by Jilly Cooper
‘When will you know?’ said Nicky.
‘In a day or two,’ said Yvonne. ‘They’re starting shooting in three weeks. Isn’t it exciting?’ Suddenly her beady eyes fell on Imogen. ‘Oughtn’t you to go and change? We’re going to be terribly late.’
‘She’s already changed,’ said Larry. ‘Aren’t you rather miscast as Jane, Yvonne dear? She was supposed to be such a nice sweet natured girl.’
Yvonne was saved the trouble of thinking up a really crushing reply by the arrival of Cable, looking sensational in a dress entirely made of peacock feathers. It was sleeveless and clung lightly to her figure, stopping just above the knee. Two peacock feathers nestling in her snaking ebony hair and bands of peacock blue shadow painted on her eyelids made her eyes look brilliant flashing turquoise rather than green.
Nicky whistled. James gasped. Yvonne merely glared and shut her lips tighter.
‘That’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,’ said Tracey.
‘I’m going to change,’ muttered Imogen.
‘Haven’t got time,’ said Larry, seizing her wrist. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t borrowed Yvonne’s cardboard beak to complete the picture, Cable darling.’
The sun was falling into the sea as the taxi turned off the coast road.
‘I’m glad it’s getting dark,’ said Tracey, adding another layer of mascara to her false eyelashes. ‘Party make-up looks so much better at night.’
In James’s spotlessly clean, pale-blue car in front Imogen could see Cable, who’d commandeered the entire back seat to herself so her feathers shouldn’t be ruffled, and Yvonne getting out combs and beginning to tease their hair with the pointed ends. She wished Matt were there to look after her. She was sure as soon as they got to the party, Larry would get drunk and disappear. Nicky already had his arm along the back of the seat and was surreptitiously caressing the back of Tracey’s neck, so she couldn’t expect much support from him either.
The taxi turned and sped up a drive, the gravel spluttering against the wheels. Vineyards and olive groves on either side stretched to infinity. Ahead in the dusk, every window blazing with light, was a huge white house.
‘It’s a mansion,’ said Tracey.
They could see a man in a pink suit, with red and pink hair, get out of a Rolls-Royce and ring the door bell.
‘I think that’s David Bowie,’ said Larry.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Imogen faintly.
As they walked up the marble steps, a butler opened the door. Then a maid whisked Imogen and Tracey upstairs to a room with walls covered in pink satin. On the floor was a thick fur carpet, the bed was covered in fur coats, which must have been brought by guests just to show off – it was such a stifling hot night.
‘Do you take cloth coats too?’ said Tracey, taking off her white blazer and handing it to the maid.
Cable and Yvonne were still engaged in teasing their hair in front of the mirror.
‘I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Omar Sharif,’ said Yvonne.
Out of the window Imogen could see a jungle of garden, punctuated by lily ponds, aviaries full of coloured birds, two lantern-lit swimming pools and, in the distance, the sea.
Shaking with nerves, she went downstairs to find Larry waiting for her and talking in a low voice to a splendid blonde covered in sequins.
‘Imogen darling, this is your hostess, Claudine. Take a good look at her. She may not pass this way again.’
But before he had a chance to say anything else, Claudine had shimmered forward and seized Imogen’s hands.
‘Mees Brocklehurst, how wonderful to meet you. What a fantastic coincidence that you should be on holiday with Matt and Nicky Beresford,’ and the next moment she had drawn Imogen into a huge room, which seemed to be seething with suntanned faces with hard restless eyes, constantly on the lookout for fresh excitement.
‘Wait for Larry,’ begged Imogen.
‘Larry who?’ screamed Claudine and, shoving a drink into Imogen’s hand, she dragged her from one group to another, crying, ‘This is lovely Imogen Brocklehurst’ . . . whisper, whisper . . . ‘Yes, really. Braganzi’s child snatched from the jaws of death.’
Everyone started oohing and aahing as though Claudine was bringing in the Christmas pudding flaming blue with brandy.
‘How do you do? How do you do? Hi Imogen, glad to know you. How do you do?’ People were thrusting forward to meet her.
Imogen turned to Claudine in horror. ‘But what have you told them?’
‘Did you really meet the Duchess? What was she like? Did she seem keen on Braganzi?’ clamoured the faces.
‘Oh stop,’ called Imogen after a disappearing Claudine. ‘Please don’t tell people. Braganzi doesn’t want publicity.’
Now everyone was mobbing her and introducing her. She was so breathless with answering questions, she found she’d finished her drink, which was delicious and tasted rather like coke filled with fruit salad. The moment she put her glass down another was thrust into her hand.
‘How has she furnished the house?’ ‘Are the guard dogs as ferocious as everyone makes out?’ ‘Weren’t you terrified to meet Braganzi?’ ‘Does he keep her chained up there?’ ‘Has she lost her looks?’ ‘I hear the Duke . . .’
More people were crowding round her, asking excited questions. Finally somebody introduced her to Larry. ‘No, we haven’t met,’ he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into a side room.
‘This place is a lunatic asylum,’ she gasped. ‘What on earth did you tell Claudine?’
‘I gave her a brief run down on your life-saving activities yesterday. You’re certainly the star attraction. Have another drink.’ He grabbed one from a passing waiter.
‘I’ve had several already,’ said Imogen with a giggle. ‘It’s delicious and so refreshing. What is it?’
‘Pimms,’ said Larry. ‘Practically non-alcoholic.’
A vision in yellow flew out at him. ‘Larry darling, where did you get to? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ And she hauled him away.
Next moment a stunningly handsome man in a white dinner jacket had crept up and put his arm through Imogen’s. ‘I hear you know darling Camilla,’ he said. ‘Do give her my love next time you see her.’
A light flashed. ‘Thank you,’ said a photographer moving away.
The sounds of revelry grew louder, the heat grew more oppressive by the minute.
‘Come and look at the garden,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket. Two beautiful young men, in shirts slashed to the waist, met them in the doorway.
‘At last we’ve found you. You must be Morgan Brocklehurst,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve been simply dying to meet you all evening.’
‘I hear you had dinner with Braganzi last night,’ said the first.
‘Is he as butch as everyone says he is?’ asked the second.
A large woman in crimson with one false eyelash hanging askew like a ladder from her bottom lid charged up to them.
‘Does anyone know which Morgan Brocklehurst is?’ she said, eagerly. ‘I hear she’s actually met Braganzi and the Duchess.’
‘She’s somewhere in there,’ said the first young man, pointing back at the drawing-room, from which a hysterical rush of talk was now issuing.
‘Oh dear,’ said the woman in crimson, ‘I’ve just fought my way out of there. I want to try and nail her for a beach party I’m having tomorrow.’ She dived back in the mêlée.
‘I’ll get you another drink, Morgan,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket.
‘Thanks, I’d adore one,’ said Imogen, who was beginning to enjoy herself.
One of the beautiful young men took her arm and led her through the gardens, past huge jungle plants with leaves like dark shining shields, and brilliant coloured birds, scarlet, turquoise, dark blue and emerald, all chirruping and fluttering about their aviary, like guests at the party. Round the corner they found two pale pink flamingos standing on one leg in a bright green pond, full of fat golden carp
gliding in and out of the water lilies.
In the stifling heat Imogen was quite happy to rest on a cool stone bench with lions’ heads rearing up at either end. The two young men sat at her feet, a captive audience. She was soon quite happily recounting the events of yesterday.
Soon quite a crowd was gathered round her. People kept topping up her drink. ‘It really is very moreish,’ she said to the company at large. She kept looking around for Larry, and hoping Matt would arrive, but after a bit she stopped worrying even about them.
‘Can I get you something to eat?’ asked the man in the white dinner jacket.
‘Oh, no thank you,’ said Imogen. She seemed to have consumed far too much fruit salad already.
‘Well, come and dance then,’ he said, leading her back into the house. ‘Claudine brought in 600 bottles of champagne for this party, plus 50 lbs of caviar, and God knows how many gallons of Diorissimo to put in the swimming pool. Of course she’ll claim it all on tax.’
It was far too dark to see anyone on the dance floor.
‘Morgan, Morgan, you’re so fresh and unspoilt,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket, drawing her to his bosom.
Oh dear, she thought, I do hope I don’t leave make-up all over him. Another man cut in and danced her off into another room where he tried to kiss her. She wanted to slap his face, but he wasn’t very steady on his feet, and she thought she might knock him over. Then a haughty aristocratic beauty drew her aside.
‘I’m giving a party in Marbella tomorrow night. Love it if you could make it. We could easily send a plane. Bring anyone you like. Perhaps Camilla’d like an outing? Has she put on any weight since she’s been living with Braganzi?’
The band was playing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, the laughter and tinkle of broken glass were getting louder, a crowd was clamouring round her again. Suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed her; it was Larry, waving a full bottle of champagne.
‘Doctor Livingstone,’ she screamed.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he said, dragging her through the french windows out into the garden.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Well, I’ve just seen Nicky and Tracey come out of the library, looking rather ruffled. Nicky was wearing lipstick, Tracey wasn’t any more. Mrs Edgworth’s been dancing the night away with Omar Sharif, and Cable’s been dividing her unwrapped attention between Rod Stewart and Warren Beatty.’
‘So she’s happy?’
‘Not entirely. No point in being the Belle of the Ball if the guy who matters isn’t here to witness it. Matt hasn’t showed up yet. He can’t still be wrestling with his copy.’
‘He’s probably having trouble getting Braganzi to OK it,’ said Imogen.
‘If he does get it through he’ll make a bomb on syndication. Bloody well need to, to pay for Cable’s peacock feathers.’
Pity someone can’t lock her away in the aviary with all those coloured birds, thought Imogen. She held out her glass.
‘I’d like another drink, please.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said Larry, filling her long Pimms glass up to the brim with champagne. For a while they danced on the lawn, both slightly supporting one another.
‘Christ, I wish I’d brought my camera,’ said Larry. ‘Half the crowned heads of Europe are frisking nude in the swimming pool. Evidently Leonard is on hand with a fleet of minions to blow dry anyone who wants it when they come out.’
Imogen listened to the shrieks and splashes from the pool, and wished she felt slim enough to bathe in the nude. She seemed to have drunk all her champagne.
‘I really must go to the loo.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ said Larry. ‘It’s nearly light up time.’
Imogen realised how drunk she was when she found herself liberally pouring her hostess’s scent over her bosom in the pink satin bedroom. Breaking the eighth commandment again. She put the bottle down hastily. What would her father say, and Matt? Her face, however, looked rather sparkly-eyed and pink-cheeked and much better than she’d expected after so much booze.
‘Have you met Morgan Brocklehurst?’ she heard two women saying as she went downstairs. ‘Quite ravishing. I must ask her who does her hair. Evidently Braganzi’s leaving her half of Sicily.’
As she reached the bottom step, a large brunette shot past her shrieking playfully, followed two seconds later by James, very pink in the face and emitting Tarzan howls. They both disappeared into the shrubbery.
‘Why aren’t you dancing, Morgan?’ asked Claudine, rushing forward.
‘I’ll take care of that,’ said a smooth voice, and the next moment she felt herself clutched to the muscular, scented hairy-chested bosom of one of the screen’s greatest lovers.
‘I took one look at you,’ he crooned in her ear, ‘That’s all I meant to do, And then my heart stood still. How would you like to go to a party in Rome?’
‘I’m supposed to be going to one in Marbella tomorrow,’ said Imogen.
‘Oh, that’ll be Effie Strauss’s thrash. I’ll give you a lift if you like.’
They danced and danced, drank and drank, and although she was slightly missing the forehand drives of conversation he didn’t seem to mind at all. Then she remembered she’d left Larry in the garden. She must go and find him. As she reached the end of the lawn, she passed a couple under a fig tree locked in a passionate embrace. The girl’s silver blonde hair fell below her waist.
‘The moment I saw you yesterday,’ the man’s voice was saying huskily, ‘Pow, suddenly it happened, like being struck down by a thunderbolt. I don’t know what it is about you, Tracey darling, but it’s something indefinably different.’
‘And your pulse, my darling, is going like the Charge of the Light Brigade,’ shrieked Imogen loudly, and rushed off howling with laughter as they both jumped out of their skins.
She was still laughing when she found Larry rolling a joint by the flamingo pool. ‘It’s light up time,’ he said again.
‘This is the best party I’ve ever been to,’ she said.
‘Have a drag of this,’ said Larry, ‘and it’ll seem even better.’
‘I don’t smoke,’ said Imogen.
‘Go on. I’m a great believer in first times. There may not be another opportunity.’
He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply two or three times, then handed it to her. She took a nervous puff and choked, then took another one; then she put the joint in the snarling mouth of the stone lion at the end of the seat, and she and Larry both laughed immoderately. Then she took another drag.
‘Nice?’ asked Larry.
‘Yes,’ sighed Imogen. ‘It makes the flamingos so pink and the water so green.’
Three-quarters down the cigarette, by which time they were both cackling with laughter over anything, she turned and looked at him. He was really very attractive in a hawk-like ravaged way. And quite old enough to be her father – so that made everything quite safe.
‘Larry.’
‘Yes, angel.’
‘Do you think I’m pretty?’
‘Exquisitely so,’ and he bent over and kissed her very slowly and with velvet artistry.
‘And now you’re even prettier.’ He took a deep drag on the cigarette, then kissed her again, and this time it took much longer.
Imogen got to her feet and went to the edge of the pool. The flamingos seemed to be floating above the water, the turning beam of the lighthouse revolving most erratically. The huge stars were so near she could have reached up and plucked them.
‘Don’t go away,’ said Larry. ‘The way to heaven is paved with bad intentions.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She could hear the throb of drums and the carnival howls of the party. ‘When love comes in and takes you for a spin, Oh la la la, c’est magnifique’, played the band.
The night was so warm and beautiful, yet she felt a terrible stab of longing. If only Matt were here. Then suddenly she was filled with passion and resolve and 86 per cent proof courage.
‘Larry darling,’ she turned to him. ‘People keep telling me I’ve got to grow up and live a little and get some experience with men, and catch up with Cable and Yvonne and Tracey and things. You wouldn’t help me, would you, and teach me about sex?’
‘Wouldn’t I just? What an offer! Christ, if you want experience, I’m your man, sweetheart. Je suis le professeur. Now stay here and finish the joint, and I’ll go and get another bottle and we’ll take it down to the beach.’
Imogen collapsed back on the seat. ‘When love comes in and takes you for a spin,’ she sang to the flamingos. She was feeling very light-headed.
From where she was sitting, she could see some planes parked in a field. Perhaps one was waiting to whisk the screen’s greatest lover off to Rome. Beyond the planes were a row of cars, mostly Rolls-Royces and Bentleys, but standing there, cleaner than any other, was James and Yvonne’s pale blue Cortina. Suddenly Imogen felt an overwhelming urge. She opened her bag, scrabbling inside for a lipstick. She found one that Gloria had given her for her birthday that she’d never used. It was dark maroon and called Plum Dynasty – to make you more sophisticated, Gloria had said.
‘Jolly soppy name,’ said Imogen, giggling hysterically to herself as she ran through the trees towards the cars. ‘Fancy founding a dynasty of plums. Anyway, your hour has come, Plum,’ and she repeated ‘Come Plum’ several times to herself, giggling some more.
And there was the pale blue boot door of Yvonne’s car, just asking to be scribbled on. She unscrewed the lipstick and wrote ‘Yvonne Edgworth’ in a large maroon scrawl. Then she added ‘is a stroppy cow’, then crossed out ‘cow’ and put ‘bitch’ and ‘hen-pecker’. Then she wrote ‘bugger’ three times on the top of the car, and ‘fuck’ twice on the windscreen. Then she rushed round to the other side and wrote ‘Yvonne Bismarck – the Iron Duke’, but that wasn’t quite right, so she crossed out the D and changed Duke to Puke, and laughed immoderately at her own joke. She’d just started to write ‘Go Home Carrot Top’ when the lipstick broke in half, so she ran shrieking back to Larry, who had returned and was swaying dangerously as he tried to balance along the top of the stone seat with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.