Imogen

Chapter Five

An hour and a half from London she started doing her face. Half an hour away she decided she looked awful and took all her make-up off and put it on again. The new, very cheap dress, ivy green with a white collar, which had looked so pretty when she’d tried it on in the shop, was now crumpled like an old dishcloth. Her new tights were making spiral staircases round her ankles. The train drew into King’s Cross. Imogen was one of the first off, pushing her way through the crowd, radiant smile at the ready like a British Railways’ ad. She had lived this moment so often in her mind. People rushed forward to kiss people and gather up their suitcases. No one came forward to claim her. The kissers dispersed and still no Nicky. She was sure she’d told him she was arriving on the eight-thirty train.

The station clock jerked agonisingly round to nine-ten. Two drunken sailors lurched up to her and lurched away when they saw the frozen expression on her face. She struggled not to cry.

Then, like an Angel of Mercy, loping aross the station, in the same white suit and an orange shirt, came Nicky. ‘Darling, sweet love! God, I’m sorry. What can I say? There’s the most God-awful traffic jam in Piccadilly. Are you all right? Has half London been trying to pick you up?’

‘Oh,’ said Imogen, half-laughing, half-crying, ‘I’m so, so pleased to see you.’

As he kissed her, he smelt of drink and, she thought, of scent. Perhaps it was her own scent, new yesterday, which she wasn’t yet used to.

‘Come on,’ he said, picking up her suitcase.

In the taxi he took her hand. Imogen was too besotted to realise the roads were quite clear.

‘We’re going straight to Matt and Cable’s, the people we’re going to France with. You’ll like them. He’s a lunatic Irish journalist and she’s a model.’

‘A model?’ Imogen tugged surreptitiously at her wrinkled stockings. She hoped she wasn’t too glamorous. Then she remembered with relief, ‘Oh, but they’re the engaged couple.’

‘Well, not engaged exactly, just co-habiting. But I had to bend the facts a bit to reassure your father.’

They arrived at a huge block of flats. Imogen was disappointed Nicky didn’t kiss her. There would have been plenty of time as the lift climbed to the tenth floor. Instead he smoothed his hair in the lift mirror. There was no answer when he rang the door bell, so he pushed open the door and shouted, ‘Anyone at home?’

Footsteps came from the back of the flat, a waft of scent flooded the hall. ‘Darlings! You’ve arrived,’ said a girl in a light drawling voice. ‘How are you?’

Her red dress was slit to the thighs. Her lips were as crimson as her painted toe nails, which peeped out of high black sandals. She had delicate cat-like features, sly, slanting eyes the colour of watercress and carefully tousled inky-black hair snaking down her back. Except for her suntan she might have stepped out of a Beardsley drawing. There was something serpentine, too, in the way she coiled herself round Nicky, kissing him on the cheek and murmuring:

‘Darling, marvellous to see you.’

‘Imogen, this is Cable,’ he said, disengaging himself too slowly for Imogen’s liking. The girl stared at Imogen incredulously for a minute and then a slow smile spread over her face. ‘Welcome to London,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good journey? I’ve been packing since dawn and I’m completely exhausted. Where’s your luggage?’

Nicky held up Imogen’s dog-eared suitcase.

‘Heavens,’ said Cable. ‘Is that all? Matt will adore you. I’ve filled three suitcases already and he’s griping about my taking a fourth. Come and have a drink.’

‘Can I go to the loo?’ said Imogen, who didn’t want to, but was desperate to repair her face before Nicky could compare her any more with this ravishing creature.

‘Down the passage on the left,’ said Cable. ‘We’ll be in here. Do you think five bikinis will be enough, Nicky?’

What price Lady J’s motheaten red bathing dress now? thought Imogen savagely as she combed the tangles out of her hair. Her face was all eyes in a for-once pale face. She pinched some of Cable’s rouge, but it made her look like a clown so she rubbed it off again.

She found Nicky and Cable in a room where everything seemed scarlet — carpet, curtains, and every inch of wall that wasn’t covered by books and pictures. Even the piano was painted red, and in one corner stood a huge stuffed bear wearing a scarlet regimental jacket.

‘Oh, what a heavenly room,’ sighed Imogen.

Cable looked at her with surprise. ‘Do you think so? Matt’s taste — not mine. He’d been here a year when I moved in, so the damage was done. It’s hell to keep tidy,’ she added, pointing to the papers billowing out of the desk, and the piles of books and magazines on every available surface.

In one chair sprawled a basset hound who thumped his tail but made no effort to get up, and on the sofa, snoring gently, lay a very big, very long man.

‘He was playing poker all night,’ said Cable sourly. ‘He’s been lying there since he came in at half-past eleven this morning.’ She kicked him, none too gently, in the ribs. ‘Come on, Sloblomov, wake up.’

The man groaned and pulled a cushion over his face.

‘He even sleeps standing up,’ said Cable. ‘I’ve seen him at parties propped on one leg like a horse, patiently waiting to be led home to his stable.’

The man removed the cushion and opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Stop beefing for God’s sake. I’m on my holiday. I’m entitled to kip if I want to.’

‘Not when we’ve got company,’ said Cable.

He opened the other eye. ‘Hullo, kids,’ he said, and yawned without bothering to put his hand over his mouth.

Imogen was astounded that such a beautiful girl should go for such an ugly man. He had battered features, a very sallow skin, dark heavy-lidded eyes that turned down at the corners, and a streaky blond mane, much in need of a cut. He got up and shook himself like a dog. Beside Nicky’s gleaming beauty he looked thoroughly seedy. She also had a vague feeling she’d seen him before.

‘How are you, Nicky boy?’ he said.

‘He needs a drink,’ said Cable. ‘We all do.’

‘Well, run along and get me some Alka Seltzer.’

‘You do look a bit rough,’ said Nicky. ‘Did you make a killing last night?’

Matt drew a large wad of notes out of his hip pocket.

‘It’ll buy us a few snails,’ he said.

Nicky grinned. ‘I’ll go and help Cable with the ice.’

‘Bring the evening paper with you,’ Matt shouted after him. ‘I want to see what won the three-thirty.’

He turned to Imogen, looked her over lazily and gave her a surprisingly attractive smile. ‘Just come from Leeds, and covered in coal-dust are you? I went there once, a terrible dirty place it was. I thought I’d been misrouted to Hell.’

Imogen giggled. ‘The part where we live is very pretty. I like your flat.’

‘Come and look at the view.’ He went over to the window and drew back the curtains. All London glittered before them.

‘There’s Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Shell Building. On a clear day you can see Margaret Thatcher.’ He had a nice voice, too, thought Imogen, leisurely, with a faint trace of Irish. Perhaps he wasn’t so ugly after all — just different-looking from other people. She was still trying to work out where she’d seen him before.

‘Now, what are you drinking, beauty? Whisky, gin, anything you like.’

‘Oh, whisky, please, with masses of water.’ She sat on the arm of the dog’s chair and stroked his ears. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Basil. Never get a basset hound; they rule your life.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Cable, coming in with Nicky and the ice tray. ‘There’s a ton of rump steak for him in the fridge while we’re away.’

‘It’s not his stomach that bothers me,’ said Matt, dropping five Alka Seltzers into a glass of water and watching them fizz, ‘it’s his soul. I think I’ll get Father O’Malley to visit him while we’re away. Did my proofs arrive?’ he added to Cable.

‘About an hour ago. They’re over there on the table. They said you could telephone any corrections through tonight.’

Matt half-emptied his glass and grimaced. Then he picked up some long narrow sheets of newsprint from the table and began to examine them.

‘Who’ve you taken apart this week?’ said Nicky.

‘The medical profession,’ said Matt, ‘and they’re not going to like it.’ He picked up a biro, added one word and crossed a couple out.

Suddenly Imogen twigged. ‘You’re not the Matthew O’Connor?’

Matt looked up. ‘I’m not entirely sure today.’

‘But you’re marvellous,’ stammered Imogen. ‘I loved your book on Parnell. There’s still a waiting list at the library. And I always read your pieces in the paper. We all do — even my father thinks you’re funny.’

‘And that really is saying something,’ said Nicky. ‘Not given much to giggling is our vicar.’

‘Well, that is nice,’ said Cable with a slight edge to her voice. ‘You’ve got a fan at last, Matt. Aren’t you lucky?’

‘Very,’ said Matt, seeing Imogen flush and giving her a reassuring smile. ‘It’s manna to my ears, darling.’

‘I suppose you two’ll be rabbiting on about Proust all the way to Provence,’ said Cable.

‘It’d make a nice change,’ said Matt.

Imogen couldn’t believe it. Nicky and Matthew O’Connor in the same party as her. Any moment she expected Jackie Kennedy or Mick Jagger to pop out of the grandfather clock.

‘What time do we leave tomorrow?’ asked Nicky.

‘The boat sails at eleven. We ought to leave the house by eight,’ said Matt.

For a while they discussed arrangements; then Imogen’s stomach gave a great rumble and Nicky said that he was hungry.

‘I could cook something,’ said Cable, as though it were a rare occurrence.

‘I’m not having you slaving over a hot tin opener all night,’ said Matt, who had picked up the evening paper. He gave an exclamation of pleasure.

‘The little darling — she won by three lengths, romped all the way home like a child off to a party. Come on, my angels, on the strength of that, I’ll buy you all dinner.’

They piled into a large, incredibly dirty, white Mercedes.

‘You might have had it cleaned before we left,’ grumbled Cable. Imogen found she was sitting on a bridle. They ate in a little Italian restaurant and drank a good deal of wine. Nicky talked about his tennis exploits, grumbling how political the game was getting these days. Matt asked the questions; he had a journalist’s ability to get an incredible amount of information out of people without their realising it. Every place Nicky had played at, Cable seemed to have been there too, filming or modelling, which produced the inevitable questions about ‘Did you meet the so-and-so’s?’ and ‘Have they split up yet?’

Imogen didn’t say much; she was too busy taking it all in. But there was a bad moment when Nicky suddenly put his hand on her thigh and she jumped so much that her fork fell on to the floor, taking most of her spaghetti with it. Nicky was insane with irritation, but Matt just laughed and ordered her some more. He was very funny throughout dinner and Imogen found herself liking him more and more.

Cable she was less sure of — sitting there picking at her food, examining her reflection in her spoon, looking at Nicky with those sly green eyes.

‘Sophia Loren was in here last week,’ she said, ‘just sitting over there, wearing the most incredible plunging neckline.’

‘I went to the gents fifteen times during dinner, just so I could look down it,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll get the bill,’ he said, seeing Imogen was nearly falling off her chair with exhaustion.

‘It’s only midnight,’ said Cable. ‘Can’t we have some brandy?’

‘Some of us who do a decent week’s work get tired on Friday.’

‘I work,’ snapped Cable. ‘I went to two cattle markets yesterday.’

‘Any good?’ asked Nicky.

‘Second one might be. They’re launching a new chewing gum. The bread’s terrific. My agent’s going to ring me in France and let me know.’

Matt handed the waiter what seemed an inordinate number of notes. ‘A cattle market is a model’s audition,’ he explained to Imogen. ‘Very appropriate, too, when you see some of the cows that turn up. Come on, let’s go.’

There was another bad moment when they got back to the flat. Cable had opened the door of one of the bedrooms, and said, ‘You and Nicky are in here.’

Oh, my goodness, thought Imogen, her mind racing like a weasel in a trap. Did Matt see her expression of dismay? Five minutes before he had been yawning his head off; now he suddenly asked Nicky and Cable if they wanted a night-cap.

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Nicky. He ruffled Imogen’s hair. ‘Go to bed, love. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

But an hour and a bottle of brandy later, when he went to bed, he found Imogen fast asleep with the light on, Tristram Shandy still open on the pillow and Basil sprawled beside her.

‘Bloody dog,’ he said, trying to push Basil off. The dog gave an ominous growl.

‘Foiled again,’ said Matt sympathetically. ‘You’ll never shift him now he’s pitted down for the night. I’ll give you an eiderdown and you can kip on the sofa.’