She steps into the barn.
It’s not a bad mirror, could be more flattering, could be less. Reflected, the changing room behind Imogen looks lush: a deep red curtain, funky string lights, retro chair, heaped with the garments she pulled from the racks, most of which she can’t be bothered to try on. The stuff in here isn’t really her style anymore. A year ago, maybe, but she’s changed.
She takes off her sweater and slips into a blouse made from a slippery, turquoise fabric. She buttons the cuffs and creates a perfect French tuck. Skipping breakfast was a good choice. Her midriff lies perfectly flat beneath her waistband. There’s a zipper at theneckline and she plays with it until it reveals the perfect amount of cleavage.
Next, she applies lip gloss until her lips are glistening and she pouts into the camera, kinks her hips to the side, takes a dozen photographs from different angles. Her fingertips rake the back of her scalp as she lifts her hair. They hover on her waist as she alters her pose.
“How are you getting on?”
“Fine,” she tells the shop assistant while her fingers are busy cropping and filtering.
She wants to post the photo in case Matt looks at her feed because she thinks she looks good in it. But she can’t bring herself to do it. It’s the sort of selfie that all her friends post and that Imogen used to, but not since her dad died. He hated social media, hated how the girls in her year put up pictures showing their bodies off. Never feel you have to give in to peer pressure to do this kind of thing, he told Imogen. And while she didn’t think much of disobeying him when he was alive, now it feels like a betrayal of him, especially on a day when she’s already told one big lie that he wouldn’t have approved of.
She wipes off her lip gloss and stares at herself. She wishes she could see more of her dad in her own face, but it’s not there. All she sees is her mum.
“Just so you know, we close at five.” Imogen jumps at the sound of the assistant’s voice coming from right behind the curtain and checks her phone. It’s 5:03. She takes off the shirt, slips her sweater back on, sorts out her hair, sweeps the curtain back.
“How were the clothes? Did you see anything you like?” The assistant is trying to look interested, bless her, but you can tell she wants to lock up and go home. It’s Friday night.
“No, thanks,” Imogen says. “But lush things.”
It’s chilly outside. Next door, she takes a table by the window and orders a tea. She checks her phone, but Jemma hasn’t been intouch. A man in the corner is eating sausages and egg. He stares at her until she flips him the finger.
Imogen never used to feel lonely. But now it’s as if all the things she used to enjoy are being swallowed up by a big hole inside her. She thinks of her mum. Edie’s trying to be a good mother, Imogen knows that. But she’s been so distracted lately, as if something else is gnawing at her, something more than the grief that they’ve both been crushed by. She really hasn’t been herself. And it’s scaring Imogen. More than a little.
Emily’s in the shower, her eyes shut, and her head tipped back beneath the paltry jets of water. She’s trying to warm up.
Downstairs, Ruth peels potatoes. The beef stew she made and froze before traveling here is defrosting in its Tupperware on the side. She made enough for six, so there’ll be leftovers.
She curses when the knife slips. It almost cuts her and would have if it wasn’t so blunt. Tears spring to her eyes. The vodka settled her at first, but now she feels agitated, and upset, the way she always does before her emotions well up and she feels as if she might drown in them.
The news that Jayne and Emily were unable to get a phone signal when they went out has rattled her, more than she’d like to admit.
Jayne watches from the other side of the kitchen. She notes Ruth’s exaggerated wince when the knife slips, how hard and for how long she grips her finger, even though there’s clearly no cut. She’s not herself.
“Do you want me to take over?” Jayne asks.
“I’m fine!” Ruth says. If she keeps busy, she won’t be able to think bad thoughts. It’s one of her coping mechanisms. “You know I enjoy it,” she adds so as not to sound snappish.
Jayne thinks that might have been true on previous weekends away but that on this occasion Ruth is a bad liar. She doesn’t challenge Ruth, though, because she wants to ask her something she’s never broached with her before.
“I was thinking,” Jayne says, “about how when I first got introduced to you all, I found it very strange, how close you were. You lived in each other’s pockets.”
“I liked it. For me it was like being handed an instant social life on a plate. It was a novelty because I was that girl at school and at uni who didn’t really hang out in groups.”
Ruth trots her answer out before she properly considers Jayne’s question.
Had it felt strange? She can’t really remember. At the time she was dizzy with her achievement of having found a boyfriend who she had real feelings for and who her mother accepted. It had felt like finding the holy grail. Flora had welcomed Toby with open arms. Adored him. Ruth had reveled in her mother’s approval and Toby’s attention. It had felt too good to be true. Was it?
She shakes her head to bring herself back. She mustn’t let her thoughts spiral. “I remember the night Mark introduced us to you,” she says. “We were so surprised! Everyone thought he and Paul were settling into happy bachelorhood.”
Jayne smiles. Tactful Ruth is omitting to say that they were also surprised that handsome Mark Pavey had chosen such a plain woman to marry, but Jayne knows what everyone thought and she’s at peace with it. Mark wants someone strong by his side, not a trophy wife.
There have only been a few moments in their marriage when she’s wondered if he regretted his choice, when she’s taken a long look at herself in the mirror and felt doubt.
Once, Mark suggested that Jayne dress more like Edie and that cut to the core of her confidence. It took days for her sense of inadequacy to disappear even though he apologized profusely, saying that he didn’t know what he was thinking, that it had been careless talk.
Jayne tries another angle. “But it did feel strange to you when you first met Toby, how close their gang were? Because it’s unusual how much Edie has this sort of hold on the men, don’t you think? I mean, not always, but since Rob died it’s been very intense in that respect. Don’t you think?”
