“There must be hundreds.” Ashford looks around in amazement.
“Three thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” I say. “Seventy-three,” my dad corrects me. “Last week I put my hands on this bairn,” he says, showing off Bowie’s Space Oddity. “It’s the single with Wild Eyed Boy.”
Before I can take it, Ashford grabs it. “This is impossible!” He turns it in his hands, looking at it front and back. “The version with the original cover is extremely rare.”
“It still has one hell of a sound.” My dad says proudly as he rummages through the crates. “I see you like this stuff. What about this?” And he hands him one of his Holy Grails.
“Tinkerbells Fairydust.” Ashford is even more astonished. “From 1969! But it has never been officially released!”
“Aye. I had a lot of idle friends hanging out at Decca and its archives were a gold mine, back then.”
“Astounding.” And so Ashford bends over my father’s record crates.
“Dessert’s ready!” My mother calls from the living room. When we’re back to our places, she has already cut a slice of tart for everyone.
After having refused to eat every single course, Delphina decides to face the tart, the only one that looks familiar and reassuring.
After the first bite, I notice that it has a weird smell, and the texture is not really that of a tart crust.
Concerned, I put the slice back on my plate and stop Ashford with a hand before he can taste it.
“Honey, what are you doing?” He asks.
“Um, you’re on a diet… remember?” I say, elusively.
“No, I don’t, actually,” he replies, before trying to take another bite of the tart.
“You have blood tests to do, it’s better if you avoid desserts!”
My mother starts laughing. “Don’t be silly, Jemma!”
“Yeah,” Ashford replies. “Something has to kill you, right?”
“Not this tart, that’s for sure! It’s home made, and it only contains natural, organic and sustainable ingredients.”
“That’s the problem,” I hiss. “Ashford, can you come to the kitchen for a moment?”
“Of course, love of my life, whatever you want.”
As soon as he gets into the kitchen, Ashford starts growling. “What’s your problem? I’m being polite with your parents, right? The evening is going well and, strange to say, I have more stuff in common with your father than I have with you! I want to eat the tart your mother made and put an end to this farce!”
“You can’t eat the tart!”
“Why not?”
“Because she used peyote flour, that’s why! If you eat it, in fifteen minutes you’ll be on the roof singing Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds with a wreath of flowers on your head, thinking that you’re the fifth member of the Beatles!”
Ashford bursts into such loud laughter that he needs to lean against the wall to avoid falling to the ground.
“What’s so funny now?”
Ashford doesn’t answer and keeps laughing.
“You could at least thank me…” I scold him.
He pulls me by an arm towards the door, so that I take a look in the living room. “It’s too late, Jemma.”
Delphina’s plate is already empty and she’s being served another slice. “Mrs Pears, I have to congratulate you. This tart is delicious, and this prickly pear jam is sublime.”
Ashford is in tears laughing. “My mother is high on peyote!”
We go back to the table, intending to try to regain control of the situation, but perhaps I got more worried than I should have, because the evening seems to go on rather quietly.
My mother is the image of peacefulness.
“Would anyone like some digestive tea? Delphina, I would add a touch of relaxing passion flower to yours.”
“… the night I spent with Mick Jagger was no time for relaxing,” Delphina reveals.
We all turn to look at her.
Ashford stares at her, disorientated. “Mother? What does Mick Jagger have to do with herbal teas?”
“The Rolling Stones were on tour and I was in Paris for the society debut of a friend of mine. The party was at the Ritz Hotel, but, for me, it went on privately in Mick’s room,” says Delphina with a faraway look in her eyes.
We all exchange stunned looks.
“Mother, do you realise what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do! Look, when I was eighteen, I was hot. Well, I wasn’t quite eighteen yet, but does it matter? Age doesn’t matter if you’re with Mick Jagger.”
“Your mother had sex with Mick Jagger,” I remark, looking at Ashford with my eyes wide open.
“It can’t be verified,” he mutters, shocked.
“So, we have another great music fan here!” Says my father, to defuse the heavy atmosphere.
“Oh, the Rolling Stones could keep their music to themselves. What mattered was seeing them shirtless and, in my case, not just shirtless.” Delphina rolls her eyes, caught in her memories. “What a night!”
“You and Dad were not together back then, were you?” Ashford’s tone is somewhat concerned.
“No! But what if we had been? Mick Jagger was Mick Jagger, such occasions come up only once in life! And then, what happens in Paris stays in Paris!”
Ashford is in shock. “This inaugurates the Wild Paris Chronicles. Chapter One: I could have been Mick Jagger’s son.”
“Or Keith Richards’!” Adds Delphina.
Ashford loses it: “Mother, please!”
“Peyote flour,” I say, beating my forehead with one hand.
Ashford puts his mother back on her feet and escorts her towards the door. “Mr and Mrs Pears, it’s been a pleasure. We have to go, now. Jemma, shall we?”
22
Ashford’s Version
The polo season begins this afternoon, and I have the first match with my team. It will also be the first social event with Jemma.
As winners of last year’s championship, our team will be the centre of attention, with me at the top of the list, because everyone knows about Jemma and me. Many will take part in the event just to see her.
A part of me would prefer that she remained at home but I can’t hide her forever.
The guests who came to our ‘intimate dinner’ have said enough to arouse general curiosity.
I’m at the country club, in the stables, and I’m preparing my horse. Falkland is a beautiful Argentine Criollo horse, he’s dark chocolate coloured, muscular and speedy, and more than one person would be interested in buying him. Especially after how he performed last season.
I take care of him myself, whereas the other players prefer to let the stable lads do it.
While I’m grooming him, I hear someone knocking on the wall of the horse’s stable.
“O Captain! My Captain!” It’s Harring.
“Haz! You’re back!” I walk towards him raising my fist in sign of victory. “Congratulations on your pole position in the Russian Grand Prix.”
He shrugs. “No biggie.”
Harring is a Formula One driver. As heir to the title of viscount, he gets fed up very easily. His uncle, who was just as eccentric as he is, created his own racing team, so Harring grew up developing a passion for cars, until he was old enough to drive them himself.
When in a race, he’s always very theatrical. For example, it once happened that, while he was in the lead in a race at the Silverstone circuit, outdistancing the McLaren cars by forty seconds and with one lap to go, he suddenly decided to go back to the pits. When the journalists interviewed him, he said simply: ‘I was getting bored’.
Another time, in Bahrain, they gave him a penalty for skipping the tests – because he was busy with a lingerie model – so the day after, during the race, he made a memorable catch-up and went from next to last to second place.
He may not be very professional, but when he’s in a race, he wins. He’s an extraordinary combination of pure talent, blind luck and no sense of d
anger whatsoever.
A couple of times he’s even risked his neck.
He’s not reliable, he gives no guarantees, but his performances are so spectacular that the major companies fight each other to sponsor him; in fact, he’s got no space left on his car body. Or on his spoiler, which features his family’s coat of arms.
“Shouldn’t you be on the track today? Are you skipping free practice?” I ask.
Harring shrugs again. “I’ve won all the races since the beginning of the season. I’ll skip this one. You know, it’s no fun if there’s nobody else on the podium, is it?”
“Modesty is always your forte…”
“Besides, I had an appointment at the tailor’s.”
“You have one every Wednesday!” I point out.
“You know what my motto is: ‘Woe betide anyone whose jacket fits badly!” He exclaims proudly.
When we were at college, Harring and I had a period of dandyism which culminated in a manic obsession for tailor-made suits; however, while I was able to get over such temporary passions, Harring has hoarded them, and keeps them to this day.
Haz walks back and forth outside the stable. “Anyway, I was at the club on Tuesday evening, and I waited for you. Why didn’t you come? You always stop by, after a Parliamentary session.”
“I went home straight after. Now that the high society events season has started, my mother is like a caged tiger. And there’s Jemma now—”
“You’re right, now that you’re a hubby, you can’t have any more wild nights out with us rascals, eh? And, about your wife—”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, worried. I hope she hasn’t made a fool of herself already.
“You’ll introduce her to me today, won’t you?”
“Well… I guess so,” I hesitate.
“My parents came back from Cancún, and my mother met Lady Laetitia, who told her about your extravagant dinner at Denby Hall – that’s what she called it.”
“I would say it was more surreal than extravagant.”
“She said that your wife left everyone astounded. Lord Neville was also totally captivated. After nearly choking to death, at least.”
“Do you know about that, too?” I ask.
“Especially about that. Look, Parker, I’m not the judging type, and, as long as you’re happy, who you married makes no difference to me, but I’m going to tell you something you perhaps know better than I do.”
“Then why do you care so much to tell me?”
“Because sometimes you need to state the obvious.” Harring looks straight into my eyes and nods towards the spectators that are starting to fill the stands. “Those people will crucify your wife.”
“You don’t know Jemma!” I burst out laughing.
“But I know them. They despise anyone who’s got no noble blood, and they judge people by their bank accounts. You may love this adorable Cinderella from Lewisham, but they will rip her apart. If you ask me, she’s my best friend already, but according to them she’s a parasite, which is quite paradoxical when you think that the nobility lived off this country for centuries.”
“What are you trying to say, exactly?”
“That you’ll have to ward them off. A lot.”
“Thank you, Haz.”
“You’re welcome,” my friend is about to light himself a cigarette.
“Don’t even try lighting that damn thing! Can’t you see it’s full of straw around here, you dickhead?”
“It’s a habit,” Harring pulls it off his lips and stretches out of the covered area to look at the guests.
“There’s everyone out there.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” After years of friendship, I understand when Harring isn’t getting straight to the point.
“Everyone but Portia,” he adds.
I raise an eyebrow and I’m frankly surprised. “Seriously?”
“I’ll tell you this: it seems that, as soon as the news of your wedding started spreading, she packed her stuff and went to South Africa to visit some relatives of hers.”
“To South Africa?”
“It’s obvious that it was the farthest place where she knew someone,” Haz replies.
“I find it hard to believe—”
“What? That she’s got relatives in South Africa?”
“No, that she left because of me!”
“Wait. The official story is that she’s going to take part in a census of the lions living in the Shamwari Reserve.”
“What’s the unofficial story, then?” I ask, sceptically. Portia an animal lover? Since when?
“There are several, but none are favourable to you.”
“Okay, let’s get this straight: Portia and I were not together and I never made her believe I would marry her.”
Harring raises his hands. “Hey, I believe you, it’s not to me you have to set the record straight.”
“And to nobody else. I’m in control of my life and my decisions, and I’ll go to hell the way I choose.”
“You know you’ll be in good company, Parker.”
I reach out my gloved hand towards him. “Off to hell?”
“Off to hell,” he replies. It has become our motto.
23
Jemma’s Version
There was great excitement in the house for my first public event: the first match of the polo league Ashford’s team plays in. And by ‘Ashford’s team’ I mean that he’s no less than the captain. Could he ever play another role? Of course not, I’m not surprised that a person like him is always in the most important position.
I will be there as a loving wifey who follows from the front row.
“Just like Victoria when she went to David Beckham’s matches?” I asked at breakfast.
“Of course not! You will not dress up like a vulgar parvenue who gained a title overnight!” Delphina replied in disgust.
I didn’t mean to offend anyone, I was just trying to get an idea!
“I had a perfect tailored suit made for you, and of course we will try to style your hair so as to conceal those fuchsia strands as much as possible.”
And here I am, in the ‘perfect tailored suit’: it’s at least two sizes too big, and it features all the colour variations of porridge! Yuck!
They even gave me one of those cross-bandage minimiser bras. Heaven forbid that anyone notices I’m a woman.
The shoes are terrible: a pair of flats which would be perfect for the members of any religious order.
I look at myself in the mirror with my hair done up in a bun, and I’m disheartened. I can’t believe that I’m really forced to show myself in public like this.
But I am. The car stops at the polo club to let Delphina and me out and, looking at myself one last time in the rear view mirror, I feel like I’m dying inside.
It’s a beautiful sunny day and we shelter under marquees; it’s no circus stuff, though: they’re elegant wrought iron gazebos with fluttering immaculate curtains made of linen and organza.
There are small groups of people sitting on wicker chairs in several small lounges within the marquees and a swarm of waiters circulate offering champagne in elegant glasses and fresh fruit to all.
Delphina knows everyone here, apparently. She waves her hand to the right and the left, and every time I turn my head, I have to avoid being bumped by the large brim of her hat.
Yes, let’s mention the hats! Every woman is wearing a monument on her head! Mine is quite fancy, and I felt stupid until a moment ago with this life size dinghy which slips on all sides of my head, but I’m starting to realise that it’s probably one of the simplest.
I take a seat on one of the sofas near the sideline, surrounded by those old crocks who are Delphina’s friends. If nothing else, Lady Audrey Davenport and Lady Valéry Fraser are very kind to me and, as soon as Lord Neville comes to greet me, they all fidget on their chairs.
“Dear Jemma, what an honour! His Highness the Lord Neville came to greet you personally!” Chirps Lady
Audrey.
“And he lets you call him Cedric!” Adds Lady Valéry.
“Our Jemma has this innate gift of getting people to love her from the very first moment,” comments Delphina with a fake smile. “And yes, Neville is really a wonderful man. He’s always had much respect for our family, but ever since Ashford married Jemma, I could say that our friendship is even stronger.”
Delphina enthuses about her relationship with Cedric who, to be very honest, didn’t even say hello to her. I wonder how it’s possible that all these stories sound credible.
“Speaking of Ashford, we haven’t seen him, yet!” Says Lady Valéry, looking around.
“We didn’t come here together. He arrived earlier to get his horse ready in the stables.” Here’s my chance to duck out! “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and call him, ask him to come and say a quick hello before taking to the field.”
Lady Audrey claps her hands. “What a wonderful idea.”
I ask a waiter to show me the way to the stables, where I see men busily coming and going and tending to their horses.
I hear Ashford’s familiar voice coming from a stable and I stop, perplexed: is it my imagination or is he really laughing? I look inside the stable and I have confirmation: he is actually laughing.
He’s in there with someone, but I can’t see who it is, because he’s behind the horse.
As soon as Ashford notices I’m there, he stops laughing, clears his throat and greets me as formally as usual. “Jemma. You’re here.”
Wow, what a keen eyed observation!
“Yeah, I came to look for you. The ladies at the table would like to see you before the match.”
A young man of his age emerges from behind the horse; he’s got messy dark blonde hair (that kind of messy hair which is the result of hours spent at the barber’s), blue-grey eyes and a cheeky face.
“Parker’s brand new bride, I guess,” the man comes closer and shakes my hand. “Kenneth Harring, Kid for friends. Or Harring. Or lucky bastard, for those who hate me.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “I’m Jemma.”
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 13