Though she remembers that Edie also said before she left that they need to wean themselves off the help that the gang has given them since Rob died, but without upsetting anyone. That was important, she said. To do it discreetly.
Jemma sits up suddenly, a naughty gleam in her eye. The mattress bounces. Imogen leans on a hand to steady herself. She’s finding Jemma’s energy a lot to deal with today. Her friend seems shallow, her view of everything selfish and too simplistic, when Imogen’s life consists of complicated, painful layers.
“Why’s he looking after you, anyway?” Jemma says.
“I called him from camp. He was the only one I could get hold of from my emergency contact list. You know what my mum’s friends are like. It’s like they compete against each other to be the most helpful.”
Jemma picks up the note of resentment in Imogen’s voice. “It sucks that you got him.”
Imogen considers that. Does it? She likes them all equally, probably. They all have their pros and cons. She shrugs.
“We could just leave,” Jemma says. “Sneak out without telling him and get the bus to my house. My parents can drop us at the party. Once we’re out of here we send him a message to say you’re totally fine and you’re staying the night with me. It’s not up to him whether you go out, or not.”
Imogen is seduced by the idea. While Jemma is a lot, Imogen will feel more suffocated if she stays here, the subject of too much intense attention. And Jemma is right, he’s not her dad. It’s not up to him if Imogen goes out. Edie would encourage her to. And Imogen is desperate to lose herself in other people’s chat tonight, other people’s noise. To dance and forget about everything for a while. To look for Matt. Her stomach flips at the thought of him.
If her mum is going to go off and hide in a spa, surely Imogen can do something for herself, too.
“Sure,” she says. “But I need to find my phone.” She checks her face in the mirror, runs a brush through her hair until it hangs like a silky sheet.
Jemma shrugs her bomber jacket back on and reapplies lipstick. Something makes her glance suddenly at the door. She puts her finger to her lips.
“What?” Imogen mouths.
Jemma points to the door and mouths: “It’s him.”
Imogen’s eyebrows raise. Has he been listening? For how long? Before Imogen can stop her, Jemma flings open the door.
“Hello!” she says brightly.
He’s standing right on the other side of it, a pile of laundry in his arms. He looks artificially surprised.
“Hi!” he says. “You caught me putting away my clean smalls.”
Eww, Imogen thinks. She’s used to him talking like this, old-fashioned and kind of unfiltered, he’s never been any different, but it’s embarrassing if he grosses out Jemma.
“Actually, Jemma, now that you’re here, could I borrow you for a minute?” he asks.
“Just me?” Jemma points at her chest. Eyes wide. Don’t, Imogen thinks. Don’t encourage him. It looks like flirtation. This is a new side of Jemma that’s emerging. Flirting with any man, of any age.
“If you don’t mind.”
Why is he smiling like that? Imogen thinks. “Why just Jemma?” she says.
“I want Jemma’s advice on something.”
Jemma follows him downstairs and Imogen flops back onto the bed feeling weird, like everything is extra annoying and tiring today. She remembers again that her phone is gone.
The bathroom is as she left it. Her phone isn’t there. She picksup the damp bathmat and drops it over the side of the tub. From downstairs, she can hear muffled voices, but not what is being said.
The sound of the front door slamming startles her.
From the top of the stairs, she can see him in the hallway, but not Jemma. The door is shut. He turns to look up at her.
“Jemma had to go,” he says.
“She had to go?”
“She got a call from her mum.”
