in a flat cap, came in and asked for an espresso. Distracted, Anna went back behind the counter and made his drink.
‘Incidente,’ he said.
‘What happened?’ Anna asked, in Italian.
‘On the highway. A moped. These crazy tourists,’ he said, shaking his head.
A chill went over Anna’s skin.
‘Do they know yet, who it was, what happened?’
‘I saw them put her in the ambulance. A woman.’
‘Was she old? Young?’ Anna asked.
The man just shrugged. Anna thought back to the food bloggers they’d had in the shop the other day. A couple of them had left on mopeds. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.
She walked back over to the window, Bella by her side. The square
was quiet now. The emergency vehicles had passed but the area was still full of people. She scanned the crowd for Matteo, but couldn’t see him.
Her mobile rang in the pocket of her apron – Matteo’s name on the screen. Anna pressed to answer it.
‘Anna,’ Matteo said, over the noise of traffic. ‘I’m in a friend’s car, on the way to the hospital.’
‘What happened?’ Anna said. She realised she was clutching Bella’s hand too tightly, and her daughter wriggled free. ‘Are you OK?’
‘No,’ Matteo said, his voice cracking. ‘I’m not.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Anna asked, detecting the emotion in his voice.
‘The woman – it was a moped crash, on the highway. She got hit by a van at high speed.’
His voice faltered.
‘No,’ Anna said, knowing the words that were coming. She put her hand up to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, no!’
‘It was Carolina.’
Chapter 37
Imogen climbed the winding steel steps up to Evie’s first-floor flat. Below her was a lush green garden, carefully tended. After all the ups and downs she’d been through, Evie did seem to have found a way of life that made her happy. Imogen rang the doorbell and hoped she was doing the right thing in coming.
‘Hi, Imogen,’ Evie said, spotting her through the kitchen window and opening the door. ‘Come on in.’
‘Thanks,’ Imogen said, wiping her feet on the mat.
She saw Evie’s expression change as she gauged that Imogen had something serious to talk to her about.
‘Am I in trouble?’ Evie enquired as she gathered the tea things together. ‘I feel like I might be.’
‘No,’ Imogen said, laughing. ‘I was just hoping to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
‘OK, then. Sounds like we’d better sit down for this one,’ she said, getting some biscuits out.
The Heavenly Italian Ice Cream Shop Page 19