bushed too,’ said Nicky, pouring water into the Pernod so it went cloudy like Dettol. ‘Probably a good thing you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, but there’ll be no holding me tomorrow,’ he added, lowering his voice.
Imogen went pink, took a great slug of her drink, and nearly spat it out. It was unbelievably disgusting, like distilled liquorice allsorts. And she needed a drink so badly. She took another cautious sip and almost threw up.
Matt picked up a copy of Le Figaro that was lying on the bar.
‘I say,’ said Nicky, ‘have you heard the one about the Irishman who tried to swim the channel?’
‘No,’ said Matt, not looking up.
‘He tried to swim it “lenktways”.’
Imogen giggled. Nicky put a warm hand over hers. ‘At least someone thinks I’m funny.’
‘Jesus,’ said Matt. ‘Braganzi’s in Marseilles only a few miles from where we’re staying.’
‘With the Duchess?’ asked Nicky.
‘So it says here.’
‘Never understand that,’ said Nicky, peering at the paper. ‘Beautiful classy bird throwing everything up to run off with a little wop runt like Braganzi.’
‘Hush,’ said Matt looking round in mock alarm. ‘The Mafia are everywhere. Anyway he’s probably more enterprising in bed. According to Fleet Street, the old Duke was a bit of a stately homo, one pretty valet after another.’
‘Every valet shall be exalted,’ said Nicky.
‘Didn’t the Duchess have Braganzi’s baby?’ asked Imogen.
‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘Must be 18 months now. They’ve been together nearly three years. Perhaps she enjoys living with a hood. Women are always turned on by power, and Braganzi’s got the whole of the Midi sewn up.’
Nicky squinted at his reflection in the smoked looking-glass behind the bar. ‘All the same he is an oily little runt.’
Matt grinned. ‘Once she hears you’re in the area, Nicky baby, she’ll promptly abandon Braganzi.’
‘I’ve never had a Duchess,’ mused Nicky, as though it was a matter of surprise to him. ‘Can’t you imagine her gliding downstairs in one of those red robes lined with ermine, and nothing on underneath, saying, “Would you prefer the West Wing or the East Wing, Mr Beresford?”’
‘Then she’d probably hand you over to the National Trust,’ said Matt, catching sight of Imogen’s stricken face. ‘Anyway, you’d just be getting down to business when the door’d be flung open and you’d have some guide showing a coachload of large ladies on a Mothers’ Union mystery tour all over you.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m turned on by crowds.’
Imogen, who was feeling quite sick at the thought of Nicky and the Duchess, took another slug at her drink, and felt even sicker, and had to have three potato crisps to take the taste away.
‘Hullo, you chaps, what’s anyone going to drink?’ said a jolly voice. It was James, wearing a pale blue corduroy coat, his light brown curls smoothed flat to his head. Perhaps Yvonne insisted on 100 brushes a day – like Nanny.
‘It’s my round,’ said Nicky.
‘I’ll have whisky then, a large White Horse please, un grand cheval blanc ,’ said James and giggled, looking furtively round. ‘You’d better make it snappy. Yvonne doesn’t approve of spirits.’
‘Make it two,’ said Matt, and, picking up Imogen’s Pernod, emptied it into his own glass. ‘You’re not enjoying that much, are you, sweetheart?’
‘Oh thank you,’ stammered Imogen, touched that he’d noticed.
‘D’you know the story of the white horse going into a pub and sitting down on the bar stool and ordering a large whisky?’ said James.
‘No,’ said Nicky, who didn’t like other people telling jokes.
‘The barman gave the horse his drink, and said “Did you know there’s a whisky named after you?” “Really,” said the white horse, “I didn’t know there was a whisky called Eric.”’
James laughed so hard that in the end everyone joined in. He’s
Imogen went pink, took a great slug of her drink, and nearly spat it out. It was unbelievably disgusting, like distilled liquorice allsorts. And she needed a drink so badly. She took another cautious sip and almost threw up.
Matt picked up a copy of Le Figaro that was lying on the bar.
‘I say,’ said Nicky, ‘have you heard the one about the Irishman who tried to swim the channel?’
‘No,’ said Matt, not looking up.
‘He tried to swim it “lenktways”.’
Imogen giggled. Nicky put a warm hand over hers. ‘At least someone thinks I’m funny.’
‘Jesus,’ said Matt. ‘Braganzi’s in Marseilles only a few miles from where we’re staying.’
‘With the Duchess?’ asked Nicky.
‘So it says here.’
‘Never understand that,’ said Nicky, peering at the paper. ‘Beautiful classy bird throwing everything up to run off with a little wop runt like Braganzi.’
‘Hush,’ said Matt looking round in mock alarm. ‘The Mafia are everywhere. Anyway he’s probably more enterprising in bed. According to Fleet Street, the old Duke was a bit of a stately homo, one pretty valet after another.’
‘Every valet shall be exalted,’ said Nicky.
‘Didn’t the Duchess have Braganzi’s baby?’ asked Imogen.
‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘Must be 18 months now. They’ve been together nearly three years. Perhaps she enjoys living with a hood. Women are always turned on by power, and Braganzi’s got the whole of the Midi sewn up.’
Nicky squinted at his reflection in the smoked looking-glass behind the bar. ‘All the same he is an oily little runt.’
Matt grinned. ‘Once she hears you’re in the area, Nicky baby, she’ll promptly abandon Braganzi.’
‘I’ve never had a Duchess,’ mused Nicky, as though it was a matter of surprise to him. ‘Can’t you imagine her gliding downstairs in one of those red robes lined with ermine, and nothing on underneath, saying, “Would you prefer the West Wing or the East Wing, Mr Beresford?”’
‘Then she’d probably hand you over to the National Trust,’ said Matt, catching sight of Imogen’s stricken face. ‘Anyway, you’d just be getting down to business when the door’d be flung open and you’d have some guide showing a coachload of large ladies on a Mothers’ Union mystery tour all over you.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m turned on by crowds.’
Imogen, who was feeling quite sick at the thought of Nicky and the Duchess, took another slug at her drink, and felt even sicker, and had to have three potato crisps to take the taste away.
‘Hullo, you chaps, what’s anyone going to drink?’ said a jolly voice. It was James, wearing a pale blue corduroy coat, his light brown curls smoothed flat to his head. Perhaps Yvonne insisted on 100 brushes a day – like Nanny.
‘It’s my round,’ said Nicky.
‘I’ll have whisky then, a large White Horse please, un grand cheval blanc ,’ said James and giggled, looking furtively round. ‘You’d better make it snappy. Yvonne doesn’t approve of spirits.’
‘Make it two,’ said Matt, and, picking up Imogen’s Pernod, emptied it into his own glass. ‘You’re not enjoying that much, are you, sweetheart?’
‘Oh thank you,’ stammered Imogen, touched that he’d noticed.
‘D’you know the story of the white horse going into a pub and sitting down on the bar stool and ordering a large whisky?’ said James.
‘No,’ said Nicky, who didn’t like other people telling jokes.
‘The barman gave the horse his drink, and said “Did you know there’s a whisky named after you?” “Really,” said the white horse, “I didn’t know there was a whisky called Eric.”’
James laughed so hard that in the end everyone joined in. He’s
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