by Lulu Taylor
I know I could love Xander and understand him better than anyone else in the world. But I’ve got to face it – it’s never going to happen. I’ll just have to adore him from afar, that’s all.
Imogen worried over it sometimes, feeling guilty for nurturing her secret crush. Is it fair on Sam to go out with him when I feel like this about someone else?
When she was with him, though, the reality of his warm body and tender affection was more appealing than her lonely, empty fantasy. He would never know the truth and perhaps, eventually, her feelings for Xander would fade away and be forgotten.
Sam squeezed her hand in response and they walked back to Christ Church, where Tom Tower stood huge and spiky against the dark night sky. Back in her room, she opened a bottle of wine that she’d put on the window-sill to chill and they drank it together, both suddenly a little nervous of what awaited them.
I know I want to. I’m eighteen years old and still never had sex! The truth was that Allegra’s jibe about her being the last virgin in Oxford had struck home, and Imogen knew that she wanted to get rid of her virginity. She needed to grow up.
‘You look tired,’ Sam said. He put his empty glass on the coffee table. ‘Shall I give you a massage?’
So that was the way it was going to start. She smiled and nodded. They dimmed the lights, put some Nick Drake on the CD player and went over to the bed. Lying down together, they started to kiss. He was a good kisser, she thought, patient and tender, and she liked the taste of him. The kissing relaxed her and she felt the tension ease out of her muscles as he rubbed her back and shoulders. She wasn’t nervous now, only filled with a sense that she was about to understand one of the mysteries of existence.
‘God, Imogen, you’re lovely,’ he murmured.
She laughed and said, ‘Don’t you mean fat?’
He pulled back and looked at her, surprised. ‘Fat? What are you talking about?’
‘My big bum. My thighs. My wobbly breasts.’
He shook his head. ‘You girls. You’re your own worst enemies. Do you think I’d like you if you had no bum, or thighs, or breasts? Those are the very things that turn me on, you idiot.’ He ran his hands up her leg and over the curve of her hip, making an appreciative noise. ‘Gorgeous. I love all this. And as for these beauties …’ He touched her chest lightly, then smiled. ‘What have you got to be ashamed of? I’d be obsessed with them if they were mine.’
He kissed her again, now with added vigour, and began to move against her, so she could feel his erection bulging through his trousers. She surrendered to the sensation, excitement building up in the pit of her stomach and sending out waves of pleasurable feeling to her groin.
They slowly undressed each other until they were lying together in their underwear, Sam’s bare chest pressed against her. He fumbled a little with her bra and then sighed with appreciation when her breasts came free of it at last.
After a while, she pulled away to ask breathlessly, ‘Do you have a condom?’
Sam nodded. ‘You bet.’ Then he looked into her eyes. ‘Are you sure? You want to do this? I don’t want to rush you if you’re not ready.’
She nodded back. ‘I’m sure. I’m really sure.’
‘Oh, look.’ Imogen pulled a card out of her pigeon hole. ‘It’s from Romily.’
‘Who’s Romily?’ asked Sam. He was reading the Daily Information news-sheet while he waited for her to check her post.
‘My friend from school. She was one of our gang of three – me, Allegra and Romily.’
Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘And was Romily as much of a hell-raiser as Allegra?’
‘Mmm, no, not really. She’s very glamorous and rich and French. I think you’d like her.’ Imogen was well aware that Sam didn’t think much of Allegra. He never said anything but she knew he disapproved of her party lifestyle and all the drugs. It was no coincidence that since they’d been going out with each other, she’d seen less of her friend. Now she had the joys of coupledom – nights in together having lovely sex as often as they could – the endless round of parties was much less appealing. At a little distance, Imogen could see that the constant late nights and drinking had been exhausting and, after a while, a bit boring. Besides, exams were almost upon them and she had to concentrate on them.
Romily had written:
Oh, my Midge,
I miss you! I’m bored silly at the moment as my friend is away and I’m all alone at home. I’m thinking of exciting things I might do to keep myself interested and interesting … I will tell you more when I see you. SOON.
Romily xxx
MG4E
Midnight Girls forever. Imogen stared at the letters, nostalgia rushing through her. What had happened to the Midnight Girls and their vow of loyalty? They hadn’t seen Romily for ages, and she and Allegra were drifting apart. More than that, she was worried about Allegra, who had been snappy and spiky with her for weeks now, ever since she’d got together with Sam.
She can’t be jealous, can she? How could she be? She’s got strings of boyfriends.
‘I must see her soon,’ Imogen murmured to herself.
‘Who?’ Sam had come up behind her. He nuzzled into her neck and slipped his arms round her waist.
She dropped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Both of them. My schoolfriends. We’re best friends.’
‘Bound together by shared lipsticks and promises you’ll always lend each other your clothes?’
She felt a tiny cold shiver as she remembered what did bind them together, then put it out of her mind. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘Now, are we going to get some lunch or what?’
The door opened and Allegra stood there. She looked Imogen up and down.
‘Who on earth are you?’ she said.
‘Very funny. Can I come in?’
‘If you want.’ Allegra stood back and let her into the room.
‘Oh my God!’ Imogen said, shocked by the sight that met her eyes. ‘You’ve let things slide a bit, haven’t you?’
Allegra looked at the mess and shrugged. ‘My scout won’t come in until I’ve tidied up but I never seem able to get round to it.’
The room smelled stale and heavy with old cigarette smoke, and overflowing ashtrays were everywhere. Butts floated in the bottom of mugs or had been stubbed out on the dirty plates that lay everywhere. The desk was piled high with books and folders and a mass of scribbled-on paper, and the floor was littered with more books, clothes, and all manner of rubbish and abandoned possessions. The curtains were closed, despite the bright day outside.
‘Let’s open a window.’ Imogen stepped over the clutter to the sill. A gust of fresh air came in, along with the sunlight. ‘That’s better.’ She turned back to Allegra, who looked terrible. She was pasty, her eyes dull and her hair lank. ‘Are you OK?’
‘’Course I am. I’m fine. Do you want a cup of tea?’ Allegra went over to her kettle and switched it on. ‘How’s lover boy? I’m surprised you managed to drag yourself out of his arms for long enough to drop by.’
Imogen sat down on a chair, brushing aside a pile of dirty clothes to make room. ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ she said, worried.
‘Well …’ Allegra shrugged. ‘You know, I don’t see as much of you as I used to.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been neglecting you a bit. I got a postcard from Romily today. Have you had one?’
‘Dunno. I’ve not checked my post for a while. What did she say?’
‘Not much. But it reminded me how long it’s been since we’ve seen her, and I thought … how about we go to Paris and see her in the vac when the exams are over?’
‘No,’ Allegra said sharply.
Imogen was startled. She’d thought it sounded like a lovely idea.
Allegra glanced over at her and said, more gently, ‘I mean, I don’t want to go to Paris. Why doesn’t Rom come here? Or else Scotland? Or we could meet her in London. But I don’t want to go to Paris.’
‘Allegra …’ Imogen spoke
slowly. ‘Are you really OK? You haven’t been the same since you came back from Paris. I know it was ages ago, but it just feels like you’ve never been yourself since then … you seem so unhappy.’
Allegra turned away to make the tea, and when she spoke again, her voice was gruff and thick. ‘I’m fine, OK? I just don’t much fancy Paris.’
‘All right.’ Imogen wanted to believe her, but Allegra seemed to be crumbling in front of her. The state of her room seemed to reflect her state of mind: chaotic and bleak and miserable. Is it the drugs? wondered Imogen. Is she drinking too much? She looked over at the desk. ‘Have you been revising?’
‘Kind of.’ Allegra brought the mugs of tea over. ‘I’ve had a warning from my tutor after I missed a few essays. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. I know it looks bad in here, but I’m doing all right at the moment.’
‘That’s good,’ Imogen said, relieved. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Allegra had probably just had another crazy night. ‘Now, tell me exactly what you’ve been up to. I’ve missed all the gossip for ages.’
Chapter 18
Paris 2003
LIFE IS SO boring, Romily thought. She stared at her reflection and turned slowly in front of the mirror in the chambre d’essayage, while her mother and the seamstress looked on. When did it get so boring?
She was missing her marquis more than she’d expected. He’d gone away on a long trip and their delicious afternoons had come to an end. Without them, she had become rather depressed. Plenty of sex was obviously vital to one’s physical health and sense of well-being.
I’ll just have to look out for a new lover, that’s all.
‘Oh, yes,’ said her mother to the seamstress. ‘That’s much better. A much better fit. Well done, madame.’
‘Are you now satisfied, Madame de Lisle?’ asked the atelier manager.
‘What do you think, Romily?’
‘A much better fit,’ she said obediently. It was true: the dress now fitted her perfectly around her tiny waist, flowing out over her hips and coming to a narrow hem exactly on the knee.
‘Just right for the races,’ her mother said, satisfied. ‘Now … the jacket.’
Oh, shit, don’t tell me we have to do the jacket too? thought Romily, despairing. I just want to go home.
Although what she would do when she got there, she had no idea. She was feeling the lack of something to do with an intensity that shocked her. She’d even begun to lose interest in clothes, which was so out of character that it was simply not normal.
She had been out of school now for almost two years, and while at first the limitless leisure had seemed wonderful, it had quickly begun to pall. She had never before understood why her parents were always on the move, from Paris, to Italy, to Switzerland, to New York and on to Chrypkos, then back to Paris again, but now she was beginning to understand: they had to stay busy in order to keep that monster, boredom, at bay, and moving around was an effective way to fill in time. And then there was their social life, a slow-grinding eternal machine that never stopped, and it was always the same people who gathered together: she would see the same faces in St Moritz as she did in Venice. All of them kept moving in a flock, like birds flying in the same direction, swooping up and down in formation.
It was supposed to be entertaining: the travelling, the endless succession of gatherings and parties, always in the lap of luxury. And yet, for now, it wasn’t. There was something enervating about it, as though the very fact that her heart’s desire could be hers, as long as money could buy it, made life less interesting rather than more.
What I want is to have real fun, she thought longingly. I want to be young and carefree. My social life is too full of grown ups, that’s the problem.
When she tried to say this to her mother, Athina de Lisle looked both hurt and puzzled. She looked up from the elegant bureau where she was writing letters in her firm clear hand.
‘My dear child, you can have as much fun as you want. What would you like to do? Shall I telephone the Comtesse and see if Jeanne would like to go to the opera with you tonight? Or how about a trip to New York? The ballet is putting on Coppélia, I’ve heard it’s fantastic, and dear Amy Randwick is one of their biggest donors and can certainly get us tickets.’
‘No, no …’ Romily drifted about the drawing room, fiddling with one diamond earring. ‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Then what do you want to do?’ Athina de Lisle put down her Montblanc and looked worried.
‘I want to do something with my life! Learn something, do something … I don’t know.’ Romily sighed. ‘I’m only twenty. I can’t go shopping for the next sixty years.’
‘Of course not. That would be very wrong. You must certainly find some worthy ways to occupy your time. What about charity work?’
‘Yes,’ Romily said eagerly. She sat down in one of the little gilt chairs, leaning over the armrest towards her mother. ‘I was wondering about volunteering for an overseas organisation. There are so many places I could go to learn something and be useful: Africa, Sri Lanka …’
Her mother looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, ma chérie. I think committee work is much more appropriate. Fundraising. Promoting awareness. Lovely Françoise has made millions for the Red Cross by holding the most delightful parties. But you can’t actually go to those places. They’re dangerous!’
Romily sat back in her chair. It was exactly as she’d expected: her mother was happy for her to do something as long as it was within the prescribed limits of what a young lady of her status should do. ‘I’m bored with parties. I want to do something interesting.’
‘I arranged you those classes with the Professor. Aren’t they stimulating your mind?’
‘Not really. He’s a bore. He likes the sound of his own voice, and whenever I try to start a discussion with him, he blinks at me and acts as if I said nothing at all, and simply drones on and on.’
‘How strange,’ murmured Athina de Lisle. ‘He’s so well regarded! His book won so many prizes. I haven’t read it, of course, but others have said it’s a masterpiece …’
‘I do want to learn,’ Romily said. ‘But I’d also like to travel and see the world.’
‘See the world?’ Her mother laughed, a trilling, musical sound. ‘My darling, you see the world all the time! You travel everywhere, all year round. Why, we’re off to London next week for darling Jenny’s little soirée, and we’re going to Delhi later in the year for the Laksi wedding. That’s going to be splendid.’
‘Yes, yes, but …’ Romily sighed. ‘I won’t really see anything in Delhi.’
‘Well, I think a Maharaja’s palace will be quite a sight myself …’
‘Yes, I know.’ She tried not to sound impatient. ‘Of course it will, and I’m looking forward to it, but I won’t get to see the place as others will. I won’t get to see the poverty and colour and people and beggars …’
‘Exactly – and you should be very thankful for it!’
‘I am thankful, but I also want to know what else is out there, what life is like for people who haven’t been born with everything I’ve got. Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to pack a rucksack, take a few hundred dollars and travel the world like any other student on a budget. I’d like to sleep in hostels, and eat from tins, and drink cheap wine from plastic bottles, hang out on beaches … just bum around for a year or so.’
‘That sounds awful!’ declared her mother, looking horrified. ‘I can’t imagine why on earth you would want that. Besides, the security implications are unthinkable. You would have to take a guard with you wherever you went. If you want a holiday, darling, just say and we’ll arrange something. The Matthews have that estate in Zambia. I’ve heard it’s magical. I’m sure you’d be able to get in touch with nature, or whatever it is you want to do, out there. And it’s all very safe and fenced in.’
Romily shook her head impatiently. ‘No, that’s not it at all.’
Her mother looked cross and picked up her pen
again. ‘For goodness’ sake, Romily, I never knew a girl who was so dissatisfied with her lot! What more could you possibly want? You are simply determined to be contrary. If you really want something to occupy your time, you should get married and have children. That will keep you busy!’
Romily was jealous of Allegra and Imogen, and the freedom they must be enjoying at Oxford. She was sure they would be having adventures, meeting hundreds of people and learning amazing things. That must be why she had lost touch with her friends recently, despite the postcards she often sent. Her emails to Allegra went unanswered – in fact, she’d heard almost nothing since her stay in Paris before going up to Oxford; Imogen was better, but even so, the occasional email and scribbled letter did nothing to tell her what life there was really like. Imogen was always so apologetic, explaining how busy it was at Oxford, and how her time was taken up with studying for exams. She’d written that she had a boyfriend now, but hardly anything else about him. Romily had been hoping for an invitation to visit, but it had yet to come.
Why didn’t I force my parents to let me apply to university? I can’t believe I let them take me away from Westfield. She regretted it now, but there seemed no way to reverse her decision. She had left school before her A-levels. There was no way she could go to university now, unless she took the Baccalaureate. But the idea of going back to school was too depressing. I want to get on! I’ve been left behind. I must get a job or something – that’s the only answer.
‘Well, you know what you simply must do,’ her friend Muffy Houghton Geller said while they were lunching together at the Ritz in the place Vendôme. ‘You must come to Manhattan!’
‘Really?’ Romily was doubtful. Would anything change for her there?
‘Yes!’ Muffy was a sweet-natured American heiress who had moved in Romily’s circle for years. They’d struck up a friendship in Venice one summer and now they were firm friends. Muffy’s only ambition in life was to get married to as rich a man as possible, although she had certain conditions: it had to be old money, and he had to be Ivy League and a banker or financier. Apart from that, she wasn’t fussy. ‘Everyone would simply adore to see you. We’d totally spoil you. All the girls are dying to meet you since I told them about your amazing style.’