Imogen

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’m going into Marseilles too then,’ said Cable, shooting a spiteful glance at Imogen. ‘I think it’s my turn to buy a few new clothes today. Are you coming too, darling?’ she added to Matt, slipping a hand inside his shirt and stroking his chest.

  ‘Can’t, really. I’ve got to see this chap at the Bar de la Marine at twelve.’

  Imogen’s face lit up. Perhaps he was staying behind to be with her.

  ‘Jesus, can’t you ever stop working?’ snapped Cable.

  She glanced at Imogen, who was stirring her coffee and crumbling her croissant with a trembling hand, not looking at Matt and avoiding Cable’s eye. She’s got a schoolgirl’s crush on Matt, thought Cable. It had happened before fairly often, with women friends of hers Matt had been particularly kind to, or girls who worked on the paper who came round for drinks, all tarted up, then looked at Cable with dismay, realising the competition. It was all Matt’s fault for paying Imogen so much attention yesterday, as if he honestly believed that by buying her a few clothes he’d get Nicky back for her. She was a drip and Nicky didn’t like drips, and a few sophisticated clothes wouldn’t change that. Cable wasn’t in the least jealous of Imogen. The blazing row she’d had with Matt last night had been followed by the most passionate rapturous love-making. But she didn’t like him singling anyone out for attention. He never bothered with Yvonne like he did with Imogen.

  As she and Matt went upstairs to get her some money, she said quite gently,

  ‘Darling, you must stop leading Imogen on. She’s got a terrible crush on you. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you all morning.’

  Matt sat on the beach beside Imogen, reading the same page over and over again. Ever since he’d woken up he’d been kicking himself, and going round saying damn, damn, damn, damn, like Professor Higgins. Admittedly he’d been smashed out of his mind last night, or he’d never have risked casing Braganzi’s house and putting himself and Imogen in such danger, but he never should have given her that aster, or kissed her good-night. If they hadn’t been interrupted by that fat woman rushing down to the lavatory, heaven knows how far he might have gone. He had his hands full with Cable. He liked Imogen far too muuch to hurt her.

  It was a soft day. The breathing of the sea was remote and gentle; the sky arched a perfect cornflower blue over their heads. But yesterday’s easy camaraderie had vanished. Imogen didn’t seem to be getting on much better with Tristram Shandy either. Matt shut his book.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

  He bought her a Coke and a can of beer for himself, and they wandered along the beach, Imogen gathering shells and popping seaweed. As she popped away he could see her mouth moving – he loves me, he loves me not – and the look of desolation on her face when it came out, he loves me not.

  They examined a dead jellyfish (like a striped red blister), overturned rocks so that little crabs scurried out, and when they walked over the dark wet saffron masses of seaweed covering the rocks, her hand slid into his as trustingly as a child to stop herself slipping. Oh Christ, why had he led her on? He had only meant to be kind.

  They reached the end of the beach, and sat down to cool off under the indigo shadow cast by a huge red rock. He looked at her round innocent face longing to be kissed.

  ‘Imogen, darling?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nearly 20.’

  ‘And how many affairs have you had?’

  ‘None really,’ she blushed. ‘Not bed anyway. I expect I would have with Nicky, but I lost my pills. But I found them again. I took three yesterday,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Well, don’t tell him,’ said Matt, deliberately misreading her offer. ‘Nicky’s no good for you. He’s only interested in conquest, servicing totally compris in fact. He treats birds like French letters, throwing them away as soon as he’s used them.’

  He picked up a handful of sand, letting it drift through his fingers.

  ‘Do you know what you should do after this holiday? Get away from your father and the family and Yorkshire and get a job in London. The paper’s got a terrific library; they sometimes have a vacancy. Would you like me to see if I could get you a job?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, yes.’ To have a chance to see him every day, to cut out his stories every week and file them under ‘O’Connor, Matt’, to do telling research for him whenever he needed help with a story.

  ‘But I don’t really know anyone in London,’ she stammered.

  Matt smiled. ‘You know me and Basil – and Cable.’

  Her fingers, which seemed to be sleepwalking towards his hand, suddenly stopped at the mention of Cable. She took a hasty swig from her tin, leaving a moustache of Coke on her upper lip.

  ‘You should live a little,’ he said very gently. ‘Get more experience. Play the field. Break a few hearts, and have fun. You’ll soon grow out of men like Nicky.’

  ‘I don’t want to play the field,’ she said dolefully.

  ‘Cable and I have been together a long time. We understand each other.’

  He was trying to tell her something, however gently, and she didn’t want to hear it. Keep out of Ireland. Hands off O’Connor. In the heat, he had pushed his damp blond hair back from his sweating forehead, showing the thick horizontal wrinkles, and the laughter lines round his eyes, which were bloodshot from drinking and lack of sleep, the heavy lids swollen. He looked thoroughly seedy and hung over, and every bit of his thirty-two years. But gazing at the battered sexy face she wondered how she could ever have loved anyone else in her life.

  Matt sighed. He wasn’t finding this at all easy. ‘Look, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you last night. I was extremely drunk and I enjoyed it, but I shouldn’t have done it. You’ve had enough flak from Nicky without my putting the boot in.’

  Imogen watched a speedboat shooting by, rearing up thirty degrees out of the water. The noontide sky was the same colour as the sea now; you could hardly distinguish the horizon.

  She leapt to her feet.

  ‘If you’re trying to pretend last night meant anything more to me than a friendly good-night kiss,’ she said, ‘you’re very much mistaken.’

  And, turning away, she ran back down the beach towards the hotel.

  ‘Hell, hell, hell and damnation,’ said Matt.

  A huge pair of dark glasses over her reddened eyes had got her through lunch. She could hardly eat anything, picking away like Cable. She avoided looking at Matt, who wasn’t eating much either. He announced he was going into Marseilles by himself that afternoon, to follow up a tip-off Antoine’s contact had given him at the Bar de la Marine.

  ‘I’ve had quite enough of Marseilles for one day,’ said Cable, who’d had a successful shopping expedition. ‘I’m going to sleep for a few hours. Such an exhausting night, darling,’ she added, running a caressing hand inside Matt’s shirt. Imogen gritted her teeth. Yvonne, looking smug and well bandaged after a trip to the doctor, said the sun was too hot for her foot, and she would like James to drive her to look over a nearby château.

  ‘And Imogen shall come with us,’ insisted James, terrified of being left on his own with Yvonne.

  ‘That’s a good idea, darling,’ said Nicky, running a lazy finger down Imogen’s cheek. ‘I’ve found some passable courts about five miles from here, so I’ll have a workout this afternoon. You go with James and Yvonne. You’ll enjoy it.’

  He was wearing a navy blue T-shirt and white shorts, and Imogen could see the muscles rippling on his thighs and his shoulders, and suddenly she was shot through with sadness, because she had adored him so much and she remembered the ecstatic admiration she had felt when she’d first watched him playing tennis. And now, although she could still appreciate his beauty, he meant nothing to her. Maybe one day she’d feel as indifferently towards Matt.

  ‘I’m cured of Nicky,’ she thought dolefully. ‘Now I’ve got to start again and get over the cure.’
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  In the end, when Cable had gone up to bed and Nicky and Matt had set out, she suddenly felt she couldn’t face Yvonne bitching all afternoon at James and told them she felt like a walk on her own.

  It was very hot. She wandered out of the town up a hill path which began with shallow steps between red and white holiday villas, then became a rough track leading on to wilder heath above the cliffs, not unlike the moors at home. The sea sparkled below and the air had a marvellous sweetness from wild lavender and thyme mingling with the sharper tang of the sea. If only Matt were here all would be perfect, but she mustn’t think of him.

  The path forked. She followed a track leading steeply down. She was pouring with sweat by the time she reached the sea’s edge, picking her way across the jagged red rock, feeling its heat and sharpness even through the soles of her espadrilles. She took off her dress and shoes and dropped in her bikini into the cool green water, hoping it might bring her some relief. She swam out to sea, wondering in a brief despairing moment whether to swim on and on. But they always said you saw your past life again if you drowned, and the past four months had been far too traumatic for her to want a replay.

  She floated for a bit, then swam round into the next cove, climbing back on to the rocks, regaining her breath. Suddenly she could hear the sound of voices and edged her way round the cove, until she could see a beautiful stretch of beach deserted except for one family. She sat down to watch them. A dark-haired, dark-eyed child in a pink sun hat was aimlessly banging a red spade on the ground, and watching his pretty mother and father build him a huge elaborate sandcastle. The girl was wearing a red bikini, the man a shirt and black trousers. He must be baking in this heat.

  Tears filled Imogen’s eyes. They looked so united and happy. She had a sudden fleeting picture of herself and Matt laughing together, building a castle for their own suntanned blond baby.

  The child got unsteadily to its feet and waddled off, clambering on to the rocks, about twenty yards from her. He was so beautiful and fat and brown, she longed to call to him. The parents hadn’t noticed his departure, they were so intent on building their castle. The man was kneeling down tunnelling a moat round the castle, forging a hole under a bridge, keeping the sand firm with his other hand. The girl was laughing and very close to him, bending over to look. The man suddenly turned round, looked at her for a second, and then kissed her, taking her by surprise. For a second she struggled then lay still in his arms, kissing him back. Imogen looked away. The world was like Noah’s ark, everyone in twos, in love with each other, except her. She looked back at the child, then gave a strangled cry of horror. He was teetering on the edge of the rocks now, looking down into the deep water, where more sharp wicked rocks lay beneath the weed below. The next minute he had overbalanced and fallen in.

  Imogen gave a scream.

  ‘He’s fallen in!’ she yelled to the couple, who looked round at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Vite vite!’ she went on in her schoolgirl French, ‘Il a tombé.’

  Frozen with horror, neither of them moved. The only thing to do was to plunge into the water herself, swimming round the rocks to where she could see the little pink sunhat bobbing on top of the water. The current was suddenly terrifyingly strong, tugging her in every direction. When she dived under, frantically searching around, all she could feel was thick weed, and sharp rocks jagging her legs. She surfaced gasping, to find the man swimming in her direction, followed by the hysterically screaming mother.

  ‘Ici,’ she called to them shaking her hair out of her eyes. ‘He’s down here.’ And she plunged down under the surface again. Next time she came up for air, choking and spluttering, the father had reached her, his face ashen, the mother followed him, frantically dog-paddling, still yelling hysterically.

  Over and over again, they all dived down. He can’t be still alive, thought Imogen despairingly, then suddenly between two rocks, she felt something soft, she tugged and tugged, but the object seemed wedged by the weed. She surfaced once more, her ears drumming.

  ‘I think he’s down here,’ she spluttered. ‘I can’t shift him.’

  Taking a huge breath, she plunged under once more and this time managed to catch the child’s hair, and then one arm, and just as she thought her lungs would explode, she dislodged him, and lugged him to the surface. His eyes were shut, his mouth open.

  The mother redoubled her sobs.

  ‘Help me,’ gasped Imogen, taking great shuddering gulps of air.

  She was so exhausted now, the child felt like lead in her arms.

  The father took the weight from her, and together they towed him to the shore, with the mother screaming behind them. They laid the child on the sand, and the man started pummelling and pumping at his chest.

  ‘Let me do it,’ said Imogen, frantically trying to remember her first aid classes. First you had to jerk back their heads to see if the wind pipe was blocked. It didn’t seem to be. Then bending down, she put her lips to the slack little mouth, and slowly started breathing into it. He felt so cold and lifeless. She had a terrible feeling they were too late. She was so worn out by diving, it was almost impossible to keep her breathing even. She tried to ignore the hysterical ranting of the mother.

  It seemed for an eternity she laboured, but it was obviously hopeless, not a flicker of response, there was no point in going on. She willed herself to continue, she could feel the sun burning into her back, then suddenly, miraculously, there was a faint flutter in the child’s chest, and slowly she could feel his lungs expanding like a bellows, and gradually with agonising slowness he took up the breathing of his own accord.

  Imogen knelt back on her heels, feeling dizzy, the next minute the child opened bloodshot eyes, gave a sob, and was violently sick.

  ‘He’s going to be all right,’ said Imogen.

  The mother’s hysterics incomprehensibly increased. Imogen noticed a trickle of blood on her left leg where she had jagged it on the rocks.

  ‘Ferme ta gueule,’ snarled the father, still looking grey with fear. A fat lot of help they’re being, thought Imogen. She reached for a towel, cleaned the child’s face, and gently began to dry him.

  ‘He’ll be OK honestly,’ she said, wrapping another towel round him. They still seemed incapable of movement.

  ‘You must get him home at once,’ she urged them as though speaking to children, ‘and keep him warm and very quiet, and call the doctor immediately.’ The man began to gibber his thanks.

  ‘Honestly, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘You’re probably suffering from shock too,’ she added to the snivelling mother. ‘But he’s all right, really he is.’

  ‘But how did you come to be here?’ said the father in very broken English. ‘Didn’t you know the beach was private?’

  ‘Oh, goodness. No I didn’t. I’m so sorry. But look, the important thing now is to get him home.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ asked the father slowly.

  ‘In Port-les-Pins.’ She picked up the shivering child in his towel and handed him to the father. ‘At once, go home. C’est très important.’

  Only after she’d got dressed and begun the long walk home did she realise how much the incident had shaken her. She must go back to the hotel and tell someone. Her thoughts veered towards Matt and then away. Matt was out of bounds and belonged to Cable. Perhaps Madame was in; she was always good for a gossip. But when she reached the hotel, she heard the ricochet of bullets and the thunder of horses’ hooves coming from Madame’s room behind the reception desk – the family must be stuck into some television Western. Then she saw Nicky’s key was missing from its hook; he must be back.

  She ran upstairs and knocked gently on his door; there was no answer. She knocked again. Perhaps he was asleep. She tried the handle and the door opened. The shower was going. He couldn’t have heard her. Then she saw Cable lying naked on the bed, her beautiful breasts poking up in the air. She was smoking a cigarette and laughing and saying something to Nicky, who was obviously in the shower, because he sho
uted back something Imogen couldn’t hear and Cable laughed even more.

  Imogen shut the door and ran down the corridor. Her legs felt completely weak. Her body was one burning blush. Oh, poor, poor Matt; he loved Cable, and she could do this to him. And Nicky, allegedly his great friend, pretending he was going off to practise tennis. What on earth would happen if he came back from Marseilles and caught them at it?

  In a state of complete shock she wandered round and round the town, then went and sat trembling on the beach. A sailing boat was putting out. She noticed how pretty its red sails looked against the darkening blue of the sea, and the soft ochre of the sand. She wished she were on that boat escaping from all the turmoil and cross-currents and the misery.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was suddenly aware of a clock striking seven and, turning round, saw that the tables at the bars along the front were filling up. It was part of the Port-les-Pins ritual. Every night you sat and drank and commented on the beautiful people drifting along the street on foot or driving slowly by in open cars. Often they merely paraded to one end of the beach, turned round and walked back again, over and over again, so everyone could admire them. Reluctantly she decided she had better be getting back.

  The rock that overhung the bay was turning rose red in the sunset; the cypress trees reared up stiff as cats’ tails against the glowing sky; the sea was veiled in an amethyst haze.

  To her horror the first people she saw were Nicky and Cable drinking vodka and tonics under a Coca-Cola umbrella which gave a faint red glow to their sunburnt faces. Cable was wearing a white lace top tied under her breasts, with matching lace Bermudas which would have made anyone else look fat. Her long expanse of midriff was as smooth and brown as mahogany. Nicky was wearing white trousers and a grey cashmere sweater, his black curls still hanging in wet tendrils from the shower. They both looked superbly indolent, replete and handsome, like two panthers after feeding time.

  Blushing crimson, aware of her tousled hair and unkempt appearance, Imogen tried to creep past them, but Nicky saw her and called out: