amner
4th Aug 2005, 12:47
Spitting Imogen
Imogen Law lived her life looking through scarlet glasses. Only in the spectrum was it a stone's throw from rose; but then throwing stones was her forté and seeing red was her medium. Imogen Law was angry and she had been angry for as long as she cared to remember.
And as long as anyone else cared to remember.
She sat in Covent Garden now, seething silently as the Saturday lunch time crowds—loaded with glossy plastic bags, engaged by buskers, eating on the move—milled around her. The spacious canopy, shops and cobbled courtyard hummed with the continuous babble of those passing through. Sunlight splashed across the garish colours and everybody busied along in seemingly good mood. Imogen viewed it all with her well-practised, jaundiced eye. Cynicism had developed in her into an art form certainly sleek enough to compete with the jugglers, fire-eaters and limbo dancers nearby.
Anyone passing by would have arrived steadily at the simple, but shallow conclusion that the young girl sitting on the Café chair, a drained cup of coffee in front of her, was passably content with her lot. Perhaps more than that, even. Imogen presented herself as a little over-dressed at this time. Going on somewhere, set for an event, an occasion, a dinner party perhaps. Something nice, something to look forward to, an event. She wore an electric blue dress (mid-calf length), high heels (high, that is, for her) and had quite clearly had her hair done. Very presentable indeed, in fact. Yet possibly her face was too pinched to be anything other than a-little-less-than-beautiful. Her eyes were set a shade blacker than most but, in fact, it was a rare moment when a cloud was to be seen to pass across her face (Imogen's most notorious explosions of rage were very infrequently telegraphed). Reservations then, but yes, attractive. Certainly, the Victorian criminologist would not have deduced from such physiognomy that Imogen Law's face belied at best a foul temper and at worst a boiling, inconsolable hatred for all and sundry.
One by one different people passed under her critical scrutiny: Foreign tourists, shoppers, entertainers, market traders. She glanced at each in turn. Finally, she scowled and slowly shook her head in distressed disbelief at it all. In the past each and every acquaintance had wondered what, if anything, would pass (or even achieve) muster for this girl. What could escape from her unpleased eye and into her acceptance, even respect? God forbid! Had she ever looked up to something and considered it worthy of her appreciation? The abiding and deafening answer had always been no. ('It wouldn't be so bad if it was all just a disregard for authority', said one, 'that would be healthy, I guess. But it isn't. Everyone comes in for it. No-one commands any praise.'
—patronising bitch what bloody business was it of hers anyway)
Indeed.
Some of the many pigeons circled around and landed just feet from her. She glared at them, as if they had dared to ask for crumbs. An elderly lady wandered through them, scattering the birds in all directions. She was looking aimlessly about, above head height, clearly searching for some sign of her current location.
—it was hateful wasn't it yes hateful
—I mean look at that stupid woman she's obviously got no idea where she is or where she's going try a bloody map you silly cow jesus some people can't even find their way around london most of them and you you're no better if you think you're getting some money out of me for spinning around on your head you've got another think coming and do your bloody trainer laces up you lazy oik so that passes for dancing these days does it and jacket potatoes in this weather are you mad you pleb o god o god don't you dare come near me you scruffy bastard I bet you stink to high heaven too try having a wash once in a while bars of soap don't cost too much you know disgusting really really disgusting and there's no need for it whatsoever drinks I'll wager like a fish certainly gets the money for that no self respect some people just bone idle
Matt was panicking. If he was there now he'd be exactly on time and, if not exactly in her good books, at least not reviled for being every worst element of mankind (or something. Whatever). Today, more than any other day, he needed to get off to a good start.
—O, shit! Get out of the bloody way!
He bounded up the Holborn station escalators in a mad hurry. People never seemed to follow that rule of standing on the right when you were in a rush. Or was it the left? The sickly warm air snagged at his hair and jacket. He darted, jigged and sidestepped his way through the ticket counters and out onto the street. Now then, down Kingsway, that's it, past the sarnie shop...
Matt had managed to convince himself he knew this part of London well. Conviction was half the game won. Accept something unquestioningly, unconditionally, and you were just about there.
The sun and the unusual exertion made his shirt stick to his back. He felt a little sick and he needed a piss. He wasn't as fit as he could be. As he sped through left and right turns, past hidden shops and poorly known pubs, on the non-touristy route to Covent Garden, he tried not to think on the day ahead.
—OK, then, dash across Drury Lane (Hell's teeth! Was that still on?), down this alley. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the bright blue and yellow hoarding above an Oxfam shop. And instantly he was back in the common room at college, fumbling desperately in his pocket for some coppers or maybe, just maybe, a five pence to catch the sun, to…you know. Across the room a pleasant looking soul in her mid-forties was weaving this way and that, rattling a plastic collection box under each and every person's nose. Why was it people could smile like that, even when the so-called civilised ranks of the top percentile managed (if they managed nothing else) to sneer and gripe? Imogen sat next to him and steadily bent his ear about the inadequacies of her course, the lack of neat books in the library, the expense of books in the bookshop, the hopeless facilities in the place generally, this, that, the other, so on, so forth. He'd met Imogen on the first day of the third term. He'd heard of her, of course. Couldn't have helped it, really. And what's more, what's more, it was all true! Christ, what a girl! No wonder people kept clear of her. And he'd never had any peace since meeting her. Steadily the charity woman moved toward them. Even now, years later and in his mad rush, he winced at it:
—famine was nature's way of keeping down the numbers shall i stick a stamp on a carrot and send it to africa it's a long way away anyhow isn't it and most of all who bloody cares if it was up to me ...
But she had - well, what did she really have? Aah, something he and his friends would - there she was, there she was.
—Two, maybe three, minutes late. Could be worse (well, no, it couldn't really). O well, here goes.
'And about time, too!'
—Not very original
'Where the bloody hell do you think you've been? I've been sat here bloody ages. Ages. All these people getting at me. Dressed up like this. Christ, Matt, what did you think you were playing at?'
'It's only been a couple of minutes, Im. Not too bad really.'
'Not to you, maybe. But if these friends of yours are as poncey as you say, then lateness won't be tremendously impressive, will it? Well, will it? And don't call me Im.'
—Poncey. That was a good one.
Matt's friends would laugh long and hard if they could hear that. And they would get to. Matt knew some strange people; he'd realised that a good while back. Far stranger than some people would care to know (than most would, really).
—O Lord, this was going to be weird. No doubt about that.
They couldn't get a seat on the tube to Hammersmith: as it jolted them backwards and forwards, side to side, Matt cringed at the inevitability of further recriminations from his companion. But she was strangely quiet and did not seem disposed to speak, bitterly or otherwise, on the ceaseless jars and bumps of their journey. Matt was grateful enough to thank his lucky stars for such relief. Stations came and went and as they passed into the open and through Barons Court he prepared to leave, moving towards the doors.
Matt had chosen the wrong side for the platform and as the train came to its customary jerky halt, they found themselves trapped behind a mass of people crowding desperately to get off. Imogen looked at Matt. She mouthed the word 'idiot' and frowned at this inelegant faux pas on Metropolitan Transport etiquette.
—how stupid would this boy get before the day was out?
She breathed heavily and ostentatiously and looked down at her shoes, shaking her head in disgust. But quickly, the crush of bodies subsided and they moved, thankfully, on to the platform and out to the barriers.
They took the subway to the corner opposite the Palais. Matt bit his lip and counted to ten. He could almost feel Imogen tense up as they made the brief walk past the wrecked and wretched unfortunates who rested against the walls. He too felt uneasy, but consoled himself that after today he wouldn't have to come down here again for a while. The breeze nearly knocked him over as they emerged into the sunlight.
—It's the longest day today
'For God's sake, Matt, say something. You're in a world of your own, you really are.'
—Say something, say what?
He was scared of opening his mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing, or giving himself away.
—Especially just now. Anyway, at least something was going to be done about that.
Fletcher Thornton lived off Shepherds Bush in a part of town he liked to call Barton Green (as opposed to Hammersmith, which it was) in a large three-storey terraced house complete with basement and a double garage exit to a mews at the rear. Hythe Road was one of those residential streets that had suddenly become aware that London's requirements for it had changed and that it's new (and they were all new) inhabitants should tell the passing world they had arrived (figuratively as well as physically). Littered along its course was débris and, everywhere, machinery, huge signs advertising fashionable West Kensington and Chelsea property developers, new cars and excited prospective buyers. Matt and Imogen picked their way along the cluttered pavements toward Number 143. It was an imposing place, great bow windows staring down the very similar Warwick Road, opposite. They stopped outside the gate and as she looked up Imogen fancied she could see a movement through a top-floor window.
—o god
They were almost five minutes late. Imogen detested lack of punctuality in others, and now Matt had made them late with his hopeless meanderings.
—it's going to be all downhill from here on in
Matt opened the gate and they walked up the steps and pressed the doorbell.
Fletcher opened the door.
Imogen looked him up and down and quickly decided she had seen his sort before. He was one of those well-to-do well-off socialites who occasionally flitted around the fringes of her 'normal' type of group, desperately attempting to not appear unusual and being just that.
—o absolutely
She knew alright. She looked at him disdainfully and with a feeling of some superiority, but she was wrong. Fletcher had never entered her type of orbit at all: he would have never even considered it.
He was tall and tanned and very well groomed. Expensive shirt seemed to evolve effortlessly from expensive chinos and expensive handmade shoes. Fletcher's face was unhurried and unworried, classically handsome in the way that someone protected from all the minor inconveniences of life can afford to be. Fletcher had never had a problem in his life and it showed.
'Good afternoon, Imogen,'
—manners faultlessly in place there guests first friends second
'It's wonderful to meet you at last.' Imogen truly doubted that it was but could not help being impressed.
'Matt, hello.'
'Hi, Fletcher,' Imogen winced at the laziness of the greeting. How dour he seemed already beside Fletcher, 'not too late I hope?'
'Goodness me! Not at all, not at all,' the gift of forgiveness, no less, a real talent, 'come in, do.'
Fletcher held the door open and the couple stepped into the hallway. Behind her Matt and friend exchanged easy pleasantries. But something had happened to Imogen. Fletcher took over and began to describe the house. Imogen wasn't listening, didn't need to listen, couldn't. This place was fantastic. Every conceivable element of decor corresponded and complemented its neighbour. Plain white walls sported miniature Victorian portraits and rows of splendidly ornate mirrors gave the corridor a startling light-filled effect. The carpet was thick champagne and Imogen would have sworn she was floating in it.
Perhaps she was.
—god this was really something
'Imogen? Hello?'
'What? O, sorry, miles away. Please do forgive me.'
—please do forgive me
What did she think she was talking like?
'If you and Matt would care to follow, I'll introduce you to the others ... and then ... perhaps, you'd like to have a tour of the house? Imogen?'
'That would be, tremendous, er—'
'Fletcher.'
'Fletcher.' She smiled at him. She could tell he was going to make sure she didn't feel out of place. She wouldn't.
—no way this was more like it
This was a scene she could handle as if born to, she told herself.
'This way, please.'
They moved toward a staircase (banistered, beautiful), snugly fitted along one side of the hallway-cum-corridor. Up a dozen or so steps, turning back on themselves and then up another three. They turned back on themselves again and again.
—these three closed doors must be must be what the bedrooms no idea but yes that's it surely I mean how many rooms do you need
Back on themselves again, up more stairs, then again. Imogen suddenly felt light headed. She put it down (no effort on her behalf here) to the wondrous revelation now in front of her.
This last flight of stairs ran out eventually and they entered an enormous room which was almost, no, which was, one entire cross-section of the house, for there were windows front and back. The effect of gradually coming upon it was, to her, now, breathtaking. The sun blinded her temporarily (was it really the sun?) as it glittered around the total whiteness of the decor. Huge windows and a skylight, glass tables, white lamps. On a perfect white sofa, beneath what Imogen could only believe by now to be original and exceedingly expensive watercolours sat two people, a man and a woman. Both were beautiful, not just attractive, but beautiful.
—stunning
They were as well turned out as Fletcher, and Imogen had no doubt that they would handle themselves in the same flawless fashion.
Head spinning now.
—what was for dinner
Fletcher spoke, but his voice was an underwater burble
—manna?
'Imogen, these are two friends of mine,' her host spoke, looking directly into her eyes as he did so, 'Felicity, Flick, sorry, and Charles. They're Right Hons., but don't let it worry you. All that palaver. Normal coves at heart!' He laughed. Everyone did. Imogen found herself in veritable stitches.
She sat down in a daze and looked around her in wonder. People spoke and Imogen desperately tried to keep up, nodding in the right places, she hoped. Sunlight bounced off every polished surface and lit her thoughts of ladder climbing.
—matt had his uses after all
Not really his style, all this, but perhaps still waters ran deeper than she could imagine. She couldn't think what it was he might possibly have in common with these people. She sank into the cushioned opulence of it all and let her mind run riot over a million possibilities.
'Matt tells us you're studying Eng Lit at Uni. Do you enjoy that? How does the vocational horizon pan out from now on?' This unnecessary mixture of fashionable brevity and inbred formality struck not a single discordant note with Imogen. The heavily quilted blanket of pretension laying around and on top of the group went unnoticed: Imogen's cringe glands had been removed since she walked through the door. Her peculiar level of quiet shocked her most of all, because Imogen was busily involved in finding a good word for everything she saw, felt, experienced.
—virgin territory
Matt and Fletcher disengaged themselves and moved across the room towards what looked like a kitchen area. They were deep in conversation. Serious, smiling, good-humoured, all at once. But, really, Imogen hardly noticed. She closed her eyes (for as long as she imagined was polite) and tried to get a grip on herself.
* * *
In the shining moisture of Felicity Massingberd's eyes the turn of events was minutely reflected, interrupted by excited blinking and her shuddering exhilaration.
'Yes! Yes! Do it! DO IT! DO IT!'
* * *
The afternoon flew.
As did passengers one, two miles up, visible from the front and back windows, vapour trails scratched across the turquoise, pointing south-west to Heathrow. The traffic was just a faint rumble in the distance. Even birds could be heard above it. Less than a quarter of a mile away, squeals and shouts from a playground carried easily on the still air. But oblivious to all this the early evening dinner party continued, its numbers recently reduced.
'Well, not so tender then!'
Nervous laughter all around the table.
'After all that. Seems a waste, really.'
'You'd have thought twenty years traipsing about in the real,' here two fingers jabbed the air about a foot apart, 'world would've softened her up a bit.'
'Yeah, tough old bird.'
They were all smiling politely, but each knew things had not turned out as they would have liked. The afternoon and evening encounter had left a bad taste in the mouth. Matt looked at his plate once again.
—Why do I like my meat rare?
His stomach rolled, his mouth filled with bile.
Imogen Law lived her life looking through scarlet glasses. Only in the spectrum was it a stone's throw from rose; but then throwing stones was her forté and seeing red was her medium. Imogen Law was angry and she had been angry for as long as she cared to remember.
And as long as anyone else cared to remember.
She sat in Covent Garden now, seething silently as the Saturday lunch time crowds—loaded with glossy plastic bags, engaged by buskers, eating on the move—milled around her. The spacious canopy, shops and cobbled courtyard hummed with the continuous babble of those passing through. Sunlight splashed across the garish colours and everybody busied along in seemingly good mood. Imogen viewed it all with her well-practised, jaundiced eye. Cynicism had developed in her into an art form certainly sleek enough to compete with the jugglers, fire-eaters and limbo dancers nearby.
Anyone passing by would have arrived steadily at the simple, but shallow conclusion that the young girl sitting on the Café chair, a drained cup of coffee in front of her, was passably content with her lot. Perhaps more than that, even. Imogen presented herself as a little over-dressed at this time. Going on somewhere, set for an event, an occasion, a dinner party perhaps. Something nice, something to look forward to, an event. She wore an electric blue dress (mid-calf length), high heels (high, that is, for her) and had quite clearly had her hair done. Very presentable indeed, in fact. Yet possibly her face was too pinched to be anything other than a-little-less-than-beautiful. Her eyes were set a shade blacker than most but, in fact, it was a rare moment when a cloud was to be seen to pass across her face (Imogen's most notorious explosions of rage were very infrequently telegraphed). Reservations then, but yes, attractive. Certainly, the Victorian criminologist would not have deduced from such physiognomy that Imogen Law's face belied at best a foul temper and at worst a boiling, inconsolable hatred for all and sundry.
One by one different people passed under her critical scrutiny: Foreign tourists, shoppers, entertainers, market traders. She glanced at each in turn. Finally, she scowled and slowly shook her head in distressed disbelief at it all. In the past each and every acquaintance had wondered what, if anything, would pass (or even achieve) muster for this girl. What could escape from her unpleased eye and into her acceptance, even respect? God forbid! Had she ever looked up to something and considered it worthy of her appreciation? The abiding and deafening answer had always been no. ('It wouldn't be so bad if it was all just a disregard for authority', said one, 'that would be healthy, I guess. But it isn't. Everyone comes in for it. No-one commands any praise.'
—patronising bitch what bloody business was it of hers anyway)
Indeed.
Some of the many pigeons circled around and landed just feet from her. She glared at them, as if they had dared to ask for crumbs. An elderly lady wandered through them, scattering the birds in all directions. She was looking aimlessly about, above head height, clearly searching for some sign of her current location.
—it was hateful wasn't it yes hateful
—I mean look at that stupid woman she's obviously got no idea where she is or where she's going try a bloody map you silly cow jesus some people can't even find their way around london most of them and you you're no better if you think you're getting some money out of me for spinning around on your head you've got another think coming and do your bloody trainer laces up you lazy oik so that passes for dancing these days does it and jacket potatoes in this weather are you mad you pleb o god o god don't you dare come near me you scruffy bastard I bet you stink to high heaven too try having a wash once in a while bars of soap don't cost too much you know disgusting really really disgusting and there's no need for it whatsoever drinks I'll wager like a fish certainly gets the money for that no self respect some people just bone idle
Matt was panicking. If he was there now he'd be exactly on time and, if not exactly in her good books, at least not reviled for being every worst element of mankind (or something. Whatever). Today, more than any other day, he needed to get off to a good start.
—O, shit! Get out of the bloody way!
He bounded up the Holborn station escalators in a mad hurry. People never seemed to follow that rule of standing on the right when you were in a rush. Or was it the left? The sickly warm air snagged at his hair and jacket. He darted, jigged and sidestepped his way through the ticket counters and out onto the street. Now then, down Kingsway, that's it, past the sarnie shop...
Matt had managed to convince himself he knew this part of London well. Conviction was half the game won. Accept something unquestioningly, unconditionally, and you were just about there.
The sun and the unusual exertion made his shirt stick to his back. He felt a little sick and he needed a piss. He wasn't as fit as he could be. As he sped through left and right turns, past hidden shops and poorly known pubs, on the non-touristy route to Covent Garden, he tried not to think on the day ahead.
—OK, then, dash across Drury Lane (Hell's teeth! Was that still on?), down this alley. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the bright blue and yellow hoarding above an Oxfam shop. And instantly he was back in the common room at college, fumbling desperately in his pocket for some coppers or maybe, just maybe, a five pence to catch the sun, to…you know. Across the room a pleasant looking soul in her mid-forties was weaving this way and that, rattling a plastic collection box under each and every person's nose. Why was it people could smile like that, even when the so-called civilised ranks of the top percentile managed (if they managed nothing else) to sneer and gripe? Imogen sat next to him and steadily bent his ear about the inadequacies of her course, the lack of neat books in the library, the expense of books in the bookshop, the hopeless facilities in the place generally, this, that, the other, so on, so forth. He'd met Imogen on the first day of the third term. He'd heard of her, of course. Couldn't have helped it, really. And what's more, what's more, it was all true! Christ, what a girl! No wonder people kept clear of her. And he'd never had any peace since meeting her. Steadily the charity woman moved toward them. Even now, years later and in his mad rush, he winced at it:
—famine was nature's way of keeping down the numbers shall i stick a stamp on a carrot and send it to africa it's a long way away anyhow isn't it and most of all who bloody cares if it was up to me ...
But she had - well, what did she really have? Aah, something he and his friends would - there she was, there she was.
—Two, maybe three, minutes late. Could be worse (well, no, it couldn't really). O well, here goes.
'And about time, too!'
—Not very original
'Where the bloody hell do you think you've been? I've been sat here bloody ages. Ages. All these people getting at me. Dressed up like this. Christ, Matt, what did you think you were playing at?'
'It's only been a couple of minutes, Im. Not too bad really.'
'Not to you, maybe. But if these friends of yours are as poncey as you say, then lateness won't be tremendously impressive, will it? Well, will it? And don't call me Im.'
—Poncey. That was a good one.
Matt's friends would laugh long and hard if they could hear that. And they would get to. Matt knew some strange people; he'd realised that a good while back. Far stranger than some people would care to know (than most would, really).
—O Lord, this was going to be weird. No doubt about that.
They couldn't get a seat on the tube to Hammersmith: as it jolted them backwards and forwards, side to side, Matt cringed at the inevitability of further recriminations from his companion. But she was strangely quiet and did not seem disposed to speak, bitterly or otherwise, on the ceaseless jars and bumps of their journey. Matt was grateful enough to thank his lucky stars for such relief. Stations came and went and as they passed into the open and through Barons Court he prepared to leave, moving towards the doors.
Matt had chosen the wrong side for the platform and as the train came to its customary jerky halt, they found themselves trapped behind a mass of people crowding desperately to get off. Imogen looked at Matt. She mouthed the word 'idiot' and frowned at this inelegant faux pas on Metropolitan Transport etiquette.
—how stupid would this boy get before the day was out?
She breathed heavily and ostentatiously and looked down at her shoes, shaking her head in disgust. But quickly, the crush of bodies subsided and they moved, thankfully, on to the platform and out to the barriers.
They took the subway to the corner opposite the Palais. Matt bit his lip and counted to ten. He could almost feel Imogen tense up as they made the brief walk past the wrecked and wretched unfortunates who rested against the walls. He too felt uneasy, but consoled himself that after today he wouldn't have to come down here again for a while. The breeze nearly knocked him over as they emerged into the sunlight.
—It's the longest day today
'For God's sake, Matt, say something. You're in a world of your own, you really are.'
—Say something, say what?
He was scared of opening his mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing, or giving himself away.
—Especially just now. Anyway, at least something was going to be done about that.
Fletcher Thornton lived off Shepherds Bush in a part of town he liked to call Barton Green (as opposed to Hammersmith, which it was) in a large three-storey terraced house complete with basement and a double garage exit to a mews at the rear. Hythe Road was one of those residential streets that had suddenly become aware that London's requirements for it had changed and that it's new (and they were all new) inhabitants should tell the passing world they had arrived (figuratively as well as physically). Littered along its course was débris and, everywhere, machinery, huge signs advertising fashionable West Kensington and Chelsea property developers, new cars and excited prospective buyers. Matt and Imogen picked their way along the cluttered pavements toward Number 143. It was an imposing place, great bow windows staring down the very similar Warwick Road, opposite. They stopped outside the gate and as she looked up Imogen fancied she could see a movement through a top-floor window.
—o god
They were almost five minutes late. Imogen detested lack of punctuality in others, and now Matt had made them late with his hopeless meanderings.
—it's going to be all downhill from here on in
Matt opened the gate and they walked up the steps and pressed the doorbell.
Fletcher opened the door.
Imogen looked him up and down and quickly decided she had seen his sort before. He was one of those well-to-do well-off socialites who occasionally flitted around the fringes of her 'normal' type of group, desperately attempting to not appear unusual and being just that.
—o absolutely
She knew alright. She looked at him disdainfully and with a feeling of some superiority, but she was wrong. Fletcher had never entered her type of orbit at all: he would have never even considered it.
He was tall and tanned and very well groomed. Expensive shirt seemed to evolve effortlessly from expensive chinos and expensive handmade shoes. Fletcher's face was unhurried and unworried, classically handsome in the way that someone protected from all the minor inconveniences of life can afford to be. Fletcher had never had a problem in his life and it showed.
'Good afternoon, Imogen,'
—manners faultlessly in place there guests first friends second
'It's wonderful to meet you at last.' Imogen truly doubted that it was but could not help being impressed.
'Matt, hello.'
'Hi, Fletcher,' Imogen winced at the laziness of the greeting. How dour he seemed already beside Fletcher, 'not too late I hope?'
'Goodness me! Not at all, not at all,' the gift of forgiveness, no less, a real talent, 'come in, do.'
Fletcher held the door open and the couple stepped into the hallway. Behind her Matt and friend exchanged easy pleasantries. But something had happened to Imogen. Fletcher took over and began to describe the house. Imogen wasn't listening, didn't need to listen, couldn't. This place was fantastic. Every conceivable element of decor corresponded and complemented its neighbour. Plain white walls sported miniature Victorian portraits and rows of splendidly ornate mirrors gave the corridor a startling light-filled effect. The carpet was thick champagne and Imogen would have sworn she was floating in it.
Perhaps she was.
—god this was really something
'Imogen? Hello?'
'What? O, sorry, miles away. Please do forgive me.'
—please do forgive me
What did she think she was talking like?
'If you and Matt would care to follow, I'll introduce you to the others ... and then ... perhaps, you'd like to have a tour of the house? Imogen?'
'That would be, tremendous, er—'
'Fletcher.'
'Fletcher.' She smiled at him. She could tell he was going to make sure she didn't feel out of place. She wouldn't.
—no way this was more like it
This was a scene she could handle as if born to, she told herself.
'This way, please.'
They moved toward a staircase (banistered, beautiful), snugly fitted along one side of the hallway-cum-corridor. Up a dozen or so steps, turning back on themselves and then up another three. They turned back on themselves again and again.
—these three closed doors must be must be what the bedrooms no idea but yes that's it surely I mean how many rooms do you need
Back on themselves again, up more stairs, then again. Imogen suddenly felt light headed. She put it down (no effort on her behalf here) to the wondrous revelation now in front of her.
This last flight of stairs ran out eventually and they entered an enormous room which was almost, no, which was, one entire cross-section of the house, for there were windows front and back. The effect of gradually coming upon it was, to her, now, breathtaking. The sun blinded her temporarily (was it really the sun?) as it glittered around the total whiteness of the decor. Huge windows and a skylight, glass tables, white lamps. On a perfect white sofa, beneath what Imogen could only believe by now to be original and exceedingly expensive watercolours sat two people, a man and a woman. Both were beautiful, not just attractive, but beautiful.
—stunning
They were as well turned out as Fletcher, and Imogen had no doubt that they would handle themselves in the same flawless fashion.
Head spinning now.
—what was for dinner
Fletcher spoke, but his voice was an underwater burble
—manna?
'Imogen, these are two friends of mine,' her host spoke, looking directly into her eyes as he did so, 'Felicity, Flick, sorry, and Charles. They're Right Hons., but don't let it worry you. All that palaver. Normal coves at heart!' He laughed. Everyone did. Imogen found herself in veritable stitches.
She sat down in a daze and looked around her in wonder. People spoke and Imogen desperately tried to keep up, nodding in the right places, she hoped. Sunlight bounced off every polished surface and lit her thoughts of ladder climbing.
—matt had his uses after all
Not really his style, all this, but perhaps still waters ran deeper than she could imagine. She couldn't think what it was he might possibly have in common with these people. She sank into the cushioned opulence of it all and let her mind run riot over a million possibilities.
'Matt tells us you're studying Eng Lit at Uni. Do you enjoy that? How does the vocational horizon pan out from now on?' This unnecessary mixture of fashionable brevity and inbred formality struck not a single discordant note with Imogen. The heavily quilted blanket of pretension laying around and on top of the group went unnoticed: Imogen's cringe glands had been removed since she walked through the door. Her peculiar level of quiet shocked her most of all, because Imogen was busily involved in finding a good word for everything she saw, felt, experienced.
—virgin territory
Matt and Fletcher disengaged themselves and moved across the room towards what looked like a kitchen area. They were deep in conversation. Serious, smiling, good-humoured, all at once. But, really, Imogen hardly noticed. She closed her eyes (for as long as she imagined was polite) and tried to get a grip on herself.
* * *
In the shining moisture of Felicity Massingberd's eyes the turn of events was minutely reflected, interrupted by excited blinking and her shuddering exhilaration.
'Yes! Yes! Do it! DO IT! DO IT!'
* * *
The afternoon flew.
As did passengers one, two miles up, visible from the front and back windows, vapour trails scratched across the turquoise, pointing south-west to Heathrow. The traffic was just a faint rumble in the distance. Even birds could be heard above it. Less than a quarter of a mile away, squeals and shouts from a playground carried easily on the still air. But oblivious to all this the early evening dinner party continued, its numbers recently reduced.
'Well, not so tender then!'
Nervous laughter all around the table.
'After all that. Seems a waste, really.'
'You'd have thought twenty years traipsing about in the real,' here two fingers jabbed the air about a foot apart, 'world would've softened her up a bit.'
'Yeah, tough old bird.'
They were all smiling politely, but each knew things had not turned out as they would have liked. The afternoon and evening encounter had left a bad taste in the mouth. Matt looked at his plate once again.
—Why do I like my meat rare?
His stomach rolled, his mouth filled with bile.