Imogen by Jilly Cooper Page A

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.
    ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go upstairs, much more comfortable. We’ve got hours of time. Homer will bark if anyone comes.’
    ‘Not at Daddy and Mummy, he won’t.’
    ‘They won’t even have started dinner yet.’
    Imogen gazed up at Nicky with huge troubled eyes.
    ‘It’d kill my father.’
    ‘Hooray,’ said Nicky. ‘I’ll come and sell tickets at his funeral.’
    Imogen tried and failed to look shocked. He put his hands round her waist. She came towards him, dissolving into him. He moved his hand under her sweater, and closed it over her breast.
    Imogen started to struggle.
    ‘It’d be so awful,’ she muttered, ‘if I got pregnant.’
    ‘You’re not fixed up?’ he asked sharply. ‘When are you due?’
    Imogen swallowed. She’d never discussed things like this with a man. ‘Tomorrow or the next day.’
    ‘No problem,’ said Nicky, relaxing, launching into the attack again. ‘That’s why your tits are so fantastic at the moment.’
    She was glad to be able to hide her embarrassment in his shoulder. Now she felt his hand on her back. She’d never known anyone with such warm hands. Next moment he’d slipped it under her jeans, and was stroking her bottom.
    ‘You must stop,’ gasped Imogen as he pushed her back on the sofa, and removed her sweater. ‘I’ve never done it with anybody before,’ she said, emerging from the fluff.
    ‘I’m not just anybody,’ said Nicky. ‘And you can’t stop, sweetheart, any more than I can.’ Oh, help, thought Imogen, what’s happening to me. But next minute she froze with horror as the back door opened and Homer bounded out with a crash.
    ‘Yoo hoo,’ said a voice. ‘Anyone at home?’
    ‘ Ker-ist ,’ said Nicky, then with incredible presence of mind he seized Imogen’s