Imogen

Imogen’s. ‘I hear you know darling Camilla,’ he said. ‘Do give her my love next time you see her.’

A light flashed. ‘Thank you,’ said a photographer moving away.

The sounds of revelry grew louder, the heat grew more oppressive by the minute.

‘Come and look at the garden,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket. Two beautiful young men, in shirts slashed to the waist, met them in the doorway.

‘At last we’ve found you. You must be Morgan Brocklehurst,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve been simply dying to meet you all evening.’

‘I hear you had dinner with Braganzi last night,’ said the first.

‘Is he as butch as everyone says he is?’ asked the second.

A large woman in crimson with one false eyelash hanging askew like a ladder from her bottom lid charged up to them.

‘Does anyone know which Morgan Brocklehurst is?’ she said, eagerly. ‘I hear she’s actually met Braganzi and the Duchess.’

‘She’s somewhere in there,’ said the first young man, pointing back at the drawing-room, from which a hysterical rush of talk was now issuing.

‘Oh dear,’ said the woman in crimson, ‘I’ve just fought my way out of there. I want to try and nail her for a beach party I’m having tomorrow.’ She dived back in the melee.

‘I’ll get you another drink, Morgan,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket.

‘Thanks, I’d adore one,’ said Imogen, who was beginning to enjoy herself.

One of the beautiful young men took her arm and led her through the gardens, past huge jungle plants with leaves like dark shining shields, and brilliant coloured birds, scarlet, turquoise, dark blue and emerald, all chirruping and fluttering about their aviary, like guests at the party. Round the corner they found two pale pink flamingos standing on one leg in a bright green pond, full of fat golden carp gliding in and out of the water lilies.

In the stifling heat Imogen was quite happy to rest on a cool stone bench with lions’ heads rearing up at either end. The two young men sat at her feet, a captive audience. She was soon quite happily recounting the events of yesterday.

Soon quite a crowd was gathered round her. People kept topping up her drink. ‘It really is very moreish,’ she said to the company at large. She kept looking around for Larry, and hoping Matt would arrive, but after a bit she stopped worrying even about them.

‘Can I get you something to eat?’ asked the man in the white dinner jacket.

‘Oh, no thank you,’ said Imogen. She seemed to have consumed far too much fruit salad already.

‘Well, come and dance then,’ he said, leading her back into the house. ‘Claudine brought in 600 bottles of champagne for this party, plus 50 lbs of caviar, and God knows how many gallons of Diorissimo to put in the swimming pool. Of course she’ll claim it all on tax.’

It was far too dark to see anyone on the dance floor.

‘Morgan, Morgan, you’re so fresh and unspoilt,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket, drawing her to his bosom.

Oh dear, she thought, I do hope I don’t leave make-up all over him. Another man cut in and danced her off into another room where he tried to kiss her. She wanted to slap his face, but he wasn’t very steady on his feet, and she thought she might knock him over. Then a haughty aristocratic beauty drew her aside.

‘I’m giving a party in Marbella tomorrow night. Love it if you could make it. We could easily send a plane. Bring anyone you like. Perhaps Camilla’d like an outing? Has she put on any weight since she’s been living with Braganzi?’

The band was playing Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, the laughter and tinkle of broken glass were getting louder, a crowd was clamouring round her again. Suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed her; it was Larry, waving a full bottle of champagne.

‘Doctor Livingstone,’ she screamed.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he said, dragging her through the french windows out into the garden.

‘Where are the others?’

‘Well, I’ve just seen Nicky and Tracey come out of the library, looking rather ruffled. Nicky was wearing lipstick, Tracey wasn’t any more. Mrs Edgworth’s been dancing the night away with Omar Sharif, and Cable’s been dividing her unwrapped attention between Rod Stewart and Warren Beatty.’

‘So she’s happy?’

‘Not entirely. No point in being the Belle of the Ball if the guy who matters isn’t here to witness it. Matt hasn’t showed up yet. He can’t still be wrestling with his copy.’

‘He’s probably having trouble getting Braganzi to OK it,’ said Imogen.

‘If he does get it through he’ll make a bomb on syndication. Bloody well need to, to pay for Cable’s peacock feathers.’

Pity someone can’t lock her away in the aviary with all those coloured birds, thought Imogen. She held out her glass.

‘I’d like another drink, please.’

‘That’s my girl,’ said Larry, filling her long Pimms glass up to the brim with champagne. For a while they danced on the lawn, both slightly supporting one another.

‘Christ, I wish I’d brought my camera,’ said Larry. ‘Half the crowned heads of Europe are frisking nude in the swimming pool. Evidently Leonard is on hand with a fleet of minions to blow dry anyone who wants it when they come out.’

Imogen listened to the shrieks and splashes from the pool, and wished she felt slim enough to bathe in the nude. She seemed to have drunk all her champagne.

‘I really must go to the loo.’

‘Well, don’t be long,’ said Larry. ‘It’s nearly light up time.’

Imogen realised how drunk she was when she found herself liberally pouring her hostess’s scent over her bosom in the pink satin bedroom. Breaking the eighth commandment again. She put the bottle down hastily. What would her father say, and Matt? Her face, however, looked rather sparkly-eyed and pink-cheeked and much better than she’d expected after so much booze.

‘Have you met Morgan Brocklehurst?’ she heard two women saying as she went downstairs. ‘Quite ravishing. I must ask her who does her hair. Evidently Braganzi’s leaving her half of Sicily.’

As she reached the bottom step, a large brunette shot past her shrieking playfully, followed two seconds later by James, very pink in the face and emitting Tarzan howls. They both disappeared into the shrubbery.

‘Why aren’t you dancing, Morgan?’ asked Claudine, rushing forward.

‘I’ll take care of that,’ said a smooth voice, and the next moment she felt herself clutched to the muscular, scented hairy-chested bosom of one of the screen’s greatest lovers.

‘I took one look at you,’ he crooned in her ear, ‘That’s all I meant to do, And then my heart stood still. How would you like to go to a party in Rome?’

‘I’m supposed to be going to one in Marbella tomorrow,’ said Imogen.

‘Oh, that’ll be Effie Strauss’s thrash. I’ll give you a lift if you like.’

They danced and danced, drank and drank, and although she was slightly missing the forehand drives of conversation he didn’t seem to mind at all. Then she remembered she’d left Larry in the garden. She must go and find him. As she reached the end of the lawn, she passed a couple under a fig tree locked in a passionate embrace. The girl’s silver blonde hair fell below her waist.

‘The moment I saw you yesterday,’ the man’s voice was saying huskily, ‘Pow, suddenly it happened, like being struck down by a thunderbolt. I don’t know what it is about you, Tracey darling, but it’s something indefinably different.’

‘And your pulse, my darling, is going like the Charge of the Light Brigade,’ shrieked Imogen loudly, and rushed off howling with laughter as they both jumped out of their skins.

She was still laughing when she found Larry rolling a joint by the flamingo pool. ‘It’s light up time,’ he said again.

‘This is the best party I’ve ever been to,’ she said.

‘Have a drag of this,’ said Larry, ‘and it’ll seem even better.’