‘Oh yes, all the time.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her down beside him in the heather. Close to, she smelt of toothpaste and clean shining hair — rather like his little nieces when they came downstairs after their baths to say goodnight, thought Nicky sentimentally. He raised Imogen’s hand to his lips.
Across the valley, the khaki hillside was latticed with stone walls, the fells glowed a misty violet. You could just see the mill chimneys, a dingy shadow in the distance.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Imogen, desperately trying to remain calm.
‘Not nearly as beautiful as you are,’ said Nicky. ‘And your pulse, my darling,’ he added, feeling her wrist, ‘is going like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Do you believe in love at first sight?’
‘I don’t know,’ stammered Imogen truthfully.
‘Well, I do. The moment I saw you yesterday — pow — it happened, as though I’d been struck by a thunderbolt. I don’t know what it is about you. But it’s something indefinable, quite apart from being beautiful.’ He put his arm round her, holding her tightly so she couldn’t wriggle free. After a minute she ceased to resist and lay back.
All the sky seemed concentrated in those blue eyes and, as he kissed her, she felt the stalks of the heather sticking into her back. It was all so smooth, so practised, so different from the grabbing and fumbling of the few local boys who had made passes at her, that it was a few seconds before Imogen realised what was happening. Suddenly his hand had crept under her sweater and snapped open her bra, and her left breast fell warm and heavy into his other hand.
‘No, no, Nicky! We mustn’t.’
‘Why not, sweetheart? Don’t you like it?’
‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do. But. .’
‘Well, hush then.’
He was kissing her again, and his free hand was inching up her thigh. Paralysis seemed to have set into her limbs. She was powerless to fight against him. Then suddenly a tremendous crashing in the bracken made them jump out of their skins. Rescue had appeared in the form of a large black labrador, which stood lolling its pink tongue, its tail beating frantically.
‘Heavens,’ said Imogen in a strangled voice. ‘It’s Dorothy!’
‘Who’s Dorothy?’
‘The churchwarden’s dog.’
‘Which means the churchwarden must be in the vicinity,’ said Nicky, smoothing his hair. The dog charged back into the bracken.
Horrified, Imogen wriggled back into her bra, which had ridden up, giving her four bosoms like a cow, and went and sat on a moss-covered rock a few yards away, gazing down into the valley. Beneath them, the churchwarden was taking his afternoon stroll. Far below she could see her father walking back and forth in the orchard memorising his sermon.
‘I must be crazy,’ she said, and buried her face in her hands. Nicky came over and put his arms round her.
‘It’s all right, love. All my fault. I just want you too much, and you want me, don’t you?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘But not in front of the whole parish, eh? We’ll have to find somewhere more secluded next time.’ He looked at his watch, ‘I must go now.’
‘You will write to me, won’t you?’ he said as he slid into his sleek silver car.
Imogen didn’t know if she could bear so much happiness and unhappiness in one day. Against the joy of his wanting her was the utter misery of his going away. Look thy last on all things lovely, she thought, her eyes filling with tears. Nicky rummaged about in the glove compartment. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He handed her a small box and watched her bowed head and the incredulous smile on her pale lips as she opened it. She took out a red enamel bracelet, painted with yellow, blue and green flowers.
‘But it’s beautiful,’ she gasped, sliding it on to her wrist. ‘You shouldn’t — I can’t believe — no one’s ever given me — I’ll never take it off except in the bath. It’s like a gipsy caravan,’ she added, moving her wrist so the painted flowers flashed in the sunshine.
‘That’s because it’s a present from a gipsy,’ said Nicky, turning on the ignition. ‘See you when I get back from Paris.’ And, kissing her lightly on the lips, he drove off with a roar of exhaust which set the cat leaping in horror out of its comfortable bed of catmint on the edge of the drive.
Imogen, Nicky reflected without a flicker of conscience as he headed for the A1, had been far more delighted with the bracelet than his Mexican beauty, who, after a few shrieks of pleasure, had asked Nicky to keep the trinket for her, in case her husband noticed it and kicked up a fuss.
Chapter Three
Imogen couldn’t wait to get to the library next morning and tell Gloria all about Nicky. Fortunately Miss Nugent had gone to the funeral, Mr Clough, her deputy, was still on holiday, and the only other senior, Mr Cornelius, was busy making a display of fishing rods, nets and flies in the main entrance to encourage readers to take out some of the new sporting books, so Gloria and Imogen more or less had the place to themselves.
‘This is him,’ said Imogen, opening the 1977 World of Tennis Annual and showing Gloria a photograph of Nicky stretching up, muscles rippling, to take a smash. ‘And here he is again coming off court after beating Mark Cox.’
‘Oh, I know him,’ said Gloria, peering at the book. ‘Seen him on telly playing at Wimbledon. Wasn’t there some row because he threw his racket at a linesman?’ She turned the book round to the light. ‘He’s certainly fantastic looking.’
‘But so much better in the flesh,’ said Imogen, dreamily putting a pile of romances on the non-fiction pile. ‘He’s got this way of looking at you, and the husky way he drops his voice and says things that no one but you can hear. And then we went for this heavenly walk on the moors, and he said when he saw me it was like being struck down by a thunderbolt.’
‘Did he try anything?’ said Gloria.
Imogen blushed. ‘Well he couldn’t do much, because the churchwarden suddenly came round the corner walking his dog.’
Gloria looked at the photograph again, and then incredulously at Imogen, who was so unsophisticated. How could a man like Nicky possibly fancy her? She felt slightly irritated too — she, Gloria, was the one who had the adventures, Imogen the one who listened in awed amazement. She wasn’t too keen on such role reversal.
‘When are you going to see him again?’ she said, picking out a Catherine Cookson novel and putting it aside to be repaired.
‘Well, he’s playing in tournaments most of the summer, but he said it’d be soon and in a more secluded place this time,’ said Imogen, fingering her red bracelet. She was disappointed that Gloria wasn’t more enthusiastic. Then she added humbly, ‘But just think, Gloria, if you hadn’t gone to Morecambe,’ she looked round nervously, ‘I mean, been struck down by shellfish, you’d have come down to the Tennis Club with me, and it would have been you he’d have fallen for instead.’
She suddenly felt faint with horror at the thought.
‘Don’t talk so daft,’ said Gloria, patting her curls and cheering up because, secretly, she agreed with Imogen.
‘Anyway he’s promised to write to me,’ sighed Imogen. ‘Oh, Gloria, you’ve no idea how beautiful he is.’
In fact Nicky proved an extremely bad correspondent. He sent her one postcard from Rome saying he wished she were there. Imogen wrote back by return of post, a long passionate letter which took her hours to compose, pouring her heart out with the aid of the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.
The Rome tournament ended, and Imogen glowed with pride as she read in the paper that Nicky had reached the quarter finals, and then only been knocked out after a terrific fight. Then he moved on to Paris, working his way steadily down the singles draw, and even reaching the semi-finals of the men’s doubles. Every paper commented on his improved game, but no letters arrived.