Jilly Cooper - Imogen

She was suddenly aware of a clock striking seven and, turning round, saw that the tables at the bars along the front were filling up. It was part of the Port-les-Pins ritual. Every night you sat and drank and commented on the beautiful people drifting along the street on foot or driving slowly by in open cars. Often they merely paraded to one end of the beach, turned round and walked back again, over and over again, so everyone could admire them. Reluctantly she decided she had better be getting back.

The rock that overhung the bay was turning rose red in the sunset; the cypress trees reared up stiff as cats’ tails against the glowing sky; the sea was veiled in an amethyst haze.

To her horror the first people she saw were Nicky and Cable drinking vodka and tonics under a Coca-Cola umbrella which gave a faint red glow to their sunburnt faces. Cable was wearing a white lace top tied under her breasts, with matching lace Bermudas which would have made anyone else look fat. Her long expanse of midriff was as smooth and brown as mahogany. Nicky was wearing white trousers and a grey cashmere sweater, his black curls still hanging in wet tendrils from the shower. They both looked superbly indolent, replete and handsome, like two panthers after feeding time.

Blushing crimson, aware of her tousled hair and unkempt appearance, Imogen tried to creep past them, but Nicky saw her and called out:

‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come over here and tell us all about the château and the embattled Edgworths.’

‘I didn’t go in the end,’ she stammered.

For a second Nicky looked wary.

‘I walked along the beach,’ she added quickly, ‘and sunbathed and wrote postcards instead. I must go and change.’

‘Have a drink first,’ said Nicky, steering her firmly into an empty seat beside him. ‘You look bushed.’

Fortunately at that moment Yvonne and James arrived, both washed and changed and looking incredibly well laundered.

‘The château was quite lovely. You did miss a treat, Imogen. The owner happened to be in residence, and took quite a fancy to me,’ said Yvonne, patting her hair, ‘and showed us everything. They had a wine-tasting on too, and gave us free glasses of wine. No, I’ll only have a pineapple juice thank you, Nicky, and James doesn’t need anything stronger.’

Nicky ordered the drinks in his rapid French, and went on eating his way through a packet of crisps.

‘It’s a pity you don’t take more interest in culture, Cable,’ said Yvonne, looking disapprovingly at Cable’s stretch of midriff. ‘I’m sure you and Matt would find a lot more to talk about in the evenings if you did.’

‘Matt and I have got more exciting things to do in the evenings than talk,’ snapped Cable.

A seagull that had been circling overhead looking for titbits suddenly swooped on one of Nicky’s crisps that had dropped on the floor.

‘Bugger off,’ said Nicky, swiping at it with his foot.

‘Bet you say that to all the gulls,’ said Cable.

Nicky grinned. ‘I don’t want it to dump on me.’

‘Supposed to be lucky,’ said James.

‘One dumped on me when I was playing in Rome. I promptly dropped the set.’

‘How did the workout go?’ asked James. ‘Find someone good enough to play with?’

Nicky laughed. ‘Surprisingly, yes. For once I was really stretched,’ and in the diversion caused by the drinks arriving Imogen saw him stretch a hand out and gently stroke the underneath of Cable’s thigh. She wriggled luxuriously and smiled at him.

James took an unenthusiastic gulp of his pineapple juice and nearly choked.

‘Must have gone down the wrong way,’ he said, his eyes streaming, as Imogen thumped him on the back.

‘I didn’t think your hair would stay like that, Imogen, once it got wet,’ said Yvonne smugly.

I hate her, thought Imogen. I’d like to take her beastly clean neck between my fingers and throttle her. Then she saw Matt coming towards the table, and her stomach dropped with love and she felt as though she was hurtling downwards in a very fast lift. He looked bug-eyed and exhausted, and collapsed into a chair next to Cable.

‘Darling,’ she said with unnatural enthusiasm, ‘how was the tip-off?’

‘Disastrous, complete bum steer. I give up. It’s obviously impossible to reach Braganzi.’

‘Can’t say I’m sorry,’ said Cable, running her hand sexily over his thigh. ‘We might have the pleasure of your company for a change.’

How can she? thought Imogen, appalled. She’s just got out of bed with Nicky, and in front of him she’s fawning all over Matt.

Matt threw a bulging airmail envelope down on the table.

‘Braganzi’s cuttings. I asked the paper to send them out,’ he said ruefully. ‘Arrived by second post. Won’t be needing them now, so I might as well get drunk tonight.’

‘You did that last night, remember?’ said Cable, with a slight edge in her voice. She pointedly removed her hand from his thigh.

Another large round of drinks was ordered. Imogen hadn’t even finished her first. She wondered how on earth she was going to get through the evening. There seemed to be so many people in the party whose eyes she couldn’t meet any more. It was as though Matt had read her thoughts.

‘Gilmore’ll be here any minute,’ he said to the table in general, but more in her direction. ‘You’ll like him. He and Bambi are one of the few happily married couples I know.’

‘She actually likes staying home and being a mother and baking bread and polishing furniture,’ said Cable.

‘How nice,’ said Yvonne. ‘How old is she?’

‘About forty.’

‘I love older women,’ said James, taking a hefty belt at his pineapple juice and looking very excited.

‘She’s happily married, Jumbo,’ snapped Yvonne.

‘I don’t think Gilmore’s ever strayed either,’ said Matt.

Cable smirked as though she knew better.

‘Oh, he may have pinched your bottom at the odd press party,’ admitted Matt, ‘but it’s all show.’

‘I must say it will be nice to have another wife to talk to. Once one gets married one does find single girls rather limited,’ said Yvonne, getting to her feet. ‘I must just pop over to the newsagents and get some more postcards. I haven’t sent one to your mother yet, Jumbo.’

‘Bitch,’ said Cable, sticking her tongue out at Yvonne’s trim departing back.

‘What did you ask them to put in these pineapple juices, Nicky?’ said James.

‘Vodka,’ said Nicky. ‘I thought it was the least obvious. Probably disgusting.’

‘At least it’s alcohol,’ said James. ‘Thanks awfully. Let me get another round quickly while the old girl’s buying postcards.’

‘You’re very quiet, Imogen,’ said Cable. ‘Are you all right?’

‘The heat’s probably been too much for her,’ said Nicky. ‘We should have taken better care of you, and not left you alone.’

They were all looking at her now. Imogen thought her face would crack with trying to smile.

‘I think I’ll go and change,’ she said.

Upstairs she listlessly flipped through her wardrobe. In the end she put on the green dress with the white daisies, though it seemed far too frivolous for her mood of black gloom. The low-cut neck showed her shoulders and breasts, beautifully tanned now. During a day of such traumas it seemed odd that she should have turned so brown. Her hair, despite Yvonne’s acid comments, fell into perfect shape when she combed it. She fiddled around a long time getting ready. She didn’t want to go down; she couldn’t bear to face the faces. A knock on the door made her jump. Matt, she thought with longing. But it was Cable.