“I don’t like you either,” says Cécile, talking to Ashford.
“As if I even cared.”
Harring cuts in, with his usual sensitivity. “Are you still with your nerd from Palo Alto?”
“Obviously,” my friend nods.
“Nerd from Palo Alto?” I ask.
“Sean Page,” she informs me.
“He invented Razorstreaming,” Ashford adds. “The illegal platform for streaming and download.”
“You have a boyfriend?” I ask Cécile, surprised. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; she is always so detached and independent that she doesn’t really look like the kind of woman who would want relationships.
She confirms: “I’ve been seeing him for two years. I’m glad you look so surprised.”
“And I’m surprised that it has lasted for so long,” says Ashford, supporting Harring.
“We never see each other. That’s why it lasts,” replies Cécile.
“Your sexual life must be really intense.” Harring comments with sarcasm.
“Sex makes me sick,” Cécile just says.
“Is that because he’s got a micro penis?” He asks, even more amused.
“This conversation has gone on long enough. Jemma, shall we go and get something to drink?” Cécile asks me.
“Absolutely.”
As we walk away, we hear Harring shout: “Tell your American micro penis I said hello!”
*
“You aren’t exactly friends with Harring and Ashford, are you?” I observe.
“I’m not exactly friends with most of the people in this room. Old grudges. We started hating each other when we were children and our loathing simply grew up with us. But I prefer those who openly despise me to the fake flattery of the Triple Six. Ashford and Harring have always been a team, so I see them more as a single unit than two separate people. Ashford embodies the arrogance of those who undeservedly think they’re better than you; Harring is coarse and spoilt, an exhibitionist; together, they’re frankly unbearable, and they’re able to bring out the worst in people.”
“I see that we feel the same about my husband,” I say, letting the words slip out of my mouth.
Cécile thinks I’m joking and laughs. “You must have had at least one good reason to marry him.”
“Yes. His title.” If my previous answer made her smile, this one makes her burst out laughing.
“I know the social climber type quite well and, believe me, you don’t look like one.”
Given that I risk talking too much, I change the subject. “Who cares, let’s talk about important stuff! I had no idea you had a relationship with Sean Page! Isn’t he that Californian mega-millionaire computer genius who lives as a recluse? How the hell did you two meet?”
Cécile shrugs and replies: “I saw a picture in a newspaper. I liked him.”
“And how did you meet him?”
“I sued him,” she replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I look at her and realise that, given that she’s quite a peculiar person, this way of doing things fits her perfectly.
While the barman makes cocktails for the guests, I scan the chairs and see the heads of those who are listening to the high notes of the soprano.
I stop on two ice blue eyes that are looking directly into mine.
It’s Carter!
He raises an eyebrow and invites me to sit next to him with an imperceptible nod of the head.
“Lady Burlingham,” he greets me in a whisper as soon as I sit down.
“Please! You made that sound like an insult.”
“Perhaps I would have taken it better if you had told me right away,” he replies.
“If you had asked me: ‘Are you married to Ashford Parker?’ I would have said I am. You didn’t ask me, so I thought that announcing it was not necessary… you didn’t seem particularly interested in titles.”
“Neither did you.”
“I’m sorry you had that impression, but it’s not like that.”
“You owe me a scotch. Double, neat,” he replies.
“But that was the Skyper-Kensitts’ scotch!”
“Yes, but I offered it to you,” he whispers jokingly.
“Second row, eh? You must really be into this concert,” I point out.
“I couldn’t refuse.”
“Neither could I,” I comment, looking towards Ashford.
Carter shows me an mp3 player protruding from his pocket, and he points at the earpiece hanging from his right ear. “I was forced to be here, but not to listen.”
“Genius.”
He hands me the other earpiece. “To save you, tonight, I can only offer Dire Straits.”
In my life, I’ve imagined all sorts of things: roses, chocolates, heart shaped balloons, but I had never thought that sharing headphones could be this romantic.
While Romeo & Juliet is playing, we don’t pay any attention to the concert taking place in the hall, we just clap mechanically every time we see the other guests do it.
Carter and I don’t say a word, we just occasionally exchange knowing looks; I start thinking that it could be time to put that open marriage thing into practice.
Carter is interested in me, this is obvious, or he wouldn’t spend so much time with a married woman.
Besides, it’s the second time he saves me from boredom!
Towards the end of Dire Straits’ Greatest Hits, I feel a hand beating lightly on my shoulder. It’s Cécile.
“I’m about to go and I wanted to say goodbye. For your information, Ashford is up there on the balcony,” she says pointing at him in the gilded parapet, “and he’s pissed as hell. I know this is none of my business, but maybe you should join him.”
For a moment, my eyes meet Ashford’s, and I see that they’re narrowed in anger; he’s furrowing his brow and his lips are tightened. He’s challenging me openly: get up from that chair and come on up, or stay there and I’ll deal with you later.
I have a third option.
I turn towards Carter and say: “How about that double scotch I owe you, how about we go and get it? I feel generous tonight.”
“Now?” He asks, more out of amusement than of lack of confidence. He never seems to lack confidence.
“You came by car, didn’t you?”
“As I always do.”
“Awesome,” I say, looking sharply at Ashford, who gives me a grim look from the gallery in exchange.
As soon as I get into Carter’s Porsche, I send a message to Ashford.
Heading to have a drink with Carter. Enjoy the Siberian howler monkey. Don’t wait up for me.
“Shall we go to Mason’s Head?” He asks.
I don’t even know where it is. “Sounds perfect.”
30
Ashford’s Version
“Call.”
“What?” Harring shouts.
“Call,” I repeat.
“Are you crazy? First you fold with a pair, now you call with an ace and a face card on the table without even raising?” He asks in disbelief.
“Mmm,” I moan as I look at the pendulum clock for the umpteenth time.
Harring snatches the cards out of my hands. “You have a full house,” and then he throws them in the air. “Where the hell is your head tonight? Do you want to play or not?”
After the Russian soprano’s performance and, above all, after Jemma’s message, I didn’t feel like staying at the party, so I invited Harring to Denby for a poker hand.
“Yes… no… I don’t know.”
Harring takes the cards back and starts shuffling them. “Will you talk to me and tell me what the fuck is wrong?”
“Nothing,” I growl.
“You’ve been looking at the clock with that blank expression ever since we got here.”
“Okay, then!” I give up. “I have to tell you, because I’m going nuts.”
“Speak! That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
“Jemma has gone
out.”
“I know.”
“Remember that story I told you? That we got married but that we have agreed on an open marriage, and so on?”
“Crystal clear.”
“It isn’t exactly how it really went: my father left me swimming in debt, and the banks were about to foreclose on everything I owned. Jemma, on the other hand, could inherit her grandmother’s millions and leave that rat hole in Lewisham only by marrying a titled man. Coincidentally, my solicitor was also the executor of her grandmother’s will, and he arranged our marriage so that she could inherit after becoming a duchess, and I could repay my debts with part of her money. It was totally driven by financial interests, but some bigmouth leaked the whole thing and we’re now forced to live as husband and wife for a reasonable time to make it credible. In order to keep our love lives and business apart, we agreed that we can have our own relationships.”
Harring stands up, astounded. “I need a drink. Do you have any brandy?”
“Can you stay sober until I’m done with the story?”
“This story is getting more and more compelling,” he comments.
“According to the agreement, Jemma has wasted no time. After the concert, she left with…”
“What a woman of her word!”
“… with Carter Willoughby.”
Harring is visibly startled.
“What? And did you let her go?”
“And how could I prevent it?”
“By telling her that he’s a twat, for example?”
“I have no right to do so. Besides, she would think that I’m jealous.”
“Would that be the truth?”
“No!” I exclaim vehemently, I’m almost shocked by Harring’s question.
“Willoughby, that dickhead! Well, if it doesn’t bother you at all to think of him holding her hand, putting his arm around her waist and lowering the straps of her dress…”
“It doesn’t bother me, no. It drives me crazy! It makes me sick, it disgusts me and it makes me want to smash everything.”
My friend rolls his eyes. “That’s very strange for someone who got married just for money…”
“What about my self-esteem? My pride? The woman who’s officially known as my wife goes out and flirts with my nemesis. It could be anyone else, but not him.”
“Jealousy has nothing to do with it, then?” Harring insists.
“No!”
“All right, I believe you. I’ll pretend not to have a brain and I’ll believe what you say.”
“I asked you to listen to me, not to draw conclusions.”
“Now that you’ve vented, I assume you’re able to think clearly again. Can we play another hand of Hold’em?”
“I won’t be able to think clearly until I see Jemma cross that threshold, for God’s sake!” I roar, slamming a fist on the windowsill. “I don’t care if I have to wait all night,” I mutter to myself.
Thinking of dealing with that loose cannon Willoughby again makes my blood boil.
31
Jemma’s Version
After the night of the concert, I was expecting a reaction similar to a nuclear explosion from Ashford, but nothing happened.
The following day, he simply asked me how my evening had been and asked me to be more discreet, since, even though I have the right to have my own life and relationships, I should try to keep a low profile at least.
Perhaps he’s right, but I’m dying to teach him a lesson. Whenever I’m obliged to take part in those pompous evenings, I yearn for revenge, because he’s completely at ease, in his element, and it really seems he doesn’t give a damn about my isolation and discomfort. Besides, the fact that he despises Carter makes me want to hang out with him even more.
Carter likes me, I know this. After our after concert scotch in a half deserted pub, he took me back home and he almost kissed me. We said goodbye and he kissed me under my ear – it was too precise to be accidental – and on the corner of the mouth. If I had been a little more self-confident, maybe I would have made my move.
There’s a drag hunt this morning; according to what Lance explained to me, it’s a symbolic hunt during which people on horseback and a pack of hounds chase a trail which simulates the smell of a fox, over a course of about ten miles in the woods. From what I understood, the official hunting season opens in October; however, this is a further occasion to show off, and the lovely members of the aristocratic world would never miss a single one of them, not even in summer.
Needless to say, Ashford is the designated master of hounds for this season, so this will be a top event for the Parker family.
I’m not into hunting and, as far as I’m concerned, I always root for the fox, even though it’s not there on this particular occasion.
If nothing else, I won’t make a bad impression, given that I can ride a horse well enough.
I even have a damn fine cowgirl outfit! The Texan boots and the belt are relics belonging to my father (the boots are a little loose but I’ll wear two pairs of socks and they’ll fit just fine); I bought the fringe leather vest at the Brick Lane market and the cowboy hat was on sale at a costume shop. Who knew that I would have the chance to use it!
The hunt will take place on the Danburys’ estate, at Avon House. I join the members of the hunting club after having changed my clothes and, when Ashford sees me, he almost chokes on his champagne.
“You never fail to amaze me. Negatively,” he growls with clenched teeth when I approach him.
“I’m not going to wear one of those colanders you all put on your heads. And those red jackets make you look like a legion of Santa’s little helpers.”
“Oh well, you look like a character from a Sergio Leone movie.”
Harring is there too, and he claps his hands in amusement as soon as he sees me. “I wish I had thought of it first!”
“You can’t talk. You don’t even hunt!” Ashford reproaches him.
“Indeed,” Harring says, shrugging. “I just came for the buffet.”
“Isn’t Cécile here?” I ask.
“No, she’s no longer been a welcome since she hid the foxes at the last three hunts…” says Harring, then he stops and elbows Ashford. “Shitface, eleven o’clock.”
Ashford furrows his brows in anger, so I turn round to see who they’re referring to.
It’s Carter, who comes closer to greet me as soon as he notices I’m there.
“Hello, Jemma.” Then he turns towards the other two men. “Harring, Parker.”
“Didn’t you have anything better to do?” Ashford asks.
“Not better than what I see here,” Carter replies. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but I think he looked at me while saying that.
“You’re not welcome.”
“How strange,” Carter says, pulling a card out of his jacket. “My invitation says the opposite.”
Ashford and Harring are totally baffled.
Okay, God helps those who help themselves… that’s what they say, isn’t it? Since I knew that Ashford would never invite Carter to the meet, I took one of the blank invitations, I put it in an envelope with his address on it, and I hid it among those to be sent.
“You look surprised,” Carter observes.
“I am. About what I did,” Ashford replies, holding the invitation in his hands with anger.
The field are gathering in the courtyard, so Ashford gives the invitation back to Carter. “It’s time to go.”
Ashford mounts his horse and rides through the crowd shouting ‘Tally ho’.
32
Ashford’s Version
‘My invitation says the opposite.’
Fuck you, Willoughby.
I didn’t send him a bloody thing. Apparently, Jemma’s completely in ecstasy about that good-for-nothing.
She looks at him with wide eyes as if he were the eighth wonder of the world and she hangs on his every word as if he were a guru.
If she knew what I know, she would stay miles away from hi
m.
Wait a second.
Where the hell are they?
33
Jemma’s Version
We ride at full speed, because Ashford wants to keep it fast, certainly he wants to prove that he’s the best, as usual. So cocky. No man who’s really self-confident needs to prove anything.
Carter rides at my speed; when the rest are about to head deep into the woods, we slow down until our horses are almost walking.
“Aren’t you going to catch up with your husband?” He asks.
“I’ll give him a head start.”
“Bad idea. He’s a Parker. He’ll believe he deserved it,” Carter replies, getting closer to me.
“I have no doubt about it.”
“You never praise Ashford very much, do you?”
“Would you like to hear me doing that?” I ask.
Carter approaches me dangerously, his face is in front of mine. “Not really, no.”
Then my horse tosses her head and plunges forward. She was as quiet as a grazing cow just a second ago, but now her head is down and she is bucking and twisting and I can barely keep hold of the reins. She pays no attention to my attempts to restrain her and calm her down, she just unseats me and gallops off into the woods.
Carter dismounts and helps me to my feet, but I realise that my left leg doesn’t support my weight.
“Boy, it hurts!” I complain.
“Did you get hurt?”
“I must have hit my knee in the fall. I can’t stand on my left leg.”
“You can’t certainly get back on a horse then.”
“Poppy ran away into the woods! I don’t understand what might have happened, she was so calm.”
“She wanted to catch up with the others. Listen, I’ll take you to Avon House now, where you can lie down on a comfortable sofa and put ice on your knee. How does that sound?”
Carter reaches out his arms to help me.
“I’m in your hands,” I say, letting him put me on his horse.
*
I feel really pampered. Carter picked me up and took me to the private parlour, where he laid me on a beautiful sofa with plenty of cushions. He also gave me some ice for my knee and champagne to relieve the pain.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 17