Imogen by Jilly Cooper Page A

said Matt.
    ‘Don’t call me “baby”!’ Yvonne stamped her foot. ‘I’ve had an exhausting day. I don’t see why I should suffer merely because you’ve made a hash of things.’
    Her eyes brimmed with tears. James patted her shoulder gingerly. ‘Don’t cry, dear. Matt, would you mind awfully if we had one double room?’
    Matt looked at Nicky, who nodded.
    ‘Right you are, James; anything to oblige. Nicky and I can kip in the car. Dinner in quarter of an hour then.’
    ‘I’m not going to change if I’ve got to use these clothes as pyjamas,’ said Nicky.
    Up in the bedroom Cable got out her heated rollers.
    ‘I don’t think Matt and Yvonne are going to hit it off,’ she said happily. ‘Do you know, she’s filled a whole suitcase with packets of All-Bran to keep James regular?’

Chapter Seven

Imogen felt absolutely knackered. She longed to soak in a hot bath, and spend ages tarting up and putting on something sensational. But she had nothing sensational to put on, and she felt far too fat and cumbersome to undress and change in front of Cable. With all Cable’s suitcases and bottles of make-up, there wasn’t really room enough for them both anyway. Besides, if she got down early she might snatch a few moments alone with Nicky, so she contented herself with a quick wash and brush-up.
    ‘If Matt’s belly-aching, tell him I won’t be long,’ said Cable who was now wandering about the bedroom totally naked, except for a green silk scarf holding her rollers in.
    Imogen averted her eyes and fled. Was modesty perhaps a question of fatness, she wondered. If she looked as marvellous as that, perhaps she’d wander around with no clothes on. On the landing she found Yvonne, wearing a pink plastic cape round her shoulders to protect her clothes from make-up, and brandishing a hairdryer at a nervous looking maid.
    ‘You speak English, don’t you?’
    ‘Oui, Madame.’
    ‘Then why don’t you speak it, instead of standing there talking in a foreign language? I want the plug on this dryer exchanged at once.’
    Imogen slunk past them. No one was about in the hall. She looked at the menu in the glass case, her mouth watering. The kitchen was wafting beguiling smells of garlic, wine and herbs from its warm interior. She went into the lounge and sat down with Tristram Shandy . An English family nearby whispered as though they were at a funeral, and gloomily lifted the brass hats on their café filtrés . On her table a vase of mauve and salmon pink gladioli clashed horribly with each other and even worse with the tartan table cloth. Odd that the French, who were supposed to be so chic, should have so little colour sense.
    She tried to read. It was really awful the way her concentration had gone to the wind since she met Nicky. She gazed out of the window where an orange street lamp lit up the poster of a forthcoming circus.
    We’re a bit like a travelling circus, she thought. James is one of those eager perky little dogs that jumps through hoops, and Yvonne is a trapeze artist, tough but dainty, tripping around with her feet turned out, and Nicky and Cable were like sleek beautiful wild animals, panthers or tigers, who kept escaping from their cages and disrupting the local community, and she was a small fat shaggy pony trying desperately to keep up with everyone. She was just trying to work out what Matt was, something large and friendly, when she jumped as she heard his voice saying, ‘You’ll never get yourself a drink that way, sweetheart. We’re in the bar. What are you reading?’ He picked up her book. ‘Oh, that, never managed to get through it myself.’
    They found Nicky sitting on a bar stool.
    ‘Hullo, pet, what d’you want? Matt and I are drinking Pernods.’
    ‘That’d be lovely,’ said Imogen, not having a clue what it was, some kind of alcoholic pear juice perhaps.
    Matt ordered another round and dropped a packet of crisps into her lap.
    ‘You must be starving.’
    ‘You looked