if she’d got lipstick on her teeth, and surreptitiously got out her mirror.
Matt grinned at her. ‘They’re staring at you because you look beautiful,’ he said.
The musky treacherous fires of the wine were stealing down inside her. She was beginning to feel wonderful. Matt asked for the bill. Imogen got out her purse.
‘Let me pay, please let me.’
Matt shook his head. ‘This is on me.’
As they went out into the fiery sunshine, she swayed slightly, and Matt took her arm.
‘Come on, baby, we’ve got things to do.’
Imogen kept catching reassuring glimpses of her sleek reflection in shop windows. The rich in their yachts and their Pucci silks held no terrors for her now. She was walking on air.
‘I think I’m a bit tight,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Matt, turning briskly into a boutique.
In a daze, she watched him rifling through a tray of bikinis.
‘If it’s for Cable,’ she said, ‘that red one would look lovely.’
‘Not for Cable,’ he said, piloting her into one of the changing rooms, ‘for you.’
‘Oh I couldn’t! I’m too fat.’
‘I’m the best judge of that,’ said Matt handing her a pale blue bikini and drawing the curtain on her.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ thought Imogen, hiccupping gently.
She put on the bikini, and then stood gaping at herself. Except for her midriff which was still pale, there, smiling back at her in the mirror, was one of those beautiful shapely blondes who paraded up and down the beach at Port-les-Pins. Could it really be her? She gave a squeal of delight.
Matt pulled back the curtain and gave a low whistle.
‘That’s not bad for a start,’ he said.
‘But I’m practically falling out of it,’ she said.
‘Disgusting.’ He ran a leisurely hand over her midriff. ‘You’ll have to put in some overtime here. Try these on.’
Everything he handed her — dresses, trousers, shirts, beach shifts — was in pale greens, blues and pinks, calculated to take the last tinge of red out of her suntan.
The record player was pounding out old pop tunes.
‘
‘Took the words out of my mouth,’ said Matt. Still the same teasing note in his voice. But in his eyes, once again, she read approval and something else which made her heart beat faster.
As she struggled into an apple green dress covered in white daisies, wondering how he should so instinctively know what suited her, she suddenly heard a commotion outside.
‘
‘
Imogen put her head round the curtain to find Matt talking nineteen to the dozen to the wickedest-looking Frenchman she had ever seen. He was wearing an immaculately tailored suit in brilliant yellow pinstripe, with a grey shirt and a green carnation in his button hole. Rings flashed from his fingers, gold rings in his ears. He reeked of scent and was smoking a large cigar, and although he had a young dark gipsy face, his hair was already quite grey.
Suddenly his black eyes lighted on Imogen.
‘She come with you, Matthieu? What a beautiful girl.’
‘This is Imogen,’ said Matt.
‘Beautiful,’ murmured Antoine, fingering the green dress. ‘You look like a meadow, Mademoiselle. May I come and roll in you some time?’
‘Imogen, baby,’ sighed Matt, ‘I’m afraid this is Antoine de la Tour, playboy of the Western world. In between bouts of debauchery, he makes films.’
‘We are old friends,’ said Antoine. ‘We were at Ox-fawd together.’ He spoke English fluently with a strong Yorkshire accent.
‘My Nanny come from Yorkshire,’ he explained to Imogen. ‘She taught me English, and much else besides. Ever since Nanny, I’ve a
‘Keep your hands off her,’ said Matt. ‘She’s not mine to lend. I only borrowed her for the day. Tell me, do you know anything about Braganzi?’
‘I’ve seen him in Marseilles once,’ said Antoine. ‘And the Duchess, what a beautiful woman.’
‘How do I get to see him?’ asked Matt.
‘You don’t,’ said Antoine. ‘’is house is like a fortress.’
At that moment a redhead came undulating across the room with a pile of silk shirts over her arm. She was of such massive proportions, she made Imogen feel like Twiggy.
‘This is Mimi,’ said Antoine. ‘Good girl, but spik no English.’
He handed her his wallet and, after smiling ravishingly at him, she undulated to the cash desk.
‘Look at those ’ips,’ sighed Antoine, ‘but then I always prefer quantity to quality. Her father is biggest bidet manufacturer in France. ’E finance my next film.’
‘What is it?’ asked Imogen, wondering where Matt had disappeared to.
‘I mek story of ’annibal and the Halps. We import one hondred elephants from Africa. Mimi will ’ave small part as ’annibal’s slave girl.’
‘She’ll be splendid,’ said Imogen.
Matt appeared and handed her a bulging carrier bag. She peered inside, aghast. ‘But Matt, I can’t. I thought we were just fooling about. All these things must have cost a fortune. You can’t give them to me!’
‘All in a good cause,’ said Matt. ‘Consider that they come with the compliments of Port-les-Pins Casino. Let’s go and see Antoine off,’ he added before she could argue any more.
Outside, deep in onlookers, was a huge pale mauve Rolls-Royce with smoked glass windows. Mimi, two Great Danes and a goat were watching television in the back.
A tall sleek Negro in a white suit and dark glasses was opening the door for Antoine.
‘This is Rebel,’ said Antoine. ‘My bodyguard and friend. I want him to play Caesar in my film. But he say it against Black Power principles to play white dictator. We’ll come over to Port-les-Pins this evening.
‘He certainly has great style,’ said Imogen, still giggling as she and Matt stretched out on the beach later. ‘I mean that grey hair with that young face.’
‘It’s dyed,’ said Matt. ‘You may laugh, but he’s absolutely lethal where women are concerned. You should have seen him at Oxford, bowling them over with his Cartier watches and his dinner jacket with green facings. Any girl worth her salt in those days claimed to be educated at Roedean, Lady Margaret Hall, and Antoine de la Tour. So watch it, mate.’
Although everyone else on the beach was sunbathing topless, Imogen jumped out of her skin as she felt Matt’s fingers undoing the clasp of her bikini.
‘No, I can’t,’ she gasped.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Matt. ‘Turn over. I’ll oil you.’
Imogen shut her eyes and turned over. The hot sun beat red through her lids. Hastily she covered her breasts with her folded arms.
‘Come on,’ said Matt. ‘I want to look at you.’
‘Oh please don’t,’ muttered Imogen. ‘I’m so awful.’
‘Shut up,’ he said, gently pulling down her arms.
‘You’ve been hiding your finest asset for far too long. Nicky was absolutely right about your tits.’
As his hands began to move luxuriously over her stomach, she felt her throat tighten and her mouth go dry. She opened her eyes to find him smiling lazily down at her, the heavy olive lids almost shutting out the dark green eyes. Her heart was going bump-bump like an overloaded spin dryer. Suddenly the beach had become a tiny room.
‘I’ll oil the rest of me,’ she stammered, snatching the tube of
