by Jilly Cooper
Imogen didn’t say much; she was too busy taking it all in. But there was a bad moment when Nicky suddenly put his hand on her thigh and she jumped so much that her fork fell on to the floor, taking most of her spaghetti with it. Nicky was insane with irritation, but Matt just laughed and ordered her some more. He was very funny throughout dinner and Imogen found herself liking him more and more.
Cable she was less sure of – sitting there picking at her food, examining her reflection in her spoon, looking at Nicky with those sly green eyes.
‘Sophia Loren was in here last week,’ she said, ‘just sitting over there, wearing the most incredible plunging neckline.’
‘I went to the gents fifteen times during dinner, just so I could look down it,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll get the bill,’ he said, seeing Imogen was nearly falling off her chair with exhaustion.
‘It’s only midnight,’ said Cable. ‘Can’t we have some brandy?’
‘Some of us who do a decent week’s work get tired on Friday.’
‘I work,’ snapped Cable. ‘I went to two cattle markets yesterday.’
‘Any good?’ asked Nicky.
‘Second one might be. They’re launching a new chewing gum. The bread’s terrific. My agent’s going to ring me in France and let me know.’
Matt handed the waiter what seemed an inordinate number of notes. ‘A cattle market is a model’s audition,’ he explained to Imogen. ‘Very appropriate, too, when you see some of the cows that turn up. Come on, let’s go.’
There was another bad moment when they got back to the flat. Cable had opened the door of one of the bedrooms, and said, ‘You and Nicky are in here.’
Oh, my goodness, thought Imogen, her mind racing like a weasel in a trap. Did Matt see her expression of dismay? Five minutes before he had been yawning his head off; now he suddenly asked Nicky and Cable if they wanted a night-cap.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Nicky. He ruffled Imogen’s hair. ‘Go to bed, love. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
But an hour and a bottle of brandy later, when he went to bed, he found Imogen fast asleep with the light on, Tristram Shandy still open on the pillow and Basil sprawled beside her.
‘Bloody dog,’ he said, trying to push Basil off. The dog gave an ominous growl.
‘Foiled again,’ said Matt sympathetically. ‘You’ll never shift him now he’s pitted down for the night. I’ll give you an eiderdown and you can kip on the sofa.’
Chapter Six
A gale was lashing the rain against the windows when they woke next morning. Nicky was moaning about his hangover and the rotten night he’d spent. Matt and Cable were having a row.
‘Next time you shave your legs with my razor for God’s sake wash it out. Now for the fourth time, may I take the cases down to the car?’
‘I’m not ready,’ snapped Cable, putting on a second layer of mascara.
‘Look, baby, it’s ten past eight. I’m leaving in five minutes, with or without you!’
‘Oh, don’t go on,’ said Cable, her voice rising. ‘Have you hidden my jewellery?’
‘Yes – in the window box.’
‘Well, take these three cases down – at least it’ll give you something to do.’
The front door slammed.
‘Nickee!’ called Cable.
‘Yes, love?’
‘I can’t shut my suitcase.’
Imogen, who had been sitting about feeling spare for the last half hour, wandered along to Cable’s bedroom to see if she could help.
Nicky and Cable, who was wearing the most ravishing pink suede suit, were sitting side by side on the suitcase.
‘That’s it,’ said Nicky, leaning across Cable and clicking the second flap down.
Imogen froze in the doorway as she saw Cable put her hand over Nicky’s. Nicky looked up at Cable and smiled. ‘You’d better lock it,’ he said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t like you to lose anything valuable – to anyone else!’
‘I’m so glad you’re coming with us,’ purred Cable. ‘It makes everything so much more – well – exciting.’
Imogen didn’t know which of them jumped the most when Matt’s voice behind her said, ‘A quick worker, isn’t she? She’ll have you tied in knots if you’re not careful, Nicky.’
For a minute Cable glared at Matt, and then, to Imogen’s amazement, she burst out laughing.
‘Darling Sloblomov,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at him. ‘You don’t let me get away with a thing, do you?’
In that pink suit, thought Imogen wistfully, she was so lovely she could get away with murder. Matt grinned reluctantly, picked up the long khaki scarf that was lying on the bed and wound it round Cable’s neck, pulling it tight and pretending to throttle her. ‘So sweet were ne’er so fatal,’ he said. ‘Come on, Circe, let’s go.’
‘Bloody English weather,’ grumbled Nicky.
‘At least it might wash the car,’ said Matt.
They had only been driving ten minutes when Cable gave a shriek.
‘My night cream. It’s still in the fridge!’
‘Well, I expect Basil will be having it on his strawberries,’ said Matt calmly.
‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ snapped Cable. ‘We must go back.’
‘Look, baby, you’ve kept us hanging about for twenty minutes already.’
‘But my skin will dry up.’
‘Why don’t you dry up?’
Imogen gazed in trepidation at Cable’s rigid profile. Was Nicky really keen on her, or just flattered by her attentions? As if in answer Nicky put an arm round Imogen’s shoulders. ‘All right, sweetheart? Excited?’
When he looked at her like that, she was incapable of answering. She just nodded and snuggled against him.
‘Who are the couple we’re joining at Dover?’ he asked Matt.
‘Cable’s chums,’ said Matt. ‘I disclaim all responsibility.’
‘Very funny,’ said Cable, darting a venomous glance at him. ‘Actually, they’re an awfully sweet couple.’
‘Which puts the kiss of death on them,’ said Matt.
‘Will you shut up! They’re called Edgworth, James and Yvonne Edgworth. James is very straight and does something with shares in the City. She’s a very well known model. You’ll recognise her face.’
Oh God, sighed Imogen, another model. I hope she doesn’t run after Nicky too.
The weather grew worse and worse. The traffic was appalling too. They nearly missed the ferry and were the last to drive into the vast cellar at the bottom of the boat which housed all the cars.
‘Why are you looking so sour, Matt?’ asked Cable petulantly.
‘As we were last on we shall be last off. And as we’re booked into an hotel a hundred miles south of Paris, you’re unlikely to get any dinner tonight.’
A sailor advanced on him waving a chamois leather.
‘No, I don’t want my car washed,’ he said and stalked upstairs. Cable grinned at Nicky. ‘We’re meeting James and Yvonne in the bar,’ she said. Unable to see in her dark glasses she stumbled over a step. Nicky caught her elbow, stopping her falling, and leaving his hand on her arm far too long for Imogen’s liking.
‘God, the English dress badly,’ he said, as they walked along the deck. Imogen pulled her sweater further down over her ill-fitting trousers.
‘Cable, darling!’ shrieked a voice, as they went into the bar.
‘Yvonne, angel!’
‘We thought you’d missed the boat!’
‘We nearly did!’
‘Terrific hat!’
‘Fantastic shoes!’
‘Stunning suit!’
‘You’ve changed your hair!’
After screeching at each other for some minutes like a couple of parakeets, they remembered the rest of the party. Yvonne, Imogen decided with relief, wasn’t half as dangerous as Cable. It must be the inspired ordinariness of her features – china blue eyes, curly red hair and dimples – that made her such a success as a model. She would automatically have the cream
iest margarine, the whitest wash and the steaming hot milk drink ever on the boil for the homecoming husband. She was wearing a grey trouser suit and a spotless white blouse, with an embroidered ’30s couple tangoing over her bosom.
‘You must be Matt,’ she said, flashing her teeth at Nicky. ‘Cable’s told me so much about you, but she never said how good-looking you were.’
Cable looked put out. ‘This is Nicky Beresford,’ she said sharply.
‘Of course,’ giggled Yvonne. ‘How silly of me. I’ve seen you playing at Wimbledon.’
‘This is Matt,’ said Cable.
‘Oh,’ said Yvonne, looking up at Matt rather dubiously. ‘Awfully pleased to meet you. This is my Jumbo.’
James Edgworth had the rosy complexion, puffed out cheeks and curly hair of cherubs that blow the wind at the corner of old maps. He was small, plump, and wore a yachting cap and a look of eager expectancy.
‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Nicky.
‘Tomato juice for me,’ said Yvonne.
‘Pity to waste it when it’s duty free,’ said Nicky, giving her one of his hard, sexy looks.
‘Oh, well, if you twist my arm I’ll have a Baby-cham,’ said Yvonne.
Everyone else had double brandies.
‘This is jolly, just like going on an away match,’ said James Edgworth.
‘How many bikinis did you bring, Cable?’ asked Yvonne.
Nicky was busy converting English money into francs on the back of a sick bag.
‘You’re going to need that bag,’ said Matt, ‘when you realise how low the rate of exchange is.’
Two giggling teenagers sidled up to Nicky. ‘Could we possibly have your autograph?’
Everyone was gaping at them. Not surprising, thought Imogen, they were easily the noisiest, most glamorous group on the boat. She hoped she wasn’t letting the side down.
‘I say,’ said James happily, ‘it’s beginning to get choppy.’
The boat, having left the harbour, was bucking like a bronco. Every few minutes the windows were entirely covered by angry grey water. Imogen’s stomach began to heave. All the chairs in the bar, she noticed, were chained to the floor. On her right, James, Cable and Nicky were talking about people she didn’t know, so she idly listened to Yvonne attempting to chat up Matt.
‘You write for the papers, don’t you? Rather fun, I should think. I was rather good at English at school. They all said I should take up writing.’
Matt looked at her. ‘It would have been tragic to deprive the modelling world,’ he said drily.
Imogen suppressed a smile.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Yvonne. ‘Now I just write Jumbo’s speeches.’
‘His speeches?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ She bared her teeth like the wolf in Red Riding Hood. ‘James is prospective candidate for Cockfosters. He’s awfully busy at the moment, but if you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’d spare the time to give you an interview for your paper.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Matt.
‘Mind you,’ said Yvonne, ‘I do think the articles you write are rather – well – exaggerated.’
‘In what way?’ said Matt, his eyes narrowing.
‘Well that piece last week on Northern Ireland. I mean I didn’t finish it, and I know all journalists sensationalise things for the sake of circulation . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Matt, an ominous note creeping into his voice.
‘Well I do think it’s rather disloyal to write things like that.’
‘Disloyal to whom? Those men had been tortured. One young boy committed suicide rather than take any more.’
‘These things happen,’ said Yvonne. ‘But surely it’s better not to make too much fuss? It only stirs up hatred and makes things difficult for the poor soldiers. To be quite honest, I can’t stand the way you Irish come over here and take our jobs and use our Health service, and then say beastly things about us.’
‘Whenever I come across atrocities I write “beastly things” about them,’ snapped Matt.
‘Now, you mustn’t get uptight,’ said Yvonne reprovingly. ‘I bet you didn’t have any breakfast. Why not have a matchstick?’ she added, producing a polythene bag of cut up carrots from her hold-all. ‘Veggies don’t put on an ounce of weight. Do have one.’
Imogen didn’t stay to hear Matt’s reply.
‘I must get some air,’ she gasped, staggering across the bar. It was better outside. She clung to the rails and the spray lashed her face. Down below, the sea was writhing and foaming. Two minutes later Matt joined her. His face was olive green.
‘God! Cable does pick them,’ he groaned.
‘She thought she was bringing you out.’
‘In a nervous rash most likely.’
‘I’m sure she’s awfully good as a model.’
‘Forces grey in, you mean. The only thing she could sell is packaged nausea.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Imogen anxiously. The olive green was now tinged with grey.
‘I’ll manage. Be back in a second,’ and he practically hurled himself over the edge of the boat.
‘Oh, poor, poor thing,’ she said, when he came back.
He grinned weakly. ‘There goes yesterday’s dinner and tea. At least I’ve ruined their rotten boat.’
Imogen was amazed at his stoicism, particularly when he added a moment later, ‘You mustn’t let Cable upset you.’
Imogen flushed. ‘I wasn’t! I mean, I like her very much.’
‘She’s only flirting with Nicky to annoy me,’ he said. ‘She does it with any attractive man who comes along.’
‘But whatever for?’
‘She’s trying to pressure me to marry her.’
‘Don’t you want to?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m a Catholic, if somewhat lapsed. I’m supposed to try to marry for good. I can put up with a free range mistress, but not a free range wife.’
‘She’d probably settle down once you married her,’ said Imogen.
‘Perhaps. Oh, my God,’ he muttered, turning green again. ‘Here goes yesterday’s breakfast.’
She had never known anyone could be so seasick. Each time he returned, more white and shaking, to her side. In the middle Cable had the gall to saunter up and put a proprietorial hand over his: ‘We’re going to have some lunch, darling. See you later. Isn’t Yvonne nice?’
‘Adorable,’ said Matt. ‘I’m just wondering how I’m going to kill her.’
At last they sighted Boulogne, hanging in a mist of seagulls, its cranes jabbing the sky. They were now joined by the rest of the party, bumptious from duty-free drink, and clutching their packets of duty-free cigarettes.
‘Hullo,’ said Cable. ‘You do look peaky, darling. Do you like my new scent?’ and she thrust her wrist under Matt’s nose.
The skies were overcast as the boat drew in and it was still raining. A few fat Frenchmen in blue overalls and berets were waiting on the quay. Goodness, they look very English, thought Imogen, and the weather’s just like Yorkshire.
‘Shall I drive?’ asked Nicky as they got back into the car.
Matt shook his head. ‘It’ll take my mind off my stomach.’
‘Imogen looks rather grey. She’d better go in the front,’ said Cable, nipping into the back beside Nicky.
The Mercedes was soon eating up the miles. So this is France, thought Imogen. Great avenues of poplars, cornfields stretching to infinity, incredibly ugly towns with their peeling Dubonnet posters and gaudy gardens like seed packets. There was no one in the streets. Perhaps they were all making fantastic French love behind those closed shutters.
‘The First World War was fought all over here,’ Matt told her. ‘Most of the old houses were razed to the ground. That’s why the villages are so new and hideous. Have you read Goodbye to All That?’
Imogen shook her head.
‘Marvellous book. I’ve got a copy in my case. I’ll lend it to you.’
‘I couldn’t get be
yond the first page,’ said Cable.
‘Too many long words for you,’ said Matt, ‘and no pictures.’
‘Oh, don’t be so effing superior,’ snapped Cable.
‘There are still plenty of unexploded bombs in the fields,’ said Matt, ignoring her.
And plenty inside the car too, thought Imogen. Nicky and Cable chattered away, the names dropping like autumn leaves. But finally even they fell quiet. Glancing round, Imogen saw that Cable was asleep, her head on Nicky’s shoulder. She looked away quickly, trying desperately not to mind. If Matt saw anything through the driving mirror he took no notice.
The rain had stopped and a few stars were trying to peer through the veil of cloud as they reached their hotel. It stood on the edge of a river, festooned with bright pink geraniums and creepers trailing down into the water. The attractive mademoiselle behind the desk seemed delighted to see Matt again. But she looked aghast when James and Yvonne came through the door. There was much hand-waving and shoulder-shrugging, and Matt came over looking rueful.
‘Sorry, loves, my crazy secretary’s only booked two double rooms instead of three.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Cable. ‘We’re all whacked. Yvonne and Imogen and I can shack down in one double bed. You three can have the other.’
Matt looked relieved. ‘If that’s all right with everyone else?’
Imogen nodded. Another day’s reprieve – she wasn’t up to a sexual marathon with Nicky tonight.
‘Rather a lark,’ said James Edgworth. ‘Just like the dorm at school.’
Yvonne’s face, however, was working like milk coming up to the boil.
‘But that’s absurd. Jumbo and I are married.’
‘We all know that, baby,’ said Matt.
‘Don’t call me “baby”!’ Yvonne stamped her foot. ‘I’ve had an exhausting day. I don’t see why I should suffer merely because you’ve made a hash of things.’