Page 9 of The Retreat
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At home, she sat on her springy sofa and contemplated what had happened. Doubts were beginning to creep in. Should she have let herself be bought off like that? What about the principle of the thing?
Who was she kidding? Principles were for people who could afford them. That didn’t include her. Particularly not today. She hadn’t really had any choice but to accept that money, had she? Just a shame her dignity had gone so cheap.
Part of her wondered if she should just send the money back. Another part of her knew the first part was full of shit. She couldn’t do that.
All she could do now was feel lucky that Talia’s boss or whoever she was had shown up. Otherwise, she might not even have what she had. That was what had compelled Talia to offer a cash settlement for her little tantrum. Imogen quite liked the memory of watching Talia sweat like that. Because every other memory of Talia felt complicated and shameful.
Five Years Ago
Imogen handed Flora a cup. ‘Milk, half a sugar,’ she said.
Flora smiled. ‘I really should drop that last half sugar.’
Imogen shrugged. ‘It won’t kill you.’
Flora chuckled. ‘A perfect cup of tea and affirmation of my choices? You really are the perfect employee.’
Imogen tried not to blush and failed as she scuttled off back to work.
She’d been at Flora’s modern art gallery (Arcadia, situated in the heart of the art district) for two months, and she still felt the awe of proximity. Flora McKay was a name in the art world—not quite famous, but known. She had that effortless confidence that Imogen found a little terrifying, and she knew her shit as well as everyone who was anyone in their world.
But she was kind. Surprisingly kind. She remembered the artist Imogen had once mentioned liking in an offhand way. She complimented her instincts for composition when hanging an exhibition. She made her feel seen. That was not something Imogen was used to feeling, especially not in a space like this.
It was Imogen’s first paid art job. She was finally putting her passion to use, not to mention her art history degree. She still couldn’t quite believe it. Her life was finally starting at twenty-seven because Flora McKay had taken a chance on her. Her gratitude to Flora was boundless, as was her admiration for the gallery owner. She wanted so much to be liked by Flora, to please her.
So when it happened, the argument, it cracked something open.
Imogen hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d been carrying a framed piece to the back stairwell when she heard voices.
‘I just think it’s convenient,’ Flora was saying. Her voice was low but tight, like she was trying not to shout. ‘Every time things get difficult, you vanish into work.’
‘I’m not vanishing,’ Talia said. ‘I have deadlines. That’s not the same thing.’
‘You’re never home.’
‘That’s not true.’
There was a pause. Imogen stood frozen with the frame pressed against her chest.
‘I didn’t mind it, at first,’ Flora went on. ‘I thought it was temporary, that once this case was over, you’d—’ She cut herself off. Then, quieter: ‘You’d make time for what matters.’
Talia sighed. ‘Flora—’
‘No. I’m not trying to fight. I just… I miss you. And I don’t know what I’m meant to do with that.’
‘You think I don’t miss you too?’ Talia’s voice was weary. Not sharp, not angry, just tired. ‘I’m trying to build something here. Something for both of us.’
Flora didn’t answer right away. When she did, it was more clipped. ‘It doesn’t feel like it’s for both of us. It feels like you’re working hard to be anywhere else.’
There was another silence.
‘I don’t know how to keep doing this,’ Flora said. ‘I don’t want to feel like I’m the only one working at us.’
‘That’snotfair,’ Talia said.
Imogen heard movement, then footsteps. She realised they were headed in her direction too late to do anything about it.
