‘Well, you’re going about it the wrong way.’ Matt ground the gears viciously.
‘When love comes in and takes you for a spin,’ sang Imogen tunelessly. ‘Oh, la la la, it’s bloody awful. Do you think Bambi’ll excite me as corespondent?’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, what a stupid time for her to stage a comeback, in the middle of an orgy. She must have known Larry’d be up to someone, if not me.’
Matt ignored her and lit a cigarette.
She was beginning to feel very odd. Everything like Vesuvius seemed to be erupting inside her.
‘Oh well, this time next week, I’ll be back in my little grey home in the West Riding,’ she said fretfully, ‘and you can forget all about me.’
Then suddenly out of the corner of her eye she saw he was laughing.
‘You’re not cross anymore?’
‘Absolutely blind with rage.’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said, her head flopping on to his shoulder, ‘but I do love you,’ and she passed out cold.
Chapter Sixteen
When she woke next afternoon she thought she was going to die. She’d never known pain like it, as though a nutcracker was slowly crushing her skull in, and a lot of gnomes were hammering from the inside. For a few minutes she lay groaning pitifully, then opened her eyes, whereupon an agonising blaze of sunlight stabbed her like a knife and she hastily shut them again. Wincing, she started to piece together the events of the evening, the crazy lionising, the drinking and pot smoking, and finally the nude bathing. Someone had hung her wet trousers and jersey from the window. She wondered what had happened to her knickers and her shoes. She also had hazy memories of meeting Bambi, and Matt being very cross and bringing her home. But who the hell had undressed her? Sweat broke out, drenching her entire body. She only just made the lavatory in time and was violently sick.
On the way back to her room she passed Madame and a squeegee mop, wanting to hear all about her encounter with Braganzi and the Duchess. Muttering about shellfish poisoning, Imogen apologised and bolted back into her room, where she cleaned her teeth and then crawled miserably into bed. She tried to remember what she’d said to Matt on the way home. Oh, why had she made such an idiot of herself?
There was a knock on the door. It sounded like a clap of thunder. It was Matt wearing jeans and no shirt. He had just washed his hair and was rubbing it dry with a large pink mascara-stained towel. Imogen disappeared hastily under the bedclothes. She felt him sit down on the bed and slowly emerged.
‘You’re an absolute disgrace,’ he said.
‘Oh, go away,’ she moaned. ‘I know I behaved horribly. I’m quite prepared for what’s coming to me, and I don’t want any flowers or letters please.’
A smile so faint it was almost imperceptible touched his mouth at one corner.
‘Rotten France,’ she said, burying her face in the pillow. ‘One spends one’s time being sick for love or just sick. I feel terrible.’
‘Serve you right trying to pack ten years’ experience into one night, and as for scribbling obscenities in lipstick all over Mrs Edgworth’s clean car.’
‘Holy smoke!’ She sat bolt upright, clutching her head with one hand and the sheet to her breasts with the other. ‘Did I really? Does she know it was me?’
‘No, thanks to me. I managed to blur the Yvonne Bismarck bits, so she assumes it’s some random scribbler who got lit-up at the party.’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’
‘“Goodness,” as Mae West said, “had nothing to do with it.”’ He shook his head. ‘I must say the most outrageous alter ego emerges when you get stoned. I’m not sure your father would be very pleased by your performance last night. Not that anyone else appears to have behaved particularly well. Nicky hasn’t surfaced yet and Jumbo’s looking very poorly.’
‘W-where’s Larry?’ she stammered, pleating the sheet with her fingers, unable to meet Matt’s eyes.
‘Gone. He sent fondest love and a letter. Bambi’s taken him off to Antibes.’
‘Will they be OK?’
‘Probably, after a bit of straight talking. They’re both equally to blame.’
‘And Tracey?’
‘Gone to a thrash in Marbella with some movie star. He wanted you to go too, but I thought you’d had enough excitement to be going on with. By the way I’ve got a present for you,’ and out of his pocket he produced a leather jewel box. For a glorious, lunatic moment Imogen wondered if he was giving her a ring. Then he said, ‘It’s from the Duchess and Braganzi to say thank you. There’s a letter from her, too.’
Imogen opened the box. It was a gold necklace, set with seed pearls and rubies. She gave a gasp of delight.
‘Pretty, isn’t it? Try it on.’
She bowed her head forward. He put his arms around her to do up the clasp, his broad brown chest was only inches away from her. She ached to reach out and touch it. She trembled as she felt his fingers on her neck. She prayed it was clean enough.
‘There.’ Matt leaned back. ‘It looks terrific. Have a look.’ He reached for a hand mirror beside the bed and held it up for her. The necklace was beautiful but the effect was slightly spoiled by a mascara smudge under one eye and a large bit of sleep in the corner of the other. Hastily she rubbed them away.
‘It’s so kind of them both. It was so little that I did,’ she muttered. Then she gave a gasp of horror. ‘But I never asked you, I quite forgot. What happened about the piece?’
‘They liked it. They hardly changed a thing.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. And your paper?’
‘They’re pretty pleased too.’
‘I’m so glad. So it was worth it after all that struggle.’
‘Yes, it nearly always is. I feel sort of Christlike today. It’s the best feeling in the world, or almost the best feeling. .’ he smiled. . ‘the day after you’ve finished something you’ve really sweated your guts out over.’ He squeezed her thigh gently through the blanket. ‘And it’s all due to you, darling.’
Imogen wriggled with embarrassment. ‘It was nothing,’ she cast desperately around for a change of subject. ‘Look, does Yvonne really not realise it was me?’
‘Well, her mind’s on other things today. Evidently Jumbo disgraced himself last night, and being Saturday, the beach is like Oxford Street in the rush hour, but she’s forgotten all that. She got a telegram midday confirming her film part.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Imogen.
‘Quite. She’s being utterly insufferable, upstaging Cable in particular; so you can imagine Cable is not in the sunniest of tempers.’
His hair was nearly dry now. Blond and silky, it flopped over his tanned forehead. Imogen longed to run her fingers through it. She was driven distracted by his nearness, but it was such heaven having him sitting gossiping on her bed, she’d almost forgotten her hangover.
He got to his feet.
‘To celebrate her new starring role, Mrs Edgworth has actually offered to take us all out to dinner. I hope you’ll be able to make it. I need a few allies.’
When he had gone she opened her letters. There were several invitations, addressed to Morgan Brocklehurst, asking her to parties in various parts of Europe. Someone even wanted her to open a fête in Marseilles next week.
Larry’s letter was scrawled on a piece of flimsy:
‘Darling little Imogen, you were very sweet to me last night, when I needed it very badly, and you succeeded in making Bambi wildly jealous, which is all to the good, although I had great difficulty on the evidence of last night in persuading her how miserable I’d been without her. I’ll send you those pictures when I get them developed. If you ever want a bed in London, come and stay with us. Je t’embrasse, Larry. PS I thought your piece on Mrs Edgworth’s car was inspired.’