Jilly Cooper - Imogen

‘I’m not late, am I?’

‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘What d’you want to drink?’

‘Tomato juice, please,’ said Yvonne. ‘No thanks, Imogen, I won’t have any of your crisps. They’re so fattening and it’s more than my life’s worth to exceed my calorie count.’

She looked rather disapprovingly at Imogen’s thighs splayed out on the bar stool. Imogen blushed, let the large crisp already in her mouth melt like a communion wafer, and gazed at Yvonne in admiration. There wasn’t a chip of varnish off the long coral nails, nor a newly curled red hair out of place, and the white silk blouse with the couple tangoing over the bosom was still spotless from that morning.

Having got her way over the room, Yvonne was also prepared to be conciliatory. The vibes sizzling between Nicky and Cable had not been lost on her. Cable mustn’t be the only one with a holiday admirer. Yvonne decided to charm Matt.

‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked. ‘Mind you, I always suspect seasickness is psychosomatic.’

‘I agree,’ said Matt. ‘So’s bloody-mindedness.’

The irony was quite lost on Yvonne.

‘I do envy you coming from Ireland,’ she went on. ‘I did a butter commercial there once. It was all so green and unspoilt. Where do you live, Matt?’

‘In Moone.’

‘Is it pretty?’

‘Well, it’s very good hunting country.’

‘I think hunting’s rather cruel,’ said Yvonne, ‘but I suppose people in the country have to occupy their time somehow.’

‘Indeed they have,’ said Matt. ‘The Irish haven’t discovered the infinite possibilities of sexual intercourse yet.’

‘The men in the Moone always came too soon,’ said Nicky.

Matt laughed. Yvonne hastily changed the subject. ‘I don’t always agree with what you say, but I do admire your ability to do it week in week out.’

‘Do what?’

‘Write your amusing articles. Where do you think up your ideas?’

‘In the bog,’ said Matt. ‘I’m thinking of doing a piece on bitches next week.’

‘Oh, I can help you with that,’ said Yvonne enthusiastically. ‘One meets so many in the modelling world. It’s the price you have to pay for being at the top,’ she added, draining her tomato juice. The head waiter was hovering again, looking bootfaced.

‘Where is Cable?’ said Yvonne disapprovingly. ‘You haven’t trained her very well, you know.’

‘She knows people’ll wait for her,’ said Matt.

‘So inconsiderate to keep the kitchen staff waiting. I must say I am looking forward to my meal. You can’t beat French cuisine,’ Yvonne retorted.

At that moment Cable sauntered in, looking quite unrepentant in khaki jeans, and a tight olive green T-shirt with ‘I’m Still A Virgin’ printed in large letters across the front. The colour gave a warm dusky glow to her brown face and neck, and intensified the greenness of her eyes. The barman nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning, the head waiter stopped in mid-grumble. Nicky’s hand slid out of Imogen’s and his presence seemed to slip away from her too, as he examined the lettering on Cable’s bosom.

‘Matt’s just been telling us the Irish haven’t discovered sex yet. Here we have the proof,’ he said.

‘You’ll get clobbered under the trade descriptions act,’ said Matt.

‘I’d better give it to Imogen, then,’ said Cable. ‘She’s the only one entitled to wear it.’

Everyone glanced at Imogen, who blushed crimson and looked down at her hands, speechless with embarrassment. Nicky must have told Cable. How could he?

‘Sorry,’ said Cable. ‘That was below the belt.’

‘Your mind’s never anywhere else,’ said Matt sharply. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

‘Let me have one drink,’ said Cable, smiling witchily at the head waiter. ‘Surely we’ve got time?’

The head waiter promptly melted and said there was all the time in the world, and why didn’t they have a round of drinks on the house?

‘I thought you weren’t going to change, Cable,’ said Yvonne. ‘No, thank you, garçon , I won’t have another drink, and you’ve had enough, Jumbo,’ she added to James who was still gaping at Cable. ‘You know I hate you drinking spirits.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Matt, accepting large glasses of whisky and handing one to James. ‘Never look a gift White Horse in the mouth.’

At last they went in to dinner. Most people had reached the coffee stage. After a quick calculation, Imogen posted herself next to where she thought Nicky would be. But at the last moment Cable sat down beyond Matt, and Nicky moved in opposite her, with Yvonne next to him, leaving James and Imogen on the outside.

‘We can play footy footy,’ said James.

His fat little legs would never reach me, thought Imogen. At least she was next to Matt, which was a comfort. He promptly began to guide her through the menu.

‘Have that and that if you’re starving,’ he said. ‘This place really deserves every flicker of its three stars.’

‘I’m going to have a large steak,’ said Nicky. ‘I’d better make some attempt at keeping fit.’

‘Oh good, they’ve got crudities. Can I have mine undressed?’ said Yvonne to the waiter.

Undressed crudities! thought Imogen. Perhaps Yvonne was going to whip off her clothes and tango naked on the snow white table cloth. It must be all the whisky, it was beginning to make her feel fuzzy and irresponsible.

Everyone, except Cable and Yvonne, fell on the bread.

‘What’s cervelles ?’ said James, unpacking a square of butter.

‘Brains,’ said Matt.

‘Ugh,’ shuddered Yvonne. ‘I can’t stand brains.’

‘That’s patently obvious,’ said Matt to Imogen in an undertone.

‘Shall we all drink red?’ he added, looking round the table.

‘I want white,’ said Yvonne. ‘Much less fattening, don’t you agree, Cable?’

‘What?’ said Cable, who was smouldering at Nicky. ‘Oh yes I’m sure.’

Yvonne decided it was high time to break them up.

‘I’ve just been telling Matt how much I love Ireland, Cable, it’s so wonderfully primitive.’

‘You’d enjoy our hovel then,’ said Matt, taking another piece of bread. ‘Chickens in the parlour, me granny shacked up with the donkey in the best bedroom, and my mither entertaining gentlemen friends, while the pig waits at table.’

‘Now you’re teasing me,’ said Yvonne, her eyes crinkling. ‘I bet your family are charming, aren’t they, Cable?’

‘I haven’t been allowed to meet them,’ snapped Cable.

Suddenly the temperature seemed to have dropped below zero.

‘I’m frightened she might go off me,’ said Matt lightly.

There was an awkward pause, broken fortunately by the arrival of the wine. James, who was oblivious of any undercurrents, started to tell a stock-exchange joke, waving a large radish around as he talked. With his pale blue coat and his puffed out cheeks, he suddenly reminded Imogen of Peter Rabbit.

‘Don’t crunch, Jumbo,’ said Yvonne irritably. ‘You know how it gets on my nerves. The service is awfully slow here.’

A moan of greed escaped Imogen at the sight of her first course, a sort of chicken rissole, stuffed with foie gras, and surrounded by bright orange sauce flecked with black. Opposite her James was smacking his lips over smoked salmon and a shiny green sauce. Matt was eating snails. Yvonne was chewing grated carrot 20 bites a mouthful. Nicky and Cable had skipped a first course and were smoking.

The wine, even to Imogen’s uneducated palate, was spectacular, thick and sultry with grapes.

‘You can almost taste the peasants’ feet,’ said Matt.

‘What are the black bits?’ she asked him, as she used her fourth piece of bread to mop up the sauce.