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If any part of them can be happy, Layla muses, it must be Imogen. For the love of all good things, the girl is made of her smile - out of place on Marc’s craggy, lined face, even despite the crows’ feet Steven wears more tightly when he’s at front. But there’s a solemness to her, some depth to her movement and patterns of shadow, that reminds Layla she isn’t, could never have been, a real child.
“Marc thinks you’re very pretty,” she says once, knowledgeably, as though sharing a secret. She and Layla are sitting at their kitchen counter together - Imogen had been delighted by the barstools, and the fact that she was tall enough to reach them - sipping smoothies Layla had blended up, banana and yoghurt and strawberry. (Imogen had flinched at the noise, then soothed herself quickly, rubbing hands up and down the fabric of her jeans.) “He says it like it’s a secret so I thought I’d tell you. Cos it’s funny.”
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🥺🥺🥺