Imogen (24 page)
‘Wonderful.’ Braganzi turned and raised a hand. It was the first time Imogen had noticed the tattoos on his thick, muscular arms. Next moment a black car that seemed as long as the beach glided up to them.
A chauffeur got out and opened the door for them. As she climbed inside Imogen felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She wondered if she’d ever see the others again.
‘Where did you learn your first aid?’ asked Braganzi as the car climbed the hill. ‘Are you nurse?’
Imogen told him about working in a library, and someone having to do a first aid course. ‘I grumbled like mad at the time, and I was awfully bored, but I’m very glad I did now.’
‘So indeed are we, Mademoiselle. Can I please tell you something, now we are alone a few minutes? You know perhaps a little about the Duchess and me?’
Imogen nodded.
‘When she leave England to come to me, she had to leave her children too. I am not considered suitable stepfather, you understand. Nor are the children allowed to visit us, although we are fighting court battle. Camilla misses the children, although she doesn’t show it, so all her love has gone into little Ricky. She had him late in life. We both did. He is – how you say it? – an autumn crocus. She is forty-three now. When she had Ricky she nearly died and the doctors later insisted on a hysterectomy; so it’s no more children for either of us. Now you can appreciate how important Ricky is to both of us, and what you have done by saving his life.’
Imogen glanced up and saw that his dark eyes were full of tears, and knew that she was no longer afraid of him.
‘How did you track me down?’
‘I have, how you say, impeccable spy system.’
Imogen was very nervous about meeting the Duchess. But one glance at that lovely ravished face, with its brilliant grey eyes which were still red from crying, and all her fears vanished.
The Duchess walked forward quickly and took both Imogen’s hands, and then kissed her on both cheeks, saying in a choked voice,
‘I can never begin to thank you. I really don’t know how to start.’ But she was so friendly and natural and incredibly grateful that, after a few minutes, armed with a large glass of whisky, Imogen began to feel she really had done something rather good after all. They sat on the terrace, chatting twenty to the dozen together, and breathing in the heavy scent of the tobacco plants and the night-scented stock and later they went up and looked at little Ricky asleep in his cot in his pale blue bedroom, a Basil Brush on the pillow beside him. His cheeks were pinker now, his black hair flopped over his forehead. The Duchess moved round the room on tiptoe, straightening his bedclothes, adjusting the pillow, arranging toys, and checking the heat of his forehead with her hand.
‘He looks much better,’ said Imogen.
‘He does, doesn’t he? The doctor says there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to keep checking.’
As they went downstairs Imogen noticed a Picasso, a Modigliani and a Matisse on the wall. Braganzi was waiting for them.
‘All right, darling?’ he said, taking the Duchess’s hand. He must have been three or four inches smaller than her, but somehow his width of shoulder and force of personality made it seem as though he was protecting some infinitely fragile object.
‘Miss Brocklehurst must be hungry. Shall we eat now?’
‘Yes, of course. How awful of me.’ The Duchess turned, smiling, to Imogen. ‘You will stay, won’t you? We see so few people here, and there are so many things I want to ask you about your holiday and about England.’
‘But you must be far too exhausted after such a terrible shock,’ stammered Imogen, terrified her table manners wouldn’t be ducal enough. But in the end they persuaded her and she found she was absolutely famished. All her worries about her table manners vanished when she saw Braganzi falling on his food like a starved dingo, elbows on the table, taking great swigs of wine with his mouth full, and picking away at his teeth.
They had some kind of fish mousse, then delicious chicken. If the Duchess and Braganzi both picked their bones, Imogen supposed it was all right if she did too.
‘And who did you come out here with?’ asked the Duchess.
‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’
‘The tennis player? Oh, he’s frightfully glamorous. I’ve admired him at Wimbledon so often.’
‘And he thinks you’re marvellous too,’ said Imogen, her mouth full of fried potatoes.
‘How lovely.’ The Duchess looked pleased. ‘So you’re both having a wonderful holiday?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Imogen.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Braganzi. ‘What was Mr Beresford doing leaving you alone on a hot summer afternoon?’
‘He – er he – it’s really very boring,’ faltered Imogen, but she was so longing to tell someone.
‘Go on,’ said the Duchess. ‘Enrico and I have so little excitement.’
And then the whole awful story came pouring out. ‘We came in a party,’ said Imogen, ‘but it was quite obvious even before we left London that Nicky had fallen for one of the other girls.’
‘Did she come with a boyfriend?’
‘Yes. He’s called Matthew O’Connor.’
‘He’s a journalist, isn’t he, a very good one?’ said the Duchess. ‘When I can face the English Sundays I always read him.’
‘He’s terribly nice,’ said Imogen, flushing.
‘Then why don’t you do a swap?’ said the Duchess.
‘He loves Cable, this other girl. He just ignores her and waits for her to come back. Occasionally they have terrible rows, but he realises she’s only doing it, well, to make him keener on her.’
‘How very complicated,’ said the Duchess.
‘O’Connor seemed quite keen on you the other night outside,’ said Braganzi drily.
Imogen went crimson.
‘How do you know?’ she stammered.
‘Enrico knows everything,’ said the Duchess with pride.
Goodness, thought Imogen, darting a startled glance at Braganzi, so he knew Matt and I were casing his house all the time.
They had their coffee on the terrace. The night was black now, sprinkled with huge stars. The fireflies darted above the tobacco plants and the Duchess bombarded Imogen with more questions, about her holiday, about her home in Yorkshire and then about England in general. Imogen suddenly realised it was very late.
‘I must go.’
‘Not yet. Enrico will take you back. Darling, go upstairs and just check if Ricky is all right.’
When he had gone, Imogen turned shyly to the Duchess.
‘What a sweet man he is,’ she said. ‘I never dreamt he’d be so kind.’
The Duchess’s face lit up. ‘You think so? I’m so pleased. People in England find it quite incomprehensible that I threw up everything to run off with him.’
‘I understand it perfectly,’ said Imogen stoutly. She was suddenly aware she was more than a little drunk.
‘I’d give anything to go home for a few weeks,’ said the Duchess, ‘but Enrico would be arrested the moment he set foot in England.’ Suddenly she looked very tired and shadowed under the eyes. ‘I miss the children horribly. Alexander, my ex-husband, won’t let me near them in case they are corrupted by Enrico. Corrupted, indeed! If the courts knew what an immoral creature Alexander was!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Imogen.
‘Oh, that’s enough about me,’ said the Duchess lightly. ‘Let’s talk about you. What can we possibly do to repay you? You have some days left of your holiday. We go back to Paris on Saturday. Why not leave the coast and Mr Beresford – it’s too hot anyway – and come back with us? We would love to show you round Paris.’
‘Oh no, really not,’ cried Imogen. Suddenly the thought of being whisked away from Matt, however little he felt about her, was more than she could bear. ‘It’s terribly kind,’ she added to soften her outburst. ‘Honestly, rescuing him was enough, knowing you’re pleased.’
‘There must be something you’d like.’
Suddenly Imogen’s heart beat faster. ‘There is just one thing,’ she said. ‘Matt – more than anything else in the world he wants an interview with your husband. He’s been trying to get one ever since we came out here. He’s really a very responsible journalist. He wouldn’t . . .’ Her words faltered. She was about to say ‘bitch him up’, then thought it seemed rude.
The Duchess looked dubious. But at that moment Braganzi returned. ‘The little one is fine,’ he said.
For a moment they chattered to each other in Italian, the Duchess still looking worried.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Imogen. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. It was horribly presumptuous.’
‘It is difficult in Enrico’s position,’ explained the Duchess. ‘He is worried that anything Mr O’Connor says about him will prejudice my chances of seeing the children again.’
‘Oh well, of course. I should have thought,’ stammered Imogen.
Braganzi went over to the window and threw out his cigar into the garden. Then he turned round and smiled at Imogen.
‘It is a very little thing, in return for what you have done for us. Tell him to come at ten o’clock. But he
must
let me see what he is going to print. That is the only condition. He is an honourable man?’
must
let me see what he is going to print. That is the only condition. He is an honourable man?’
‘Oh yes, yes, of course he is. He is very honourable,’ she said joyfully, thinking how pleased Matt would be. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I really must go now.’ She couldn’t wait to get back to Port-les-Pins and break the news to him.
The Duchess kissed her very affectionately, saying, ‘Write to us in Paris and let me know how the holiday progresses.’
Braganzi rode back with her in the car.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she found herself saying, ‘and the Duchess is so wonderful. I think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’
‘She is,’ said Braganzi. ‘She likes you too. She is very isolated now, you understand. She gave up so much when she left England for me.’
‘But she gained so much.’
Braganzi sighed. ‘I hope so. But you will come and stay with us perhaps next year, and we see that you have a better holiday.’
He took her address in Yorkshire. What would her father say if he could see her now, thought Imogen with a giggle, hob-nobbing with one of the most notorious criminals in France.
The chauffeur was driving along the front now. Although it was long after midnight, people were still drinking in the cafés.
Imogen wondered where the others were; probably smashed out of their minds in some nightclub, or perhaps they were at the Casino. It would be awful if they’d gone to bed. It was almost as though Braganzi had read her thoughts:
‘There’s your friend Mr O’Connor keeping an eye out for you,’ he said, as the car drew to a halt, and he leaned across and opened the door for her. Then he smiled as he saw how Imogen’s face had lit up. ‘That pleases you, doesn’t it?’
‘D’you want to meet him now?’ said Imogen, as she saw Matt get to his feet and walk towards them.
Braganzi shook his head. ‘Tomorrow will do, and tell him to bring Larry Gilmore with him. He can take some pictures of Camilla and Ricky.’
‘But I didn’t even tell you Larry was here,’ said Imogen in amazement. ‘You really know everything, don’t you?’
‘I do my rich best,’ said Braganzi modestly. ‘Goodbye and once again thank you for everything,’ and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and Imogen could see exactly why the Duchess had given up everything for him.
She waved as the car moved away. The next moment Matt was beside her.
‘What was that hood doing mauling you like that?’ he said sharply.
‘Just saying good-bye.’
‘Was that all he did?’ His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t read its expression, but his fingers were hard and painful on her arm.
‘Of course it was. I had the most wonderful time.’
‘You were away so long we were about to send out a search party.’
‘You didn’t have to. They were lovely to me.’
‘Bloody well should have been, after all you did for them. What was she like?’ He let go of her arm.
‘Oh sweet, beautiful and well – sort of vulnerable. Where are the others?’
‘Inside the bar. Gilmore’s pissed out of his mind. Come and have a drink.’ He put an arm round her shoulders and hugged her for a second. ‘Sorry I snapped, darling. I was worried about you.’
A great surge of happiness welled up inside her; then she said ‘Down, boy’ to herself as she remembered Matt’s ‘trespassers-will-be-prosecuted’ lecture on the beach that morning. He’d have been worried about anyone in the party who’d been closeted in Braganzi’s fortress as long as she had.
Inside the bar Larry and Tracey were dancing round to the juke box.
‘I’m Larry the Limpet,’ cried Larry, shoving his hand down Tracey’s dress.
‘I do wish you’d stop doing rude things,’ she said placidly, pulling his hand out.
They danced past the ladies which said ‘Little Girls’ on the door.
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