Imogen (7 page)

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Authors: Jilly Cooper

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BOOK: Imogen
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‘Telephone, Gloria,’ said Miss Nugent, bustling up. ‘Reader with a query. It’s come through in my office. Can you go and man the issue desk, Imogen? Miss Hockney’s gone to tea and there’s a queue waiting.’
Gathering up her papers, Imogen went and sat down at the desk at the entrance of the library and began to check people’s books in. Once she’d dealt with the queue she went back to her overdue list. Susan Bridges had kept
Colloquial German
and
Scaling the Matterhorn
out since February, when she met that Austrian ski instructor. She picked up the telephone and dialled Miss Bridges’s number, but there was no answer – probably at work. She looked at the pile of cards in front of her. ‘
If you have returned the books in the last few days, please ignore this letter
.’ The words blurred before her eyes. Outside the sky was darkening. Oh Nicky, Nicky, she thought desperately, will I ever see you again? She looked at the red bracelet on her wrist, tracing the pattern of the flowers with her finger, shivering at the memory of that day on the moor.
‘Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter,’ she whispered sadly. Nicky was the black Rowntree’s fruit gum everyone wanted. How ridiculous to think that he could ever have fancied her for more than a moment.
She was so deep in thought she didn’t see a large bad-tempered woman in a trilby with a snarling boxer on a lead, until they’d come pounding through the door.
Imogen steeled herself for a fight.
‘I’m terribly sorry, you can’t bring dogs in here.’
‘Where am I supposed to leave him?’ snapped the woman.
‘There are dog hooks provided outside the door. You could tie him to one of those.’
‘He’d howl the place down and break his lead. It’s not safe in this traffic. I’ve come all the way from Skipton. I’ll only take five minutes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Imogen nervously. ‘Shall I hold him for you?’
She advanced towards the dog, which bared its teeth and growled ominously. She backed away.
‘Have your hand off,’ said its owner. ‘Now are you going to let me in, or do you want me to go over your head?’
Imogen had a lunatic vision of the woman and dog taking off and flying over her head through the room.
‘I’m sorry. Dogs simply aren’t allowed,’ she repeated.
‘I need the books for my work. I’ll complain to the council. I’ve got fines on all these books.’
Imogen looked hopelessly round for help. Miss Nugent had disappeared, Gloria was on the telephone, Miss Hockney was surreptitiously making wedding lists on the request desk.
‘If we allowed one dog in, we’d have to let the whole lot,’ she said firmly.
‘That’s what’s wrong with this country,’ snapped the woman, straightening her trilby and storming through the doors. ‘Bloody civil servant,’ she shouted back at Imogen.
‘I must not cry,’ said Imogen, gritting her teeth. ‘I must not drip like a Chinese water torture.’
‘I say,’ said Gloria, rushing up and patting her hair, ‘that Richard Strauss man in the velvet jacket’s just phoned up from a call box and asked me out. Goodness, what’s up with you?’
‘A woman with a boxer just called me a bloody civil servant.’
‘Old cow, she’s not allowed to swear in a library, it’s in the by-laws too, and anyway we’re not civil servants, we’re local government officers.’ She switched back to the Richard Strauss man. ‘He didn’t even know my name, just asked for the “glamorous one”,’ she said, squinting at her reflection in the glass door. ‘Didn’t think I was looking very good today either.’
Imogen went wearily back to her overdue postcards, laboriously filling in the computer number of each book.
‘I say,’ breathed Gloria, ‘get a load of him.’
‘Don’t bother me,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve got to finish these beastly things. Anyway I’m not interested in men any more.’
‘You’ll be interested in this,’ said Gloria faintly.
‘No I won’t ever again. My life is over,’ said Imogen. Then a familiar husky voice said very softly:
‘Have you got a book called
“Would the Assistant Like to Come out to Lunch”?
’
Imogen looked up and gave an unbelieving cry. For there, resplendent in a white suit and dark blue shirt, was Nicky. She gave a whimper and a gasp and, getting clumsily to her feet, ran round her desk and crashed into him, burying her face in his shoulder.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, her voice thick with tears.
‘Hey, hey,’ said Nicky, lifting her chin with his finger, and smiling down at her. ‘There’s no need to cry, little one. I said I’d come back, didn’t I?’
‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’
‘Didn’t you get my postcard?’
‘Yes, I did. It was lovely.’
Nicky shook his head. ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said gently and, well aware that there was now a gaping audience, including Miss Nugent, watching him, he bent his head and kissed her lingeringly.
‘But what are you doing here?’ said Imogen, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, ‘I thought you were in Edinburgh.’
‘Got a walkover. Chap I’m playing pulled a muscle. Wants to rest it for Wimbledon. I don’t have to play till tomorrow afternoon. Can I have a bed for the night, preferably yours?’
Imogen laughed joyfully, ‘Of course you can. I’ll ring Mummy. The only problem is the boys have been home for half term, so the place’ll be in a bit of a shambles.’
Nicky was stroking her face now, tenderly smoothing away a smudge of mascara with his thumb. ‘Can you get out for some lunch now?’ he said softly.
Imogen eyed a disapproving and approaching Miss Nugent.
‘Not really. I’ve already eaten and I’m on till eight. Oh, isn’t it a drag?’
‘Well, that works out quite well,’ said Nicky. ‘I’ll go and have a work-out down at the club, and then I’ve got to do a short interview for Yorkshire Television. This afternoon seemed a good opportunity. I’ll be through by eight. I’ll come and pick you up and we’ll go and have dinner somewhere.’
‘But I’m not dressed for it,’ wailed Imogen, conscious of her old grey sweater and jeans.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Nicky who only noticed how her grey eyes shone at the sight of him and how the stitches of the old sweater gaped over her bosom and how, with no make-up on, she looked about fourteen. ‘You could never look anything else.’
There was a disapproving cough behind them. Nicky turned a dazzling smile on Miss Nugent.
‘You must be Imogen’s boss,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
He was so lovely to everyone thought Imogen as she introduced him. Miss Nugent was now patting her crenellated curls, and simpering like a schoolgirl. Even Miss Hockney had put down her shopping list. Gloria was smouldering so hard she’d burst into flames any minute.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said.
Nicky shook his head. ‘I must get down to the club.’
Outside the swing doors he kissed Imogen again.
‘It’s been a very long three weeks,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re still wearing my bracelet.’
Funny, he thought, as he drove down the High Street, how pleased he was to see her. If Painter hadn’t nagged him about not winning his bet, he doubted if he’d have bothered to look her up again. But now he had he was glad. He felt all the satisfaction of a dog with a number of bones buried round the garden, who suddenly unearths one unexpectedly and discovers it’s matured much better than he had hoped.
He’d liked to have taken her straight up on to the moors and screwed her now, but he didn’t particularly want to cover his new suit with grass stains before the interview. Anyway, there’d be plenty of time tonight, and it’d be more of a turn on pulling her under the old vicar’s nose.
It was quite an achievement washing oneself from top to toe with gritty soap and a face towel in the ladies at the library but Imogen managed it. She also nipped across the road and bought a new pair of black pants which cut into her. And now she was sitting in the Dog and Duck enveloped in a cloud of Gloria’s
Babe
being eyed by Pikely locals, drinking champagne with Nicky and wondering if she’d ever been happier in her life.
‘This is the first champagne I’ve had this year,’ she said.
‘Then you must wish,’ said Nicky.
Imogen shut her eyes, and took a gulp. ‘Oh please,’ she wished silently, ‘give me Nicky.’
Nicky laughed and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ll get me if you play your cards right,’ he said.
‘How did you know what I was wishing?’
‘You’re totally transparent. That’s what I like about you.’
‘Did you think Gloria was pretty,’ said Imogen wistfully.
‘Who’s she?’
‘The sexy one in yellow shorts who offered you a cup of tea.’
‘Didn’t notice her, but then I only have eyes for you.’ He filled up her glass. As they worked their way down the bottle he told her about Rome and Paris, but she was so longing and longing to have his arms round her again, and yet panicking where it would all lead to, she could hardly concentrate.
‘And what have you been up to?’ he said, ordering another bottle.
‘Nothing really.’
She told him about Juliet having to write out the 23rd Psalm ten times for saying bugger. But she didn’t really think he’d be very interested in hearing about the second-hand book stall she had to organise for the church fête in aid of a new spire, and even spires seemed so phallic at the moment.
‘How is your dear father? Still on the one day week?’ said Nicky.
Imogen giggled and knew she shouldn’t.
‘Oh come on, darling, you know he’s a pig.’
‘Only to me,’ said Imogen.
Nicky emptied the remains of the first bottle into her glass.
‘Who’s at home this evening?’ he said carefully.
‘No one,’ said Imogen without thinking. ‘Juliet’s staying the night with a friend, and Mummy and Daddy are taking the boys back and stopping for dinner with the vicar of Long Preston.’
Nicky picked up the unopened bottle of champagne.
‘Let’s go then.’
Outside it was pouring with rain, street lamp reflections quivering in the cobbled streets. People huddled in the dorway of the fish shop. The smell of frying fat wafted towards them.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Nicky.
‘No,’ said Imogen.
The powerful headlamps of his car lit up the cow parsley flattened by the deluge. The rain rattled against the windscreen. In the light from the dashboard she could see Nicky’s profile.
‘I went for that drop shot at the right moment,’ he was saying. ‘I was beginning to get the right length, and make friends with the ball again.’
A vast pile of unopened letters and cables were scattered on the back seat. ‘Goodness, you get a lot of post,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s last week’s fan mail,’ said Nicky.
As he swung up the moorland road leading to the vicarage, he put his hand on her thigh, caressing her through the thick stiff material. She lifted her legs slightly off the seat, hoping to make them seem thinner.
The house was dark and empty except for Homer who welcomed them ecstatically, charging off upstairs and, returning with a pair of old grey pants Imogen had been wearing yesterday, deposited them at Nicky’s feet.
‘Extraordinary pants,’ said Nicky. ‘Not yours, are they?’
‘Goodness, no,’ lied Imogen. ‘They’re probably jumble.’
‘Look as though they belonged to your grandmother,’ said Nicky. ‘Go and get a couple of glasses, sweetheart.’
As Imogen threw the offending pants into the dustbin, she heard the champagne cork pop. She felt like a gas fire that had been left on unlit for too long – Nicky’s touch would be like a lit match, making her explode in a great gushing blue flame, singeing everything around including Homer’s eyebrows.
They sat drinking on the sofa. Nicky had turned off all the lights except one lamp in the corner. She was shaking with nerves again, quite unable to meet his eye.
‘It’s been awfully wet the last few weeks,’ she said.
‘It’s been awfully dry abroad,’ said Nicky, picking up the bottle.
‘No,’ squeaked Imogen putting her hand over her glass.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nicky, so the champagne trickled through her fingers, and spilled icy cold down her sleeve, meeting the rivulets of sweat that were coming the other way. Desperate for something to do, she drained her glass and felt slightly dizzy.
‘Let’s get down to business,’ said Nicky and took her in his arms. ‘You like me, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she stammered, ‘I haven’t thought about anything else for a single minute since we met.’
She was achingly aware of him, his mouth over hers, his hands in her hair.

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