‘Very pretty, little one,’ he said, walking round her. ‘You don’t look like Judge Jeffreys after too much port any more.’ But the expression in his heavy-lidded eyes belied the teasing note in his voice.
‘Let’s go and have some lunch,’ he said, tucking his hand underneath her arm.
He led her down a labyrinth of alleys smelling of garlic, abounding in cats and washing, to a tiny dark restaurant, which was full of fishermen. The food was superb.
Imogen watched Matt slowly pulling leaves off his artichoke.
‘What does beaucoup d’allure mean?’ she asked.
Matt looked up. ‘Lots of sex appeal. Why?’
Imogen blushed. ‘I just heard someone saying it about someone.’
As always he drew confidences out of her, as the sun brings out the flowers. Under that exceptionally friendly gaze, she was soon telling him about the vicarage, and her brothers and sister, and what hell it had been to be fat at school, and how difficult it was to get on with her father. He’s a journalist, she kept telling herself, he’s trained to ask questions and be a good listener. He’d do the same to anyone. But she found herself noticing that his eyes were more dark green than black, and there was a small scar over his right eyebrow.
‘You’re not eating up,’ he said, stripping one of her langoustine, dipping it into the mayonnaise and popping it into her mouth.
‘I was wondering what the others were doing,’ she lied.
‘Bitching I should think. Yvonne told me this morning that it takes all sorts to make a world. Really someone should write all her sayings down in a book so they’re not forgotten.’
He ordered another bottle of wine. Two of the fishermen were staring fixedly at Imogen now. She wondered if she’d got lipstick on her teeth, and surreptitiously got out her mirror.
Matt grinned at her. ‘They’re staring at you because you look beautiful,’ he said.
The musky treacherous fires of the wine were stealing down inside her. She was beginning to feel wonderful. Matt asked for the bill. Imogen got out her purse.
‘Let me pay, please let me.’
Matt shook his head. ‘This is on me.’
As they went out into the fiery sunshine, she swayed slightly, and Matt took her arm.
‘Come on, baby, we’ve got things to do.’
Imogen kept catching reassuring glimpses of her sleek reflection in shop windows. The rich in their yachts and their Pucci silks held no terrors for her now. She was walking on air.
‘I think I’m a bit tight,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Matt, turning briskly into a boutique.
In a daze, she watched him rifling through a tray of bikinis.
‘If it’s for Cable,’ she said, ‘that red one would look lovely.’
‘Not for Cable,’ he said, piloting her into one of the changing rooms, ‘for you.’
‘Oh I couldn’t! I’m too fat.’
‘I’m the best judge of that,’ said Matt handing her a pale blue bikini and drawing the curtain on her.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ thought Imogen, hiccupping gently.
She put on the bikini, and then stood gaping at herself. Except for her midriff which was still pale, there, smiling back at her in the mirror, was one of those beautiful shapely blondes who paraded up and down the beach at Port-les-Pins. Could it really be her? She gave a squeal of delight.
Matt pulled back the curtain and gave a low whistle.
‘That’s not bad for a start,’ he said.
‘But I’m practically falling out of it,’ she said.
‘Disgusting.’ He ran a leisurely hand over her midriff. ‘You’ll have to put in some overtime here. Try these on.’
Everything he handed her — dresses, trousers, shirts, beach shifts — was in pale greens, blues and pinks, calculated to take the last tinge of red out of her suntan.
The record player was pounding out old pop tunes.
‘You’re just too good to be true,
Can’t take my eyes off you. .’ sang Andy Williams.
‘Took the words out of my mouth,’ said Matt. Still the same teasing note in his voice. But in his eyes, once again, she read approval and something else which made her heart beat faster.
As she struggled into an apple green dress covered in white daisies, wondering how he should so instinctively know what suited her, she suddenly heard a commotion outside.
‘Matthieu, mon vieux!’
‘Antoine, mon brave!’ followed by a torrent of excited French.
Imogen put her head round the curtain to find Matt talking nineteen to the dozen to the wickedest-looking Frenchman she had ever seen. He was wearing an immaculately tailored suit in brilliant yellow pinstripe, with a grey shirt and a green carnation in his button hole. Rings flashed from his fingers, gold rings in his ears. He reeked of scent and was smoking a large cigar, and although he had a young dark gipsy face, his hair was already quite grey.
Suddenly his black eyes lighted on Imogen.
‘She come with you, Matthieu? What a beautiful girl.’
‘This is Imogen,’ said Matt.
‘Beautiful,’ murmured Antoine, fingering the green dress. ‘You look like a meadow, Mademoiselle. May I come and roll in you some time?’
‘Imogen, baby,’ sighed Matt, ‘I’m afraid this is Antoine de la Tour, playboy of the Western world. In between bouts of debauchery, he makes films.’
‘We are old friends,’ said Antoine. ‘We were at Ox-fawd together.’ He spoke English fluently with a strong Yorkshire accent.
‘My Nanny come from Yorkshire,’ he explained to Imogen. ‘She taught me English, and much else besides. Ever since Nanny, I’ve a tendresse for Yorkshire girls.’
‘Keep your hands off her,’ said Matt. ‘She’s not mine to lend. I only borrowed her for the day. Tell me, do you know anything about Braganzi?’
‘I’ve seen him in Marseilles once,’ said Antoine. ‘And the Duchess, what a beautiful woman.’
‘How do I get to see him?’ asked Matt.
‘You don’t,’ said Antoine. ‘’is house is like a fortress.’
At that moment a redhead came undulating across the room with a pile of silk shirts over her arm. She was of such massive proportions, she made Imogen feel like Twiggy.
‘This is Mimi,’ said Antoine. ‘Good girl, but spik no English.’
He handed her his wallet and, after smiling ravishingly at him, she undulated to the cash desk.
‘Look at those ’ips,’ sighed Antoine, ‘but then I always prefer quantity to quality. Her father is biggest bidet manufacturer in France. ’E finance my next film.’
‘What is it?’ asked Imogen, wondering where Matt had disappeared to.
‘I mek story of ’annibal and the Halps. We import one hondred elephants from Africa. Mimi will ’ave small part as ’annibal’s slave girl.’
‘She’ll be splendid,’ said Imogen.
Matt appeared and handed her a bulging carrier bag. She peered inside, aghast. ‘But Matt, I can’t. I thought we were just fooling about. All these things must have cost a fortune. You can’t give them to me!’
‘All in a good cause,’ said Matt. ‘Consider that they come with the compliments of Port-les-Pins Casino. Let’s go and see Antoine off,’ he added before she could argue any more.
Outside, deep in onlookers, was a huge pale mauve Rolls-Royce with smoked glass windows. Mimi, two Great Danes and a goat were watching television in the back.
A tall sleek Negro in a white suit and dark glasses was opening the door for Antoine.
‘This is Rebel,’ said Antoine. ‘My bodyguard and friend. I want him to play Caesar in my film. But he say it against Black Power principles to play white dictator. We’ll come over to Port-les-Pins this evening. Au revoir, mes petites,’ and he joined Mimi and the menagerie in the back.