by Jilly Cooper
‘Yes,’ said Imogen, listening to the lambs bleating in the field behind the house, and praying that Nicky wasn’t enjoying his party too much. ‘I say, Juliet,’ she felt herself blushing, ‘it did happen, didn’t it? This afternoon I mean.’
‘Course it did,’ said Juliet. ‘Even Daddy got the wind up and whisked you home. Normally he’d never leave in the middle of a match.’
When she got home Imogen washed her hair, undressed and got into bed. Then she filled the rest of May and the whole of June in her diary ecstatically describing her meeting with Nicky, shivering with excitement and wonder at the imperious way he’d dismissed Yorkshire Television, and told his partner to appeal against the light to give him more time with her.
Why me? why me? she kept saying over and over again, burying her hot face in her pillow, and squirming with delight. She must get some sleep or she’d look terrible in the morning. But it only seemed a few seconds later that she was woken by Homer barking at the paper boy and the church bell tolling for Holy Communion, and the Sunday morning panic of her father calling from the depth of the hot cupboard that he couldn’t find a clean shirt.
Chapter Two
Imogen sat clutching a cup of black coffee at breakfast. The vicar, mopping up egg yolk with fried bread, was deep in the sports pages of the Sunday Times, while Juliet, who was eating toast and marmalade, peered across at the headlines.
‘What a dreadful world,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t think I shall ever live to see twenty-one.’
‘What are we having for lunch?’ asked Imogen.
‘Macaroni cheese, plum tart and custard and then, I suppose more cheese,’ said her mother vaguely.
‘But we can’t give him that!’ said Juliet aghast. ‘I mean he’s famous. Can’t we have a joint?’
‘I’m afraid the shops aren’t open on Sunday,’ said her mother. ‘I’ll try and persuade Daddy to open a bottle of wine.’
Imogen wondered how on earth she could last through the morning. But in the end there seemed to be lots to do, frantic hoovering and dusting, bashing lilac stems and arranging them with irises in a big bowl in the drawing-room, laying the table, trying and failing to find matching wine glasses, making a crumble top to liven up the plums, mixing a dressing for the salad, and praying that the vicar, who disapproved of frivolous culinary refinements, wouldn’t notice the addition of garlic. Then she had to go to Matins. It was a beautiful day. The cuckoo was calling from the beech wood beyond the churchyard, and the trees were putting out acid green leaves against a heavy navy blue sky, which promised rain later.
‘Defend us with thy mighty power, and grant that this day we run into no sin,’ prayed the vicar, addressing the congregation in a ringing voice.
Juliet grinned and nudged Imogen, who went pink and gazed straight in front of her. She had already prayed fervently to God to grant her Nicky, but only, she added hastily, if He thought it was all right.
Her father was getting to his feet. A hymn and a sermon and another hymn, thought Imogen thankfully, and they would be out in the sunshine again. She mustn’t forget to pick up the cream for the crumble from the farm.
Then she gave a gasp of horror, for she saw that her father, with what seemed a suspiciously malicious glance at their pew, was walking over to the Litany desk.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Juliet. ‘We had the Litany last week. Beresford will have come and gone by the time we get out of here.’
‘And what about my pie in the oven?’ muttered Mrs Connolly, their daily woman, who was sitting in the pew behind. The congregation knelt down sulkily.
Never had Imogen found it more difficult to concentrate on her imperfections.
‘From fornication, and all other deadly sin; and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil,’ intoned the vicar.
‘Good Lord, deliver us,’ Imogen chorused listlessly with the rest of the congregation. Oh, why hadn’t she had a bath beforehand?
‘From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence and . . .’
The sun was shining outside the church, but inside it was freezing. The vicar, who never felt the cold, insisted on turning off the radiators in April. It was twenty past twelve by the time she got home, and Nicky was due at a quarter to one. To warm herself up, she had far too hot a bath.
Having tried on every dress in her wardrobe, and hating them all, she settled for a black sweater and skirt which at least slimmed her down a bit. Her legs looked red and fat through her pale stockings. If only she’d got out of the bath sooner. There was no doubt, she thought sadly, if there was less of you, people thought more of you.
Going out of her room, she nearly fell over Juliet who was lying on the floor in the passage pulling up the zip on her jeans.
‘How do I look?’ said Juliet, scrambling to her feet.
‘Familiar,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s my shirt.’
Juliet looked her over critically.
‘You look nice, but I think you should tone down some of that rouge.’
‘It’s not rouge,’ sighed Imogen, ‘it’s me.’
It was five to one. Imogen checked that everything was all right in the kitchen and went into the drawing-room to wait. She picked up the colour magazine. There was a long piece on Katherine Mansfield, which she vowed to read later, but knew she never would. She had read the report of a tournament in Hamburg three times at breakfast, particularly the bit about ‘The British contribution being severely weakened by the absence of Beresford, who was playing at Pikely, where he triumphed in the singles, doubles and mixed doubles, as was to be expected.’ Nicky was so illustrious, it was as though the sun was coming to lunch. Once more she got her compact out of her bag, and powdered her pink cheeks with more energy than success. Oh, to have been born pale and interesting.
It was five past one now. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all, perhaps after all that winning he’d forgotten or met someone at the party last night. She put down the magazine and wandered nervously round the room rearranging the lilac, plumping cushions, straightening Juliet’s music which was littered over the top of the piano.
The clock that had dawdled all morning suddenly started to gallop; it was edging towards a quarter past one now. Her father always kicked up a fuss if lunch was late. It was quite obvious Nicky wasn’t coming. I can’t bear it, she thought in anguish. Then suddenly she heard the rattle of a car on the sheep track and Homer barking.
Next minute her hands went to her face in terror and excitement, then frantically she smoothed her hair, pulled down her sweater and put on more scent, most of which went over the carpet. In a panic, she rushed into the hall and locked herself into the downstairs lavatory. Next moment Juliet was shaking the door.
‘Come out quickly. Nicky’s just rolled up in a Porsche looking too fantastic for words. Go and let him in.’
‘I can’t,’ squeaked Imogen. ‘You go.’
‘I’m putting on the broccoli, and Mummy’s still tarting up. Go on, he’s your lover.’
Imogen came out wiping her sweating hands on her skirt. She could see a man’s figure through the bubbly glass panel of the front door. The bell rang.
‘Anyone for tennis players?’ cried Juliet.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Imogen.
‘Go on. He’ll think we’ve forgotten and go away.’
With a trembling hand Imogen opened the door. Nicky was bending down to pat Homer, who was wagging his blond plumy tail and carrying a stick.
‘You’re not much of a watchdog,’ said Nicky, rubbing his ears. ‘Hullo, angel.’ He straightened up and smiled at her. ‘Sorry I’m late. I took a wrong turning and got stuck behind a convoy of Sunday motorists.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s lovely to see you,’ said Imogen.
She had wondered if he’d look less glamorous out of tennis things, like sailors out of uniform, but he looked even better, wearing a scarlet shirt which set off his suntan, and jeans which clung to his lean muscular hips even more tightly than Juliet’s.
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‘Come in here,’ she muttered, going towards the drawing-room. Nicky stepped forward to open the door for her, reaching the handle the same time as she did, letting his hand linger on hers far longer than necessary.
‘Would you like a glass of sherry?’ she said. ‘It’s quite dry.’
‘I’d prefer beer, if you’ve got some. I’m supposed to be in training.’
‘I’ll go and get it. Won’t be a second.’
‘Don’t be, I’ll miss you,’ said Nicky, picking up the paper and turning to the sports page.
Imogen rushed into the kitchen. Fortunately there were six Long Life in the fridge.
‘How’s it going?’ said Juliet, dropping broccoli spears into boiling water.
‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen rushing out, nearly falling over Homer. ‘Promise you won’t leave me alone with him too long.’
‘What I like about this house is its relaxed atmosphere,’ said Juliet.
‘Nastase won at Hamburg,’ said Nicky, putting down the paper and taking the can and a glass from Imogen.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes, he’s a great mate of mine.’
He walked over to the french windows.
‘This is a lovely house.’
‘It’s a bit scruffy,’ said Imogen, acutely aware of the worn carpets, the cat-shredded armchairs and the faded red cutains, which had shrunk in the wash and hung three inches above the window ledge.
Nicky, however, used to the impersonality of hotel bedrooms, only noticed the booklined walls, the friendly dog, the fat tabby cat asleep on the piles of music on top of the piano, the Church Times scrumpled up under the logs in the fireplace, waiting to be lit on a cold night, and the apple trees snowed under with blossom at the end of the garden.
‘It’s a family house,’ he said. ‘My father was in the army so I spent my childhood being humped from one married quarter to another. I always longed for a real home.’
He glanced across at Imogen, gazing at him with such compassion. He had also seen how deeply moved and delighted she’d been when he arrived. He was touched. He liked this solemn little girl with the huge eyes.
‘You smell marvellous,’ he said, moving towards her.
‘It’s not me, it’s the carpet,’ confessed Imogen.
There was a pause. What could she say next? If only she had the badinage and ready-made phrases like Juliet or Gloria.
‘Lunch won’t be long,’ she stammered, as Nicky sat down on the sofa. ‘Would you like some peanuts?’
‘No thank you,’ said Nicky softly, ‘I want five minutes alone with you. Come and sit beside me.’ He patted the sofa.
Imogen sat down. There was another pause. She stared at her hands, aware that he was watching her. Then they both jumped out of their skin as the large tabby cat leapt off the Beethoven Sonatas on to the treble keys of the piano, and proceeded to plink plonk his way down to the bass clef, and walk with dignity out of the french windows.
They both burst out laughing. It broke the ice.
‘Was it a nice party, last night?’ asked Imogen.
‘How could it be? You weren’t there,’ said Nicky. ‘I drank too much cheap wine, and nearly came and broke up your whist drive.’
‘I wish you had,’ said Imogen wistfully. ‘When d’you go to Rome?’
‘Tonight. I’m driving straight to Heathrow from here. Might reach the quarter finals this year. I’ve got an easy draw.’
And a friend of Nastase’s too, thought Imogen.
‘Doesn’t it frighten you, so much success so early?’ she asked.
Nicky laughed softly with pleasure. She’d fed him the right cue.
‘I don’t frighten easily,’ he said, taking her hand and spreading the fingers out on his thigh.
She heard a step outside and, terrified it might be her father, snatched her hand away, but it was only her mother in a crumpled flowered dress, smelling faintly of mothballs, which she’d obviously just got out of the drawer. There was also too much powder on one side of her nose.
‘Mr Beresford, how nice to see you,’ she said, teetering forward on uncomfortable and unfamiliar high heels. ‘Has Imogen given you a drink? She’s awfully forgetful.’
Oh God, thought Imogen, I do hope she’s not going to be too embarrassing.
‘She’s looked after me beautifully,’ said Nicky, as Mrs Brocklehurst helped herself to a glass of sherry, ‘and I love your house.’
She was followed by Juliet, who sat on the piano stool, patting Homer and grinning at Nicky.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘That’s a nice dog,’ said Nicky. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Homer,’ said Juliet. ‘Short for Homersexual. He’s always mounting male dogs.’
‘Really darling, that’s not true,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst mildly.
‘Who plays the piano?’ asked Nicky.
‘I do,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m thinking of taking up the cello as my second instrument.’ And next moment she was bombarding Nicky with questions about tennis stars. Was Nastase as difficult as everyone made out, and Stan Smith as dead-pan as he looked, and did Borg have lots of girls?
To have a better look at Nicky, Mrs Brocklehurst removed her spectacles, leaving a red mark on the bridge of her nose. Goodness, she thought, he really is a very good looking young man, and he seems nice too.
‘What’s Connors like?’ said Juliet.
‘Darling, poor Nicky,’ remonstrated her mother. ‘Give him a chance and go and mash the potatoes. Daddy’ll be in in a minute. When did you first decide to become a tennis player?’ she said to Nicky.
‘When I was a child I used to go down to the courts at seven o’clock in the morning, hanging around hoping for a chance to play. Every time I seemed to get a rapport with a coach my father was posted somewhere else. I used to spend hours playing imaginary matches with myself hitting a ball against the garage door.’
‘How splendid! I suppose if one wants to do anything badly enough in life, one usually does.’
‘I like to think so,’ said Nicky, shooting an unashamedly undressing glance in Imogen’s direction, and rubbing his foot against hers behind the safety of an occasional table.
The vicar came in, rubbing his hands and looking quite benevolent, spectacles on his nose.
‘Ah, good morning Nicholas. Lunch not ready yet? Preaching’s thirsty work, you know.’
‘It won’t be a minute,’ said his wife soothingly. ‘Juliet’s just doing the potatoes.’
‘Is there time for a quick look round the garden?’ asked Nicky.
‘Of course,’ said the vicar with alacrity. ‘Bring your drink out.’
‘What a nice young man,’ said her mother.
‘Unbelievable,’ sighed Imogen.
There was an embarrassing moment before lunch.
‘I expect you’d like a wash,’ said the vicar, pointing to the door of the downstairs lavatory. He always liked male visitors in particular to go in there so they could admire his old England and Harlequin rugger groups hanging on the wall.
‘I’m not sure there’s any loo paper,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.
‘There wasn’t,’ said Juliet, crossing the hall with the macaroni cheese, ‘so I tore some pages out of the parish mag.’
Lunch, however, was a success. Nicky had two helpings of macaroni cheese which pleased Mrs Brocklehurst, talked at length to the vicar about the British Lions and regaled them with gossip about tennis players and the various celebrities he’d bumped into on the circuit.
‘I’m afraid I’m talking too much,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst eagerly. ‘We lead such sheltered lives in Pikely. Fancy Virginia Wade reading Henry James between matches!’
‘Have you really met Rod Stewart!’ sighed Juliet.
The vicar surprisingly opened a second bottle of wine.
‘I wish we could have wine at the Mothers’ Union,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It would make things so much less sticky.�
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‘What about hash rock cakes?’ said Juliet, taking a slug of wine.
‘Eat up, Imogen,’ snapped the vicar. She was still struggling with her first helping. The food seemed to choke her.
‘Picking away like a sparrow,’ went on the vicar, his voice taking on a bullying tone, ‘or more like a crow in that colour. I do wish young people wouldn’t wear black.’
Imogen bit her lip.
‘Bastard,’ thought Nicky. He turned to the vicar. ‘How d’you think England’ll do against the West Indies?’ That should keep the old bugger gassing for a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined Imogen, mentally undressing her. He would take her later in the heather, and be very gentle and reassuring. He was certain she was a virgin.
‘They ought to bring back Dexter,’ the vicar was saying.
‘Don’t bother to finish, Imogen,’ whispered her mother. ‘I should clear if I were you.’
Thankfully Imogen gathered up the macaroni cheese and the plates. As she took Nicky’s he stroked the back of her leg, the one farthest away from the vicar.
She went into the kitchen and, licking macaroni cheese off her fingers, dumped the plates in the sink. She picked up a drying-up cloth, bent down and opened the oven door. As she was just easing out the plum crumble, she heard a step behind her.
‘Isn’t he the most utterly fantastic man you’ve ever seen?’ she murmured from the depths of the oven.
‘Glad you think so,’ said a husky voice behind her. Appalled, she swung round. Nicky, holding a vegetable dish in each hand, was standing, laughing, in the doorway. The crumble was burning her through the drying-up cloth. She shoved it down on the kitchen table. Nicky put down the dishes and ran a finger caressingly down her cheek.
‘Sweetheart, you must learn not to blush. It’s terribly pretty, but it’ll give you away to your unspeakable father.’
Imogen, terrified he’d try and kiss her when she tasted of macaroni cheese, hastily handed him the plates.
‘We must go back.’
But Nicky waited in the doorway, holding the plates and still grinning at her. Imogen stared fixedly at the door hinge, where generations had cracked the paint screwing off the tops of refractory bottles.