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.