When I finally get to the office, Derek is reading the Times.
“Ashford! Come in, please. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Tell me about it! I’ve been stuck in traffic for at least forty minutes. Next time, you’ll come to Denby Hall.”
“Speaking of Denby, how’s everything? Is your mother well?”
“It’s more or less the usual. My mother, she’s the same old obnoxious person.”
As Derek knows my mother, he can’t help but laugh. “Time goes by but she never changes!”
“Never,” I agree with him. “But at least she’s considering spending a couple of months in Bath, during the midseason.”
“Bath? She’s going to a spa? That’s brilliant.”
“Oh no, my mother would never attend a public spa, not even under threat. She will stay in Upper Swainswick, in a house on our Somerset estate.”
Derek looks confused. “A house in Bath?”
“Yes, Derek, it’s just three miles from the centre, Georgian building, four acre garden. Remember?”
Derek looks panic stricken and leans over his desk, completely absorbed in going through a stack of documents. “What did you say it’s called?”
“Bleech House,” I remind him. What’s wrong with him today?
“Bleech House… Bleech House…” he repeats to himself as a mantra. Then, after a few minutes, he furrows his brows while reading a document. “Bleech House in Upper Swainswick?”
“It’s what I’ve just said,” I confirm.
“Ashford, are you sure your mother specifically said she’s going to your house in Bath?”
“It couldn’t be otherwise…” I have no idea what he’s babbling about.
“I called you in to talk about your finances. When did you last meet your financial adviser? Was it long ago?”
His tone is starting to make me nervous, so my voice gets shaky when I answer. “The last time I talked to Smith? Six months ago, when my father died. I was going to arrange a meeting in a couple of months for an update.”
A worried frown crosses Derek’s face. “In a couple of months is too late. Ashford, I understand that delegating the management of your assets to Smith and me relieves you from taking care of them yourself, but I must recommend you make your periodical updates more frequent.” Derek stops for a moment and then resumes talking, and now his tone is even graver. “I’ve known Smith since we attended Oxford, and we often discuss work matters. He sent me a report to tell me that your situation is getting out of hand and he’s struggling with your accounts. You need to come to an agreement with your bank.”
“Struggling with my accounts? What are you talking about? There was no struggle whatsoever, six months ago!”
“Things have changed,” Derek looks at me with a dazed look. “How’s it possible that you never check them?”
“I am not supposed to check them! That’s what I pay Smith for! And I pay you to manage my property!” I defend myself. “Smith tells me how much I can spend and he takes care of the rest. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what the problem is?”
“Okay. When your father died, you became Duke of Burlingham, and you inherited titles, possessions, and so on. Besides, in the last few months, the stocks in which your father had invested pretty much the whole of his capital have been crashing, given that the companies that issued them are collapsing. Now, as your solicitor and in your best interest, I had to take precautionary measures, so I pledged the house in Bath to the bank to secure your overdraft repayment plan.”
“I hope this is some sort of joke,” I say, in disbelief.
“I’m afraid not, your accounts are overdrawn.”
As my astonishment grows, I look at the negative numbers. “Where the heck is the rest of the money? My father can’t have invested every penny!”
“All your assets generate expenses: taxes, maintenance, advisers, personnel, without mentioning your rather costly lifestyle… the bank let you exceed your limit, but now it’s time to repay.”
“We’re talking about three million pounds!” I complain.
“To be more precise, the overdraft amount is five hundred thousand pounds; the rest is the loss which would derive from a possible default of the investments your father made in the past. At the bank, they probably noticed the unstable situation of your investment portfolio – don’t ask me how, just bear in mind that it’s possible. For this reason, they’re asking you to repay the overdraft immediately, and threatening to revoke it and take legal action against you. The alternative is to provide them with adequate guarantees.”
“Damn it!” I utter, restraining myself from slamming my fist on the table.
“When you mentioned your mother was planning to go to Bath, I understood that you and Smith haven’t shared information properly. I believe that, among your assets, the house in Bath is the most suitable as guarantee.”
I flinch on the chair as if the backrest were burning. “It’s not possible! My mother would have a heart attack if she knew we’re broke!”
“Denby Hall, then,” he replies concisely.
Now I know that my solicitor has gone completely insane. “Denby? That’s our ancestral family home! Forget it.”
“Ashford, you need money and you need it now,” he insists. “You should consider selling some property or the bank might take legal action and even proceed to foreclosure.”
“Derek, I need time.”
“You have to go and talk to the bank manager,” he adds.
“I’ll think it over, but you must find a solution for me,” I reply, before leaving the office.
*
I wanted to go to the club, see who was around, hear some news, but I’m no longer in the mood to go.
I’m poor. The twelfth Duke of Burlingham has the wolf at the door!
How can I show my face?
If they ask me “Hello, Parker, how’s life?” I can’t reply “Awesome, I’m broke!”
Not to mention the fact that I can’t even treat my friends to a whisky. What a memorable scene, having my credit card cut in half in front of everyone. It must be a mistake, and there must be a solution.
I step on the gas more than I should, in order to leave London as soon as possible, as though my problems were enclosed by the city borders and I could leave them behind just by driving a handful of miles away.
When I get to Denby Hall, I have a hard time finding one of the servants to open the gates.
Why is this bloody house packed with people who are never there when I need them? Where does all my money go if I have to get out of the car and open the gates myself?
Silly questions. As soon as I get to the front door, I realise that my mother has summoned every single one of them, from the stable lad to the maids, including the cooks, the chauffeur and the gardener.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Welcome back home,” says Lance, the butler, who is moving what looks like the whole furniture of the east wing.
“Lance? Would you explain what is going on with the furniture?” I ask him, while the rushing servants almost overwhelm me.
“Orders from the duchess.”
“Indeed, but why?”
“She will take it to Bath,” he replies vaguely.
My ears are hit by the familiar click-clack of heels on the marble stairs of the hall. “It’s absolutely necessary to reconsider the furniture and décor arrangements. In Bath and here,” utters a despotic female voice coming just from behind me.
I turn round and see my mother standing in the front door archway, with her arms crossed and a defiant expression.
“Why would that be necessary?”
“You are the new Duke of Burlingham, I therefore ordered a complete renovation of the wallpaper and household linen with your initials added below the family crest. Obviously, the change involves the interior décor as well.”
“I’ve never asked for any of this,” I object.
“I did. I’ve already called the architect; he’ll j
oin us tomorrow and we’ll start planning the renovation of Denby Hall. Then, in two days I’ll go to Bath, and do the same in Bleech House and…”
“You can’t go to Bath!” I stop her, alarmed.
“I beg your pardon?” She looks at me as though I had spoken backwards.
“Call it off, you can’t go to Bath.”
Please God, do something! Paralyse her, strike her with a lightning bolt, but stop her from going to Bath!
She doesn’t seem to take me seriously. “I’ve never heard anything more foolish.”
What am I going to do now? “You cannot. We’re expecting guests and I need you to receive them properly!”
“You can receive them with Portia, the two of you would make an excellent impression…”
“No! They’re very important guests, I need your presence.”
“And who would they be? We haven’t received anyone in six months!” she replies, irritated.
Sore point which makes my mother’s resentment grow stronger every day: I’ve been a duke for six months, and we still haven’t received any eminent guests.
I try to buy some time: “I cannot tell you, it’s a secret.”
My mother rolls her eyes, more and more annoyed. “And may I ask when they are supposed to arrive?”
“No! It’s part of the surprise, I don’t even know myself. They could arrive anytime, that’s why I need you here.”
Then, her expression suddenly changes and her eyes are wide open as though she’d seen the Virgin Mary herself. “It’s the Queen! Her Majesty the Queen with the whole Royal Family! Now I know why you can’t tell me, it’s confidential!”
Oh my, what have I done? At this point, I can just keep on pretending. If I manage to get away with it, I’m God. “Um, yes, but please act as if you didn’t know.”
“Listen to me everyone, stop what you’re doing and put everything back in order. We have a royal visit to plan. Margaret, come with me!” She yells, while heading resolutely to her study, followed by her lady-in-waiting and her pack of overweight corgis. I hate those dogs.
Yes, my mother has a lady-in-waiting, but she prefers to call her ‘special secretary’. Actually, despite all her limits, she realises that talking of ladies-in-waiting in the twenty-first century would be rather silly.
It’s unbelievable how I can’t handle her crazy ideas without causing her to come up with something even crazier.
If nothing else, I prevented her from spending thousands of pounds.
Anyway, I have more urgent matters to deal with, right now.
*
I turn my father’s study upside down, trying desperately to reconstruct the story of my finances and figure out how this mess happened. Nothing. There’s nothing at all. All I can find is waste paper, mouldy old documents and a few receipts, but nothing useful. Then again, he always relied on Smith, our financial adviser, that’s why I won’t find anything here.
This makes me realise how wrong it was to delegate something so delicate. I thought that if my father had trusted him, then I could trust him myself. Bad idea. From now on, no more advisers: I’ll sit behind this bloody desk.
While I crawl among stacks of yellowed paper spread all over the floor, Lance suddenly turns up, startling me.
“I apologise, Your Grace. I saw the light and I thought that someone had accidentally left it on. I had no idea I’d interrupt your work. It’s past 2 a.m.”
“No worries, Lance,” I reply, letting my back collapse against the wall while I rest my elbows on my knees.
“You look tired, if I may say so.”
“I am… Lance, did my father ever tell you about his investments?”
“Your father used to confide in me, but he never talked about his financial situation. Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Can I suggest a good night’s sleep? You’ve looked stressed since you came back from London.”
I nod, then I dismiss him. I linger a while longer, wondering how my father, such a self-restrained and cautious man, could have been deceived into making a disastrous investment.
An investment which would leave me broke, and with my mother breathing down my neck. I go back to the desk and start racking my brain: I need a plan B.
I could open our gates to tourists. Yet, just thinking of this hurts my heart: one of our points of pride, ever since my family has had the Dukedom of Burlingham, is that we’ve never needed to turn our properties into tourist attractions for fatties in jelly shoes, unlike most impoverished nobles who were forced to do it in order to repair a roof or the heating system.
I evaluate this strategy, but even if it worked, it would take too long: I would have to arrange guided visits for at least six years to collect the money I owe the bank, plus the interest. Too much time, indeed.
I ball up a scribbled on sheet of paper and toss it across the room, on the other side of which it hits the carved wood boiserie.
While I walk through the gallery of portraits which leads to my room, I can feel my ancestors staring at me. Harsh and serious, they look down on me and pass judgement. I know what they think. They think that I’m unfit to be Duke of Burlingham, and that I will cause the decline of the Parker family.
Next time, I’d better walk through the armoury. It’s a longer way, but at least I would avoid the angry faces of my dear departed relatives.
And tonight, I will not sleep at all.
3
Jemma’s Version
I love giving surprises! What I like the most about couple life is celebrating special occasions and planning surprise parties. Who doesn’t, anyway?
What about presents?
And chocolates?
And roses?
I know, every day should be special when you’re in love, not only birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine’s day, but I believe in happy endings and Prince Charming, I believe in fairy tales.
And I believe that Alejandro will rip off my lace lingerie set as soon as he sees it.
I met him at a Cuban club in Camden, exactly a month ago. He asked me to dance salsa and we didn’t stop until the club closed. They kicked us out and we went to my place. Well, we knew we’d end up either at my place or his.
Alejandro is from Caracas. He’s tall, he’s got shaggy long black hair and his dark eyes are so intense that I lost myself inside them when he took me to the dance floor with him. His hands are strong and steady and when he puts them around my waist I feel I belong to him. It’s love, I’m sure. It must be if he makes me feel this way.
Today happens to be the theatre’s day off, so I decided to give Alejandro a surprise: I’m heading to his house sporting a sexy lingerie set under my coat; we’ll eat in bed, enjoying the delicacies I bought at Fortnum & Mason – even though I can’t usually afford them, I can spend some of my savings on special occasions – and then we will do something very romantic, like taking a candlelit bath together. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure he has a bath tub… no worries, though, the shower will do just fine. We’ll also play some sensual background music.
His flat is in Barnet, close to the Tube station. At least I won’t have to walk for long, which is good, because the cold air entering my coat is freezing my buttocks.
There’s a boy going out of what should be the entrance to Alejandro’s block of flats. I ask him, just to confirm it’s not the wrong one. Okay, I have to admit I’ve never been to his place, but we shared a taxi once and it stopped right here to drop him off, before taking me home.
“Excuse me, Alejandro lives here, doesn’t he? Tall, Latin American lad with a strong Hispanic accent…”
He looks at me and hesitates for a second. “I don’t know if his name is Alejandro but there’s a Latin American boy on the fourth floor.”
It’s Alejandro, I’m sure.
I climb the stairs fast, risking a fall from my high heels.
I knock on the door and undo the buttons of my coat quickly while I hear steps appr
oaching. When I see the door knob turn, I proudly show off my lingerie exclaiming: “Happy first month anniversary!”
And then, I put the coat back on, horrified. “You’re not Alejandro!”
No, he definitely isn’t. It’s a man in his sixties, looking at me in astonishment. “I may not be Alejandro, but you’re more than welcome!”
“I’m sorry, doesn’t Alejandro live here?”
The man comes out and nods towards the corridor. “The door over there, sweetheart.”
I realise that there are three more flats on the fourth floor, so I kindly thank the man.
“That’s a lucky lad,” I hear him comment while I head towards the right door.
I knock on the door, feeling pretty self-confident. I do agree, Alejandro is a lucky lad.
He opens the door in his shirtless magnificence, his body is still moist from a shower.
“Jemma?”
I take my coat off and, as it falls to the floor, I ask: “Shall we celebrate?”
He looks at me, doubtful. “I’m sorry?”
Why doesn’t he look happy?
“It’s our first month anniversary! We met a month ago,” I say, trying to make him feel my own enthusiasm while I walk past him into the flat.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Well, of course you weren’t, if you were it wouldn’t have been a surprise…” I reply.
Alejandro doesn’t seem to get the point of my visit. “I’ve never told you I live here.”
“I have my resources. Why don’t we relax a bit, now? I’ll help you dry yourself…”
I reach out to close the door behind me, but what I touch isn’t wood: it’s something warm and soft.
“Help dry who?” The warm thing has got a female voice.
I turn round and I see a girl, also Latin American. She’s naked, and I notice that my hand is on one of her breasts. I pull it back sharply, shocked.
“Alejandro! Who… who is she?” I ask, horrified.
“I am Shoanah.”
“It’s Shoanah,” he echoes.
“Okay, it’s Shoanah, but what is she doing here naked?”
“She’s my wife,” he replies, most naturally.
I would like to disappear at once. I’m standing here in a thong and stockings in front of who I thought was my boyfriend and his naked wife.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 2