Imogen

by Jilly Cooper

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. James patted her shoulder gingerly. ‘Don’t cry, dear. Matt, would you mind awfully if we had one double room?’

  Matt looked at Nicky, who nodded.

  ‘Right you are, James; anything to oblige. Nicky and I can kip in the car. Dinner in quarter of an hour then.’

  ‘I’m not going to change if I’ve got to use these clothes as pyjamas,’ said Nicky.

  Up in the bedroom Cable got out her heated rollers.

  ‘I don’t think Matt and Yvonne are going to hit it off,’ she said happily. ‘Do you know, she’s filled a whole suitcase with packets of All-Bran to keep James regular?’

  Chapter Seven

  Imogen felt absolutely knackered. She longed to soak in a hot bath, and spend ages tarting up and putting on something sensational. But she had nothing sensational to put on, and she felt far too fat and cumbersome to undress and change in front of Cable. With all Cable’s suitcases and bottles of make-up, there wasn’t really room enough for them both anyway. Besides, if she got down early she might snatch a few moments alone with Nicky, so she contented herself with a quick wash and brush-up.

  ‘If Matt’s belly-aching, tell him I won’t be long,’ said Cable who was now wandering about the bedroom totally naked, except for a green silk scarf holding her rollers in.

  Imogen averted her eyes and fled. Was modesty perhaps a question of fatness, she wondered. If she looked as marvellous as that, perhaps she’d wander around with no clothes on. On the landing she found Yvonne, wearing a pink plastic cape round her shoulders to protect her clothes from make-up, and brandishing a hairdryer at a nervous looking maid.

  ‘You speak English, don’t you?’

  ‘Oui, Madame.’

  ‘Then why don’t you speak it, instead of standing there talking in a foreign language? I want the plug on this dryer exchanged at once.’

  Imogen slunk past them. No one was about in the hall. She looked at the menu in the glass case, her mouth watering. The kitchen was wafting beguiling smells of garlic, wine and herbs from its warm interior. She went into the lounge and sat down with Tristram Shandy. An English family nearby whispered as though they were at a funeral, and gloomily lifted the brass hats on their café filtrés. On her table a vase of mauve and salmon pink gladioli clashed horribly with each other and even worse with the tartan table cloth. Odd that the French, who were supposed to be so chic, should have so little colour sense.

  She tried to read. It was really awful the way her concentration had gone to the wind since she met Nicky. She gazed out of the window where an orange street lamp lit up the poster of a forthcoming circus.

  We’re a bit like a travelling circus, she thought. James is one of those eager perky little dogs that jumps through hoops, and Yvonne is a trapeze artist, tough but dainty, tripping around with her feet turned out, and Nicky and Cable were like sleek beautiful wild animals, panthers or tigers, who kept escaping from their cages and disrupting the local community, and she was a small fat shaggy pony trying desperately to keep up with everyone. She was just trying to work out what Matt was, something large and friendly, when she jumped as she heard his voice saying, ‘You’ll never get yourself a drink that way, sweetheart. We’re in the bar. What are you reading?’ He picked up her book. ‘Oh, that, never managed to get through it myself.’

  They found Nicky sitting on a bar stool.

  ‘Hullo, pet, what d’you want? Matt and I are drinking Pernods.’

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ said Imogen, not having a clue what it was, some kind of alcoholic pear juice perhaps.

  Matt ordered another round and dropped a packet of crisps into her lap.

  ‘You must be starving.’

  ‘You looked bushed too,’ said Nicky, pouring water into the Pernod so it went cloudy like Dettol. ‘Probably a good thing you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, but there’ll be no holding me tomorrow,’ he added, lowering his voice.

  Imogen went pink, took a great slug of her drink, and nearly spat it out. It was unbelievably disgusting, like distilled liquorice allsorts. And she needed a drink so badly. She took another cautious sip and almost threw up.

  Matt picked up a copy of Le Figaro that was lying on the bar.

  ‘I say,’ said Nicky, ‘have you heard the one about the Irishman who tried to swim the channel?’

  ‘No,’ said Matt, not looking up.

  ‘He tried to swim it “lenktways”.’

  Imogen giggled. Nicky put a warm hand over hers. ‘At least someone thinks I’m funny.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Matt. ‘Braganzi’s in Marseilles only a few miles from where we’re staying.’

  ‘With the Duchess?’ asked Nicky.

  ‘So it says here.’

  ‘Never understand that,’ said Nicky, peering at the paper. ‘Beautiful classy bird throwing everything up to run off with a little wop runt like Braganzi.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Matt looking round in mock alarm. ‘The Mafia are everywhere. Anyway he’s probably more enterprising in bed. According to Fleet Street, the old Duke was a bit of a stately homo, one pretty valet after another.’

  ‘Every valet shall be exalted,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Didn’t the Duchess have Braganzi’s baby?’ asked Imogen.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘Must be 18 months now. They’ve been together nearly three years. Perhaps she enjoys living with a hood. Women are always turned on by power, and Braganzi’s got the whole of the Midi sewn up.’

  Nicky squinted at his reflection in the smoked looking-glass behind the bar. ‘All the same he is an oily little runt.’

  Matt grinned. ‘Once she hears you’re in the area, Nicky baby, she’ll promptly abandon Braganzi.’

  ‘I’ve never had a Duchess,’ mused Nicky, as though it was a matter of surprise to him. ‘Can’t you imagine her gliding downstairs in one of those red robes lined with ermine, and nothing on underneath, saying, “Would you prefer the West Wing or the East Wing, Mr Beresford?”’

  ‘Then she’d probably hand you over to the National Trust,’ said Matt, catching sight of Imogen’s stricken face. ‘Anyway, you’d just be getting down to business when the door’d be flung open and you’d have some guide showing a coachload of large ladies on a Mothers’ Union mystery tour all over you.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m turned on by crowds.’

  Imogen, who was feeling quite sick at the thought of Nicky and the Duchess, took another slug at her drink, and felt even sicker, and had to have three potato crisps to take the taste away.

  ‘Hullo, you chaps, what’s anyone going to drink?’ said a jolly voice. It was James, wearing a pale blue corduroy coat, his light brown curls smoothed flat to his head. Perhaps Yvonne insisted on 100 brushes a day – like Nanny.

  ‘It’s my round,’ said Nicky.

  ‘I’ll have whisky then, a large White Horse please, un grand cheval blanc,’ said James and giggled, looking furtively round. ‘You’d better make it snappy. Yvonne doesn’t approve of spirits.’

  ‘Make it two,’ said Matt, and, picking up Imogen’s Pernod, emptied it into his own glass. ‘You’re not enjoying that much, are you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Oh thank you,’ stammered Imogen, touched that he’d noticed.

  ‘D’you know the story of the white horse going into a pub and sitting down on the bar stool and ordering a large whisky?’ said James.

  ‘No,’ said Nicky, who didn’t like other people telling jokes.

  ‘The barman gave the horse his drink, and said “Did you know there’s a whisky named after you?” “Really,” said the white horse, “I didn’t know there was a whisky called Eric.”’

  James laughed so hard that in the end everyone joined in. He’s really rather nice, thought Imogen, taking a thankful gulp of her whisky.

  The head waiter was hovering with a menu, chat du jour at the ready.

  ‘Were Cable or your wife looking within a million years of being ready?’ asked Matt. ‘They�
�re getting a bit restless in the kitchen.’

  ‘No,’ said James cheerfully.

  Imogen’s stomach gave a thunderous rumble.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Matt, ‘I’ll keel over if I don’t eat soon.’

  ‘You chaps didn’t have any lunch, did you?’ said James sympathetically.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Nicky, looking at the bill for the round of drinks. ‘It’s even gone up since I was here in May.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Matt. ‘That’s why we’re not staying in four star hotels. We’ll have to put Imogen on the streets as it is.’

  ‘They say vicars’ daughters are always the worst,’ said James.

  The whisky was making Imogen perk up. It was nice being just her and the three men. The conversation moved on to Northern Ireland. Imogen ate her crisps and let the world flow over her. Nicky held her hand and occasionally stroked her hair. James was caught red-handed buying another round of large drinks by the arrival of Yvonne.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘What d’you want to drink?’

  ‘Tomato juice, please,’ said Yvonne. ‘No thanks, Imogen, I won’t have any of your crisps. They’re so fattening and it’s more than my life’s worth to exceed my calorie count.’

  She looked rather disapprovingly at Imogen’s thighs splayed out on the bar stool. Imogen blushed, let the large crisp already in her mouth melt like a communion wafer, and gazed at Yvonne in admiration. There wasn’t a chip of varnish off the long coral nails, nor a newly curled red hair out of place, and the white silk blouse with the couple tangoing over the bosom was still spotless from that morning.

  Having got her way over the room, Yvonne was also prepared to be conciliatory. The vibes sizzling between Nicky and Cable had not been lost on her. Cable mustn’t be the only one with a holiday admirer. Yvonne decided to charm Matt.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked. ‘Mind you, I always suspect seasickness is psychosomatic.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Matt. ‘So’s bloody-mindedness.’

  The irony was quite lost on Yvonne.

  ‘I do envy you coming from Ireland,’ she went on. ‘I did a butter commercial there once. It was all so green and unspoilt. Where do you live, Matt?’

  ‘In Moone.’

  ‘Is it pretty?’

  ‘Well, it’s very good hunting country.’

  ‘I think hunting’s rather cruel,’ said Yvonne, ‘but I suppose people in the country have to occupy their time somehow.’

  ‘Indeed they have,’ said Matt. ‘The Irish haven’t discovered the infinite possibilities of sexual intercourse yet.’

  ‘The men in the Moone always came too soon,’ said Nicky.

  Matt laughed. Yvonne hastily changed the subject. ‘I don’t always agree with what you say, but I do admire your ability to do it week in week out.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Write your amusing articles. Where do you think up your ideas?’

  ‘In the bog,’ said Matt. ‘I’m thinking of doing a piece on bitches next week.’

  ‘Oh, I can help you with that,’ said Yvonne enthusiastically. ‘One meets so many in the modelling world. It’s the price you have to pay for being at the top,’ she added, draining her tomato juice. The head waiter was hovering again, looking bootfaced.

  ‘Where is Cable?’ said Yvonne disapprovingly. ‘You haven’t trained her very well, you know.’

  ‘She knows people’ll wait for her,’ said Matt.

  ‘So inconsiderate to keep the kitchen staff waiting. I must say I am looking forward to my meal. You can’t beat French cuisine,’ Yvonne retorted.

  At that moment Cable sauntered in, looking quite unrepentant in khaki jeans, and a tight olive green T-shirt with ‘I’m Still A Virgin’ printed in large letters across the front. The colour gave a warm dusky glow to her brown face and neck, and intensified the greenness of her eyes. The barman nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning, the head waiter stopped in mid-grumble. Nicky’s hand slid out of Imogen’s and his presence seemed to slip away from her too, as he examined the lettering on Cable’s bosom.

  ‘Matt’s just been telling us the Irish haven’t discovered sex yet. Here we have the proof,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll get clobbered under the trade descriptions act,’ said Matt.

  ‘I’d better give it to Imogen, then,’ said Cable. ‘She’s the only one entitled to wear it.’

  Everyone glanced at Imogen, who blushed crimson and looked down at her hands, speechless with embarrassment. Nicky must have told Cable. How could he?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cable. ‘That was below the belt.’

  ‘Your mind’s never anywhere else,’ said Matt sharply. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

  ‘Let me have one drink,’ said Cable, smiling witchily at the head waiter. ‘Surely we’ve got time?’

  The head waiter promptly melted and said there was all the time in the world, and why didn’t they have a round of drinks on the house?

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to change, Cable,’ said Yvonne. ‘No, thank you, garçon, I won’t have another drink, and you’ve had enough, Jumbo,’ she added to James who was still gaping at Cable. ‘You know I hate you drinking spirits.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Matt, accepting large glasses of whisky and handing one to James. ‘Never look a gift White Horse in the mouth.’

  At last they went in to dinner. Most people had reached the coffee stage. After a quick calculation, Imogen posted herself next to where she thought Nicky would be. But at the last moment Cable sat down beyond Matt, and Nicky moved in opposite her, with Yvonne next to him, leaving James and Imogen on the outside.

  ‘We can play footy footy,’ said James.

  His fat little legs would never reach me, thought Imogen. At least she was next to Matt, which was a comfort. He promptly began to guide her through the menu.

  ‘Have that and that if you’re starving,’ he said. ‘This place really deserves every flicker of its three stars.’

  ‘I’m going to have a large steak,’ said Nicky. ‘I’d better make some attempt at keeping fit.’

  ‘Oh good, they’ve got crudities. Can I have mine undressed?’ said Yvonne to the waiter.

  Undressed crudities! thought Imogen. Perhaps Yvonne was going to whip off her clothes and tango naked on the snow white table cloth. It must be all the whisky, it was beginning to make her feel fuzzy and irresponsible.

  Everyone, except Cable and Yvonne, fell on the bread.

  ‘What’s cervelles?’ said James, unpacking a square of butter.

  ‘Brains,’ said Matt.

  ‘Ugh,’ shuddered Yvonne. ‘I can’t stand brains.’

  ‘That’s patently obvious,’ said Matt to Imogen in an undertone.

  ‘Shall we all drink red?’ he added, looking round the table.

  ‘I want white,’ said Yvonne. ‘Much less fattening, don’t you agree, Cable?’

  ‘What?’ said Cable, who was smouldering at Nicky. ‘Oh yes I’m sure.’

  Yvonne decided it was high time to break them up.

  ‘I’ve just been telling Matt how much I love Ireland, Cable, it’s so wonderfully primitive.’

  ‘You’d enjoy our hovel then,’ said Matt, taking another piece of bread. ‘Chickens in the parlour, me granny shacked up with the donkey in the best bedroom, and my mither entertaining gentlemen friends, while the pig waits at table.’

  ‘Now you’re teasing me,’ said Yvonne, her eyes crinkling. ‘I bet your family are charming, aren’t they, Cable?’

  ‘I haven’t been allowed to meet them,’ snapped Cable.

  Suddenly the temperature seemed to have dropped below zero.

  ‘I’m frightened she might go off me,’ said Matt lightly.

  There was an awkward pause, broken fortunately by the arrival of the wine. James, who was oblivious of any undercurrents, started to tell a stock-exchange joke, waving a large radish around as he talked. With his pale blue coat and his puffed out c
heeks, he suddenly reminded Imogen of Peter Rabbit.

  ‘Don’t crunch, Jumbo,’ said Yvonne irritably. ‘You know how it gets on my nerves. The service is awfully slow here.’

  A moan of greed escaped Imogen at the sight of her first course, a sort of chicken rissole, stuffed with foie gras, and surrounded by bright orange sauce flecked with black. Opposite her James was smacking his lips over smoked salmon and a shiny green sauce. Matt was eating snails. Yvonne was chewing grated carrot 20 bites a mouthful. Nicky and Cable had skipped a first course and were smoking.

  The wine, even to Imogen’s uneducated palate, was spectacular, thick and sultry with grapes.

  ‘You can almost taste the peasants’ feet,’ said Matt.

  ‘What are the black bits?’ she asked him, as she used her fourth piece of bread to mop up the sauce.

  ‘Truffles,’ said Matt. ‘Bloody bad luck for pigs, really. They rootle round for days, and the moment they find some marvellous delicacy, it’s snatched from under their nose.’

  Like Nicky from me, thought Imogen wistfully.

  Cable and Yvonne were talking shop.

  ‘They sacked her from a bikini feature because she was too fat,’ said Yvonne.

  ‘That pale lipstick makes her mouth look like a rubber tyre,’ said Cable.

  ‘It’s her own fault. She’s in Wedgies or Tramps every night, and after all the client is buying your face, not your ability to drink in the right places till four o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Who are they talking about?’ muttered Imogen.

  ‘Obviously someone extremely successful,’ said Matt.

  ‘I got the Weetabix commercial,’ said Yvonne patronisingly, starting on strips of green pepper. ‘You were after it weren’t you, Cable? The producer told me you were too overtly sexy for the part.’

  ‘That’s obviously why he tried to take me to bed,’ snapped Cable, lighting one cigarette from another.

  Nicky suddenly glanced across at Imogen, his eyes swivelling from Cable to Yvonne, then raising them to heaven. Imogen giggled with relief.

  ‘No more bread, Jumbo,’ said Yvonne, still chewing everything 20 times. ‘You’ve already had quite enough.’