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 creamiest 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.
