sweater, turned it right-way out and pulled it over her head.
‘Keep cool,’ he murmured, kicking her bra under the sofa and tucking in his shirt.
‘We’re in here,’ he called.
‘Hullo Nicky,’ said her mother, walking into the room carrying a large marrow. ‘Hullo darling, what a beastly night. Isn’t it a shame, poor Mrs Westley’s got shingles? They tried to ring us but we’d already left. We didn’t stop to dinner, and came straight home. They gave us this.’ She waved the marrow. ‘Daddy’s putting the car away.’
‘Well, have some champagne to cheer you up,’ said Nicky.
Imogen rushed off to get more glasses, her heart hammering, feeling quite faint with horror. Just think if her father had found her and Nicky at it on the floor, in front of Homer too, she thought with an hysterical giggle. Thank God it was her mother who’d come in first.
As she went back into the drawing-room she heard her mother asking Nicky, ‘Do you think there’s any hope of Virginia Woolf winning Wimbledon?’
The rest of Nicky’s visit was disastrous. They’d all gone to bed early and Nicky had whispered to Imogen on the stairs, ‘ Courage, ma brave . As soon as all’s quiet on the West Riding Front, I’ll creep along to your room.’
But alas, the vicar, suffering from one of his periodic bouts of insomnia, had decided to sleep – or rather not sleep – in his dressing-room, which was equidistant between Imogen’s room and the spare room. There he lay with the light on and the door ajar, pretending to read Donne’s sermons, but actually brooding on former glories, a row of silver cups on the chest of drawers and framed pictures of muscular men with folded arms round the wall.
Imogen lay shivering with terror in bed. And every time Nicky tried to steal down the passage, the vicar, who had ears on elastic, called out, ‘Is that you, my dear?’ So Nicky had to bolt into the lavatory. By one o’clock, mindful that he might rot up his chances in the Scottish Open tomorrow, he gave up and fell into a dreamless sleep. Imogen, who didn’t sleep at all, could hardly bear to look at his sulky face next morning.
‘Well that was a lead balloon, wasn’t it?’ he said, getting into his car. Tears filled Imogen’s eyes. This was obviously good-bye for good. Then, noticing the violet shadows under the brimming eyes, Nicky relented. It wasn’t her fault. If the vicar hadn’t come home unexpectedly, she’d have dropped like a ripe plum into his hands. ‘You couldn’t help it. I shall be much freer once the American Open’s over. Would your parents ever let you come away for a week-end?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Have you got any holiday left?’
‘A fortnight in September.’
‘Anything planned?’
‘No – nothing really.’
How few girls would have admitted it, thought Nicky, taking her hand. She was as transparent and as wholesome as Pears Soap.
‘Well the only answer’s to go on holiday together then.’
All heaven seemed to open. ‘Oh, how lovely!’ gasped Imogen. Then it closed again. ‘But my father would never allow it.’
‘H’m . . . we’ll see about that.’
Chapter Four
A fortnight later, during Wimbledon week, Nicky had a drink with his friend Matthew O’Connor in Fleet Street. He had known O’Connor on and off for a number of years. They bumped into each other abroad – Nicky playing in tournaments, O’Connor covering stories – and they had got drunk together and been slung out of more foreign nightclubs than they cared to remember.
‘Are you going to France this year?’ said Nicky.
‘In September. Why?’
‘Any room in your car?’
The big Irishman looked at him shrewdly. ‘Depends who you want to bring.’
Nicky grinned. ‘Well, I met this bird in Yorkshire.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Got a pair of knockers you can get lost in.’
‘What else?’
‘Well she’s adorable, like a puppy. You want to pick her up and cuddle her
‘Keep cool,’ he murmured, kicking her bra under the sofa and tucking in his shirt.
‘We’re in here,’ he called.
‘Hullo Nicky,’ said her mother, walking into the room carrying a large marrow. ‘Hullo darling, what a beastly night. Isn’t it a shame, poor Mrs Westley’s got shingles? They tried to ring us but we’d already left. We didn’t stop to dinner, and came straight home. They gave us this.’ She waved the marrow. ‘Daddy’s putting the car away.’
‘Well, have some champagne to cheer you up,’ said Nicky.
Imogen rushed off to get more glasses, her heart hammering, feeling quite faint with horror. Just think if her father had found her and Nicky at it on the floor, in front of Homer too, she thought with an hysterical giggle. Thank God it was her mother who’d come in first.
As she went back into the drawing-room she heard her mother asking Nicky, ‘Do you think there’s any hope of Virginia Woolf winning Wimbledon?’
The rest of Nicky’s visit was disastrous. They’d all gone to bed early and Nicky had whispered to Imogen on the stairs, ‘ Courage, ma brave . As soon as all’s quiet on the West Riding Front, I’ll creep along to your room.’
But alas, the vicar, suffering from one of his periodic bouts of insomnia, had decided to sleep – or rather not sleep – in his dressing-room, which was equidistant between Imogen’s room and the spare room. There he lay with the light on and the door ajar, pretending to read Donne’s sermons, but actually brooding on former glories, a row of silver cups on the chest of drawers and framed pictures of muscular men with folded arms round the wall.
Imogen lay shivering with terror in bed. And every time Nicky tried to steal down the passage, the vicar, who had ears on elastic, called out, ‘Is that you, my dear?’ So Nicky had to bolt into the lavatory. By one o’clock, mindful that he might rot up his chances in the Scottish Open tomorrow, he gave up and fell into a dreamless sleep. Imogen, who didn’t sleep at all, could hardly bear to look at his sulky face next morning.
‘Well that was a lead balloon, wasn’t it?’ he said, getting into his car. Tears filled Imogen’s eyes. This was obviously good-bye for good. Then, noticing the violet shadows under the brimming eyes, Nicky relented. It wasn’t her fault. If the vicar hadn’t come home unexpectedly, she’d have dropped like a ripe plum into his hands. ‘You couldn’t help it. I shall be much freer once the American Open’s over. Would your parents ever let you come away for a week-end?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Have you got any holiday left?’
‘A fortnight in September.’
‘Anything planned?’
‘No – nothing really.’
How few girls would have admitted it, thought Nicky, taking her hand. She was as transparent and as wholesome as Pears Soap.
‘Well the only answer’s to go on holiday together then.’
All heaven seemed to open. ‘Oh, how lovely!’ gasped Imogen. Then it closed again. ‘But my father would never allow it.’
‘H’m . . . we’ll see about that.’
Chapter Four
A fortnight later, during Wimbledon week, Nicky had a drink with his friend Matthew O’Connor in Fleet Street. He had known O’Connor on and off for a number of years. They bumped into each other abroad – Nicky playing in tournaments, O’Connor covering stories – and they had got drunk together and been slung out of more foreign nightclubs than they cared to remember.
‘Are you going to France this year?’ said Nicky.
‘In September. Why?’
‘Any room in your car?’
The big Irishman looked at him shrewdly. ‘Depends who you want to bring.’
Nicky grinned. ‘Well, I met this bird in Yorkshire.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Got a pair of knockers you can get lost in.’
‘What else?’
‘Well she’s adorable, like a puppy. You want to pick her up and cuddle her
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