Immediately she was conscious of wearing quite the wrong clothes. Most people were in trousers and shirts in soft pastel shades. Girls in dresses wore them fitted or tightly belted, with Greek sandals on their bare feet. She was aware of brown faces laughing at her all around.
Nicky looked at the kaftan in ill-concealed disapproval.
‘Expecting a baby, darling?’ said Cable in her cool, clear voice.
‘She looks lovely,’ said Matt, who was filling in the brown identification forms.
He patted the chair beside him. ‘Come and sit here, baby, and let me take down your particulars. Is your room all right?’
‘Oh yes, it’s fine,’ she said gratefully.
‘Ours isn’t,’ said Yvonne, ‘I haven’t got a bedside lamp.’
‘With all those raw carrots you eat,’ said Matt, ‘I would have thought you could see in the dark.’
‘It is rather a dump,’ snapped Yvonne. ‘I had expected something a bit better — like that for instance.’ She waved in the direction of the huge white Plaza Hotel which, with its red and white umbrellas, dominated the bay.
‘You can stay there if you’re prepared not to eat or go out in the evening,’ said Matt. ‘One night at the Plaza’ll cost you as much as a fortnight at La Reconnaissance.’
‘Well perhaps not the Plaza,’ conceded Yvonne, ‘but there must be somewhere a little less primitive.’
Matt went on filling in Imogen’s form. For her occupation he put bibliothecaire which sounded very grand.
‘Madame was good to Matt in the old days,’ said Cable defensively.
‘When I was an undergraduate she let me stay for practically nothing,’ said Matt. ‘She used to be in the Resistance. I’m sure she’ll lend you her revolver if it comes to a shoot out with the cockroaches.’
Imogen gazed at the Prussian blue sea which glittered and sparkled in the sinking sun.
‘What’s the French for “Model”?’ said James trying to bridge an awkward silence and fill in Yvonne’s form at the same time.
‘Catin,’ said Matt.
Cable stifled a giggle and James solemnly wrote it down.
A party of Germans sat down at the next table and started banging the table for waitresses.
‘This place is awfully touristy,’ grumbled Yvonne.
‘Well, you’re a tourist, aren’t you?’ said Matt.
A slim brunette went by in a lace shirt with the tails tied under the bosom to reveal a beautiful brown midriff.
‘Everyone seems to be wearing those this year,’ said Cable. ‘I must get one.’
‘What does catin really mean?’ said Imogen to Nicky later, as they strolled along the front.
‘Prostitute,’ said Nicky.
They had dinner in a restaurant overhung with vines. Below, the sea was a wash of blue shadow, sparked by the lights of the fishing boats putting out for the night’s catch. Everyone was hungry and they ate garlicky fish soup and cassoulet. The wine flowed freely. Even Yvonne seemed more cheerful when suddenly she put on her wolf in Red Riding Hood smile and turned to Matt.
‘Isn’t it time you and Cable named the day?’
Everyone stopped talking. Matt looked at Yvonne steadily and said, ‘What day?’
She waved a playful finger at him. ‘Now don’t be evasive. You and Cable have been going out for nearly two years now. It’s only fair to make an honest woman out of her.’
Cable flushed angrily. ‘It’s none of your damn business, Yvonne.’
‘Darling — I was only interested in your welfare.’
Matt took Cable’s hand and squeezed it. Then he turned to Yvonne and said softly, ‘Let’s get three things straight. First, I have Cable’s welfare very much at heart; secondly, I agree with her, it’s none of your damn business; and thirdly, you’ve got butter on your chin.’
There was a frozen pause, then everyone burst out laughing, except Yvonne who went as red as her hair with rage.
Nicky yawned. ‘God, I’m so tired I could sleep on a clothes line.’
Matt was gently stroking Cable’s cheek. ‘Early bed, I think, darling, don’t you?’
She looked at him and nodded gratefully. He’s a nice man, thought Imogen, a really nice man. She was beginning to feel sick. Perhaps that garlic soup hadn’t been such a good idea. Nicky was eyeing a sumptuous blonde at the next table.
‘Don’t forget to sleep on the right side of the bed,’ said Cable mockingly to Imogen as she climbed the stairs to her room. She felt sicker and sicker. White-faced, white-bodied, she looked at herself in the mirror. Oh, fat, white woman who nobody loves, she thought sadly, as she put on her nightdress and jumped into bed.
There was a knock on the door. It was Nicky in a violet dressing-gown and nothing underneath. His black curls fell becomingly, the gold medallions jangled on his chest, aftershave lotion fought with the sweet scent of deodorant. Imogen’s heart turned over. She had never seen such a beautiful man. If only he weren’t going round and round.
‘Hullo, darling,’ he said huskily, sitting down on the bed. ‘Thank God we’re alone at last. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about you.’
Or the tomcats or the clocks, thought Imogen. He was kissing her now and his hands started to rove over her body. He put his tongue in her ear, and Imogen, who couldn’t remember whether she’d washed her ears that morning, wriggled away, simulating uncontrollable passion.
Nicky laughed. ‘Underneath the surface, you’re a hot little thing.’
Great waves of nausea were sweeping over her.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s have that stupid nightdress off.’
‘Nicky, I feel sick,’ she said, leaping out of bed and rushing to the bidet.
‘You can’t be sick here,’ said Nicky in horror.
‘Can’t I?’ said Imogen, and was. And all night long, like the Gadarene swine, she thundered down the passage to the black hellhole of a lavatory.
Nicky, foiled yet again, went back to his room in an extremely bad temper.
Chapter Nine
Next morning, feeling pale and sickly, Imogen staggered down to the beach. The sea was blue and sparkling, the sand hot and golden. Umbrellas stretched six deep, edge to edge, for half a mile along the beach. Bodies lay stretched out hundreds to the acre, turning and oiling themselves like chickens on a spit.
Nearly everyone, Imogen realised to her horror, was topless. Cable, as brown as any of them, was wearing the bottom half of the briefest bikini — two saffron triangles, held together by straps of perspex. Her small perfect breasts gleamed with oil. Her hair hung black and shiny over the edge of her lilo. Nicky lounged beside her, slim, lithe and menacing. He totally ignored Imogen when she arrived. Matt lay on his back, his eyes closed, his powerful chest curved in an arch above his flat heavily muscled stomach. Having sallow skin, he was already going brown.
He opened a lazy eye and grinned at Imogen. ‘Come and join the oppressed white minority.’
As she struggled into Lady Jacintha’s red bathing dress, she tried to protect herself with a small face towel.
‘There’s masses of room on my towel if you need it,’ said Matt who had been watching her struggles with unashamed amusement. He rolled over and went back to sleep. Imogen lay in silence, bitterly ashamed of her whiteness.
‘Christ,’ said Nicky, who was reading a copy of yesterday’s Daily Telegraph, ‘Nastase was knocked out in the first round.’