Imogen Clarke never remembered her parents. Her father walked out on a pregnant mother, and after that she knew nothing of him. Her mother died when Imogen was only one year old, a sudden cancer that burned her out like a candle.
She was brought up by GranAgnes, her mothers mother. Agnes had lost her own husband in his youth and devoted the rest of her life to her daughter and granddaughter. From the first breath Imogen felt a tight spiritual thread linking them; GranAgnes could read Imogens wishes at a glance, and they always seemed to understand each other without words.
Everyone loved GranAgnes from the neighbours down the lane to the teachers at school. She never gossiped, never judged, and people often came to her for counsel. Imogen felt lucky to have such a grandmother.
Imogens own love life never fell into place. School, university, a job, always rushing somewhere, always something to do. Suitors came and went, but none fit. GranAgnes would chide, Whats the matter, Immy? You flit from lad to lad, and not a single decent fellow? Youre a beauty and a clever one, you know. Imogen laughed it off, yet deep down she sensed it was time to settle she was thirty, after all.
GranAgnes died unexpectedly one night; she simply didnt wake, her heart stopped in sleep. Imogen was stunned, her world a blur, moving through work and the shops on autopilot. At home only the cat Misty waited, and the emptiness grew heavy.
One morning on a commuter train she was lost in a novel. A neatly dressed man in his forties settled opposite her, his eyes lingering on her pages. For some reason it felt pleasant. He struck up a conversation about books; she could have talked about them for hours. Just like a film set on the Thames, she thought. He invited her to a nearby café; she agreed with a bright smile.
From that day a dizzying romance spiralled. They called each other daily, texted constantly, and met only occasionally. Alex Turner was often tied up with work, and he rarely spoke of his past, family, or occupation. Imogen didnt mind; she had never felt so happy with a man.
One weekend Alex asked her to a restaurant, hinting it would be a special evening. She sensed a proposal. Ecstatic, she imagined a husband, children, a normal life a future her grandmother never lived to see.
That night, sprawled on the sofa, she tried to decide what to wear. She opened an online boutique on her phone, scrolled through dresses, and drifted off to sleep.
In the dream GranAgnes entered the room in her favourite floral dress, settled onto the sofa and stroked Imogens hair. Ive never gone anywhere, love, the old woman said, her voice echoeyed, Im always here, seeing and hearing everything. Do not go with that man hes bad. Listen to your gran. Then she faded like mist.
Imogen awoke, bewildered, the memory of her grandmothers warning hanging in the air. She resumed searching for a dress, but anxiety gnawed at her. The words echoed, and she could not pick anything; the thought of a prophetic dream unsettled her, even though she had never believed in such things before.
The day of the anticipated proposal arrived. In the same plain dress she slipped into, Imogen entered the restaurant. Alex noticed her gloom. Something wrong, love? he asked. No, everythings fine, she replied. He tried jokes, humor, to lift her mood. At the end of the meal, like a scene from a movie, he knelt and placed a small box of rings before her.
A sudden whirl of vertigo and ringing filled Imogens ears, and she saw GranAgnes looking out a window, silent and still. Taking it as a sign, Imogen whispered, Im sorry, Alex, I cant. Before he could protest, she fled the restaurant.
Alex pursued, his eyes blazing with fury. He seized her, shouted vile insults Youre no good, youll be left with your cat Misty, you useless hen! and then stormed out, leaving Imogen trembling in the hallway. The man she had adored turned into a stranger.
The next day Imogen visited her old schoolmate Andrew Hall at his office. Andrew worked in the police investigative unit and often helped former classmates. She handed him a photo of Alex and asked him to check the mans record.
Andrew called later, his tone somber. Immy, Im sorry Alex is a conartist. He targets lonely women, marries them, convinces them to take out huge loans for his business, then evicts them and divorces. Hes been convicted before. You were lucky to get away.
Imogen stared at the phone, stunned. How could GranAgnes have known? She thanked her grandmother for watching over her, for sparing her from disaster.
She bought groceries, fed Misty, and walked home with a light step, comforted by the thought that she was not truly alone; GranAgnes was somewhere nearby, a quiet guardian.
They say the souls of loved ones linger, become guardian angels who watch over us after theyve gone. Perhaps thats true; perhaps its a comforting dream. In the quiet of the night, Imogen felt a warm presence beside her, and for the first time in a long while, she believed.
