Well, this is my house, and that’s my wife’s room, aren’t they? Then I have the right to go in there, if I want to – I know, I should say whenever I want to, but the truth is I never do!
I open the door and there’s nobody inside the room, just the tv tuned on mtv and Nicki Minaj shaking her derrière with the utmost elegance.
“Jemma?” I call.
“In here!”
Damn! The wardrobe is talking to me.
For a second, I fantasised that the floor had swallowed her up.
“Are you coming out or what? We’re so late that we could as well get ready for next year’s reception!” I say, knocking insistently.
“I’m not ready yet. Give me ten minutes!” Jemma says, with her usual irritating voice.
“There’s no need to put ten layers of make-up on your face. I didn’t marry you for your beauty.”
“I know. You married me for my money.”
“Yes, Jemma. So did you.”
‘You married me for money’ has become our daily mantra. We include it in our conversations as nonchalantly as we use punctuation. I have no idea how this started, but it’s a regular thing now. Perhaps, that’s the reality check we need to keep each other at a distance after the my darling and my love we’re forced to say to each other for stage purposes.
I could do without it, but she’s so exasperating that she brings out the worst in me and my bile levels increase day by day.
While I’m waiting for her, I look at her room: it’s in total disarray. The apotheosis of chaos. No wonder she always looks like… like… a Picasso painting! That’s it, when I see her, I immediately think of a Picasso painting: everything is dismantled, sharp cornered, warped. Picasso made art, but in Jemma’s case, I’m sure the outcome is merely accidental: unmatched clothes which are way too provocative, or unsuitable for certain occasions, extravagant hair colour and exaggerated make-up. I really don’t see why she spends hours worsening her appearance.
“Jemma, I’m getting old waiting for you!”
“That’s impossible,” her voice replies sarcastically. “How could you get any older than that.”
Ashford, take it easy. I have to take it easy. Wait, do I? “You know what? I’m going on my own!” And I head towards the door to leave the room.
“All right, I’m ready!” She says, coming out of the wardrobe. “Let’s go.”
I stop and look at her, bewildered. “Are you coming like that?”
She’s got a very high ponytail, which makes her dyed blonde hair with the fuchsia strands look even flashier than usual. A damn neon lamp. As for the rest, the atelier dress I ordered for her remains in its box, ignored, and she’s wearing a low-cut purple dress which is so short that her legs are almost totally in plain view. Not to mention the bad taste trinketry she must have found in the worst London flea markets.
“Got a problem?” She answers defiantly, shaking her head so that her ponytail and her big circle earrings swing. That’s so irritating.
I raise my eyebrow almost automatically. “What do you think?”
“I’m most definitely coming like this, yes.”
“But you had the perfect dress sent right to your door!” I exclaim, and I’ve almost reached the limit of human endurance.
“I saw it, but I prefer this one. Don’t worry, I’ll sure have other occasions to wear it!”
“Such as?”
“A funeral!” Jemma naturally replies.
I not so politely grasp her by a wrist, arrange a silk scarf the best I can to conceal her neckline, and drag her to the hallway. “Let’s go. I know we could keep on arguing all night, but let’s just end it now!”
She doesn’t reply, and descends the staircase visibly irritated.
As the guests gather outside the parlour, we hear my mother announce: “Well, after such a long wait, here comes my son Ashford, the Duke of Burlingham.”
Lance, behind her, coughs quite obviously.
“And his wife, the adorable Jemma,” she adds, coldly. This time, her tone is rather subdued and resentful.
The entrance is immersed in complete silence, but I don’t think it’s out of admiration; they’re probably just in shock.
I know what everyone thinks: this event wasn’t supposed to take place after our marriage, but prior to it, for the engagement announcement. The future duchess should have been introduced well in advance, and she should have worn an elegant tailor made dress. Everyone expected to see another kind of woman by my side, yet now, there’s Jemma, whether they like it or not.
She’s here and they owe her the utmost respect, because to slight her affects me too.
I look at her from the corner of my eye, and I notice that her attitude has changed. She no longer looks apathetic and lazy as she did a while ago in the hallway. She’s stiff, her eyes are wide open and she’s holding my arm with all her strength.
The entrance is crowded and all eyes are on her.
“You’ll break my arm,” I hiss.
“Who the hell are all these people? Is it a damn parade?” Jemma mumbles.
“Don’t be silly, my mother has just invited a few close friends round for an informal soirée.”
Yes, I guess there are about forty people, but there can be up to a hundred, even a hundred and fifty, at formal receptions. Not that I like them, anyway. My mother has gathered all her fossil friends together, the youngest of whom is Celia Fansworth, Lord Fansworth’s wife. However, judging by the frenzy with which she’s waving the invitation to fan herself and by the redness on her cheeks, I would say she’s successfully reached menopause.
Then there are the Davenports, the Porters – Antonia is the queen of gossip and I can’t see why my mother has invited her, if not for self-harm or sheer masochism – the Norfolks, Lord Balfourt with his third wife and none other than the Duke of Mouthmour and Whilmshire, ‘His Royal Highness’ Cedric Neville.
My mother has been trying to impress Lord Neville for ages. He’s remotely related to the Royal Family and, in my mother’s head, this connection is enough to get to the Queen. Thus, she invites poor Neville to every possible event, which he almost invariably declines. That’s why seeing him tonight surprises me, but then I notice his wife, Lady Laetitia – who’s possibly even more of a gossip than Lady Antonia – and she looks rather impatient. Now I see why he’s here, but his expression tells me he isn’t that happy, either: my marriage is the scandal of the moment, and everyone wants a piece of this story as a souvenir, like tourists do with the fragments of the Berlin Wall. I know that, most likely, these names don’t ring a bell for you. However, since the day I was born, they’ve always been part of my life, whether I liked it or not, and this sort of event reminds me that I’m imprisoned in a vicious circle I have no hope of escape from.
Everything would be more bearable if Harring were here too, but he’s already on a flight with the team for the next Formula One race.
Once we get to the bottom of the stairs, my mother grabs Jemma like a vulture in order to keep her under control, while Lady Antonia clings to my right arm with the excuse of being escorted to the dining room. “And so, what a surprise we had from the most desirable bachelor of the realm! You know, there were many bets about when you would take a wife.”
“I’m not surprised, Lady Antonia. You’ve always been a dedicated bookmaker, and you’ve never missed an event worth betting on.”
“We’ve had no winner,” she says, and I can detect a hint of disappointment.
“The bookmaker always wins,” I digress.
“Aren’t you curious to know who was odds-on?” Lady Antonia’s tone is increasingly screechy.
“Amaze me.” I bet a kidney that the name begins with ‘P’.
“Portia.”
“Oh, really?” I wonder whether she’ll sense my sarcasm.
“They all bet on her.”
“No one broke the bank, then.”
“They were all convinced that you would marry her by the end of this s
eason. I thought so myself…”
I settle her at the table. “Lady Antonia, it has been a pleasure, but if you will allow me, I will join my wife; I’m afraid that my mother is monopolising her too much,” I say as I take my leave. “You know, she adores her,” I can’t help adding.
17
Jemma’s Version
It’s a circus. A damn frigging circus!
And I’m the dancing bear. Or the seal with the ball, if you like.
Wherever I look, all eyes are on me, and Delphina is dragging me back and forth to introduce me to all the living dead she has invited. What’s more, tonight there’s a key Premier League match! If we get three points, we’re just behind the top team, so it’s our chance for this season. Yes, and I’m stuck in here, shaking the wrinkled hands of these titled dummies! While Arsenal is taking the field for a crucial match! God doesn’t exist or, if he does, he must hate me.
Delphina shows a disturbing smile that looks more like a grin, or a palsy; when nobody is watching, she pulls my skirt down and adjusts the scarf around my neckline.
She doesn’t let me talk, and answers questions for me before I open my mouth.
Anyway, I don’t envy Ashford, either. Quite a few ladies are fighting hard to get his attention, dragging him from side to side while uttering overexcited cries every time he speaks. He’s exasperated. Well, have your share of this shitty evening, baby, courtesy of karma.
There’s a gloomy sullen man who was introduced by Delphina more pompously than others. He’s got a very long name, Neville something, and answered her with nothing more than a grunt.
After exchanging a few words about the weather, Neville leaves to take his place at the table, and Delphina sighs with disappointment.
“What’s up, Delphina? Are you in love with that guy and disappointed ‘cause he didn’t even look at you?”
Delphina rolls her eyes, upset. “Have you lost your mind? That’s the Duke of Mouthmour and Whilmshire! He’s married!”
“That’s a pathetic excuse. He wouldn’t be the first,” I say, thinking of Alejandro.
“Oh, be quiet. The less you open your mouth, the better.” Delphina growls.
“What a fuss for a joke. You guys look so pissed off! Are you always like this?”
She doesn’t answer the question and changes the subject. “It’s time to go to the table.”
My seat is opposite Ashford, between Lord Murray and a Lady Valéry Fraser. She’s another one who must have witnessed both world wars, judging by the way she keeps her lips sealed to hold her dentures in.
Thank God Delphina is at a safe distance, playing the perfect hostess and sporting her charming and vivacious incarnation while sitting between her beloved Duke and Duchess of Mouthmour.
I notice that my lovely mother-in-law frowns like a moody little girl whenever the duke leaves the table, which happens quite often during the dinner. It must be his prostate… you know, dukes have those, too.
This reminds me that it’s high time to check the result of the football match!
The entrée plate has just been taken away – given its size, I didn’t even see the point in using a plate – so I have a five minute window to get to the kitchens, where I’m sure that Lance has already tuned the tv onto the sports channel.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I move my chair back and sneak towards the door before Ashford can ask any questions.
Apart from the dining room, the mansion is deserted, so I take off my heels and run down the hallway towards the kitchens. There, everyone is busy with last minute preparation and Lance, with his usual foresight, is just behind the door, ready to offer me a paper cone full of chips.
“1-0 for Arsenal. If you had arrived ten minutes ago, you could have seen them score, I’m really sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. What counts is that they did!”
I sit on the steel worktop among the stacks of plates to enjoy some of the match, until Lance moves in front of me with a sad expression. “I apologise for the interruption, but we are about to serve the soup.”
I follow the legion of waiters up to the hall and bump into the grumpy duke who’s heading in the opposite direction. Suddenly I realise I’m barefoot, so my hands mechanically drop the shoes to the ground and I try to put them on quickly, but I stumble into one of the suits of armour lined up along the corridor.
The duke walks on, giving me a disapproving look. Oh boy, he’s a bore like everyone else.
“My darling, did you get lost again?” Ashford asks me as soon as I’m back in my seat. His tone is undoubtedly irritated.
“Been missing me, my love?” We always stress the words my darling and my love a lot.
Ashford forces a smile. “I was counting the seconds.”
Lady Valéry intrudes into our script: “Newly-wed couples are adorable. You remind me so much of Harold and me, we were always looking for each other! Do you remember that, Harold?” She asks, nudging the embalmed owl to her left.
The conversation covers future high society events, horses, regattas, and the use of pitch and lob shots on an eighteen hole golf course, all subjects I have little or no knowledge of.
As soon as they take the soup plates away, I jump up to go back to the kitchens and Ashford gives me a grim look.
Lance is waiting for me again, with steaming chicken wings this time, so I take my seat back. I grunt in anger, noticing that the teams are drawing.
Lance is preparing a hot dog, on which he’s putting a generous squeeze of mustard, so I make some room for him on the worktop. “Come on, keep me company!”
He shakes his head and settles next to the doors.
Just a second later, they open and the duke comes in. I’m petrified, and there is a chicken wing showing between my lips.
“Your Highness,” says Lance, handing him the hot dog.
“Thank you, Lance.”
“If you want to sit on the worktop, Her Grace the duchess was already following the match.”
This time, there’s no expression of disapproval on the duke’s face; on the contrary, he looks rather curious.
“Manchester United?” He asks me, cautiously.
“You must be joking! Arsenal, by far!” I exclaim, balling up the greasy paper my chicken was wrapped in.
The duke smiles and looks more relaxed. “Very well, in that case, I’d sit next to you with much pleasure, but I fear that my hip would not agree,” he says, and he sits in the chair by the door. “What a pleasant surprise to discover that Denby Hall’s new lady is a supporter of the Gunners.”
“To the bone, Sir.”
“Call me Cedric,” he says, winking.
“Delphina won’t be pleased,” I comment.
Cedric smiles, keeping his eyes on the tv. “You can bet on it.”
Lance clears his throat and points at the door. “It’s been more than ten minutes.”
Cedric beckons me to go. “I’ll hold the fort.”
When I return to my place, Ashford kicks my shin, and I welcome this lovely gesture smiling from ear to ear.
He smiles in turn and whispers through his clenched teeth: “Shall I glue you to that chair, my darling?”
“If you want to make sure I won’t leave, you’ll have to make me sit on your lap.”
“If you disappear again, you can be sure I will. Now eat your filet Voronoff.”
“What if I don’t? Are you going to feed me?” I must have uttered the end of the sentence with too much emphasis, because Ashford takes a piece of fillet and puts it in my mouth. “Your wish is my command, my love.”
To make sure I won’t leave again, Ashford keeps my hand on the table for the rest of the dinner. He holds it in a tight grip which is anything but tender.
Our fellow diners indulge in mushy comments to the effect of how romantic my husband is. Take that, my love.
I will never adore Delphina as much as I do now, as she’s announced that the desserts and coffee will be served in the winter garden.
&nbs
p; As the guests swarm into the hallway, I duck out in the opposite direction, reassuring Cedric that I will be back with the final result of the match.
It won’t take long this time, since they’re already in the last minute, so I’ll just stop by, ask Lance about the score and go back. If this dress had a pocket, I could have taken my mobile with me!
“So? What’s the score?” I cry, bursting into the kitchens.
“2-1 for Arsenal. They scored in the eighty-sixth minute. It was a nerve racking match,” they tell me.
“Cheers!” I call and run back into the hallway, heading towards the winter garden.
I enter the garden cautiously, sidling along walls and skulking in the foliage, but I feel someone grabbing my arm. “Jemma, my patience has a limit.”
“Get off me, I no longer need to go anywhere. The match is over.”
Ashford looks as if he had woken up from a trance. “Is that what you were doing? Checking the match result?”
“Hats off, Einstein,” I mock him.
“Now stay here and play the wife.”
“Yes, Master.”
I look for Cedric among the back-combed feminine heads, and, as soon as I find him, I mime the score with my fingers and then give him a thumbs-up.
He’s so surprised he almost drops his coffee, his eyes nearly pop out of his head, and he’s raising his eyebrows in a rather exaggerated way. He’s even turning purple with joy.
Now he’s making choking noises and gesticulating confusingly while beating his chest.
Silence falls in the winter garden, everyone gathers in a circle around him, and I can only hear indistinct moans.
“The duke feels bad.”
“A praline must be stuck in his throat.”
“For God’s sake! Someone call a doctor!”
I stand up on my chair to see more clearly and, in fact, it does seem that Cedric is choking.
“Get out of the way,” I say, pushing my way through the guests, with Ashford still behind me, holding my arm.
“Call an ambulance!’ One of the ladies shouts.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 10