Imogen

Imogen felt absolutely knackered. She longed to soak in a hot bath, and spend ages tarting up and putting on something sensational. But she had nothing sensational to put on, and she felt far too fat and cumbersome to undress and change in front of Cable. With all Cable’s suitcases and bottles of make-up, there wasn’t really room enough for them both anyway. Besides, if she got down early she might snatch a few moments alone with Nicky, so she contented herself with a quick wash and brush-up.

‘If Matt’s bellyaching, tell him I won’t be long,’ said Cable who was now wandering about the bedroom totally naked, except for a green silk scarf holding her rollers in.

Imogen averted her eyes and fled. Was modesty perhaps a question of fatness, she wondered. If she looked as marvellous as that, perhaps she’d wander around with no clothes on. On the landing she found Yvonne, wearing a pink plastic cape round her shoulders to protect her clothes from make-up, and brandishing a hairdryer at a nervous looking maid.

‘You speak English, don’t you?’

‘Oui, Madame.’

‘Then why don’t you speak it, instead of standing there talking in a foreign language? I want the plug on this dryer exchanged at once.’

Imogen slunk past them. No one was about in the hall. She looked at the menu in the glass case, her mouth watering. The kitchen was wafting beguiling smells of garlic, wine and herbs from its warm interior. She went into the lounge and sat down with Tristram Shandy. An English family nearby whispered as though they were at a funeral, and gloomily lifted the brass hats on their cafe filtres. On her table a vase of mauve and salmon pink gladioli clashed horribly with each other and even worse with the tartan table cloth. Odd that the French, who were supposed to be so chic, should have so little colour sense.

She tried to read. It was really awful the way her concentration had gone to the wind since she met Nicky. She gazed out of the window where an orange street lamp lit up the poster of a forthcoming circus.

We’re a bit like a travelling circus, she thought. James is one of those eager perky little dogs that jumps through hoops, and Yvonne is a trapeze artist, tough but dainty, tripping around with her feet turned out, and Nicky and Cable were like sleek beautiful wild animals, panthers or tigers, who kept escaping from their cages and disrupting the local community, and she was a small fat shaggy pony trying desperately to keep up with everyone. She was just trying to work out what Matt was, something large and friendly, when she jumped as she heard his voice saying, ‘You’ll never get yourself a drink that way, sweetheart. We’re in the bar. What are you reading?’ He picked up her book. ‘Oh, that, never managed to get through it myself.’

They found Nicky sitting on a bar stool.

‘Hullo, pet, what d’you want? Matt and I are drinking Pernods.’

‘That’d be lovely,’ said Imogen, not having a clue what it was, some kind of alcoholic pear juice perhaps.

Matt ordered another round and dropped a packet of crisps into her lap.

‘You must be starving.’

‘You looked bushed too,’ said Nicky, pouring water into the Pernod so it went cloudy like Dettol. ‘Probably a good thing you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, but there’ll be no holding me tomorrow,’ he added, lowering his voice.

Imogen went pink, took a great slug of her drink, and nearly spat it out. It was unbelievably disgusting, like distilled liquorice allsorts. And she needed a drink so badly. She took another cautious sip and almost threw up.

Matt picked up a copy of Le Figaro that was lying on the bar.

‘I say,’ said Nicky, ‘have you heard the one about the Irishman who tried to swim the channel?’

‘No,’ said Matt, not looking up.

‘He tried to swim it “lenktways”.’

Imogen giggled. Nicky put a warm hand over hers. ‘At least someone thinks I’m funny.’

‘Jesus,’ said Matt. ‘Braganzi’s in Marseilles only a few miles from where we’re staying.’

‘With the Duchess?’ asked Nicky.

‘So it says here.’

‘Never understand that,’ said Nicky, peering at the paper. ‘Beautiful classy bird throwing everything up to run off with a little wop runt like Braganzi.’

‘Hush,’ said Matt looking round in mock alarm. ‘The Mafia are everywhere. Anyway he’s probably more enterprising in bed. According to Fleet Street, the old Duke was a bit of a stately homo, one pretty valet after another.’

‘Every valet shall be exalted,’ said Nicky.

‘Didn’t the Duchess have Braganzi’s baby?’ asked Imogen.

‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘Must be 18 months now. They’ve been together nearly three years. Perhaps she enjoys living with a hood. Women are always turned on by power, and Braganzi’s got the whole of the Midi sewn up.’

Nicky squinted at his reflection in the smoked looking-glass behind the bar. ‘All the same he is an oily little runt.’

Matt grinned. ‘Once she hears you’re in the area, Nicky baby, she’ll promptly abandon Braganzi.’

‘I’ve never had a Duchess,’ mused Nicky, as though it was a matter of surprise to him. ‘Can’t you imagine her gliding downstairs in one of those red robes lined with ermine, and nothing on underneath, saying, “Would you prefer the West Wing or the East Wing, Mr Beresford?”’

‘Then she’d probably hand you over to the National Trust,’ said Matt, catching sight of Imogen’s stricken face. ‘Anyway, you’d just be getting down to business when the door’d be flung open and you’d have some guide showing a coachload of large ladies on a Mothers’ Union mystery tour all over you.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m turned on by crowds.’

Imogen, who was feeling quite sick at the thought of Nicky and the Duchess, took another slug at her drink, and felt even sicker, and had to have three potato crisps to take the taste away.

‘Hullo, you chaps, what’s anyone going to drink?’ said a jolly voice. It was James, wearing a pale blue corduroy coat, his light brown curls smoothed flat to his head. Perhaps Yvonne insisted on 100 brushes a day — like Nanny.

‘It’s my round,’ said Nicky.

‘I’ll have whisky then, a large White Horse please, un grand cheval blanc,’ said James and giggled, looking furtively round. ‘You’d better make it snappy. Yvonne doesn’t approve of spirits.’

‘Make it two,’ said Matt, and, picking up Imogen’s Pernod, emptied it into his own glass. ‘You’re not enjoying that much, are you, sweetheart?’

‘Oh thank you,’ stammered Imogen, touched that he’d noticed.

‘D’you know the story of the white horse going into a pub and sitting down on the bar stool and ordering a large whisky?’ said James.

‘No,’ said Nicky, who didn’t like other people telling jokes.

‘The barman gave the horse his drink, and said “Did you know there’s a whisky named after you?” “Really,” said the white horse, “I didn’t know there was a whisky called Eric.”’

James laughed so hard that in the end everyone joined in. He’s really rather nice, thought Imogen, taking a thankful gulp of her whisky.

The head waiter was hovering with a menu, chat du jour at the ready.

‘Were Cable or your wife looking within a million years of being ready?’ asked Matt. ‘They’re getting a bit restless in the kitchen.’

‘No,’ said James cheerfully.

Imogen’s stomach gave a thunderous rumble.

‘Hear, hear,’ said Matt, ‘I’ll keel over if I don’t eat soon.’

‘You chaps didn’t have any lunch, did you?’ said James sympathetically.

‘Jesus,’ said Nicky, looking at the bill for the round of drinks. ‘It’s even gone up since I was here in May.’

‘Exactly,’ said Matt. ‘That’s why we’re not staying in four star hotels. We’ll have to put Imogen on the streets as it is.’

‘They say vicars’ daughters are always the worst,’ said James.

The whisky was making Imogen perk up. It was nice being just her and the three men. The conversation moved on to Northern Ireland. Imogen ate her crisps and let the world flow over her. Nicky held her hand and