Page 49 of The Holiday Cottage

“Use it?”

“Stay in it. Holly Cottage. It’s pretty. Cotswold stone. Open fire. Thatched roof.” Her mind drifted back to the few months when she’d lived there herself. After Sara had left for college and she’d been on her own, the place had been a comfort. It might be just what Imogen needed. “It’s idyllic, really. Popular with honeymooners, and the social media generation who love to take selfies because the place is so welcoming and cozy. It’s normally booked solid all year, but I had to have some work done in it so I stopped taking bookings in the summer. If you fancied getting out of London, then you’d be most welcome to use it. I wouldn’t charge you.”

Imogen stared at her. “You’re offering me your cottage?”

“Why not? It’s empty. And if you’re looking for fresh air and relaxation it fits the brief. And the village is only a ten-minute walk away across the fields. We’re in the country, but the village has everything you could possibly need. In the summer it’s ridiculously crowded, with tourists trying to photograph it from every angle, but at this time of year it’s at its most charming. It has an excellent farm shop, a few gift shops, a vintage clothing store, a wool shop—do you knit?”

“I—No, I don’t knit.”

“There’s a library, an independent bookshop and a café that sells the best gingerbread you’ve ever tasted. They switched on the Christmas lights last week and the village looks so pretty. And if you don’t feel like leaving the cottage it’s the perfect place to curl up and read, or catch up on TV.”

Imogen took a sip of water. “And you’d let me stay there?”

“I’d love you to stay there. You’d be doing me a favor to be honest, because it isn’t good for the cottage to be empty in this cold weather.”

Imogen put her glass down. “How long were you thinking?”

“Stay the whole month if you like. You don’t have to decide now. See how you feel.”

Imogen took a breath. “When would you want me to come?”

“Whenever you like. The cottage has everything you need so all you have to pack is warm clothing.”

“I could come on Friday?”

“Perfect.”

“Friday it is,” Imogen said. “If you’re sure. Thank you. It will be great to get away from London.” She smiled at Dorothy. A real smile this time, not the forced overcheerful version she’d produced at the beginning of their lunch.

“I can meet you at the train station.”

“There’s no need, but thank you. I’ll rent a car,” Imogen said. “It will be useful to have one while I’m there, and I don’t want to make extra work for you.”

“It’s no work at all. It will be a treat to have you in the cottage.”

And only in that moment, when it was all agreed, did she realize that Sara was going to kill her.

She felt a flicker of trepidation and also guilt. She should have thought about that, and normally she would have done, but she’d been so stressed at the thought of Imogen sitting alone with a grilled cheese sandwich on Christmas Day that she hadn’t been able to help herself.

But what was Dorothy supposed to do? She could not enjoy Christmas knowing that Imogen was all alone in London. And it wasn’t as if she’d invited Imogen for Christmas or anything. She was simply lending her the cottage. It was no different to renting it out to a stranger.

What could possibly go wrong?

12

Imogen

Imogen drove carefully down the icy lanes toward Winterbury. She’d left early and the drive from London had been easy, but as she drew closer to the address Dorothy had given her, the impact of the overnight snowfall was visible everywhere.

The roads were glassy in the pale winter sunlight, the hedges and fields white with snow. She drove through picturesque villages with rows of pretty cottages and shops with windows illuminated and decorated for Christmas. She passed an ancient church, its roof coated with snow, and crossed a bridge over a stream that was frozen.

She’d thought that by leaving London she’d be avoiding Christmas, but it seemed as if this place had been designed for the season, and as if that wasn’t enough, nature had added the final sparkly flourish to the landscape. And with that pale winter beauty came the cold.

Fortunately years of saving on heating bills meant she’d amassed a wardrobe of warm clothing.

Her suitcase was full of wool sweaters and outdoor gear. She’d also packed sturdy boots because she liked the idea of walking to the village Dorothy had described.

Fresh air, country walks, maybe a few hours with a book in the village café—it all sounded perfect. Not completely perfect, of course. Completely perfect would have been spending time with family, but for someone spending Christmas alone, this was good. Better than being alone in London.

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