Imogen

‘And the lovely brown one next to you? Goodness, he’s handsome. He must be a coastguard or a swimming instructor or something.’

Imogen stifled a giggle. ‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’

At the mention of his name Nicky looked up. ‘I was just wondering what you do for a living,’ said Tracey, smiling at him with luscious simplicity.

‘He plays tennis,’ snapped Cable, then after a pause, ‘extremely successfully.’

‘Oh, how lovely! I love tennis. Perhaps we could have a game tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps we could,’ said Nicky, smiling into her eyes. ‘It doesn’t have to be tennis.’

‘Encore de whisky,’ shouted Gilmore, glancing round at the girls sitting at nearby tables and walking along the front. ‘Christ, the standard of talent is fantastic here. Just like the King’s Road used to be on a Saturday afternoon. Can’t think why I brought you, Tracey darling. Rather like carrying electric logs to Newcastle.’

‘You’d have to speak French to them, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Tracey placidly, ‘and you know how that tires you. I’m hungry. I hope the food’s better than it was in Paris. We went to Maxim’s last night. It was disgusting. I wanted a steak, and they gave me this charred rectangle of beef; when you put your fork in all the blood ran out. I love a nice scampi and chips.’

‘I expect it can be arranged,’ said Gilmore.

Yvonne was looking at Tracey in a puzzled way. ‘I can’t believe you’re forty,’ she said.

‘She is round the bust,’ said Cable spitefully.

‘That’s clever,’ said Tracey, quite oblivious of either girl’s animosity. ‘How did you guess? I hear you’re a model,’ she added to Yvonne. ‘I do a bit too in my spare time.’

‘What kind?’ said Yvonne coldly.

‘Oh, nude stuff mostly. I was Penthouse Pet of the Month last July.’

‘Were you indeed?’ said Nicky, shamelessly undressing her with his eyes.

‘They told the most terrible lies,’ said Tracey. ‘They photographed me cycling against a backdrop of some old university, with some pictures in these lovely silk undies and some in nothing at all.’

‘Really,’ said James, his eyes out on stalks.

‘Then they wrote all this stuff in the paper about me being an intellectual and my father being a don. But they let me keep the undies, and they paid very well.’

‘Is your father a don?’ said Yvonne.

‘No, he’s an undertaker,’ said Tracey.

Yvonne looked taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose they do fill a need.’

‘And an awful lot of holes,’ said Matt drily.

‘Do you do any nude work?’ Tracey asked Yvonne.

‘I couldn’t do that sort of thing,’ said Yvonne in a shocked voice.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be discouraged,’ said Tracey kindly. ‘I used to be as flat as a board like you too. Then my manager said, “Tracey, why don’t you get some decent tits?” He’s got this doctor friend who can give you boobs like Sophia Loren. So I went and saw him. The operation was a bit of a drag, but the after-effect was terrific. These are just silicone,’ she said, patting her jutting bosom fondly. ‘But I’ve never looked back since. I’ll give you the address of the doctor if you like. Pity not to be able to take your clothes off when it’s so lucrative.’

For once Yvonne was completely at a loss for words.

Glancing across, Imogen saw that Matt was crying with laughter.

‘Where did you really find her?’ he said to Gilmore, wiping his eyes.

‘Came to me as a temp. Types 30 words a minute and spells Laurence with a W all the time, but any girl with a body like that deserves to make it in life.’

‘Can’t think what she’s doing with you.’

‘She obviously wants to marry her grandfather.’

Yvonne leant across to Cable. ‘I don’t think that girl’s married to Larry Gilmore at all,’ she hissed.

‘We ought to eat soon,’ said Larry, lifting up one of Tracey’s silver breasts which was hanging over his watch. ‘It’s nearly half past nine.’

‘I’ll get the bill,’ said Matt, tipping back his chair and waving to a waitress. Then suddenly — Imogen could never remember exactly how it happened — the bustling, noisy street went absolutely quiet. Waiters stopped in their tracks with trays held aloft, a man carrying a basket of fish up from the quay dropped it with a crash on the ground and stood motionless as though hypnotised, conversations all along the front slithered to a halt, a poodle barked and was angrily hushed, a child cried and was clouted. Everyone had turned towards the end of the street. Somehow the fear and anticipation had infected even the rowdiest holidaymaker. The only sound was the swish of the waves, and faint complaining of the seagulls. It was like High Noon. And then Imogen saw him, strolling lazily down the street towards them chewing on a cigar, a little bald man wearing dark glasses, a black shirt and ill-fitting white trousers, and apparently in no hurry. But even in his leisureliness there was tension.

‘Braganzi,’ hissed Matt.

‘Christ, I wish I had a camera,’ muttered Larry.

He was only a couple of tables away now, everyone smiling sycophantically. The same poodle growled and was kicked again.

‘He’s making for this table,’ said Cable, shaking back her hair and licking her lips in anticipation. ‘Perhaps he’s coming to say you can do a piece on him.’

‘More likely to warn us off,’ said Matt.

Imogen watched him, mesmerised. It wasn’t often you saw a legend that close.

He reached their table now, and paused, taking them all in. Then he took out his cigar and ground it into the pavement.

‘Good evening,’ he said in a very strong Italian accent. ‘I look for Mees Brocklehurst.’

Imogen gasped in terror and threw a supplicating glance in Matt’s direction.

‘What d’you want her for,’ said Matt sharply.

‘May I present myself,’ said the little man softly. ‘My name is Enrico Braganzi.’

‘We know that,’ said Matt.

‘I would simply like to talk to Miss Brocklehurst.’ He smiled, showing several gold stoppings.

Nicky put a protecting hand on Imogen’s arm.

‘This is her,’ he said.

Braganzi removed his dark glasses. His eyes were hooded, watchful, very, very dark. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he asked, ‘were you by any chance swimming round the rocks to the Petite Plage today?’

Imogen gazed down, hoping the ground might swallow her up.

‘Were you, lovie?’ said Matt gently.

She knew the whole beach was watching her.

‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It was so pretty. I just wanted to be on my own for a bit. I didn’t realise it was private.’

‘Please, Mademoiselle.’ Braganzi held up a beautifully manicured hand, heavy with gold rings. ‘I have only come to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my little boy’s life.’

‘I what?’ said Imogen, bewildered.

‘You saved him from drowning, and then bring him back to life.’

‘He was your child?’ whispered Imogen. ‘But I thought he belonged to that couple.’

‘That couple,’ said Braganzi in a voice that sent shivers down Imogen’s spine, ‘were the child’s nanny and one of my guards.’

So that was why the girl was sobbing so hysterically, even after the child was revived — from terror of Braganzi.

‘The girl came back to the house and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Fortunately another of my men had seen everything through binoculars from the house. You were too far away for him to help. When he arrived you had gone. He said you display amazing courage and presence of mind for one so young.’

‘Oh gosh, it was nothing,’ muttered Imogen. ‘Anyone would have done it.’