Imogen

‘Bastard,’ thought Nicky. He turned to the vicar. ‘How d’you think England’ll do against the West Indies?’ That should keep the old bugger gassing for a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined Imogen, mentally undressing her. He would take her later in the heather, and be very gentle and reassuring. He was certain she was a virgin.

‘They ought to bring back Dexter,’ the vicar was saying.

‘Don’t bother to finish, Imogen,’ whispered her mother. ‘I should clear if I were you.’

Thankfully Imogen gathered up the macaroni cheese and the plates. As she took Nicky’s he stroked the back of her leg, the one farthest away from the vicar.

She went into the kitchen and, licking macaroni cheese off her fingers, dumped the plates in the sink. She picked up a drying-up cloth, bent down and opened the oven door. As she was just easing out the plum crumble, she heard a step behind her.

‘Isn’t he the most utterly fantastic man you’ve ever seen?’ she murmured from the depths of the oven.

‘Glad you think so,’ said a husky voice behind her. Appalled, she swung round. Nicky, holding a vegetable dish in each hand, was standing, laughing, in the doorway. The crumble was burning her through the drying-up cloth. She shoved it down on the kitchen table. Nicky put down the dishes and ran a finger caressingly down her cheek.

‘Sweetheart, you must learn not to blush. It’s terribly pretty, but it’ll give you away to your unspeakable father.’

Imogen, terrified he’d try and kiss her when she tasted of macaroni cheese, hastily handed him the plates.

‘We must go back.’

But Nicky waited in the doorway, holding the plates and still grinning at her. Imogen stared fixedly at the door hinge, where generations had cracked the paint screwing off the tops of refractory bottles.

‘It’ll get cold,’ she stammered.

‘I won’t though,’ said Nicky, and brushed her cheek with his lips as she scuttled past him.

‘You’ve forgotten the plates,’ snapped her father.

‘I’ve got them,’ said Nicky. ‘Must say, I’m dying to sample Imogen’s — er — pudding.’ He winked at Juliet who giggled.

‘Don’t you get nervous before a big match?’ she said.

‘No.’ He shot a glance in Imogen’s direction. ‘The suspense turns me on.’

‘What’s Goolagong like?’ asked Juliet.

‘Sweet; much prettier in the flesh.’ Nicky poured cream thickly over his crumble. ‘Always humming to herself and laughing if she does a good shot. She never knows what the score is.’

He then told them a story about one of the linesmen falling asleep in a big match. ‘He’d had too good a lunch,’ he went on. ‘The crowd were quite hysterical with laughter.’

His eyes are as dark as pansies now, thought Imogen, trying to memorise every feature of his face. His hands were beautiful too, so brown and long-fingered. She suddenly felt quite weak with longing. Then she felt a gentle pressure against her ankle. It must be Homer rubbing against her, but he only begged during the meat courses. He was now stretched out in the sun under the window, twitching fluffy yellow paws in his sleep.

Nicky continued to talk quite calmly to her father, but the pressure against her ankle became more insistent.

‘Good congregation?’ he asked, draining his wine glass.

‘Pretty good,’ said the vicar.

He looks sensational in those jeans, thought Imogen. In spite of their tightness and, although he was sitting down, not an ounce of spare flesh billowed over the top. Her mind misted over; she didn’t even hear Nicky asking her father what he had preached his sermon about, or her father replying:

‘Ask Imogen, she was there.’

‘What was it about?’ asked Nicky, smiling wickedly at Imogen.

‘What, sorry,’ she said, startled.

‘Wake up,’ said her father.

‘I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.’

‘Nicky wants to know what my — er — sermon was about.’ There was a distinct edge to the vicar’s voice.

She felt the blood rushing to her face; they were all looking at her now.

‘Nicodemus,’ muttered Juliet.

‘Oh, yes,’ stammered Imogen gratefully. ‘The wind blowing where it listeth, and people who believe in God having everlasting life.’

With a shaking hand, she reached out for her wine, praying the storm was over.

Nicky looked at his watch.

‘Good God, it’s nearly quarter to three.’

‘I’ve missed Gardener’s Question Time,’ said the vicar.

‘I hope I haven’t gone on too much,’ said Nicky modestly, in the sure knowledge that he hadn’t. ‘If you care about something, you tend to bang on about it.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It’s been fascinating, hasn’t it, Stephen? We shall all enjoy Wimbledon so much more, having met you.’

‘I must drive back to London soon,’ said Nicky. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a walk on the moor first.’ He increased the pressure of his foot on Imogen’s ankle.

‘I must write my Evensong sermon,’ said the vicar regretfully, ‘and someone’s coming at four to borrow a dog collar for the Dramatic Society’s play.’

‘I must bath Homer,’ said Juliet.

‘Imogen will take you,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.

‘That’s what I hoped,’ said Nicky, smiling at Imogen.

‘Why has Imogen painted her eyelids bright green to go walking on the moors?’ asked the vicar, as he helped his wife with the washing-up.

‘I’m afraid she’s fallen in love,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.

‘She’s for the moors and martyrdom,’ muttered Juliet.

The wind had dropped since yesterday and, as they climbed up the moor, the hot sun had set the larks singing and was drawing them up the sky. The bracken uncurled pale green fingers. Lambs ran races and bleated for their mothers.

‘Bit of a sod to you, your pa, isn’t he?’ said Nicky.

‘He was disappointed I wasn’t a boy,’ said Imogen.

‘Jesus, I’m bloody glad you’re not.’

He slid an arm round her about six inches above the waist.

‘Very, very glad,’ he repeated, as his fingers encountered the underside of her breast. Imogen leapt away; they could still be seen from the house.

‘Don’t know if you’re more frightened of me or him,’ said Nicky.

‘Oh, I don’t feel at all the same way about you,’ protested Imogen. ‘It’s just that I’ve never met a famous person before.’

Nicky laughed, ‘I’ll introduce you to lots more if you promise not to fancy them.’

Imogen, not nearly as fit as Nicky, was soon puffing. Fortunately, he did most of the talking. ‘It’s a lonely life being a tennis player. Here today, gone tomorrow — thousands of acquaintances, very few friends. Never in one place long enough to establish a proper relationship.’ He gave a deep sigh.

Imogen, her perceptions a little blunted by wine at lunch, did not smile. She looked at him sympathetically.

‘Will you think of me occasionally when you’re beavering away in your little library?’

‘Oh yes, all the time.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her down beside him in the heather. Close to, she smelt of toothpaste and clean shining hair — rather like his little nieces when they came downstairs after their baths to say