Jilly Cooper - Imogen

He turned back to his typewriter, dismissing her, but as she went out on to the landing, he thanked her once again.

She was just starting to wash her hair when Larry knocked on the door.

‘I’m going back to the hotel to have a bath and change,’ he said. ‘Tracey and I’ll come and pick you up about half eight. We don’t want to miss valuable drinking time.’

‘What shall I wear?’ she asked.

Gilmore went over to her wardrobe. ‘The pink trousers and that pale pink top,’ he said. ‘It’ll look stunning now you’re brown.’

‘Will it be smart enough?’ she asked, doubtfully.

‘Perfect. I want you to downstage the others. And remember no bra.’

What was the point of dressing up for a ball, she thought listlessly, when there was no chance of Prince Charming showing up?

‘Hey, you look good enough to — ah — well good enough for anything,’ said Larry when he collected her. ‘You certainly do things for that sweater.’

‘You like it?’

‘Yes, and what’s inside it even better.’

‘Isn’t it a bit tight?’ said Imogen doubtfully. ‘And are you sure trousers will be all right?’

‘Perfect. Why wear expensive gear to go to a rugger scrum?’

He was wearing a pale grey suit and a black shirt, which matched his black and silver hair.

‘You look lovely too,’ she said.

As they went downstairs they could hear the relentless pounding of Matt’s typewriter.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Gilmore. ‘Sounds as though he’s getting it together at last.’

It was a stifling hot night. Tracey, James and Nicky, all in high spirits, were having a drink in the bar. Tracey was wearing a black dress, plunging at the front, slit up to her red pants at the back. Madame had presented James with one of her purple asters for his button hole.

‘I’ve never been to a jet set party,’ he was saying. ‘I do hope Bianca Jagger’s there.’

‘Who are the Blaker-Harrises anyway?’ asked Nicky.

‘He made a fortune in dog food,’ said Larry. ‘I gather they’re staying with some rich frogs called Ducharmé who are giving the party. Are Cable and Yvonne anything like ready, do you suppose? I’d much rather drink at Monsieur Ducharmé’s expense than my own.’

‘Well, I’m ready,’ said a gay voice, and Yvonne arrived in a swirl of apple green, with green sandals, and a green ribbon in her red curls.

‘You look lovely, my darling,’ said James dutifully.

‘Like crème de menthe frappé ,’ said Larry under his breath.

‘I thought you said it’d be all right to wear trousers,’ muttered Imogen.

‘And the most wonderful news,’ went on Yvonne. ‘My agent’s just rung back and said I’m short-listed for Jane Bennet in the new BBC Pride and Prejudice .’

Everyone gave rather forced exclamations of enthusiasm, and James kissed her, but very gingerly, so as not to disarrange her hair.

‘When will you know?’ said Nicky.

‘In a day or two,’ said Yvonne. ‘They’re starting shooting in three weeks. Isn’t it exciting?’ Suddenly her beady eyes fell on Imogen. ‘Oughtn’t you to go and change? We’re going to be terribly late.’

‘She’s already changed,’ said Larry. ‘Aren’t you rather miscast as Jane, Yvonne dear? She was supposed to be such a nice sweet natured girl.’

Yvonne was saved the trouble of thinking up a really crushing reply by the arrival of Cable, looking sensational in a dress entirely made of peacock feathers. It was sleeveless and clung lightly to her figure, stopping just above the knee. Two peacock feathers nestling in her snaking ebony hair and bands of peacock blue shadow painted on her eyelids made her eyes look brilliant flashing turquoise rather than green.

Nicky whistled. James gasped. Yvonne merely glared and shut her lips tighter.

‘That’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,’ said Tracey.

‘I’m going to change,’ muttered Imogen.

‘Haven’t got time,’ said Larry, seizing her wrist. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t borrowed Yvonne’s cardboard beak to complete the picture, Cable darling.’

The sun was falling into the sea as the taxi turned off the coast road.

‘I’m glad it’s getting dark,’ said Tracey, adding another layer of mascara to her false eyelashes. ‘Party make-up looks so much better at night.’

In James’s spotlessly clean, pale-blue car in front Imogen could see Cable, who’d commandeered the entire back seat to herself so her feathers shouldn’t be ruffled, and Yvonne getting out combs and beginning to tease their hair with the pointed ends. She wished Matt were there to look after her. She was sure as soon as they got to the party, Larry would get drunk and disappear. Nicky already had his arm along the back of the seat and was surreptitiously caressing the back of Tracey’s neck, so she couldn’t expect much support from him either.

The taxi turned and sped up a drive, the gravel spluttering against the wheels. Vineyards and olive groves on either side stretched to infinity. Ahead in the dusk, every window blazing with light, was a huge white house.

‘It’s a mansion,’ said Tracey.

They could see a man in a pink suit, with red and pink hair, get out of a Rolls-Royce and ring the door bell.

‘I think that’s David Bowie,’ said Larry.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Imogen faintly.

As they walked up the marble steps, a butler opened the door. Then a maid whisked Imogen and Tracey upstairs to a room with walls covered in pink satin. On the floor was a thick fur carpet, the bed was covered in fur coats, which must have been brought by guests just to show off — it was such a stifling hot night.

‘Do you take cloth coats too?’ said Tracey, taking off her white blazer and handing it to the maid.

Cable and Yvonne were still engaged in teasing their hair in front of the mirror.

‘I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Omar Sharif,’ said Yvonne.

Out of the window Imogen could see a jungle of garden, punctuated by lily ponds, aviaries full of coloured birds, two lantern-lit swimming pools and, in the distance, the sea.

Shaking with nerves, she went downstairs to find Larry waiting for her and talking in a low voice to a splendid blonde covered in sequins.

‘Imogen darling, this is your hostess, Claudine. Take a good look at her. She may not pass this way again.’

But before he had a chance to say anything else, Claudine had shimmered forward and seized Imogen’s hands.

‘Mees Brocklehurst, how wonderful to meet you. What a fantastic coincidence that you should be on holiday with Matt and Nicky Beresford,’ and the next moment she had drawn Imogen into a huge room, which seemed to be seething with suntanned faces with hard restless eyes, constantly on the lookout for fresh excitement.

‘Wait for Larry,’ begged Imogen.

‘Larry who?’ screamed Claudine and, shoving a drink into Imogen’s hand, she dragged her from one group to another, crying, ‘This is lovely Imogen Brocklehurst’. . whisper, whisper. . ‘Yes, really. Braganzi’s child snatched from the jaws of death.’

Everyone started oohing and aahing as though Claudine was bringing in the Christmas pudding flaming blue with brandy.

‘How do you do? How do you do? Hi Imogen, glad to know you. How do you do?’ People were thrusting forward to meet her.

Imogen turned to Claudine in horror. ‘But what have you told them?’

‘Did you really meet the Duchess? What was she like? Did she seem keen on Braganzi?’ clamoured the faces.

‘Oh stop,’ called Imogen after a disappearing Claudine. ‘Please don’t tell people. Braganzi doesn’t want publicity.’

Now everyone was mobbing her and introducing her. She was so breathless with answering questions, she found she’d finished her drink, which was delicious and tasted rather like coke filled with fruit salad. The moment she put her glass down another was thrust into her hand.