Jemma gives me an angry look.
“In my defence, I must tell you that I was against you being involved.”
“Oh, I’m sure you put all your energy into dissuading them.”
Okay, perhaps I wasn’t that firm.
“If it’s any consolation, they involved me, as well. They inexplicably decided that my presence is necessary.”
“God exists, then.”
“Are you coming?” I ask her for the umpteenth time.
“Give me a minute. Let me get dressed.”
*
Her minute has turned into a quarter of an hour, but the result is, as usual, rather questionable.
Jemma enters the tea room in a silver chenille tracksuit; her hair, which is still wet, falls on her shoulders. The guests look at her, bewildered.
I’m about to sit on one of the farthest chairs when I hear Chelsea chirp: “There’s a lot of room next to me on this sofa! You’ll be more comfortable!”
“I’d rather act as an observer,” I say, as I sit at a safe distance. God forbid they consider me an active participant. I wouldn’t survive that.
For the next hour, these ten women keep squawking, trying to impose on each other, and all I can hear are the words taffeta, tableaux vivants, ice sculptures, memorabilia, without being able to combine them in a complete sentence.
From the chair on which she’s sitting with her legs crossed, Jemma looks at me, full of resentment.
I can’t really blame her, I hate myself too. If only I’d come home five minutes later!
My mother calls for attention by means of a very annoying bell. “Ladies, I’m proud to say that we succeeded in establishing a fine schedule for our fundraising events. Now we only need to decide who will organise each of them. I think that one event for each person is more than reasonable. I volunteer for the opening evening. The season is about to begin and I don’t want to put any of you under time pressure.”
Then, going in a clockwise direction, each member chooses an evening to take care of, until Jemma’s turn arrives, but her dreamy expression says she’s got no idea what they’re talking about.
“Jemma?” my mother urges her. “So?”
“What?” She says.
“Your evening for the charity calendar…”
Jemma shrugs. “I was thinking of a party.”
Sophia blurts out: “They’re all parties!”
Sophia is starting to make me nervous. Besides, it’s her fault that I’m here, so I decide to cut in and shut her up. “Do you feel morally obliged to comment on every single word said, Sophia?”
It’s clear that I caught her off guard. “I just wanted to—”
“I’m not asking because I’m interested,” I say, then I turn towards Jemma, who looks at me with her eyes wide open. “Please Jemma, go on with what you were saying.”
“What events are left on the calendar?” She asks, strangely compliant.
“Let’s see, the Gregorian Choir concert seems a little complicated…” my mother says, while going through the list with Lady Venetia. “The twentieth anniversary dinner has a complex structure…” they say, as concentrated as two surgeons in front of an open heart.
“Of course!” Exclaims Lady Venetia. “The charity fashion show is perfect.”
“Are you sure?” Asks my mother, sceptically.
“Absolutely! It has the same schedule every year! Jemma will just have to sort out the clothes that will be donated and decide upon their order on the catwalk.”
My mother sighs. “Do you think you can do it?”
Jemma shrugs. “Why not? It’s a fashion show, not a bomb to be defused!”
“So be it,” accepts my mother reluctantly, writing Jemma’s name on her list.
After the meeting, Jemma and I leave the tea room. “Hey, Ashford. Have you just defended me publicly or was it my imagination?”
“As irritating and annoying as you may be, you’re still my wife and those who disrespect you, disrespect me. Then, it was Sophia’s fault that I missed today’s Roland-Garros matches: having me at the meeting was her idea. The idiot deserved to be punished.”
“Defending me is the least you can do, since you dragged me into this new farce.”
“I have no excuse,” I admit.
“Absolutely. I should take away your pocket money for this.”
Lance comes towards us. “The mail,” he says, and starts sorting the envelopes on the tray. “These are for the duke,” he adds, handing me a rather voluminous pile, “and this for the duchess,” and he gives Jemma an envelope.
It’s a nice, elegant envelope made of parchment paper with a coat of arms on it, so it can’t be anyone from London. “Who’s writing to you?”
Jemma takes the envelope away. “Would you mind your own business?”
“Nope,” I reply.
Jemma hides in a corner, turning her back to me so that I can’t see. Yet I’m right behind her and as I’m taller than she is, I don’t struggle to see what’s on the card.
The handwriting is elegant and slanted. Fast but precise. It was written with a fountain pen and onyx-black Chinese ink.
At the polo match, I told you to call me. What the hell happened to you? Did you lose my business card? I’d love to have tea with you, how about joining me at Olstrom House on Friday afternoon? I won’t take a no for an answer. I’ll be waiting for you.
Cécile Loxley
“Cécile Loxley?” I ask aloud, in a mix of amazement and disapproval.
“I can’t believe it! You read it! It’s a violation of my privacy!”
“Calm down. She didn’t reveal the third secret of Fatima!”
Jemma looks at me defiantly, putting her hands on her hips. “Yes, it’s Cécile Loxley. Why?”
Yes, why? “Because it’s Cécile Loxley!”
Okay, maybe it’s not a very strong argument, but if you knew Cécile Loxley, that would be enough. She is strange! She’s the most moody person I’ve ever known. Critical, neurotic, a real contrarian, she’s unbearable and antisocial. There’s not a single person who gets on with her. Well, maybe… Jemma could.
25
Jemma’s Version
Armstrong, Olstrom House’s butler, escorts me to the orangerie.
Lady Loxley is sitting at a white wrought iron table laden with a lavish afternoon tea. She must like dark colours, as this time she’s wearing a long black silk kimono.
“Lady Loxley, good afternoon,” I greet her with reverence; it’s not my habit, but she’s the first person to invite me to her house among all the nobles I’ve known so far.
“Jemma, sit down!” She greets me with enthusiasm, as if we were relatives.
“Thank you,” I say, as I sit in front of her, stiff and silent. Lady Loxley is silent as well, and she’s analysing me carefully with her deep blue eyes.
“You didn’t recognise me, did you, Jemma?”
“Yes, we met at the polo match—”
“Sure. You didn’t recognise me then, either. It’s quite understandable, it’s been almost twenty years,” she comments, raising her eyes to the sky after a quick count.
“No, I’d say I didn’t—”
“Saint Francis Primary School. First year. We were in the same class, you attended until the Christmas holidays, then your parents had you change school.”
I nod. “That’s right, they withdrew me to send me to a public school.”
“Every single day, the bullies stole my snack and you always shared yours with me. I never asked for it, you just spontaneously offered me half of your slice of buckwheat cake, and you did that until you left.”
I collect my thoughts and look for memories of elementary school inside my mental archive. I didn’t have many friends at the private school my grandmother had enrolled me at. Everyone thought I was strange because I went on foot or by bike, instead of being driven; I didn’t have a private teacher and I spent my holidays camping. However, there was a girl, she was very tiny for her age and h
ad a French chef who always made her delicious treats, but someone stole from her snack basket every day.
“It’s you!” I exclaim in surprise. Under that perfectly styled long red hair, there’s my scared school friend.
She looks at me and nods. “Call me Cécile from now on. There is no reason to be formal!”
“I can’t believe it, it’s incredible! I would never have recognised you! You’re… well, you still have red hair and blue eyes… but you’re tall now!” What a stupid thing to say, twenty years have gone by, of course she’s taller! “You’re so fit and you look like someone who stands up for herself.”
“I’ve learned a lot…”
“Why did you want to see me?” I ask, curious.
“You’re even asking? I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and, voilà, I find out you married Burlingham!” Cécile’s cheerful expression is contagious, and even though she’s talking about the man who’s driving me mad, I can’t help but smile with her, as if it were amusing.
“Yeah, I’m sure that no one expected Ashford to marry someone like me.”
“You had caught my attention even before I knew who you were. When I heard the first gossip, I liked you already. Everyone kept on saying: ‘Do you know what’s new? Ashford Parker got married, he eloped with a girl from London! A commoner, no titles, no aristocratic family.’ I came to the polo tournament just to see you. Everyone was talking about Jemma. Jemma this, Jemma that… and then, seeing you cast my mind back.”
“I do remember that day. Many talked about me, to criticise me, mostly,” I say, with slight resentment for the gossip I heard in the toilets.
“Are you referring to the Triple Six? Oh my God! I hope you don’t pay attention to those scarecrows.”
“Certainly not! They’re just bored snobs!” I agree with her, pretending I wasn’t affected by their remarks.
“They have serious limitations,” she says, tapping her temple with her index finger. “Calling them snobs is rather reductive.”
“So, Cécile, aren’t you their friend?” I ask to make sure.
Hearing my question, Cécile looks at me wide eyed, as if it were pure nonsense. “Why should I be?”
“Well, I don’t know. Same environment, same connections… you have a lot in common with them, certainly more than I do.”
“Jemma, I have nothing in common with them,” she pauses, taking some sips of lemonade. “In fact, there was a moment in which I thought we were friends. We attended the same college and I spent most of my time with Sophia, Linda, Julia and, of course, Portia, their queen bee. We shared the same room and I finally felt part of a close knit group. Then, I discovered that they spoke ill about me and rummaged through my stuff while I wasn’t there. They are bitches, so don’t listen to them, because they feed on hatred. That’s quite a bad diet.”
“The reason why they criticise me is not a secret, but I don’t understand why they did it to you.”
“It’s very simple. I am the Marquise of Hungeford, and this is one of the few titles which can be inherited by a woman. My parents died – unfortunately, of course – but, due to this fact, I have a title without needing to get married. Instead, they are chasing a title through marriage. So, point one: they are envious. Furthermore, my family has been half French for three generations, and those bitches believe that the marquisate was tainted by our French blood. There’s nothing to do about it, the Loxley men have an unstoppable passion for Parisian women. Therefore, point two: they are racist.”
“Wow. Anyway, you have to know that I have nothing to do with these prejudices. I never wanted a title in my life, and the one I have is a mere consequence of my marriage. I married Ashford and I became a duchess. Like those ‘two for one’ offers at Tesco!”
Cécile bursts into hearty laughter. “Poor Burlingham! Two for one at Tesco! What a hell of a bargain!”
I shrug. “Racism is not my problem, either. In the block of flats where I lived, there are a Turkish, a Vietnamese and an Italian family, and they’re more than neighbours, they’re friends, not to say relatives.”
While I take a sip of lemonade, I find myself thinking that I’m feeling at ease for the first time since I’ve been living this double life.
“What did you do after elementary school?” I ask her.
“Middle and high school!” she replies, smiling for the joke. “And university. I graduated in Journalism and now I write for the Guardian under a pseudonym. I have a column called Poverty and Nobility, in which I describe the best and the worst of aristocracy, public virtues and private vices. What about you? How did you end up in this circle of hell?”
“I was a make-up artist for minor musicals. I met Ashford after a performance and it was love at first sight. I didn’t know who he was or that he had a title. Within a week, I had a ring on my finger and I made my entrance to Denby Hall to everyone’s bewilderment.”
“You’re not exactly one that goes unnoticed.”
“Astonishment is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.
“Very wise.”
“I was even forced to join my mother-in-law’s charity committee, and you know who’s on it? The Triple Six.”
“I can imagine them! Green with envy, seeing you do the honours at Denby.”
“Speaking of the Triple Six, one of them hosts another boring evening tonight. That mare… Sophia.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“What? Aren’t you coming?” I ask, disappointed.
“I wasn’t invited. There’s a polite dislike between my family and Sophia’s.”
“Shall I face the satanic trio on my own, then?”
“Of course not. Whenever they get on your nerves, just hold on to Ashford’s arm and play the bimbo. They will froth at the mouth with envy.”
*
They will froth at the mouth, said Cécile. I don’t know about that, but there’s one thing I do know: this time, I won’t wear the clothes Delphina provided. I will use mine. I have a dress I bought from a sale in Soho for only eleven pounds; it’s identical to one I once saw on Kim Kardashian, a slinky apple green criss-cross dress with a very low back. I also have a golden sequin clutch and some raspberry coloured fringe sandals which are perfect. No, I won’t let anyone say I’m wearing a garbage bag again.
“I would like to find some words to comment on your clothing, but I am petrified,” Ashford comments drily, as we go towards Crane House.
“What’s the absurd reason behind tonight’s dinner?” I ask him, shifting the conversation to something else. I already know he despises what I’m wearing, there’s no point in discussing it further.
“The Skyper-Kensitts’ anniversary party,” he replies concisely.
“What a nonsense! An anniversary is a private matter. If I had to celebrate my anniversary, I would like to do it with my husband only, not with fifty more people who don’t care if ‘we managed not to get divorced for another year’. It would rather be a romantic dinner just him and me, presents, and a night of passion…”
“Well, your husband is next to you and he doesn’t agree with that plan,” he points out.
“I’m not referring to you! I’m talking about my next husband.”
“Do you really think there’s another crazy man out there willing to marry you?”
“If not for me, it will be for my money. I’ve already found one,” I say, looking at him straight in the eyes.
“When are you going to cut it out?”
“Never. You tease me all the time!” I reply.
“I just can’t get rid of this bad habit.”
“Back to what we were saying, it just sounds absurd to me to summon fifty people to celebrate something so private.”
“They probably called it ‘anniversary party’ because ‘come and see the newly frescoed salon we spent two hundred thousand pounds on’ wasn’t that elegant.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds to paint a ceiling? Boy, they fooled them pretty well!”
Stran
gely enough, Ashford laughs. “I have to agree.”
When we enter the Skyper-Kensitts’ mansion, the reception hall is already crowded with guests. Sophia comes to meet us as soon as she detects Ashford.
“Ashford! You made it!” She exclaims with an overexcited shriek.
“I made what?” He asks.
“You made it to come here!”
“Yes, it was indeed an incredible endeavour to drive for less than twenty-five miles from Denby and get here safe and sound, if that’s what you mean.”
I am surprised by Ashford’s quick wit and by the sarcasm of his replies to Sophia. I thought that he liked all these arse-kissers.
Sophia ignores the remarks and puts her hand on Ashford’s arm. “You’re always joking! Didn’t your mother come along?”
“She had a concert in London. Stanev Kucera is playing.”
“What an event! I wouldn’t have missed it for the whole world if there hadn’t been this party. But my parents were so keen to celebrate their anniversary, that they even brought forward the end of the salon renovation. Did you notice the ceiling stuccos?”
“Um, they’re just…” Ashford says, as he looks up and thinks of a comment, but he’s rather doubtful. Then, he finishes his sentence: “… fine.”
“You can still smell the paint,” I point out.
“Oh, Jemma, you’re here too.” At last, Sophia has decided to talk to me.
“Exactly. I’ve been next to Ashford this whole time.”
He notices the tension between us. Sophia may be nice to him, but she isn’t to me, at all. “Isn’t it time to take our seats at the table?” She asks, leading me towards it.
Almost everyone has found their seats, while I’m still looking for mine. I bet that bitch has ‘accidentally’ forgotten to include my name among the guests.
“Oh no!” Sophia interrupts us. “The place cards are wrong! I had the arrangement prepared yesterday, but the Baron Reinhard von Hofmannsthal did us the honour of accepting our invitation at the very last minute. He came from Nuremberg specially!” So saying, she takes the card that reads ‘Duke of Burlingham, Lord Ashford Parker’ and replaces it with that of the baron.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 15