The taxi turned and sped up a drive, the gravel spluttering against the wheels. Vineyards and olive groves on either side stretched to infinity. Ahead in the dusk, every window blazing with light, was a huge white house.
‘It’s a mansion,’ said Tracey.
They could see a man in a pink suit, with red and pink hair, get out of a Rolls-Royce and ring the door bell.
‘I think that’s David Bowie,’ said Larry.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Imogen faintly.
As they walked up the marble steps, a butler opened the door. Then a maid whisked Imogen and Tracey upstairs to a room with walls covered in pink satin. On the floor was a thick fur carpet, the bed was covered in fur coats, which must have been brought by guests just to show off — it was such a stifling hot night.
‘Do you take cloth coats too?’ said Tracey, taking off her white blazer and handing it to the maid.
Cable and Yvonne were still engaged in teasing their hair in front of the mirror.
‘I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Omar Sharif,’ said Yvonne.
Out of the window Imogen could see a jungle of garden, punctuated by lily ponds, aviaries full of coloured birds, two lantern-lit swimming pools and, in the distance, the sea.
Shaking with nerves, she went downstairs to find Larry waiting for her and talking in a low voice to a splendid blonde covered in sequins.
‘Imogen darling, this is your hostess, Claudine. Take a good look at her. She may not pass this way again.’
But before he had a chance to say anything else, Claudine had shimmered forward and seized Imogen’s hands.
‘Mees Brocklehurst, how wonderful to meet you. What a fantastic coincidence that you should be on holiday with Matt and Nicky Beresford,’ and the next moment she had drawn Imogen into a huge room, which seemed to be seething with suntanned faces with hard restless eyes, constantly on the lookout for fresh excitement.
‘Wait for Larry,’ begged Imogen.
‘Larry who?’ screamed Claudine and, shoving a drink into Imogen’s hand, she dragged her from one group to another, crying, ‘This is lovely Imogen Brocklehurst’. . whisper, whisper. . ‘Yes, really. Braganzi’s child snatched from the jaws of death.’
Everyone started oohing and aahing as though Claudine was bringing in the Christmas pudding flaming blue with brandy.
‘How do you do? How do you do? Hi Imogen, glad to know you. How do you do?’ People were thrusting forward to meet her.
Imogen turned to Claudine in horror. ‘But what have you told them?’
‘Did you really meet the Duchess? What was she like? Did she seem keen on Braganzi?’ clamoured the faces.
‘Oh stop,’ called Imogen after a disappearing Claudine. ‘Please don’t tell people. Braganzi doesn’t want publicity.’
Now everyone was mobbing her and introducing her. She was so breathless with answering questions, she found she’d finished her drink, which was delicious and tasted rather like coke filled with fruit salad. The moment she put her glass down another was thrust into her hand.
‘How has she furnished the house?’ ‘Are the guard dogs as ferocious as everyone makes out?’ ‘Weren’t you terrified to meet Braganzi?’ ‘Does he keep her chained up there?’ ‘Has she lost her looks?’ ‘I hear the Duke. .’
More people were crowding round her, asking excited questions. Finally somebody introduced her to Larry. ‘No, we haven’t met,’ he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into a side room.
‘This place is a lunatic asylum,’ she gasped. ‘What on earth did you tell Claudine?’
‘I gave her a brief run down on your life-saving activities yesterday. You’re certainly the star attraction. Have another drink.’ He grabbed one from a passing waiter.
‘I’ve had several already,’ said Imogen with a giggle. ‘It’s delicious and so refreshing. What is it?’
‘Pimms,’ said Larry. ‘Practically non-alcoholic.’
A vision in yellow flew out at him. ‘Larry darling, where did you get to? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ And she hauled him away.
Next moment a stunningly handsome man in a white dinner jacket had crept up and put his arm through Imogen’s. ‘I hear you know darling Camilla,’ he said. ‘Do give her my love next time you see her.’
A light flashed. ‘Thank you,’ said a photographer moving away.
The sounds of revelry grew louder, the heat grew more oppressive by the minute.
‘Come and look at the garden,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket. Two beautiful young men, in shirts slashed to the waist, met them in the doorway.
‘At last we’ve found you. You must be Morgan Brocklehurst,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve been simply dying to meet you all evening.’
‘I hear you had dinner with Braganzi last night,’ said the first.
‘Is he as butch as everyone says he is?’ asked the second.
A large woman in crimson with one false eyelash hanging askew like a ladder from her bottom lid charged up to them.
‘Does anyone know which Morgan Brocklehurst is?’ she said, eagerly. ‘I hear she’s actually met Braganzi and the Duchess.’
‘She’s somewhere in there,’ said the first young man, pointing back at the drawing-room, from which a hysterical rush of talk was now issuing.
‘Oh dear,’ said the woman in crimson, ‘I’ve just fought my way out of there. I want to try and nail her for a beach party I’m having tomorrow.’ She dived back in the mêlée.
‘I’ll get you another drink, Morgan,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket.
‘Thanks, I’d adore one,’ said Imogen, who was beginning to enjoy herself.
One of the beautiful young men took her arm and led her through the gardens, past huge jungle plants with leaves like dark shining shields, and brilliant coloured birds, scarlet, turquoise, dark blue and emerald, all chirruping and fluttering about their aviary, like guests at the party. Round the corner they found two pale pink flamingos standing on one leg in a bright green pond, full of fat golden carp gliding in and out of the water lilies.
In the stifling heat Imogen was quite happy to rest on a cool stone bench with lions’ heads rearing up at either end. The two young men sat at her feet, a captive audience. She was soon quite happily recounting the events of yesterday.
Soon quite a crowd was gathered round her. People kept topping up her drink. ‘It really is very moreish,’ she said to the company at large. She kept looking around for Larry, and hoping Matt would arrive, but after a bit she stopped worrying even about them.
‘Can I get you something to eat?’ asked the man in the white dinner jacket.
‘Oh, no thank you,’ said Imogen. She seemed to have consumed far too much fruit salad already.
‘Well, come and dance then,’ he said, leading her back into the house. ‘Claudine brought in 600 bottles of champagne for this party, plus 50 lbs of caviar, and God knows how many gallons of Diorissimo to put in the swimming pool. Of course she’ll claim it all on tax.’
It was far too dark to see anyone on the dance floor.
‘Morgan, Morgan, you’re so fresh and unspoilt,’ said the man in the white dinner jacket, drawing her to his bosom.
Oh dear, she thought, I do hope I don’t leave make-up all over him. Another man cut in and danced her off into another room where he tried to kiss her. She wanted to slap his face, but he wasn’t very steady on his feet, and she thought she might knock him over. Then a haughty aristocratic beauty drew her aside.