Then he turns towards a girl who’s crossing the lane between the stables with a horse. “Hey, got up all pretty, today, eh?”
The girl blushes. “I’m wearing nothing different from last night.”
“I was talking about the mare…” Harring replies.
The girl looks at him with narrowed eyes. “What a bastard.”
I stare at Ashford and Harring alternately, then Ashford explains. “Harring is an experienced playboy with no inhibitions whatsoever.”
“With a special inclination for coarse, saucy and politically incorrect jokes,” his friend points out.
“We’ve been friends since school, then Oxford and everything in between.”
“You’re not wearing polo kit,” I say.
“You gotta be joking! I’m a Formula One driver, I can’t risk falling off a horse and breaking a wrist,” he says while lowering his sunglasses and adjusting the khaki coloured jacket he’s wearing over a white linen shirt.
“This is one of Harring’s many contradictions. He risks his life at every lap on a race circuit, yet he worries about falling off a horse.”
“The risk is mine to take, isn’t it, Parker?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Well, so this is your Jemma! She doesn’t look like a Londoner, to be really honest.”
With Harring, I feel free to speak frankly. “His mother can’t stand the way I look, so she’s made this desperate attempt to turn me into her younger self.” So saying, I take out the hairpins from my bun, letting my hair fall on my shoulders. “And she can’t stand these, either,” I say, indicating the fuchsia ends.
“Delphina must have had a heart attack!” Says Harring, observing my coloured strands.
“Unfortunately not,” Ashford replies.
Then, the sound of trumpets calls the players onto the field. “The match is about to begin,” Ashford announces.
“Since you’re not playing, how about joining the mummies collective and helping me lower the average age?” I ask Harring. He’s nice, and I’m sure he could tell me some embarrassing anecdotes about Ashford.
“Actually, I was considering doing something else,” he says, stretching to look at someone behind us. “Alicia Trahern is as hot as hell, today!”
Ashford looks at him sceptically. “Alicia Trahern? You’ve always said that she’s got Dumbo ears!”
“I can barely see them with her hair down,” Harring says, and then he slips through the crowd of spectators.
Ashford shrugs. “This is Harring.”
While Ashford and his team take to the field and I make my way back to the lovely geriatric area, I run into a group of girls who are about my age and… oh God, I wish I could disappear!
Bloody Delphina, she made me believe that I was expected to wear this faded wallpaper, but these girls’ outfits are so fashionable: they’re all wearing short colourful dresses or frilly skirts, and it feels like looking at the front page of Vogue.
When they notice I’m among them, they form a circle and I find myself in the middle of it.
“Lady Burlingham, I suppose. The new incumbent at Denby Hall,” says the tallest girl looking at me. “I’m Sophia Skyper-Kensitt. I’ve known Ashford for ages,” she looks me up and down again. “What an incredible choice!”
“Quite odd,” another girl echoes. “We were all impatient to meet the new duchess.”
“And what a delightful look,” adds a third young lady.
“You look amazing, too. I saw dresses like yours discounted at Selfridges’.”
They suddenly shut up and Sophia (I think) says: “I don’t go to Selfridges. This is my dressmaker’s work.”
I look at her and I hesitate: I don’t want to go back to those mummies! I want to join these girls and talk about fashion and parties.
“We could watch the match together and have a chat. I don’t know, maybe you could recommend a good dressmaker so that at the next event, I can hang around with people who didn’t fight in the first World War!”
Sophia’s face contorts in sheer misery. “Our gazebo is fully booked; there’s always someone missing, but today is the first match of the championship league and everyone came,” she stresses ‘everyone’ quite strongly. “We don’t even have room for a dog, even a small one,” she says, and all the others laugh as if they had heard the joke of the century.
Was she trying to offend me?
“Let’s hope that there will be other occasions,” I say, while I adjust the hideous hat on my forehead again.
“We cannot wait,” they say, heading towards their gazebo.
Time to go back to the elders.
*
This damn bra has come undone and I’ve felt it hanging on my back until now; the discomfort is torturing me, but, of course, I can’t fix it here, so I run towards the toilets as soon as the first half ends.
In the cubicle, I take off my jacket and shirt and I try to fasten the hook. To hell with Delphina and her wrong size minimiser bras. While I take it off to shorten the straps, I hear someone open the toilet block door in a flurry of heels and giggles.
What the heck was the name of that broomstick I met earlier who gave me such a flaccid handshake? Sophia. Yes, it must be her, I recognise her voice, and she’s probably accompanied by her little entourage of porcelain dolls.
“Coming here was worth it just to see her. It’s a show!”
“A freak show, you mean!” A second unknown doll says.
“Or a zoo specimen!” A third one adds.
I try to hold back a laugh, thinking of the unwitting victim of this gossip.
“Seriously, have you seen the way she walks? She sways as if she were recovering from a hangover!”
“Not to mention her dress! You can see they forced her to wear it from a mile away. She squirms as if she wanted to shake it off!”
“I thought Ashford had better tastes. She is so common!”
“I bet she doesn’t even speak French! Or German!” Says a more squeaky voice.
When I realise that I’m the target of their spite, the laugh I was barely holding back dies on my lips. God, I’m so furious! I’d like to go out and kick their posh asses, take them by their fancy styled hair and make a mess of them. If we were at the stadium, we would do this my way. If only I had my own clothes! But I’m wearing this garbage bag instead, which embarrasses me to death, and I even have to agree with them: yes, they chose it for me and yes, they forced me to wear it. No, I don’t speak French or German. But I’m not a bitch like you are, ladies!
Their chatter and giggles are suddenly interrupted by someone emerging from one of the other cubicles, and a fourth unknown voice joins the conversation. “You know, Linda, I had the displeasure of having to mark your German, both spoken and written, and they’re quite poor, both of them. As for your French, I won’t comment. It would be rather unfair, considering it’s my mother tongue.”
The three gossips fall silent and, after a short sound of rushing water followed by that of a hand dryer, the fourth person seems to leave the toilets.
“Bloody baguette eating frog.”
“Cécile Loxley is among the people I wish were swallowed up by the ground they walk on. That Jemma isn’t, at least she’s funny. Ashford Parker’s laughable wife!”
I can hardly gulp, but I raise an ear to listen to the rest of the conversation while I’m still half naked in the cubicle, with my bra lying on the toilet lid and my arms covering my breasts.
“I thought he would marry Portia,” one of them comments.
“Yes, everyone thought so.”
“I talked to Portia before Christmas and she was confident that Ashford would propose by spring!”
“Well, she wasn’t quick enough. The fishmonger beat her.”
“She was a theatrical make-up artist, I think,” says the other.
“It makes no difference,” Sophia says nonchalantly. “Anyway, since Ashford is no longer Portia’s stuff, let me say something.” She noticeabl
y lowers her voice. “His polo trousers are so tight that you barely need to imagine anything… you can actually see how well hung he is! There’s a lot of fun to be had there!”
The group bursts into an overexcited giggle.
“What a waste.”
“I bet that Jemma doesn’t even know where to start!”
“Why? Do you?” One of the bitches asks.
“Are you challenging me, Linda?” Sophia replies maliciously.
My cheeks are on fire. Those three think Ashford is attractive! And they shamelessly examined his package!
Everything makes sense, now: this is the reason why the polo matches are packed with all these women with binoculars. It’s not for the competition, but to look at the players’ equipment through their tight trousers!
I return to my seat as soon as the way is clear. I look at the spectators under the big gazebo. Sophia and her retinue of witches are crowded around the bar with their legion of snobs, drinking champagne and laughing, probably at me.
And I’m here, confined among these British Museum relics whose dentures sound like Spanish castanets every two words they say.
The second half begins after a few minutes, accompanied by the applause of the audience as the players enter. Against every prediction, I follow the game with much more interest. During the first half I gazed at the sky absent mindedly, but now I’m focusing on the game, on Ashford in particular. I watch him riding safely but positively and giving directions to his team mates. He’s the only one standing in his stirrups, and, with the reins in one hand and the mallet in the other, he changes direction quickly and reaches out to strike the ball. He’s my husband, but I had never considered him as a man, or that other women may find him interesting. Or attractive. Or sexy! And, above all, they know more about his ‘equipment’ than I do.
Lady Valéry sits next to me, with her walking stick in the left hand and a pair of opera glasses in the right hand; she’s absorbed by the match as if she had never seen anything more compelling.
“Excuse me, Lady Valéry, may I ask you a favour? Would you lend me your opera glasses for a moment?”
“Of course, dear,” she says, giving me the silver pair with a knowing wink. “And… congratulations, young lady!”
*
At the end of the match, all I can do is stand in the corner of the gazebo where the refreshments are. Well, if there’s one thing these pompous nobles are insuperable at, it’s feasts! Those I usually go to are either shop inaugurations – and I have to fistfight to conquer a couple of canapés – or they’re held in bars where I have to order a ten pound cocktail if I want to eat something, which usually consists of chopped up leftover sandwiches. I don’t understand why nobody here is enjoying the buffet, though! Perhaps they’ve already eaten at home.
Ashford is at the stables getting his horse ready to be brought back to the manor; since I have to wait here, I take another glass of white wine and put an empty one on the tray. Apart from eating and drinking, there isn’t much to do, as nobody speaks to me and I feel pathetic in the elders’ club.
Then a hand touches my shoulder and I hear a voice, the same one I heard in the toilets while the three gossips were laughing at me. “Jemma.”
I turn round slowly and cautiously. “Yes?”
“Cécile Loxley,” says the girl standing in front of me. Voluminous copper red hair, fair complexion, high cheekbones, big penetrating grey eyes, athletic body and, strangely enough, a sincere smile. And she’s the only one here wearing dark clothes. A gunmetal tailored suit and a veiled hat.
“Jemma Pears, um, Pa… Pa… Parker.” Strangely enough, I stutter.
“Tell me, Jemma Pa-Pa-Parker, how long were you stuck in the toilet cubicle listening to the Triple Six’s nasty talk?”
“Was it you in the toilets, then?”
She raises an eyebrow, as if I had asked the most widely asked question of the century. “What do you think?”
“Triple Six? What do you mean?” I ask, without understanding.
“Sophia Skyper-Kensitt, Linda Rickson and Julia Bromley. They were born on 6 April, 6 June and 6 July, respectively. I find it much more convenient to refer to them as ‘Triple Six’.”
That’s also Satan’s number. It fits those witches just fine.
While I’m looking for something to say to the only person who seems happy to talk to me, Cécile nods at someone behind me, then she takes a business card from her bag and puts it in my hand. “Here is my number. Home and mobile phone. Call me in the next few days. There’s also my address, but I suggest you don’t stop by without notice, as I could be out. I have to go now, see you soon.”
She leaves, and I remain there, frozen, contemplating that elegant ecru piece of cardboard, featuring embossed enamel letters and a coat of arms.
Cécile Margaux Loxley
Marquise of Hungeford
Foweyard Manor – Upton Hill – Gloucester
Olstrom House – Greeley Road – Hertfordshire
2, Hanover Square – London
24
Ashford’s Version
Today, after the session at the House of Lords, I skipped the club again.
Meeting Harring there for a drink and a chat has always been part of my routine, but he’s not in town. He’s in Munich for the Grand Prix.
If I don’t get stuck in traffic, I’ll arrive at Denby in time to watch the Roland-Garros.
Lance has already been instructed: I’m not to be disturbed, it’s just my pizza and me.
I leave my car out front and toss the keys to John as I climb the stairs three at a time, until I reach the front door.
I’m frozen in the entrance hall as soon as I hear a female voice getting closer.
It’s my mother with her whole charity committee.
“Oh, Ashford! How nice to see you!” Lady Laetitia chirps. Lady Antonia echoes her: “A nice surprise, indeed! What are you doing around here?”
Was she lobotomised or something? “This is my house,” I reply, frowning.
“Oh, of course! What I meant is…” she replies clumsily, aware of the awkwardness of what she said and without knowing how to go on.
“Aren’t you in a meeting?” I ask, to cut things short.
“We are,” confirms my mother. “Today we are organising the charity events calendar and deciding who will run what.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a great job,” I try to end the conversation so that I can leave.
“Ashford, are you going out?” Asks Sophia from behind the group of old bags.
“Actually, I’ve just came back from a Parliamentary session.” There’s some whatshername next to Sophia who shrieks: “Oh, have you talked about something interesting?”
“Just the implementation of anti-terrorism security measures.” I say, barely holding back a snort of irritation.
“Oh, we’re so lucky that you’re in the council! When was the last time Lord Connors served? During the Crimean War?” Asks Sophia, raising a swarm of overexcited giggles.
Poor old Connors. “Admiral Connors is greatly appreciated by both Parliament and the Crown, and I think that his extensive experience in the field is particularly valuable,” I just say. I wouldn’t talk about the weather forecast with these bimbos, much less about strategic plans.
“Well, I meant that your point of view is certainly more up-to-date and dynamic,” whatshername replies.
I stare at her without answering. I can recognise a pathetic attempt to start a conversation.
I swear that even arguing with Jemma is more interesting; at least she tells me exactly what she thinks.
“Well, since you’re here, you can join us!” Suggests Sophia, causing the others to clap their hands.
“What a wonderful idea!” Chelsea agrees.
No! They can’t do this to me. “Actually… I—”
“Sophia’s right!” That bitch of my mother cuts in. “Join us, you could remind us of the dates of the other polo matches so we don’t clash w
ith them.”
“Everything’s already marked on your events calendar, Mother,” I growl with clenched teeth.
But she pretends not to hear me. “God forbid we get confused!”
“What about Jemma? Isn’t she joining us?” Lady Audrey asks.
“I don’t think Jemma would be interested in the organisation of these events,” I object. I can’t stand the Union Jack Charity Society evenings myself, so I don’t really picture Jemma enjoying them. I can’t stand her, either, but I wouldn’t do this to my worst enemy.
“Come on, Ashford, don’t talk nonsense, it’s for charity! And she’s the new Duchess of Burlingham. Organising a fundraising evening is almost a moral obligation if she wants integrate in high society.” Lady Audrey is more and more convinced by her idea.
My mother rolls her eyes, terrified by the thought of Jemma joining her precious society of charitable exhibitionists, but Lady Antonia and Lady Audrey are pretty determined. “Well, Ashford, would you be so kind as to accompany Jemma to the tea room? We’ll see you both there in five minutes.”
I climb the stairs, cursing all the way up. There are times when I don’t feel like the owner of my own house. I just want to get on with life but it seems that every corner hides someone who wants something from me.
I find Jemma in a pink bathrobe, with her hair wrapped up in a towel; she’s lying on her bed leafing through an issue of Cosmopolitan.
She starts talking before I can say anything: “What made you come here and disturb me in this precious moment of reflection?”
“Something you will hate me for,” I can’t help admitting it.
“You’re already halfway there, for your information,” she says without even looking at me.
“My mother is in a meeting with her charity committee. They want you to join them.”
“Do you know I’m a billionaire? I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I don’t need the charity of you lot,” Jemma says in an offended tone, sitting up on her bed.
“Jemma, they don’t want to give you stuff. They want to involve you in the organisation of their evenings. According to them, as the new Duchess of Burlingham, you must be part of the society, just like every married woman or wife-to-be.”
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 14