‘Remember chastity begins and
Gradually the dark stone walls, the mill chimneys, the black-grimed houses, the rows of washing and dirty white hens in the gardens were left behind. She was on her way.
Chapter Five
An hour and a half from London she started doing her face. Half an hour away she decided she looked awful and took all her make-up off and put it on again. The new, very cheap dress, ivy green with a white collar, which had looked so pretty when she’d tried it on in the shop, was now crumpled like an old dishcloth. Her new tights were making spiral staircases round her ankles. The train drew into King’s Cross. Imogen was one of the first off, pushing her way through the crowd, radiant smile at the ready like a British Railways’ ad. She had lived this moment so often in her mind. People rushed forward to kiss people and gather up their suitcases. No one came forward to claim her. The kissers dispersed and still no Nicky. She was sure she’d told him she was arriving on the eight-thirty train.
The station clock jerked agonisingly round to nine-ten. Two drunken sailors lurched up to her and lurched away when they saw the frozen expression on her face. She struggled not to cry.
Then, like an Angel of Mercy, loping aross the station, in the same white suit and an orange shirt, came Nicky. ‘Darling, sweet love! God, I’m sorry. What can I say? There’s the most God-awful traffic jam in Piccadilly. Are you all right? Has half London been trying to pick you up?’
‘Oh,’ said Imogen, half-laughing, half-crying, ‘I’m so, so pleased to see you.’
As he kissed her, he smelt of drink and, she thought, of scent. Perhaps it was her own scent, new yesterday, which she wasn’t yet used to.
‘Come on,’ he said, picking up her suitcase.
In the taxi he took her hand. Imogen was too besotted to realise the roads were quite clear.
‘We’re going straight to Matt and Cable’s, the people we’re going to France with. You’ll like them. He’s a lunatic Irish journalist and she’s a model.’
‘A model?’ Imogen tugged surreptitiously at her wrinkled stockings. She hoped she wasn’t too glamorous. Then she remembered with relief, ‘Oh, but they’re the engaged couple.’
‘Well, not engaged exactly, just co-habiting. But I had to bend the facts a bit to reassure your father.’
They arrived at a huge block of flats. Imogen was disappointed Nicky didn’t kiss her. There would have been plenty of time as the lift climbed to the tenth floor. Instead he smoothed his hair in the lift mirror. There was no answer when he rang the door bell, so he pushed open the door and shouted, ‘Anyone at home?’
Footsteps came from the back of the flat, a waft of scent flooded the hall. ‘Darlings! You’ve arrived,’ said a girl in a light drawling voice. ‘How are you?’
Her red dress was slit to the thighs. Her lips were as crimson as her painted toe nails, which peeped out of high black sandals. She had delicate cat-like features, sly, slanting eyes the colour of watercress and carefully tousled inky-black hair snaking down her back. Except for her suntan she might have stepped out of a Beardsley drawing. There was something serpentine, too, in the way she coiled herself round Nicky, kissing him on the cheek and murmuring:
‘Darling, marvellous to see you.’
‘Imogen, this is Cable,’ he said, disengaging himself too slowly for Imogen’s liking. The girl stared at Imogen incredulously for a minute and then a slow smile spread over her face. ‘Welcome to London,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good journey? I’ve been packing since dawn and I’m completely exhausted. Where’s your luggage?’
Nicky held up Imogen’s dog-eared suitcase.
‘Heavens,’ said Cable. ‘Is that all? Matt will adore you. I’ve filled three suitcases already and he’s griping about my taking a fourth. Come and have a drink.’
‘Can I go to the loo?’ said Imogen, who didn’t want to, but was desperate to repair her face before Nicky could compare her any more with this ravishing creature.
‘Down the passage on the left,’ said Cable. ‘We’ll be in here. Do you think five bikinis will be enough, Nicky?’
What price Lady J’s motheaten red bathing dress now? thought Imogen savagely as she combed the tangles out of her hair. Her face was all eyes in a for-once pale face. She pinched some of Cable’s rouge, but it made her look like a clown so she rubbed it off again.
She found Nicky and Cable in a room where everything seemed scarlet — carpet, curtains, and every inch of wall that wasn’t covered by books and pictures. Even the piano was painted red, and in one corner stood a huge stuffed bear wearing a scarlet regimental jacket.
‘Oh, what a heavenly room,’ sighed Imogen.
Cable looked at her with surprise. ‘Do you think so? Matt’s taste — not mine. He’d been here a year when I moved in, so the damage was done. It’s hell to keep tidy,’ she added, pointing to the papers billowing out of the desk, and the piles of books and magazines on every available surface.
In one chair sprawled a basset hound who thumped his tail but made no effort to get up, and on the sofa, snoring gently, lay a very big, very long man.
‘He was playing poker all night,’ said Cable sourly. ‘He’s been lying there since he came in at half-past eleven this morning.’ She kicked him, none too gently, in the ribs. ‘Come on, Sloblomov, wake up.’
The man groaned and pulled a cushion over his face.
‘He even sleeps standing up,’ said Cable. ‘I’ve seen him at parties propped on one leg like a horse, patiently waiting to be led home to his stable.’
The man removed the cushion and opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Stop beefing for God’s sake. I’m on my holiday. I’m entitled to kip if I want to.’
‘Not when we’ve got company,’ said Cable.
He opened the other eye. ‘Hullo, kids,’ he said, and yawned without bothering to put his hand over his mouth.
Imogen was astounded that such a beautiful girl should go for such an ugly man. He had battered features, a very sallow skin, dark heavy-lidded eyes that turned down at the corners, and a streaky blond mane, much in need of a cut. He got up and shook himself like a dog. Beside Nicky’s gleaming beauty he looked thoroughly seedy. She also had a vague feeling she’d seen him before.
‘How are you, Nicky boy?’ he said.
‘He needs a drink,’ said Cable. ‘We all do.’
‘Well, run along and get me some Alka Seltzer.’
‘You do look a bit rough,’ said Nicky. ‘Did you make a killing last night?’
Matt drew a large wad of notes out of his hip pocket.
‘It’ll buy us a few snails,’ he said.
Nicky grinned. ‘I’ll go and help Cable with the ice.’
‘Bring the evening paper with you,’ Matt shouted after him. ‘I want to see what won the three-thirty.’
He turned to Imogen, looked her over lazily and gave her a surprisingly attractive smile. ‘Just come from Leeds, and covered in coal-dust are you? I went there once, a terrible dirty place it was. I thought I’d been misrouted to Hell.’
Imogen giggled. ‘The part where we live is very pretty. I like your flat.’
‘Come and look at the view.’ He went over to the window and drew back the curtains. All London glittered before them.
‘There’s Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Shell Building. On a clear day you can see Margaret Thatcher.’ He had a nice voice, too, thought Imogen, leisurely, with a faint trace of Irish. Perhaps he wasn’t so ugly after all —
