Imogen

Chapter Thirteen

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.

‘Hullo, that’s nice,’ she said, not looking Imogen in the eyes. ‘Did Matt get it for you yesterday?’

Imogen nodded.

‘He really ought to be on the women’s page. We were worried about you, you took so long.’

You can talk, thought Imogen.

‘I’m so pleased Larry and Bambi are arriving tonight,’ said Cable as they went downstairs. ‘Bambi’ll be such a relief after Yvonne. She’s sliding into middle age in such a happy leisurely sort of way. Makes one think getting old might not be so desperate after all. You’ll love her.’

Bambi was obviously no competition, thought Imogen. From Cable’s Mona Lisa smirkings earlier, Larry Gilmore was obviously an old flame of hers. With Nicky as a current admirer, James ever ready to pounce and Matt in attendance, no wonder she was in such a good temper.

When they got to the table, James wolf-whistled at Imogen and Nicky told her she was looking beautiful. Imogen went and sat next to him, as far away from Matt as possible. I’ve got dinner to get through, and then I’m going straight to bed, she thought. A girl a few tables down was petting a panting golden retriever. It reminded her of Homer. Suddenly she felt so homesick she could hardly see straight. She mustn’t cry. She stared down at her clenched fists, fighting back the tears.

‘The Blaker-Harrises are supposed to be arriving at St Syriac tonight,’ said Cable. ‘We must call them tomorrow.’

Conversation fortunately moved on to the rocky state of the Blaker-Harrises’ marriage, and Imogen was able to recover herself. Glancing up, she saw Matt was watching her. She flushed and looked quickly away. I’m an embarrassment to him now, she thought miserably.

Then, to her relief, Cable said, ‘Look, there’s Gilmore.’

‘Over here,’ yelled Matt, waving his arms at a very suntanned man of medium height with a thin hawk-like face. He was wearing a beautifully cut cream boiler suit, slashed to the waist and tucked into black boots. He was screwing his eyes up and looking round.

‘He can’t see a thing without his glasses,’ said Cable. ‘Christ, what has he done to himself?’

The suntanned man finally located them and, stopping to gawp at a sensational brunette as he crossed the road, nearly got run over by a couple of stunning blondes in a pink convertible.

‘What a lovely way to go,’ he drawled. ‘Hullo, everyone.’ He clapped Matt on the shoulder, kissed Cable and collapsed into a chair. ‘Jesus, I need some first aid. Order me a quadruple whisky.’ No one moved.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ asked Matt.

‘You’ve changed your hair,’ said Cable.

‘It’s the Mark Antony look.’ Gilmore pulled the black tendrils over his forehead.

‘And you’ve been at the Grecian 2000. You’re as brown as a berry.’

‘It’s been a very good summer in Islington,’ said Gilmore, and roared with laughter.

‘You’ve had your ear pierced. And where did you get that white suit from?’

‘I decided my image was getting a bit dreary, I ought to jazz myself up a little.’

‘A little,’ said Cable. ‘Christ Almighty, Gilmore!’

Matt started to laugh.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Gilmore. ‘It jolly well works anyway. How are you, Nicky? You look disgustingly healthy.’

‘No more than you,’ said Nicky, and introduced Imogen and James.

Matt ordered Gilmore a drink and another round for the rest of them.

‘Any luck with Braganzi?’ said Gilmore.

Matt shook his head. ‘Not a squeak. I’ve tried everything; and he machine-guns doorsteppers.’

‘Well, if you can’t get in there no one can,’ said Gilmore.

‘They were bloody good, those beauty queen pictures of yours,’ said Matt.

‘Took a hell of a lot of re-touching, both beauty queens and pix.’

‘How’s the paper?’ asked Matt.

‘Much the same when I left it.’ Gilmore drained half his whisky in one gulp. ‘Bruce Winter gave in his notice again; wrote a 17-page letter of resignation which no one could be bothered to read. So he’s staying on after all. Our man in Jerusalem was wounded in the foot in a riot. H.E. sent his love. All he can think about at the moment is the All-Woman Everest Expedition.’

‘Are we going to sponsor it?’

‘Not if the finance boys have their way.’

‘I picked up a good story this afternoon,’ said Matt. ‘All the kids have been cheating in their Baccalaureate. Some child got hold of the papers in advance and gave the answers to all and sundry. The authorities are completely flummoxed. They can’t fail the whole lot of them.’

‘Wish that would happen in London,’ sighed Gilmore. ‘It’s the only way my children would ever get their A levels. Are you going to file any copy?’

‘I might,’ said Matt, ‘if I can summon up the energy.’

‘There’s trouble blowing up in Peru,’ said Gilmore. ‘If it gets any worse H.E. did say you might have to cut short your lotus-eating and fly out there.’

‘What sort of trouble?’ said Matt.

He’s happy, thought Imogen wistfully. He must have been bored out of his mind this week with the rest of us.

It was Cable who broke them up.

‘Must you two talk shop all day? Where’s Bambi? In the bath?’

‘Er, no,’ said Gilmore, wincing as he gingerly turned the ring in his ear. ‘God, these things hurt! She’s in Islington.’

‘She’s what?’ said Cable.

‘In Islington.’

‘You’ve come on your own, then?’

‘In a word, no,’ said Gilmore.

‘You haven’t brought someone else?’ said Cable suspiciously.

‘In a word, yes,’ said Gilmore.

The stunned silence was interrupted by a gasp of amazement from James. An incredible blonde in silver platform heels, a silver space suit, with long blonde hair was causing considerable excitement as she wended her way along the front.

‘There she is,’ said Gilmore, going slightly pink under his suntan. ‘Over here, my cherub.’

‘She looks just like Bardot. She isn’t, is she?’ said James in excited tones.

‘Not quite,’ said Gilmore. ‘I call her Brigitte Barmaid actually.’

‘Jesus, look at those tits,’ said Nicky, smoothing his hair.

Matt was torn between laughter and disapproval.

‘Where on earth did you find her?’ he said.

‘She came to us as a temporary,’ said Larry. ‘I kept bumping into her in the lift.’

‘There was room for you both in the lift?’ asked Matt.

‘I thought she’d have a nice soothing influence on Cable,’ said Gilmore. ‘I know how she likes as many pretty girls around her as possible.’

Cable was looking like the inevitable thundercloud.

‘This is Tracey,’ went on Gilmore, as the blonde sat down between him and Imogen, with a flurry of ‘pleased-to-meet-yous’. ‘And she never drinks anything else but sweet Cinzano, because she’s hung up on sweet sin, aren’t you, my precious?’

‘Do you mind?’ said Tracey. ‘You’re lovely and brown,’ she added, beaming at Imogen. ‘I always think a tan does more for a blonde than anyone else. Thank God I brown very quickly.’

‘Don’t you burn?’ said Imogen, looking at the platinum hair.

‘Never,’ said Tracey. ‘This colour’s out of a bottle. Normally it’s dark brown.’

Imogen blinked, unused to such frankness. ‘Larry’s a wonderful colour already,’ she said.

‘Oh, that’s Man Tan,’ said Tracey. ‘It didn’t work on his legs. They’re all striped like a tiger.’

Imogen giggled, and suddenly felt more cheerful.

At that moment Yvonne arrived, weighed down with paper bags and postcards.

‘I got this for our Daily,’ she said, producing a lady in a crinoline made entirely of shells. ‘Isn’t it original? Oh hullo,’ she added to Gilmore. ‘You must be Larry. We’ve never met, but I so admire your work. And you must be Bambi?’ she said turning to Tracey. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. May I call you Bambi?’

‘Well I keep doing it all the time,’ said Gilmore in his lazy drawl, ‘but she doesn’t like it very much.’

Yvonne sat down between James and Matt.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.

‘At the Plaza,’ said Tracey. ‘The rooms are awfully pokey.’

Yvonne looked put out. ‘You should see our little hellholes,’ she said, glaring at Matt.

Tracey turned back to Imogen. ‘Isn’t it awful? Every time you turn on the bath in an hotel you get absolutely drenched from the shower. I got soaked tonight.’

She can’t be much older than I am, thought Imogen. Cable and Yvonne were both glaring at her as though she was a particularly nasty maggot who’d appeared in their salad. Looking at her more closely, Imogen realised that underneath the heavy make-up she had a round face, huge brown eyes and a very sweet smile.

‘Ta very much,’ she said, taking her Cinzano from Matt. ‘Who belongs to who round here?’ she added to Imogen. ‘Who’s the little one with the pink face who looks like Ronnie Corbett?’

‘That’s James. He’s married to Yvonne, the one with red hair. She’s a model.’

‘And the lovely brown one next to you? Goodness, he’s handsome. He must be a coastguard or a swimming instructor or something.’

Imogen stifled a giggle. ‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’

At the mention of his name Nicky looked up. ‘I was just wondering what you do for a living,’ said Tracey, smiling at him with luscious simplicity.

‘He plays tennis,’ snapped Cable, then after a pause, ‘extremely successfully.’

‘Oh, how lovely! I love tennis. Perhaps we could have a game tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps we could,’ said Nicky, smiling into her eyes. ‘It doesn’t have to be tennis.’

‘Encore de whisky,’ shouted Gilmore, glancing round at the girls sitting at nearby tables and walking along the front. ‘Christ, the standard of talent is fantastic here. Just like the King’s Road used to be on a Saturday afternoon. Can’t think why I brought you, Tracey darling. Rather like carrying electric logs to Newcastle.’

‘You’d have to speak French to them, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Tracey placidly, ‘and you know how that tires you. I’m hungry. I hope the food’s better than it was in Paris. We went to Maxim’s last night. It was disgusting. I wanted a steak, and they gave me this charred rectangle of beef; when you put your fork in all the blood ran out. I love a nice scampi and chips.’

‘I expect it can be arranged,’ said Gilmore.

Yvonne was looking at Tracey in a puzzled way. ‘I can’t believe you’re forty,’ she said.

‘She is round the bust,’ said Cable spitefully.

‘That’s clever,’ said Tracey, quite oblivious of either girl’s animosity. ‘How did you guess? I hear you’re a model,’ she added to Yvonne. ‘I do a bit too in my spare time.’

‘What kind?’ said Yvonne coldly.

‘Oh, nude stuff mostly. I was Penthouse Pet of the Month last July.’

‘Were you indeed?’ said Nicky, shamelessly undressing her with his eyes.

‘They told the most terrible lies,’ said Tracey. ‘They photographed me cycling against a backdrop of some old university, with some pictures in these lovely silk undies and some in nothing at all.’

‘Really,’ said James, his eyes out on stalks.

‘Then they wrote all this stuff in the paper about me being an intellectual and my father being a don. But they let me keep the undies, and they paid very well.’

‘Is your father a don?’ said Yvonne.

‘No, he’s an undertaker,’ said Tracey.

Yvonne looked taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose they do fill a need.’

‘And an awful lot of holes,’ said Matt drily.

‘Do you do any nude work?’ Tracey asked Yvonne.

‘I couldn’t do that sort of thing,’ said Yvonne in a shocked voice.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be discouraged,’ said Tracey kindly. ‘I used to be as flat as a board like you too. Then my manager said, “Tracey, why don’t you get some decent tits?” He’s got this doctor friend who can give you boobs like Sophia Loren. So I went and saw him. The operation was a bit of a drag, but the after-effect was terrific. These are just silicone,’ she said, patting her jutting bosom fondly. ‘But I’ve never looked back since. I’ll give you the address of the doctor if you like. Pity not to be able to take your clothes off when it’s so lucrative.’

For once Yvonne was completely at a loss for words.

Glancing across, Imogen saw that Matt was crying with laughter.

‘Where did you really find her?’ he said to Gilmore, wiping his eyes.

‘Came to me as a temp. Types 30 words a minute and spells Laurence with a W all the time, but any girl with a body like that deserves to make it in life.’

‘Can’t think what she’s doing with you.’

‘She obviously wants to marry her grandfather.’

Yvonne leant across to Cable. ‘I don’t think that girl’s married to Larry Gilmore at all,’ she hissed.

‘We ought to eat soon,’ said Larry, lifting up one of Tracey’s silver breasts which was hanging over his watch. ‘It’s nearly half past nine.’

‘I’ll get the bill,’ said Matt, tipping back his chair and waving to a waitress. Then suddenly — Imogen could never remember exactly how it happened — the bustling, noisy street went absolutely quiet. Waiters stopped in their tracks with trays held aloft, a man carrying a basket of fish up from the quay dropped it with a crash on the ground and stood motionless as though hypnotised, conversations all along the front slithered to a halt, a poodle barked and was angrily hushed, a child cried and was clouted. Everyone had turned towards the end of the street. Somehow the fear and anticipation had infected even the rowdiest holidaymaker. The only sound was the swish of the waves, and faint complaining of the seagulls. It was like High Noon. And then Imogen saw him, strolling lazily down the street towards them chewing on a cigar, a little bald man wearing dark glasses, a black shirt and ill-fitting white trousers, and apparently in no hurry. But even in his leisureliness there was tension.

‘Braganzi,’ hissed Matt.

‘Christ, I wish I had a camera,’ muttered Larry.

He was only a couple of tables away now, everyone smiling sycophantically. The same poodle growled and was kicked again.

‘He’s making for this table,’ said Cable, shaking back her hair and licking her lips in anticipation. ‘Perhaps he’s coming to say you can do a piece on him.’

‘More likely to warn us off,’ said Matt.

Imogen watched him, mesmerised. It wasn’t often you saw a legend that close.

He reached their table now, and paused, taking them all in. Then he took out his cigar and ground it into the pavement.

‘Good evening,’ he said in a very strong Italian accent. ‘I look for Mees Brocklehurst.’

Imogen gasped in terror and threw a supplicating glance in Matt’s direction.

‘What d’you want her for,’ said Matt sharply.

‘May I present myself,’ said the little man softly. ‘My name is Enrico Braganzi.’

‘We know that,’ said Matt.

‘I would simply like to talk to Miss Brocklehurst.’ He smiled, showing several gold stoppings.

Nicky put a protecting hand on Imogen’s arm.

‘This is her,’ he said.

Braganzi removed his dark glasses. His eyes were hooded, watchful, very, very dark. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he asked, ‘were you by any chance swimming round the rocks to the Petite Plage today?’

Imogen gazed down, hoping the ground might swallow her up.

‘Were you, lovie?’ said Matt gently.

She knew the whole beach was watching her.

‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It was so pretty. I just wanted to be on my own for a bit. I didn’t realise it was private.’

‘Please, Mademoiselle.’ Braganzi held up a beautifully manicured hand, heavy with gold rings. ‘I have only come to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my little boy’s life.’

‘I what?’ said Imogen, bewildered.

‘You saved him from drowning, and then bring him back to life.’

‘He was your child?’ whispered Imogen. ‘But I thought he belonged to that couple.’

‘That couple,’ said Braganzi in a voice that sent shivers down Imogen’s spine, ‘were the child’s nanny and one of my guards.’

So that was why the girl was sobbing so hysterically, even after the child was revived — from terror of Braganzi.

‘The girl came back to the house and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Fortunately another of my men had seen everything through binoculars from the house. You were too far away for him to help. When he arrived you had gone. He said you display amazing courage and presence of mind for one so young.’

‘Oh gosh, it was nothing,’ muttered Imogen. ‘Anyone would have done it.’

‘But they did not,’ he went on. ‘The child would have died if it had not been for you, Mademoiselle. I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude.’

‘It was nothing,’ she muttered once again, scuffing the ground with her foot. ‘Is he all right now?’

‘Yes, thank God. The doctor’s been, and a specialist. The Duchess was frantic, but they reassured her that all was well. Ricky is sleeping now. The Duchess is naturally still very shaken, but she would very much like to meet you.’

‘Oh, really, she doesn’t have to. I mean. .’ Imogen stammered, terrified at the prospect.

‘Please, Mademoiselle. It will mean so much to her. She wishes to thank you personally. I have my car here. May I drive you up to the house?’

Imogen looked at Matt beseechingly, but he was shaking with laughter.

‘You are a dark horse, darling.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ said Nicky.

‘We probably didn’t ask her,’ said Matt.

Imogen turned to Braganzi. ‘All right, I’d like to come.’

‘Wonderful.’ Braganzi turned and raised a hand. It was the first time Imogen had noticed the tattoos on his thick, muscular arms. Next moment a black car that seemed as long as the beach glided up to them.

A chauffeur got out and opened the door for them. As she climbed inside Imogen felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She wondered if she’d ever see the others again.

‘Where did you learn your first aid?’ asked Braganzi as the car climbed the hill. ‘Are you nurse?’

Imogen told him about working in a library, and someone having to do a first aid course. ‘I grumbled like mad at the time, and I was awfully bored, but I’m very glad I did now.’

‘So indeed are we, Mademoiselle. Can I please tell you something, now we are alone a few minutes? You know perhaps a little about the Duchess and me?’

Imogen nodded.

‘When she leave England to come to me, she had to leave her children too. I am not considered suitable stepfather, you understand. Nor are the children allowed to visit us, although we are fighting court battle. Camilla misses the children, although she doesn’t show it, so all her love has gone into little Ricky. She had him late in life. We both did. He is — how you say it? — an autumn crocus. She is forty-three now. When she had Ricky she nearly died and the doctors later insisted on a hysterectomy; so it’s no more children for either of us. Now you can appreciate how important Ricky is to both of us, and what you have done by saving his life.’

Imogen glanced up and saw that his dark eyes were full of tears, and knew that she was no longer afraid of him.

‘How did you track me down?’

‘I have, how you say, impeccable spy system.’

Imogen was very nervous about meeting the Duchess. But one glance at that lovely ravished face, with its brilliant grey eyes which were still red from crying, and all her fears vanished.

The Duchess walked forward quickly and took both Imogen’s hands, and then kissed her on both cheeks, saying in a choked voice,

‘I can never begin to thank you. I really don’t know how to start.’ But she was so friendly and natural and incredibly grateful that, after a few minutes, armed with a large glass of whisky, Imogen began to feel she really had done something rather good after all. They sat on the terrace, chatting twenty to the dozen together, and breathing in the heavy scent of the tobacco plants and the night-scented stock and later they went up and looked at little Ricky asleep in his cot in his pale blue bedroom, a Basil Brush on the pillow beside him. His cheeks were pinker now, his black hair flopped over his forehead. The Duchess moved round the room on tiptoe, straightening his bedclothes, adjusting the pillow, arranging toys, and checking the heat of his forehead with her hand.

‘He looks much better,’ said Imogen.

‘He does, doesn’t he? The doctor says there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to keep checking.’

As they went downstairs Imogen noticed a Picasso, a Modigliani and a Matisse on the wall. Braganzi was waiting for them.

‘All right, darling?’ he said, taking the Duchess’s hand. He must have been three or four inches smaller than her, but somehow his width of shoulder and force of personality made it seem as though he was protecting some infinitely fragile object.

‘Miss Brocklehurst must be hungry. Shall we eat now?’

‘Yes, of course. How awful of me.’ The Duchess turned, smiling, to Imogen. ‘You will stay, won’t you? We see so few people here, and there are so many things I want to ask you about your holiday and about England.’

‘But you must be far too exhausted after such a terrible shock,’ stammered Imogen, terrified her table manners wouldn’t be ducal enough. But in the end they persuaded her and she found she was absolutely famished. All her worries about her table manners vanished when she saw Braganzi falling on his food like a starved dingo, elbows on the table, taking great swigs of wine with his mouth full, and picking away at his teeth.

They had some kind of fish mousse, then delicious chicken. If the Duchess and Braganzi both picked their bones, Imogen supposed it was all right if she did too.

‘And who did you come out here with?’ asked the Duchess.

‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’

‘The tennis player? Oh, he’s frightfully glamorous. I’ve admired him at Wimbledon so often.’

‘And he thinks you’re marvellous too,’ said Imogen, her mouth full of fried potatoes.

‘How lovely.’ The Duchess looked pleased. ‘So you’re both having a wonderful holiday?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Imogen.

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Braganzi. ‘What was Mr Beresford doing leaving you alone on a hot summer afternoon?’

‘He — er he — it’s really very boring,’ faltered Imogen, but she was so longing to tell someone.

‘Go on,’ said the Duchess. ‘Enrico and I have so little excitement.’

And then the whole awful story came pouring out. ‘We came in a party,’ said Imogen, ‘but it was quite obvious even before we left London that Nicky had fallen for one of the other girls.’

‘Did she come with a boyfriend?’

‘Yes. He’s called Matthew O’Connor.’

‘He’s a journalist, isn’t he, a very good one?’ said the Duchess. ‘When I can face the English Sundays I always read him.’

‘He’s terribly nice,’ said Imogen, flushing.

‘Then why don’t you do a swap?’ said the Duchess.

‘He loves Cable, this other girl. He just ignores her and waits for her to come back. Occasionally they have terrible rows, but he realises she’s only doing it, well, to make him keener on her.’

‘How very complicated,’ said the Duchess.

‘O’Connor seemed quite keen on you the other night outside,’ said Braganzi drily.

Imogen went crimson.

‘How do you know?’ she stammered.

‘Enrico knows everything,’ said the Duchess with pride.

Goodness, thought Imogen, darting a startled glance at Braganzi, so he knew Matt and I were casing his house all the time.

They had their coffee on the terrace. The night was black now, sprinkled with huge stars. The fireflies darted above the tobacco plants and the Duchess bombarded Imogen with more questions, about her holiday, about her home in Yorkshire and then about England in general. Imogen suddenly realised it was very late.

‘I must go.’

‘Not yet. Enrico will take you back. Darling, go upstairs and just check if Ricky is all right.’

When he had gone, Imogen turned shyly to the Duchess.

‘What a sweet man he is,’ she said. ‘I never dreamt he’d be so kind.’

The Duchess’s face lit up. ‘You think so? I’m so pleased. People in England find it quite incomprehensible that I threw up everything to run off with him.’

‘I understand it perfectly,’ said Imogen stoutly. She was suddenly aware she was more than a little drunk.

‘I’d give anything to go home for a few weeks,’ said the Duchess, ‘but Enrico would be arrested the moment he set foot in England.’ Suddenly she looked very tired and shadowed under the eyes. ‘I miss the children horribly. Alexander, my ex-husband, won’t let me near them in case they are corrupted by Enrico. Corrupted, indeed! If the courts knew what an immoral creature Alexander was!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Imogen.

‘Oh, that’s enough about me,’ said the Duchess lightly. ‘Let’s talk about you. What can we possibly do to repay you? You have some days left of your holiday. We go back to Paris on Saturday. Why not leave the coast and Mr Beresford — it’s too hot anyway — and come back with us? We would love to show you round Paris.’

‘Oh no, really not,’ cried Imogen. Suddenly the thought of being whisked away from Matt, however little he felt about her, was more than she could bear. ‘It’s terribly kind,’ she added to soften her outburst. ‘Honestly, rescuing him was enough, knowing you’re pleased.’

‘There must be something you’d like.’

Suddenly Imogen’s heart beat faster. ‘There is just one thing,’ she said. ‘Matt — more than anything else in the world he wants an interview with your husband. He’s been trying to get one ever since we came out here. He’s really a very responsible journalist. He wouldn’t. .’ Her words faltered. She was about to say ‘bitch him up’, then thought it seemed rude.

The Duchess looked dubious. But at that moment Braganzi returned. ‘The little one is fine,’ he said.

For a moment they chattered to each other in Italian, the Duchess still looking worried.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Imogen. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. It was horribly presumptuous.’

‘It is difficult in Enrico’s position,’ explained the Duchess. ‘He is worried that anything Mr O’Connor says about him will prejudice my chances of seeing the children again.’

‘Oh well, of course. I should have thought,’ stammered Imogen.

Braganzi went over to the window and threw out his cigar into the garden. Then he turned round and smiled at Imogen.

‘It is a very little thing, in return for what you have done for us. Tell him to come at ten o’clock. But he must let me see what he is going to print. That is the only condition. He is an honourable man?’

‘Oh yes, yes, of course he is. He is very honourable,’ she said joyfully, thinking how pleased Matt would be. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I really must go now.’ She couldn’t wait to get back to Port-les-Pins and break the news to him.

The Duchess kissed her very affectionately, saying, ‘Write to us in Paris and let me know how the holiday progresses.’

Braganzi rode back with her in the car.

‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she found herself saying, ‘and the Duchess is so wonderful. I think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’

‘She is,’ said Braganzi. ‘She likes you too. She is very isolated now, you understand. She gave up so much when she left England for me.’

‘But she gained so much.’

Braganzi sighed. ‘I hope so. But you will come and stay with us perhaps next year, and we see that you have a better holiday.’

He took her address in Yorkshire. What would her father say if he could see her now, thought Imogen with a giggle, hob-nobbing with one of the most notorious criminals in France.

The chauffeur was driving along the front now. Although it was long after midnight, people were still drinking in the cafés.

Imogen wondered where the others were; probably smashed out of their minds in some nightclub, or perhaps they were at the Casino. It would be awful if they’d gone to bed. It was almost as though Braganzi had read her thoughts:

‘There’s your friend Mr O’Connor keeping an eye out for you,’ he said, as the car drew to a halt, and he leaned across and opened the door for her. Then he smiled as he saw how Imogen’s face had lit up. ‘That pleases you, doesn’t it?’

‘D’you want to meet him now?’ said Imogen, as she saw Matt get to his feet and walk towards them.

Braganzi shook his head. ‘Tomorrow will do, and tell him to bring Larry Gilmore with him. He can take some pictures of Camilla and Ricky.’

‘But I didn’t even tell you Larry was here,’ said Imogen in amazement. ‘You really know everything, don’t you?’

‘I do my rich best,’ said Braganzi modestly. ‘Goodbye and once again thank you for everything,’ and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and Imogen could see exactly why the Duchess had given up everything for him.

She waved as the car moved away. The next moment Matt was beside her.

‘What was that hood doing mauling you like that?’ he said sharply.

‘Just saying good-bye.’

‘Was that all he did?’ His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t read its expression, but his fingers were hard and painful on her arm.

‘Of course it was. I had the most wonderful time.’

‘You were away so long we were about to send out a search party.’

‘You didn’t have to. They were lovely to me.’

‘Bloody well should have been, after all you did for them. What was she like?’ He let go of her arm.

‘Oh sweet, beautiful and well — sort of vulnerable. Where are the others?’

‘Inside the bar. Gilmore’s pissed out of his mind. Come and have a drink.’ He put an arm round her shoulders and hugged her for a second. ‘Sorry I snapped, darling. I was worried about you.’

A great surge of happiness welled up inside her; then she said ‘Down, boy’ to herself as she remembered Matt’s ‘trespassers-will-be-prosecuted’ lecture on the beach that morning. He’d have been worried about anyone in the party who’d been closeted in Braganzi’s fortress as long as she had.

Inside the bar Larry and Tracey were dancing round to the juke box.

‘I’m Larry the Limpet,’ cried Larry, shoving his hand down Tracey’s dress.

‘I do wish you’d stop doing rude things,’ she said placidly, pulling his hand out.

They danced past the ladies which said ‘Little Girls’ on the door.

‘I want seven,’ said Larry, banging on the door, ‘and I want them now.’

Nicky and Cable sat watching them. Nicky was roaring with laughter, Cable wasn’t. James and Yvonne appeared to have gone to bed.

‘Darling,’ cried Nicky, jumping up when he saw her, ‘are you all right?’

Tracey and Larry immediately stopped dancing and came over and showered her with questions.

‘It was wonderful,’ Imogen kept saying, embarrassed yet happy to be the centre of attention. ‘The house is beautiful inside and the pictures are amazing.’

‘Probably got half the Uffizi and the Louvre in there,’ said Larry.

‘Weren’t you terrified?’ said Tracey.

‘No, not at all; not even by the Duchess. She was so friendly and — well — un-grand.’

‘Why on earth should she be?’ snapped Cable. ‘She was only some two-bit actress before she married the Duke. She’s really as common as muck.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Nicky. ‘She comes from a perfectly respectable family. Did they seem keen on each other?’

‘Oh yes, and Braganzi’s amazing. He knows everything. He knew all about. .’ She was about to say ‘last night’, but she didn’t know how much Matt had told Cable about their skirmish with the guards. ‘He seems to know who we all are,’ she added lamely. Matt came over, warming a large glass of brandy with his hands.

‘Have a breath of that, sweetheart, and tell me all about it.’

‘I’d like one too,’ said Larry.

Imogen took the glass from Matt. ‘Thanks awfully,’ she stammered. ‘And, oh Matt, Braganzi’s promised to give you an interview.’

‘I’ve just bought you three,’ Matt was saying to Larry. Then he double-took. ‘He what?’ he said, his voice like a pistol shot.

‘He’s agreed to give you an interview. You’re to go up there tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

‘You’re having me on,’ he said incredulously.

‘No, truly I’m not; and Larry can go too and take some pictures.’

‘Holy Mother, you’re a genius. How the hell did you swing that?’

‘I asked him. The only condition is he wants to see copy.’

‘That’s all right. So should I, if I were in his shoes. Baby, you really are a beautiful, beautiful thing,’ and he leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks. And this time she didn’t even bother to say ‘Down, boy’ to the surge of happiness. She just revelled in how delighted and overwhelmed he was by the news.

‘Can’t I come and take pictures instead of Gilmore?’ said Nicky. ‘I’d love a crack at the Duchess.’

Imogen giggled. ‘She thinks you’re beautiful too.’

‘She’s heard of me?’ said Nicky in surprise.

‘Yes. They are capable occasionally of watching television, the Upper Classes. Some of the brighter ones can even read. Now, who’s going to buy me a drink?’ said Larry.

‘No one,’ said Matt firmly. ‘You’re having some coffee to sober you up, or your hand’ll be shaking far too much to hold a camera straight.’

‘I shall be caught with my Nikkons down yet again,’ said Larry. ‘Just a small brandy wouldn’t hurt.’

Cable got to her feet. ‘Now that she’s finally deigned to show up,’ she said, shooting a venomous glance in Imogen’s direction, ‘can we please move on to somewhere slightly more exciting?’

Matt got the envelope of cuttings out of his back pocket and threw them on the table. ‘You can if you want. I’ve got to read this lot. Now sit yourself down, Imogen my darling girl,’ he patted the seat beside him, ‘and if you’re not too tired, would you tell me from the rescue onwards exactly what happened?’