Imogen (5 page)
‘Mr Beresford, how nice to see you,’ she said, teetering forward on uncomfortable and unfamiliar high heels. ‘Has Imogen given you a drink? She’s awfully forgetful.’
Oh God, thought Imogen, I do hope she’s not going to be too embarrassing.
‘She’s looked after me beautifully,’ said Nicky, as Mrs Brocklehurst helped herself to a glass of sherry, ‘and I love your house.’
She was followed by Juliet, who sat on the piano stool, patting Homer and grinning at Nicky.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘That’s a nice dog,’ said Nicky. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Homer,’ said Juliet. ‘Short for Homersexual. He’s always mounting male dogs.’
‘Really darling, that’s not true,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst mildly.
‘Who plays the piano?’ asked Nicky.
‘I do,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m thinking of taking up the cello as my second instrument.’ And next moment she was bombarding Nicky with questions about tennis stars. Was Nastase as difficult as everyone made out, and Stan Smith as dead-pan as he looked, and did Borg have lots of girls?
To have a better look at Nicky, Mrs Brocklehurst removed her spectacles, leaving a red mark on the bridge of her nose. Goodness, she thought, he really is a very good looking young man, and he seems nice too.
‘What’s Connors like?’ said Juliet.
‘Darling, poor Nicky,’ remonstrated her mother. ‘Give him a chance and go and mash the potatoes. Daddy’ll be in in a minute. When did you first decide to become a tennis player?’ she said to Nicky.
‘When I was a child I used to go down to the courts at seven o’clock in the morning, hanging around hoping for a chance to play. Every time I seemed to get a rapport with a coach my father was posted somewhere else. I used to spend hours playing imaginary matches with myself hitting a ball against the garage door.’
‘How splendid! I suppose if one wants to do anything badly enough in life, one usually does.’
‘I like to think so,’ said Nicky, shooting an unashamedly undressing glance in Imogen’s direction, and rubbing his foot against hers behind the safety of an occasional table.
The vicar came in, rubbing his hands and looking quite benevolent, spectacles on his nose.
‘Ah, good morning Nicholas. Lunch not ready yet? Preaching’s thirsty work, you know.’
‘It won’t be a minute,’ said his wife soothingly. ‘Juliet’s just doing the potatoes.’
‘Is there time for a quick look round the garden?’ asked Nicky.
‘Of course,’ said the vicar with alacrity. ‘Bring your drink out.’
‘What a nice young man,’ said her mother.
‘Unbelievable,’ sighed Imogen.
There was an embarrassing moment before lunch.
‘I expect you’d like a wash,’ said the vicar, pointing to the door of the downstairs lavatory. He always liked male visitors in particular to go in there so they could admire his old England and Harlequin rugger groups hanging on the wall.
‘I’m not sure there’s any loo paper,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.
‘There wasn’t,’ said Juliet, crossing the hall with the macaroni cheese, ‘so I tore some pages out of the parish mag.’
Lunch, however, was a success. Nicky had two helpings of macaroni cheese which pleased Mrs Brocklehurst, talked at length to the vicar about the British Lions and regaled them with gossip about tennis players and the various celebrities he’d bumped into on the circuit.
‘I’m afraid I’m talking too much,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst eagerly. ‘We lead such sheltered lives in Pikely. Fancy Virginia Wade reading Henry James between matches!’
‘Have you really met Rod Stewart!’ sighed Juliet.
The vicar surprisingly opened a second bottle of wine.
‘I wish we could have wine at the Mothers’ Union,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It would make things so much less sticky.’
‘What about hash rock cakes?’ said Juliet, taking a slug of wine.
‘Eat up, Imogen,’ snapped the vicar. She was still struggling with her first helping. The food seemed to choke her.
‘Picking away like a sparrow,’ went on the vicar, his voice taking on a bullying tone, ‘or more like a crow in that colour. I do wish young people wouldn’t wear black.’
Imogen bit her lip.
‘Bastard,’ thought Nicky. He turned to the vicar. ‘How d’you think England’ll do against the West Indies?’ That should keep the old bugger gassing for a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he examined Imogen, mentally undressing her. He would take her later in the heather, and be very gentle and reassuring. He was certain she was a virgin.
‘They ought to bring back Dexter,’ the vicar was saying.
‘Don’t bother to finish, Imogen,’ whispered her mother. ‘I should clear if I were you.’
Thankfully Imogen gathered up the macaroni cheese and the plates. As she took Nicky’s he stroked the back of her leg, the one farthest away from the vicar.
She went into the kitchen and, licking macaroni cheese off her fingers, dumped the plates in the sink. She picked up a drying-up cloth, bent down and opened the oven door. As she was just easing out the plum crumble, she heard a step behind her.
‘Isn’t he the most utterly fantastic man you’ve ever seen?’ she murmured from the depths of the oven.
‘Glad you think so,’ said a husky voice behind her. Appalled, she swung round. Nicky, holding a vegetable dish in each hand, was standing, laughing, in the doorway. The crumble was burning her through the drying-up cloth. She shoved it down on the kitchen table. Nicky put down the dishes and ran a finger caressingly down her cheek.
‘Sweetheart, you must learn not to blush. It’s terribly pretty, but it’ll give you away to your unspeakable father.’
Imogen, terrified he’d try and kiss her when she tasted of macaroni cheese, hastily handed him the plates.
‘We must go back.’
But Nicky waited in the doorway, holding the plates and still grinning at her. Imogen stared fixedly at the door hinge, where generations had cracked the paint screwing off the tops of refractory bottles.
‘It’ll get cold,’ she stammered.
‘I won’t though,’ said Nicky, and brushed her cheek with his lips as she scuttled past him.
‘You’ve forgotten the plates,’ snapped her father.
‘I’ve got them,’ said Nicky. ‘Must say, I’m dying to sample Imogen’s – er – pudding.’ He winked at Juliet who giggled.
‘Don’t you get nervous before a big match?’ she said.
‘No.’ He shot a glance in Imogen’s direction. ‘The suspense turns me on.’
‘What’s Goolagong like?’ asked Juliet.
‘Sweet; much prettier in the flesh.’ Nicky poured cream thickly over his crumble. ‘Always humming to herself and laughing if she does a good shot. She never knows what the score is.’
He then told them a story about one of the linesmen falling asleep in a big match. ‘He’d had too good a lunch,’ he went on. ‘The crowd were quite hysterical with laughter.’
His eyes are as dark as pansies now, thought Imogen, trying to memorise every feature of his face. His hands were beautiful too, so brown and long-fingered. She suddenly felt quite weak with longing. Then she felt a gentle pressure against her ankle. It
must
be Homer rubbing against her, but he only begged during the meat courses. He was now stretched out in the sun under the window, twitching fluffy yellow paws in his sleep.
must
be Homer rubbing against her, but he only begged during the meat courses. He was now stretched out in the sun under the window, twitching fluffy yellow paws in his sleep.
Nicky continued to talk quite calmly to her father, but the pressure against her ankle became more insistent.
‘Good congregation?’ he asked, draining his wine glass.
‘Pretty good,’ said the vicar.
He looks sensational in those jeans, thought Imogen. In spite of their tightness and, although he was sitting down, not an ounce of spare flesh billowed over the top. Her mind misted over; she didn’t even hear Nicky asking her father what he had preached his sermon about, or her father replying:
‘Ask Imogen, she was there.’
‘What
was
it about?’ asked Nicky, smiling wickedly at Imogen.
was
it about?’ asked Nicky, smiling wickedly at Imogen.
‘What, sorry,’ she said, startled.
‘Wake up,’ said her father.
‘I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.’
‘Nicky wants to know what my – er – sermon was about.’ There was a distinct edge to the vicar’s voice.
She felt the blood rushing to her face; they were all looking at her now.
‘Nicodemus,’ muttered Juliet.
‘Oh, yes,’ stammered Imogen gratefully. ‘The wind blowing where it listeth, and people who believe in God having everlasting life.’
With a shaking hand, she reached out for her wine, praying the storm was over.
Nicky looked at his watch.
‘Good God, it’s nearly quarter to three.’
‘I’ve missed Gardener’s Question Time,’ said the vicar.
‘I hope I haven’t gone on too much,’ said Nicky modestly, in the sure knowledge that he hadn’t. ‘If you care about something, you tend to bang on about it.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst. ‘It’s been fascinating, hasn’t it, Stephen? We shall all enjoy Wimbledon so much more, having met you.’
‘I must drive back to London soon,’ said Nicky. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a walk on the moor first.’ He increased the pressure of his foot on Imogen’s ankle.
‘I must write my Evensong sermon,’ said the vicar regretfully, ‘and someone’s coming at four to borrow a dog collar for the Dramatic Society’s play.’
‘I must bath Homer,’ said Juliet.
‘Imogen will take you,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.
‘That’s what I hoped,’ said Nicky, smiling at Imogen.
‘Why has Imogen painted her eyelids bright green to go walking on the moors?’ asked the vicar, as he helped his wife with the washing-up.
‘I’m afraid she’s fallen in love,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.
‘She’s for the moors and martyrdom,’ muttered Juliet.
The wind had dropped since yesterday and, as they climbed up the moor, the hot sun had set the larks singing and was drawing them up the sky. The bracken uncurled pale green fingers. Lambs ran races and bleated for their mothers.
‘Bit of a sod to you, your pa, isn’t he?’ said Nicky.
‘He was disappointed I wasn’t a boy,’ said Imogen.
‘Jesus, I’m bloody glad you’re not.’
He slid an arm round her about six inches above the waist.
‘Very, very glad,’ he repeated, as his fingers encountered the underside of her breast. Imogen leapt away; they could still be seen from the house.
‘Don’t know if you’re more frightened of me or him,’ said Nicky.
‘Oh, I don’t feel at all the same way about you,’ protested Imogen. ‘It’s just that I’ve never met a famous person before.’
Nicky laughed, ‘I’ll introduce you to lots more if you promise not to fancy them.’
Imogen, not nearly as fit as Nicky, was soon puffing. Fortunately, he did most of the talking. ‘It’s a lonely life being a tennis player. Here today, gone tomorrow – thousands of acquaintances, very few friends. Never in one place long enough to establish a proper relationship.’ He gave a deep sigh.
Imogen, her perceptions a little blunted by wine at lunch, did not smile. She looked at him sympathetically.
‘Will you think of me occasionally when you’re beavering away in your little library?’
‘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.
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