Imogen

by Jilly Cooper

  Everyone else had finished except her. The waiters were hovering to take the plates and putting silver dishes over blue flames.

  ‘I should go on,’ Matt told them. ‘We can’t hang around all night.’

  Imogen’s second course, boeuf bourgignon, rich, dark, aromatic and pulsating with herbs, was almost better than the first.

  ‘I’ve never tasted anything so heavenly in my life,’ she said to Matt.

  ‘Good,’ he said, filling her glass and looking across at Cable, who was picking imaginary bones out of her trout. ‘Nice change to have someone around who enjoys eating.’

  ‘These quenelles are very disappointing,’ grumbled Yvonne.

  ‘What d’you expect from upmarket fish cakes?’ said Nicky.

  ‘I always thought a quenelle was something the dog slept in,’ said James, and roared with laughter.

  ‘No more wine for you, Jumbo,’ said Yvonne sharply.

  ‘How long have you two been married?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Forty-eight weeks exactly,’ said Yvonne, with what she thought was an engaging smile. ‘We still count our marriage by weeks not months.’

  ‘Weekiversaries,’ said Matt drily. ‘How touching.’

  Cable shot him a warning glance.

  James started to tell Imogen a long complicated joke about a parrot, upon which she found it impossible to concentrate because at the same time Yvonne turned to Nicky, saying:

  ‘How did you and Imogen meet?’

  ‘In Yorkshire.’

  ‘Oh, I love Yorkshire, it’s so unspoilt.’

  ‘Like Imogen,’ said Nicky.

  ‘They tied a handkerchief over the parrot’s eyes,’ said James.

  ‘Have you been going out long?’ said Yvonne.

  ‘No,’ said Nicky.

  ‘And another one round its beak,’ said James.

  ‘She looks awfully young. I’m surprised her father let her go away with you.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Sits and dreams in a library.’

  ‘And then they both got into bed,’ said James.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Yvonne. ‘She and Matt’ll be able to have a lot of good talks about books.’

  ‘They already have,’ said Cable. She put her hands behind her head and leant back against the wall, her breasts jutting out dramatically. The effect was not lost on a handsome Frenchman drinking brandy with a plain wife at the next table. He and Cable exchanged a long lingering eye-meet. The Frenchman dropped his eyes first, then, after a furtive glance at his wife who was still spooning sugar into her coffee, looked at Cable again. Cable smirked and looked away. Even the cook had come out of the kitchen to have a look at her and was standing open-mouthed in the doorway with a lobster in his hand.

  Suddenly Imogen was brought back to reality by James roaring with laughter and saying, ‘And the parrot said Kama Sutra is a liar. Get it? Kama Sutra is a liar.’

  Imogen, realising he’d reached the punchline, roared with rather forced laughter too. Matt filled up James’s glass. Yvonne glared at Matt.

  ‘Please don’t. I don’t want him to have any more. You won’t be jogging every day in France you know, Jumbo.’

  ‘Have some more,’ said Matt, ladling more beef and potatoes on to Imogen’s plate.

  ‘Oh I shouldn’t.’

  ‘You should. Do you good to have a blow out on your first night. No one else will but us,’ he went on, emptying the casserole dish on to his own plate.

  Yvonne smiled at Imogen brightly.

  ‘I hear you work in a library.’

  Oh God, thought Imogen, she’s going to bring me out now.

  ‘Yes,’ she muttered, with her mouth full.

  ‘I used to love reading,’ Yvonne went on, ‘but I don’t get the time now. I have to read a lot of papers from Central Office for James. I’ve got an aunt who reads though, four novels a day. We all call her the book worm.’

  She then proceeded to launch into a long and unutterably boring description of her aunt’s reading habits and literary tastes.

  ‘Someone ought to put a green baize cloth over her,’ muttered Matt as he leant across to fill Imogen’s glass.

  Having finally exhausted her aunt, Yvonne said, ‘You’re so lucky not having a job where you have to watch your figure.’

  Imogen blushed and put down the potato she was about to eat.

  ‘I’d be very happy to watch Imogen’s figure all the time,’ said Matt evenly.

  ‘Me too,’ leered James.

  The head waiter came up and put his hands on Matt’s shoulders.

  ‘Everything all right, Monsieur O’Connor?’

  ‘Formidable,’ said Matt, breaking into fluent French.

  ‘My trout was simply delicious,’ said Cable, who’d left most of hers.

  Imogen’s waistband was biting into her stomach. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much.

  The restaurant was empty except for their table. Matt ordered coffee.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Yvonne. ‘It keeps me awake, and we’ve got a long drive tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like an enormous brandy,’ said James defiantly.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Mustn’t squander all our money at once, Jumbo. Night, night all,’ said Yvonne, getting to her feet and dragging the reluctant James off to bed.

  ‘Got to get her ugly sleep,’ said Matt.

  ‘God, she’s a bitch,’ said Nicky.

  Matt ordered Marcs all round.

  ‘If you go away in a party,’ he said, ‘it’s essential to have a holiday scapegoat, so that everyone can gang up and work off their spleen bitching about her. Mrs Edgworth fits the bill perfectly.’

  After dinner they wandered round the village. The sky glimmered with stars now, and down by the river the air was heavy with the musty scent of meadow sweet.

  Imogen and Nicky dawdled behind the others.

  ‘Lovely moon,’ sighed Imogen.

  ‘Seen it before,’ said Nicky.

  He put a protective arm round her shoulders. She could feel the warmth of his body through her sweater. Suddenly he paused. Perhaps at last he might be going to whisk her off down some side road and the primrose path. She felt weak with abandon. But he was only pausing to read a poster giving details of a forthcoming tennis match.

  ‘They wanted me to play in that,’ he said. ‘Didn’t offer enough bread though, and the L.T.A. get very uptight if one does too many exhibition matches.’

  Imogen felt overwhelmed with humility. What right had she got to be here at all with such a star? Ahead of them Matt’s blond hair gleamed in a street lamp.

  ‘How are you getting on with Matt?’ said Nicky.

  ‘Oh, very well. He’s so nice.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he? She’s a funny girl.’

  ‘In what way?’ said Imogen carefully.

  ‘You never know what she’ll do next. Unlike you, my angel, who are totally predictable.’

  ‘I do love you,’ she murmured, like a child touching wood.

  ‘Well that’s nice, except that we seem to be frustrated at every turn. Never mind, we’ve got a whole fortnight ahead of us.’

  He dropped a kiss on top of her head. The night was really very warm. Imogen tried to suppress the thought that back in June, when he’d been mad to pull her, he’d certainly have whipped her off to some discreet corner of a foreign field, and made passionate love to her, and not given a damn about the others.

  ‘I have observed a faint neglect of late,’ she thought sadly, then felt furious with herself. In Yorkshire she’d never stopped panicking and bellyaching because he was trying to pull her, now she was in a state because he wasn’t. Her father would be delighted by such circumspection anyway. Perhaps Nicky was playing a waiting game so as not to frighten her.

  In front she could see Cable’s hips undulating languorously as she walked beside Matt. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much. She wished she was as tall and as slim
as her shadow.

  Outside the hotel, quite without self-consciousness, Matt had taken Cable into his arms and kissed her very thoroughly. Nicky had followed suit with Imogen but when she opened her eyes in the middle, he was gazing over her shoulder at Cable and Matt.

  ‘Sweet dreams, darling,’ said Matt, reluctantly, relinquishing her. ‘And I’d love to be away by ten – we’ve got a long drive.’

  Up in their room, Imogen undressed quickly and jumped into bed. It was long after midnight, but she’d never known anyone take so long to get into bed as Cable, removing her make-up several times, massaging skin food into her face, brushing her hair, touching up her nail varnish, doing long, complicated exercises and chattering all the time.

  ‘Such a relief not to have Matt beefing at me to hurry up,’ she said, rubbing Vaseline into her eyelashes, and because there were no men present giving Imogen the benefit of her enchanting wicked smile. ‘In fact it’s rather a relief to have a night off sex as well.’

  Imogen, snuggling down in the coarse sheets, fought sleep, tried to concentrate on Tristram Shandy and not stare at Cable too hard.

  ‘God the bed’s hard,’ said Cable, finally getting in beside her. ‘I hope you’re not finding this trip too alarming.’

  ‘No it’s lovely,’ said Imogen timidly, touched that Cable should be concerned.

  Cable, however, immediately got the subject back to herself. ‘I remember the first time I came to France on an exchange scheme when I was fifteen. I was absolutely terrified. I travelled by train overnight, 3rd class can you believe it? And there was this repulsive man who had little finger nails longer than the rest, and put on a blue hair net after he got into his couchette. The moment we dimmed the lights, he tried to fiddle with me, and there were two nuns in the bottom couchettes. I bit him so hard, he nearly pulled the communication cord. What d’you think of that?’ She laughed to herself.

  But before Imogen could think up a suitable answer, she realised Cable had fallen asleep like a cat. Having fought sleep for so long, Imogen now felt wide awake. Thank goodness Yvonne was not sharing the bed too, or she’d be a model sandwich. Every man in the hotel would give a million francs to be in my place, she thought as, petrified she’d touch Cable, she perched on the edge of her side of the bed. She hoped she’d dream of Nicky, but she didn’t.

  Chapter Eight

  Imogen went down to breakfast next morning and found Nicky and Matt dirty and unshaven like a couple of bandits.

  Matt smiled at her and asked her if she had slept well.

  ‘Marvellously,’ lied Imogen.

  ‘I’m glad someone did,’ said Nicky sulkily. ‘The Royal Philharmonic of tomcats started caterwauling around five o’clock.’

  ‘We abandoned all hope of sleep and invented tortures for Mrs Edgworth,’ said Matt.

  At that moment Yvonne bustled in wearing a dress and a pink headscarf.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said briskly. Matt and Nicky looked at her stonily.

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ she grumbled. ‘What with the cats and the clocks striking. Do remember to book rooms at the back in future, Matt. And the beds were awful.’

  ‘Surprised you didn’t use James as a mattress,’ said Matt.

  ‘Why are you all done up like a dog’s dinner?’ said Nicky.

  Yvonne’s lips tightened as she pulled on white gloves. ‘I’m off to Mass, where you all should be!’ she said.

  The next stage of the journey was a disaster. Cable took so long to pack and get ready that she and Matt had another blazing row.

  ‘They ought to hold sheepdog trials for people like me,’ said Matt as he finally rounded the three of them up into the car. James and Yvonne had already gone on ahead. Nicky and Imogen sat in the front, Cable and Matt in the back, Matt reading a French Sunday paper, Cable looking stonily out of the window.

  Nicky, whose turn it was to drive, was determined to notch up more miles an hour than Matt had yesterday, but Imogen spoilt everything by reading the map all wrong. The countryside they passed through had been so beautiful – old mills covered in reddening Virginia creeper, tender green poplar groves rising out of lush grass, and huge golden chateaux at the end of long shining lakes. Then suddenly she realised to her horror that she’d missed an important turning. As a result Nicky had to spend the next three-quarters of an hour disentangling them from the tentacles of a large industrial town. He got more and more angry, which was not helped by Imogen out of sheer nerves telling him he could overtake three times when he couldn’t, directing him slap into oncoming traffic.

  Cutting short her stream of apologies, Nicky had turned on the car wireless. They could still get Radio 3. Patricia Hughes was announcing a performance of Handel’s Little Organ Concerto.

  ‘I didn’t know Handel had a small prick,’ drawled Cable.

  Nicky grinned round at her. ‘Probably couldn’t Handel it,’ he said.

  They both giggled and started swapping more anecdotes about mutual acquaintances, ostentatiously excluding Matt and Imogen.

  Imogen wished she could amuse Nicky like that. But we’ve only got my family and Homer in common, she thought dolefully, and we can’t really talk about them for a fortnight. She noticed that each time they reached the end of a village, its name was signposted with a diagonal red line through it. She had a gloomy vision of Nicky taking a ruler and calmly drawing a red line through her name to signify the affair was over.

  Later, tempers were not improved by no one being able to decide on the right picnic place, which at 110 miles an hour on the motorway was admittedly quite hard to find. James, who had been obliged to stop for Yvonne several times, was driving just behind them now. Imogen could see his eager pink face, with Yvonne beside him, wearing dark glasses, her mouth opening and shutting in a constant stream of chat.

  Cable meanwhile was driving Matt insane by sitting with a red Michelin Guide in her hand, saying every time they came to a village, ‘There’s a fabulous restaurant here. It’d be so much nicer to stop here than have a rotten picnic.’

  ‘And five times more expensive,’ snapped Matt. ‘I’m buggered if I’m going to fork out 100 francs for something you won’t eat. I’m fed up with providing expensive left-overs for restaurant cats all over England and France.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Cable.

  Eventually they stopped high up in the mountains, with a deep green valley falling away from them, richly dotted with herds of golden cattle, and russet farm houses. Despite the height it was appallingly hot. A heat haze danced above the rocks. Cheese, pâté and garlic sausage were soon sweating and melting in the blazing sun, ham curled and turned brown, the acid red wine was as warm as tea.

  Yvonne perched on a rock, still looking as though she’d been wrapped in tissue paper, daintily eating cottage cheese with a pink plastic spoon, and grumbling about the insects.

  ‘Doesn’t the silly cow remind you of little Miss Muffet?’ said Matt to Imogen. ‘Pity a big spider can’t roll up and put the frighteners on her for good.’

  Nicky, having wolfed a couple of pieces of bread and pâté, had annexed a bottle of wine, and was further punishing Imogen by dancing attendance on Cable. Lying on the grass beside her, he alternately fed her swigs of wine from the same paper cup, or dropped green grapes into her mouth. Occasionally, after shooting a venomous glance in Matt’s direction, Cable would whisper something in his ear, sending them both into fits of laughter.

  Yvonne looked disapproving, and unpacked yet another polythene bag of carrot matchsticks. Ignoring them both, Matt stretched out and fell asleep among the wild flowers like Ferdinand the Bull. Imogen, incapable of such sang-froid, miserably ate her way through five pieces of bread and garlic sausage and then felt sick.

  James had positioned himself so he could look up Cable’s skirt. As she writhed on the ground with Nicky, her pink dress rode up further and further to reveal black broderie anglaise bikini pants, threaded with scarlet ribbon.

  Suddenly a car drew up on the
road below and three Frenchmen got out, quite unselfconsciously unzipped their flies and relieved themselves against the grass verge.

  ‘How disgusting,’ spluttered Yvonne, going scarlet with disapproval.

  ‘How lovely and uninhibited,’ said Cable, sitting up and putting a cigarette in her mouth. In a flash James’s lighter was out, the flame shooting into the air, nearly singeing Cable’s hair and eyelashes.

  ‘Overeager, like its master,’ said Nicky pointedly.

  James went slightly pink and helped himself and Imogen to more wine.

  ‘That’s enough, Jumbo,’ snapped Yvonne. ‘You know what I feel about drinking and driving.’

  She got off the rock and started to tidy up the picnic, exclaiming over the ants that had already crawled into the pâté, neatly tidying the rubbish into a polythene bag and stacking it in the boot.

  ‘Don’t work so hard,’ said Cable lazily. ‘You’re making us feel so guilty.’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it,’ said Yvonne. ‘I, for one, like things ship-shape.’

  Imogen got back into the car, wincing as the sun-baked seat burnt her skin.

  ‘Everyone’s awfully prickly today,’ she said to Matt.

  ‘That’s why it’s called a holly day,’ said Matt.

  And now it was late afternoon. Imogen sat in the back feeling car sick, homesick, cooped up and uncertain where life was taking her. After the long hours of travelling, she felt sluggish and weighed down, as though all the pieces of bread she’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours were lying in a leaden lump at the bottom of her stomach.

  And now the shadows were lengthening and Matt was driving again, sweat darkening his shirt, an old panama hat pulled over his nose to keep his dark blond mane out of his eyes. All the windows were open; the heat was coming in great waves; the windscreen was coated with dead flies.

  The road was curling now through pine woods and burning red rock, the crickets were going like rattles, the air was getting clearer and clearer. Up and up they went, round and round, until it seemed their car would touch the sky. Then, suddenly, like a sheet of metal glinting in the evening sun, sparkled the Mediterranean.