Jilly Cooper - Imogen

Perhaps I’m not too fat to bathe in the nude after all, thought Imogen hazily, as she ripped off the trousers and pants and threw them down on the sand. There was no shock as, shrieking with joy, she paddled ecstatically into the waves. It was almost as warm in the water as out.

‘It’s heavenly,’ she shouted to Larry.

Next minute he was chasing after her, and she felt his hands round her waist.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said looking down at her. ‘You look like Venus coming out of the waves.’

‘Bottichilly,’ giggled Imogen. ‘Though actually it’s not chilly at all, quite the reverse.’

‘That’s enough overture,’ said Larry. ‘Let’s get down to Act One.’ As he kissed her his lips tasted of salt, and Imogen was glad he was holding her; she doubted she could have stood up alone. She really felt very hazy. She asked Larry if he thought there was any point in having a crash course if she wasn’t going to remember the finer points afterwards.

Larry laughed and said two of her finest points were sticking into his chest at the moment and he certainly wasn’t going to forget them, and began to kiss her in the hollow of her throat.

In the distance she could still hear the sound of revellers, and shrieks from the swimming pool. Then she heard voices much nearer, angry voices, and she was gradually aware that Larry had stopped kissing her and was gazing over her shoulder.

There was a long pause, then Larry muttered, ‘My God, it can’t be.’

Then she heard an all too familiar voice saying, ‘For Christ’s sake, Gilmore.’

Imogen buried her face in Larry’s neck, then slowly swivelled round. A man and a woman were standing on the sands only a few yards away from them. Both their faces were in shadow, but she could see the girl had short streaked blonde hair and was very slim, and no one could miss that height and the width of the man’s shoulders.

Larry swallowed nervously. ‘Hi, Matt,’ he said brightly.

‘Oh dear,’ said Imogen, ‘I’d better do a Venus in reverse,’ and, giggling frantically, she slid back into the water.

‘What the bloody hell have you been up to, Gilmore?’ said Matt icily.

‘You told me to keep an eye on her,’ protested Larry.

‘And so he has,’ said Imogen’s head, just above the water. ‘Two eyes most of the time, and a lot of hands. He’s been lovely. We’ve had such a nice time. When love comes in and takes you for a spin, Oh la la la.’

‘Jesus,’ said Matt. ‘What have you done to her?’

Larry now seemed to be on shore, futilely trying to tug on Imogen’s pink trousers which came no higher than his knee caps.

‘Imogen dear,’ he said, ‘you haven’t met Bambi.’

‘Bambi,’ squeaked Imogen, looking at Matt’s companion. ‘Oh my goodness, how do you do? I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Funny,’ said Bambi acidly. ‘I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.’

Matt picked up Gilmore’s trousers and threw them at him.

‘I know you’ve been trying to get into Imogen’s pants all evening,’ he snapped. ‘Now try and get into your own for a change.’

‘Awfully good party,’ said Imogen, flipping water at them.

‘Come out of there at once and get dressed. I’m taking you home,’ said Matt.

In no time at all, it seemed, she was sitting beside Matt in her dripping clothes, as he belted the Mercedes down Claudine’s drive. Somewhere in the distance behind them she could hear Yvonne’s voice rising and falling in fury like a fire siren.

‘I don’t want to go home. I’d like some more champagne,’ said Imogen petulantly.

‘You’ve had quite enough.’

Imogen let her head loll back on the seat.

‘You’re a rotten spoilsport,’ she said in a slurred voice. ‘I’ve been having the time of my life. Everyone’s been trying to get off with me — Morgan the hero, the intrepid rescuer. Stars of stage and screen have been battling for my favours. I’ve been smoking pot, and drinking quite a lot, and having a whole load of new experiences. In fact I was just about to embark on my first affair with a married man when you and Bambi came along so inconsiderately and put a spoke in the wheel.’

Matt gazed stonily at the road in front, and jammed his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Darling Larry was giving me a crash course in experience.’

‘A crash course! Larry ought to be shot.’

‘I don’t know why you’re so cross,’ grumbled Imogen. ‘You don’t want me. You’re just being a dog in the manger. Larry was just being kind. I asked him to seduce me. I thought if I became a woman of the world like Cable, a few more people might fancy me.’

‘Well, you’re going about it the wrong way.’ Matt ground the gears viciously.

‘When love comes in and takes you for a spin,’ sang Imogen tunelessly. ‘Oh, la la la, it’s bloody awful. Do you think Bambi’ll excite me as corespondent?’

‘Probably.’

‘Well, what a stupid time for her to stage a comeback, in the middle of an orgy. She must have known Larry’d be up to someone, if not me.’

Matt ignored her and lit a cigarette.

She was beginning to feel very odd. Everything like Vesuvius seemed to be erupting inside her.

‘Oh well, this time next week, I’ll be back in my little grey home in the West Riding,’ she said fretfully, ‘and you can forget all about me.’

Then suddenly out of the corner of her eye she saw he was laughing.

‘You’re not cross anymore?’

‘Absolutely blind with rage.’

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said, her head flopping on to his shoulder, ‘but I do love you,’ and she passed out cold.

When she woke next afternoon she thought she was going to die. She’d never known pain like it, as though a nutcracker was slowly crushing her skull in, and a lot of gnomes were hammering from the inside. For a few minutes she lay groaning pitifully, then opened her eyes, whereupon an agonising blaze of sunlight stabbed her like a knife and she hastily shut them again. Wincing, she started to piece together the events of the evening, the crazy lionising, the drinking and pot smoking, and finally the nude bathing. Someone had hung her wet trousers and jersey from the window. She wondered what had happened to her knickers and her shoes. She also had hazy memories of meeting Bambi, and Matt being very cross and bringing her home. But who the hell had undressed her? Sweat broke out, drenching her entire body. She only just made the lavatory in time and was violently sick.

On the way back to her room she passed Madame and a squeegee mop, wanting to hear all about her encounter with Braganzi and the Duchess. Muttering about shellfish poisoning, Imogen apologised and bolted back into her room, where she cleaned her teeth and then crawled miserably into bed. She tried to remember what she’d said to Matt on the way home. Oh, why had she made such an idiot of herself?

There was a knock on the door. It sounded like a clap of thunder. It was Matt wearing jeans and no shirt. He had just washed his hair and was rubbing it dry with a large pink mascara-stained towel. Imogen disappeared hastily under the bedclothes. She felt him sit down on the bed and slowly emerged.

‘You’re an absolute disgrace,’ he said.

‘Oh, go away,’ she moaned. ‘I know I behaved horribly. I’m quite prepared for what’s coming to me, and I don’t want any flowers or letters please.’

A smile so faint it was almost imperceptible touched his mouth at one corner.

‘Rotten France,’ she said, burying her face in the pillow. ‘One spends one’s time being sick for love or just sick. I feel terrible.’

‘Serve you right trying to pack ten years’ experience into one night, and as for scribbling obscenities in lipstick all over Mrs Edgworth’s clean car.’