‘Good girl,’ said Matt, who was steadily amassing chips beside her.
But something compelled her to chance her luck and go on playing, and this time she lost and lost until she only had two counters. In desperation, she put them both on Noir. Rouge came up.
Tears stinging her eyes, she escaped to the ladies.
‘Oh God, I look hateful,’ she moaned. Her face was still bright scarlet. The mistral had played even worse havoc with her hair, whipping it into a wild mop like a Zulu warrior. She couldn’t even get a comb through it.
She didn’t recognise the couple locked together in the passage when she came out a few minutes later. But she stiffened as she heard the familiar purr of Nicky’s voice.
‘Darling, you’re so lovely,’ he was saying. ‘And I can feel your heart going like the Charge of the Light Brigade.’
Cable gave a husky laugh, and wound her arms round his neck.
‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ he went on. ‘I didn’t until I met you. Then — pow! Suddenly it happened, as though I’d been struck by a thunderbolt. I don’t know what it is about you — something indefinable, apart from being so beautiful.’
Imogen couldn’t believe her ears. He was using exactly the same words he’d used when he’d tried to seduce her that first time on the moor. Words that were irrevocably signed on her heart.
‘What about old purple sprouting Brocklehurst?’ said Cable softly.
Nicky laughed. ‘I knew it was a mistake the moment I met you, but I couldn’t let her down. She’s not much trouble and anyway it gave me a chance of being near you.’
‘I feel a bit mean. Can’t we find some arresting Provençal fisherman to bed her down?’
‘Never get near her,’ said Nicky and started to kiss Cable again.
They were so preoccupied they didn’t notice her stumbling past.
She met Matt coming out of the Roulette Room. He was looking pleased with himself.
‘I’ve just won nearly three thousand francs,’ he said.
‘How much is that?’ said Imogen, desperately trying to sound normal.
‘About £300. I’ve been good and cashed it in.’ He looked at her closely.
‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Cable and Nicky, is it?’
She nodded — impossible to keep anything from him.
He took her arm. ‘I think you and I had better have a little talk.’
He led her to a deserted corner of the beach. They sat down on the warm sand. A huge white moon had turned the sea to gunmetal; the waves were idly flapping on the shore.
Matt lit a cigarette. ‘All right lovie, what happened?’
Stammering, she told him.
‘I don’t mind him kissing her so much,’ she said finally. ‘I mean she’s so lovely anyone would want to. But it’s just his using the same words.’
‘Cliché, cliché, cliché,’ said Matt scornfully. ‘But then you can’t expect someone who hits a white ball across a net year in year out to have a very extensive vocabulary, can you?’
Imogen had a feeling he was laughing at her. ‘But Nicky’s clever. He speaks five languages,’ she said defensively.
‘A sign of great stupidity, I always think,’ said Matt. ‘Hell, I’m not trying to put Nicky down. I’ve nothing against people with IQs in single figures. I just think you should know some home and away truths about him. I bet I know how he picked you up.’
‘We were introduced,’ said Imogen stiffly.
‘No, before that. Wasn’t he playing in a match, and he suddenly picked you out in the crowd, and acted as though he’d been turned to stone? Then, I suppose, he missed a few easy shots, as though he was completely overwhelmed by your beauty, and flashed his pretty teeth at you every time he changed ends.’
‘He must have told you,’ said Imogen in a stifled voice.
‘No such luck, sweetheart. It’s standard Beresford pick-up practice in tournaments, all round the country. Quite irresistible, too, when combined with those devastating good looks. He never does it if there’s any chance he might lose the match.’
‘Then why did he bother to bring me on holiday?’
‘For a number of reasons, I should think. Because you’re very pretty, because he’s got a jaded palate, and you’re different from his usual run of scrubbers. Because he couldn’t make you in Yorkshire, and he always likes to get his own way and, finally, because he hadn’t met Cable then.’
‘And what chance have I got against her?’ sighed Imogen.
‘You still want him, after hearing all that?’
Imogen nodded miserably. ‘I’m a constant nymph,’ she said.
Matt sighed. ‘I was afraid you were. Well, we’ll have to get him back for you, won’t we?’
Outside her bedroom he took her key and unlocked the door.
‘Now baby, lesson one. Don’t cry all night. It’ll only make you look ugly in the morning. And if you’re still smarting about the purple sprouting Brocklehurst bit, remember that Cable’s real name is Enid Sugden.’
He smiled, touched her cheek with his hand, and went. Imogen undressed and lay on her bed for a few minutes in the moonlight. Fancy Cable being called Enid. She giggled, then her thoughts turned to Matt.
Was it Jane Austen who said friendship was the finest balm for the pangs of despised love? She got up, locked her door and fell into a deep sleep.
It was after ten o’clock when she woke next morning. She found Matt drinking Pernod on the front, surrounded by newspapers, his long legs up on the table.
‘You’re going brown. Isn’t it a pity one can’t have the first drink of the day twice?’ he said, ordering her a cup of coffee.
‘How is everyone?’ she said.
‘Grimly determined to enjoy their fortnight’s holiday. Yvonne running herself up as usual, Cable in one of her moods — I’m not sure which one. They’ve all gone water skiing.’
‘Didn’t you want to go?’ said Imogen anxiously. It was bad enough that Nicky should annexe Cable without Matt being left with Nicky’s boring girlfriend.
‘After my performance on the boat coming over — you must be joking. You and I are going to take a trip along the coast.’
It was a perfect day. The mistral had retired into its cave. The air was soft. And as they drove along the coast road, the smell of petrol mingled with the scent of the pines. She still felt upset about Nicky, but for today she was determined not to brood.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Imogen.
‘St Tropez,’ said Matt.
Oh, God, thought Imogen as the wind fretted her hair into an even worse tangle. Everyone will look like Bardot there.
Matt parked the car on the front. In the yachts round the Port, the rich in their Pucci silks were surfacing for the first champagne of the day. Matt steered Imogen through a doorway, up some stairs, into a hairdressing salon.
‘To kick off, we’re going to do something about your hair,’ he said.
Imogen backed away in terror. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘They’ll chop it all off.’
‘No they won’t,’ said Matt, explaining to the pretty receptionist exactly what he wanted them to do.
‘It’ll look great,’ he said, smiling at Imogen reassuringly. ‘I’ll pick you up later.’
‘Il a beaucoup d’allure,’ sighed the pretty receptionist to one of the assistants, who nodded in agreement as she helped Imogen into a pink overall.
When Matt came back, he didn’t recognise her. He gave her one of those hard, appraising sexy looks that men only give to very pretty girls. Then he said, ‘My God!’ and a great smile spread across his face.
Her hair hung in a sleek bronze curtain to her shoulders, parted on one side and falling seductively over one eye.