Imogen

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘And an awful lot of holes,’ said Matt drily.

  ‘Do you do any nude work?’ Tracey asked Yvonne.

  ‘I couldn’t do that sort of thing,’ said Yvonne in a shocked voice.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be discouraged,’ said Tracey kindly. ‘I used to be as flat as a board like you too. Then my manager said, “Tracey, why don’t you get some decent tits?” He’s got this doctor friend who can give you boobs like Sophia Loren. So I went and saw him. The operation was a bit of a drag, but the after-effect was terrific. These are just silicone,’ she said, patting her jutting bosom fondly. ‘But I’ve never looked back since. I’ll give you the address of the doctor if you like. Pity not to be able to take your clothes off when it’s so lucrative.’

  For once Yvonne was completely at a loss for words.

  Glancing across, Imogen saw that Matt was crying with laughter.

  ‘Where did you really find her?’ he said to Gilmore, wiping his eyes.

  ‘Came to me as a temp. Types 30 words a minute and spells Laurence with a W all the time, but any girl with a body like that deserves to make it in life.’

  ‘Can’t think what she’s doing with you.’

  ‘She obviously wants to marry her grandfather.’

  Yvonne leant across to Cable. ‘I don’t think that girl’s married to Larry Gilmore at all,’ she hissed.

  ‘We ought to eat soon,’ said Larry, lifting up one of Tracey’s silver breasts which was hanging over his watch. ‘It’s nearly half past nine.’

  ‘I’ll get the bill,’ said Matt, tipping back his chair and waving to a waitress. Then suddenly – Imogen could never remember exactly how it happened – the bustling, noisy street went absolutely quiet. Waiters stopped in their tracks with trays held aloft, a man carrying a basket of fish up from the quay dropped it with a crash on the ground and stood motionless as though hypnotised, conversations all along the front slithered to a halt, a poodle barked and was angrily hushed, a child cried and was clouted. Everyone had turned towards the end of the street. Somehow the fear and anticipation had infected even the rowdiest holidaymaker. The only sound was the swish of the waves, and faint complaining of the seagulls. It was like High Noon. And then Imogen saw him, strolling lazily down the street towards them chewing on a cigar, a little bald man wearing dark glasses, a black shirt and ill-fitting white trousers, and apparently in no hurry. But even in his leisureliness there was tension.

  ‘Braganzi,’ hissed Matt.

  ‘Christ, I wish I had a camera,’ muttered Larry.

  He was only a couple of tables away now, everyone smiling sycophantically. The same poodle growled and was kicked again.

  ‘He’s making for this table,’ said Cable, shaking back her hair and licking her lips in anticipation. ‘Perhaps he’s coming to say you can do a piece on him.’

  ‘More likely to warn us off,’ said Matt.

  Imogen watched him, mesmerised. It wasn’t often you saw a legend that close.

  He reached their table now, and paused, taking them all in. Then he took out his cigar and ground it into the pavement.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said in a very strong Italian accent. ‘I look for Mees Brocklehurst.’

  Imogen gasped in terror and threw a supplicating glance in Matt’s direction.

  ‘What d’you want her for,’ said Matt sharply.

  ‘May I present myself,’ said the little man softly. ‘My name is Enrico Braganzi.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Matt.

  ‘I would simply like to talk to Miss Brocklehurst.’ He smiled, showing several gold stoppings.

  Nicky put a protecting hand on Imogen’s arm.

  ‘This is her,’ he said.

  Braganzi removed his dark glasses. His eyes were hooded, watchful, very, very dark. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he asked, ‘were you by any chance swimming round the rocks to the Petite Plage today?’

  Imogen gazed down, hoping the ground might swallow her up.

  ‘Were you, lovie?’ said Matt gently.

  She knew the whole beach was watching her.

  ‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It was so pretty. I just wanted to be on my own for a bit. I didn’t realise it was private.’

  ‘Please, Mademoiselle.’ Braganzi held up a beautifully manicured hand, heavy with gold rings. ‘I have only come to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my little boy’s life.’

  ‘I what?’ said Imogen, bewildered.

  ‘You saved him from drowning, and then bring him back to life.’

  ‘He was your child?’ whispered Imogen. ‘But I thought he belonged to that couple.’

  ‘That couple,’ said Braganzi in a voice that sent shivers down Imogen’s spine, ‘were the child’s nanny and one of my guards.’

  So that was why the girl was sobbing so hysterically, even after the child was revived – from terror of Braganzi.

  ‘The girl came back to the house and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Fortunately another of my men had seen everything through binoculars from the house. You were too far away for him to help. When he arrived you had gone. He said you display amazing courage and presence of mind for one so young.’

  ‘Oh gosh, it was nothing,’ muttered Imogen. ‘Anyone would have done it.’

  ‘But they did not,’ he went on. ‘The child would have died if it had not been for you, Mademoiselle. I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ she muttered once again, scuffing the ground with her foot. ‘Is he all right now?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. The doctor’s been, and a specialist. The Duchess was frantic, but they reassured her that all was well. Ricky is sleeping now. The Duchess is naturally still very shaken, but she would very much like to meet you.’

  ‘Oh, really, she doesn’t have to. I mean . . .’ Imogen stammered, terrified at the prospect.

  ‘Please, Mademoiselle. It will mean so much to her. She wishes to thank you personally. I have my car here. May I drive you up to the house?’

  Imogen looked at Matt beseechingly, but he was shaking with laughter.

  ‘You are a dark horse, darling.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ said Nicky.

  ‘We probably didn’t ask her,’ said Matt.

  Imogen turned to Braganzi. ‘All right, I’d like to come.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Braganzi turned and raised a hand. It was the first time Imogen had noticed the tattoos on his thick, muscular arms. Next moment a black car that seemed as long as the beach glided up to them.

  A chauffeur got out and opened the door for them. As she climbed inside Imogen felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She wondered if she’d ever see the others again.

  ‘Where did you learn your first aid?’ asked Braganzi as the car climbed the hill. ‘Are you nurse?’

  Imogen told him about working in a library, and someone having to do a first aid course. ‘I grumbled like mad at the time, and I was awfully bored, but I’m very glad I did now.’

  ‘So indeed are we, Mademoiselle. Can I please tell you something, now we are alone a few minutes? You know perhaps a little about the Duchess and me?’

  Imogen nodded.

  ‘When she leave England to come to me, she had to leave her children too. I am not considered suitable stepfather, you understand. Nor are the children allowed to visit us, although we are fighting court battle. Camilla misses the children, although she doesn’t show it, so all her love has gone into little Ricky. She had him late in life. We both did. He is – how you say it? – an autumn crocus. She is forty-three now. When she had Ricky she nearly died and the doctors later insisted on a hysterectomy; so it’s no more children for either of us. Now you can appreciate how important Ricky is to both of us, and what you have done by saving his life.’

  Imogen glanced up and saw that his dark eyes were full of tears, and knew that she was no longer afraid of him.

  ‘How did you track me down?’

  ‘I have, how you say,
impeccable spy system.’

  Imogen was very nervous about meeting the Duchess. But one glance at that lovely ravished face, with its brilliant grey eyes which were still red from crying, and all her fears vanished.

  The Duchess walked forward quickly and took both Imogen’s hands, and then kissed her on both cheeks, saying in a choked voice,

  ‘I can never begin to thank you. I really don’t know how to start.’ But she was so friendly and natural and incredibly grateful that, after a few minutes, armed with a large glass of whisky, Imogen began to feel she really had done something rather good after all. They sat on the terrace, chatting twenty to the dozen together, and breathing in the heavy scent of the tobacco plants and the night-scented stock and later they went up and looked at little Ricky asleep in his cot in his pale blue bedroom, a Basil Brush on the pillow beside him. His cheeks were pinker now, his black hair flopped over his forehead. The Duchess moved round the room on tiptoe, straightening his bedclothes, adjusting the pillow, arranging toys, and checking the heat of his forehead with her hand.

  ‘He looks much better,’ said Imogen.

  ‘He does, doesn’t he? The doctor says there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to keep checking.’

  As they went downstairs Imogen noticed a Picasso, a Modigliani and a Matisse on the wall. Braganzi was waiting for them.

  ‘All right, darling?’ he said, taking the Duchess’s hand. He must have been three or four inches smaller than her, but somehow his width of shoulder and force of personality made it seem as though he was protecting some infinitely fragile object.

  ‘Miss Brocklehurst must be hungry. Shall we eat now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. How awful of me.’ The Duchess turned, smiling, to Imogen. ‘You will stay, won’t you? We see so few people here, and there are so many things I want to ask you about your holiday and about England.’

  ‘But you must be far too exhausted after such a terrible shock,’ stammered Imogen, terrified her table manners wouldn’t be ducal enough. But in the end they persuaded her and she found she was absolutely famished. All her worries about her table manners vanished when she saw Braganzi falling on his food like a starved dingo, elbows on the table, taking great swigs of wine with his mouth full, and picking away at his teeth.

  They had some kind of fish mousse, then delicious chicken. If the Duchess and Braganzi both picked their bones, Imogen supposed it was all right if she did too.

  ‘And who did you come out here with?’ asked the Duchess.

  ‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’

  ‘The tennis player? Oh, he’s frightfully glamorous. I’ve admired him at Wimbledon so often.’

  ‘And he thinks you’re marvellous too,’ said Imogen, her mouth full of fried potatoes.

  ‘How lovely.’ The Duchess looked pleased. ‘So you’re both having a wonderful holiday?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Imogen.

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Braganzi. ‘What was Mr Beresford doing leaving you alone on a hot summer afternoon?’

  ‘He – er he – it’s really very boring,’ faltered Imogen, but she was so longing to tell someone.

  ‘Go on,’ said the Duchess. ‘Enrico and I have so little excitement.’

  And then the whole awful story came pouring out. ‘We came in a party,’ said Imogen, ‘but it was quite obvious even before we left London that Nicky had fallen for one of the other girls.’

  ‘Did she come with a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Matthew O’Connor.’

  ‘He’s a journalist, isn’t he, a very good one?’ said the Duchess. ‘When I can face the English Sundays I always read him.’

  ‘He’s terribly nice,’ said Imogen, flushing.

  ‘Then why don’t you do a swap?’ said the Duchess.

  ‘He loves Cable, this other girl. He just ignores her and waits for her to come back. Occasionally they have terrible rows, but he realises she’s only doing it, well, to make him keener on her.’

  ‘How very complicated,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘O’Connor seemed quite keen on you the other night outside,’ said Braganzi drily.

  Imogen went crimson.

  ‘How do you know?’ she stammered.

  ‘Enrico knows everything,’ said the Duchess with pride.

  Goodness, thought Imogen, darting a startled glance at Braganzi, so he knew Matt and I were casing his house all the time.

  They had their coffee on the terrace. The night was black now, sprinkled with huge stars. The fireflies darted above the tobacco plants and the Duchess bombarded Imogen with more questions, about her holiday, about her home in Yorkshire and then about England in general. Imogen suddenly realised it was very late.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Not yet. Enrico will take you back. Darling, go upstairs and just check if Ricky is all right.’

  When he had gone, Imogen turned shyly to the Duchess.

  ‘What a sweet man he is,’ she said. ‘I never dreamt he’d be so kind.’

  The Duchess’s face lit up. ‘You think so? I’m so pleased. People in England find it quite incomprehensible that I threw up everything to run off with him.’

  ‘I understand it perfectly,’ said Imogen stoutly. She was suddenly aware she was more than a little drunk.

  ‘I’d give anything to go home for a few weeks,’ said the Duchess, ‘but Enrico would be arrested the moment he set foot in England.’ Suddenly she looked very tired and shadowed under the eyes. ‘I miss the children horribly. Alexander, my ex-husband, won’t let me near them in case they are corrupted by Enrico. Corrupted, indeed! If the courts knew what an immoral creature Alexander was!’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Oh, that’s enough about me,’ said the Duchess lightly. ‘Let’s talk about you. What can we possibly do to repay you? You have some days left of your holiday. We go back to Paris on Saturday. Why not leave the coast and Mr Beresford – it’s too hot anyway – and come back with us? We would love to show you round Paris.’

  ‘Oh no, really not,’ cried Imogen. Suddenly the thought of being whisked away from Matt, however little he felt about her, was more than she could bear. ‘It’s terribly kind,’ she added to soften her outburst. ‘Honestly, rescuing him was enough, knowing you’re pleased.’

  ‘There must be something you’d like.’

  Suddenly Imogen’s heart beat faster. ‘There is just one thing,’ she said. ‘Matt – more than anything else in the world he wants an interview with your husband. He’s been trying to get one ever since we came out here. He’s really a very responsible journalist. He wouldn’t . . .’ Her words faltered. She was about to say ‘bitch him up’, then thought it seemed rude.

  The Duchess looked dubious. But at that moment Braganzi returned. ‘The little one is fine,’ he said.

  For a moment they chattered to each other in Italian, the Duchess still looking worried.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Imogen. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. It was horribly presumptuous.’

  ‘It is difficult in Enrico’s position,’ explained the Duchess. ‘He is worried that anything Mr O’Connor says about him will prejudice my chances of seeing the children again.’

  ‘Oh well, of course. I should have thought,’ stammered Imogen.

  Braganzi went over to the window and threw out his cigar into the garden. Then he turned round and smiled at Imogen.

  ‘It is a very little thing, in return for what you have done for us. Tell him to come at ten o’clock. But he must let me see what he is going to print. That is the only condition. He is an honourable man?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, of course he is. He is very honourable,’ she said joyfully, thinking how pleased Matt would be. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I really must go now.’ She couldn’t wait to get back to Port-les-Pins and break the news to him.

  The Duchess kissed her very affectionately, saying, ‘Write to us in Paris and let me know how the holiday progresses.’<
br />
  Braganzi rode back with her in the car.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she found herself saying, ‘and the Duchess is so wonderful. I think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘She is,’ said Braganzi. ‘She likes you too. She is very isolated now, you understand. She gave up so much when she left England for me.’

  ‘But she gained so much.’

  Braganzi sighed. ‘I hope so. But you will come and stay with us perhaps next year, and we see that you have a better holiday.’

  He took her address in Yorkshire. What would her father say if he could see her now, thought Imogen with a giggle, hob-nobbing with one of the most notorious criminals in France.

  The chauffeur was driving along the front now. Although it was long after midnight, people were still drinking in the cafés.

  Imogen wondered where the others were; probably smashed out of their minds in some nightclub, or perhaps they were at the Casino. It would be awful if they’d gone to bed. It was almost as though Braganzi had read her thoughts:

  ‘There’s your friend Mr O’Connor keeping an eye out for you,’ he said, as the car drew to a halt, and he leaned across and opened the door for her. Then he smiled as he saw how Imogen’s face had lit up. ‘That pleases you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘D’you want to meet him now?’ said Imogen, as she saw Matt get to his feet and walk towards them.

  Braganzi shook his head. ‘Tomorrow will do, and tell him to bring Larry Gilmore with him. He can take some pictures of Camilla and Ricky.’

  ‘But I didn’t even tell you Larry was here,’ said Imogen in amazement. ‘You really know everything, don’t you?’

  ‘I do my rich best,’ said Braganzi modestly. ‘Goodbye and once again thank you for everything,’ and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and Imogen could see exactly why the Duchess had given up everything for him.

  She waved as the car moved away. The next moment Matt was beside her.

  ‘What was that hood doing mauling you like that?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Just saying good-bye.’

  ‘Was that all he did?’ His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t read its expression, but his fingers were hard and painful on her arm.