“Portia. There’s Portia, over there,” I announce in a flat tone while nodding towards her.
As if she had perceived my attention, Portia turns towards us. She’s on the other side of the conservatory, behind exotic bushes, yet she returns my look with a smile which cuts like a blade.
“There’s no reason to be so tense,” Ashford whispers.
“Mmm,” I groan, unconvinced.
“It is inevitable that we will meet her at these events, but you don’t have to hang around with her.”
“Do we have to stay here for long?” I ask, struggling to ignore that glacial look.
“No, Jemma. We can go back to Denby whenever you want,” he replies, understandingly.
76
Ashford’s Version
“And so, she was petrified when she saw her.” I’m in the stables at the polo club and, as I prepare my horse for the final match, I tell Harring about the evening at Kew Gardens.
“I can’t blame her. Portia has an extraordinary power to turn people into stone with a single look, like Medusa.”
“Jemma reacted as if she were facing an exam she can’t pass, as if there were a rival she’s not up to. But all I want is to be with her, I don’t even look at other women.”
“Are you sure you didn’t give her a different impression?” Asks Harring, without taking his eyes off his mobile.
“No, never!” Then I think about it for a moment. “Well, maybe at the beginning I didn’t go easy on her, I often pointed out that her attitude and appearance were inadequate, but it’s different now! She’s perfect, she’s strong and charismatic, and she’s worth ten of those skinny broomsticks! Portia included!”
A third shadow stretches across the floor of the stable block. “You didn’t think like that until a few months ago.”
Shit.
It’s Portia, who approaches to our bewilderment.
Harring – damn him – reaches the door quickly. “I, um, I’m busy, I left the oven on and… good luck, Parker!”
“Harring… the same old fearless knight,” Portia comments, once we’re alone.
“What brings you here?” I ask, trying to look as relaxed as possible.
“My brother plays on the opposing team, remember?”
“Sure.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”
“How are you?” I repeat, flatly.
“Fine,” she says, but her expression is impossible to decipher.
“I’m glad.”
“Sure, I see that.”
“Sorry about earlier,” is all I can say. “That came out wrong…”
“Oh, so you’re apologising about what you said a little while ago. I must have missed something, though, because I don’t remember you apologising for vanishing and reappearing with a wedding ring on your finger and a wife from Lewisham. Perhaps because you never did.” Portia is a master at disguising resentment; despite what she said, her expression is an enigma.
“Love at first sight,” I explain.
“You? You can’t believe I will buy such a pathetic excuse.”
“What do you want from me, Portia?” I ask, exasperated.
“At first, I yearned for revenge, then I just wanted to make you feel like a worm. Now, I don’t want anything. Being a woman, I’m used to whimsical men who may have passed thirty but are nothing but spoilt babies. In any case, I hope you didn’t think that I would turn a blind eye and not say a word.”
“Perhaps I should have been clearer, but you and I were never a couple.”
“And therefore you didn’t think it was necessary to talk to me. I’m okay with that. Let’s get this straight: I didn’t lose any sleep over you.”
She’s exasperating! Like a boa constrictor that wraps around its prey before strangling it in its coils.
“Peace.” Suddenly, her expression changes, showing a peaceful and diplomatic smile. “We’re adults and we move in the same social circles. Let’s do it in a relaxed way, free from embarrassment,” she reaches out her hand. “Now that we have broken the ice, there’s no point in avoiding each other at all costs. We can breathe the same air. I hope you are happy and treat your wife better than you treated me.”
I shake her hand. “Well then. See you, Portia.”
“Yes, I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss the team taking to the field. I wish you good luck, but don’t hope that I’ll support your team, this time.”
“Thanks,” I dismiss her.
Shortly after Portia left, Jemma arrives at the stables.
“Hey sunshine!” I greet her, picking her up in my arms.
“I thought you were with Harring.”
“I was, he left a while ago.”
“Portia came out from here a little while ago, not Harring,” her voice is shaky.
“Her brother plays in the opposing team. She stopped in to say hello. And to talk.”
“About what?” Asks Jemma inquiringly.
“About everything. And I told her that we never had a relationship, that I didn’t want to marry her, and that I didn’t feel obliged to justify myself for marrying you. Now that we’ve put things right, we can attend the same places without risking being caught in the crossfire of anti-tank missiles.”
“Did you tell her we’re happy?”
I kiss her to remove every doubt. “Why, isn’t that obvious?”
77
Jemma’s Version
Since that Sunday, when I saw Portia come out of the stable block, I’ve been in a state of constant anxiety. My stomach is closed, so I can’t even eat.
Ashford’s words come back to my mind and, even if they’ve never had a relationship, thinking that there was something between them tears me apart. And Portia… every time she looks at me, I can see in her eyes that she thinks she should be in my place, as Ashford’s wife and Duchess of Burlingham.
I can no longer find the courage I had when I beat her with shameless confidence at the gentlemen’s auction. Maybe because I had no feelings for Ashford back then, I had nothing to lose and I only cared about saving my reputation. Now, I feel vulnerable and defenceless, constantly alert, as if there were something dangerous outside, something ready to undermine our delicate balance. Portia.
“Honey, be positive. Your aura is fading!” Comments my mother while I’m describing Portia for the umpteenth time.
“How can I be positive when all my past boyfriends were cheaters who broke my heart into pieces? I’m terrified that this is history repeating itself.”
“Ashford isn’t that kind of laddie,” Dad mumbles. “I’ve seen everything with you. I wouldn’t have bet a penny on any of your exes.”
“Do you really have to leave now?” I ask, looking at them with imploring eyes, hoping to change their minds.
“Martha and Hollister have bought a farm at Matlock Meadows, and they asked for our help to start it up. We’ve been friends for thirty years, we can’t let them down. They have stables, aviaries, rabbit runs and sheep pens; that makes a lot of creatures to take care of. Once they start it up, they won’t need us much. It’s just for a month!” Mum reassures me, kissing my forehead.
Damn you, Martha and Hollister! You should have stayed in Lewisham, selling crystals and candles in that New Age shop of yours!
“I could come and visit you.”
“You and Ashford would both benefit from a breath of fresh air.”
“We’re going to Barcelona soon.” I have the football tickets he gave me for my birthday, but I doubt the match will still be the main reason for the trip.
“Go away for a while. You deserve some time to yourselves. You’ve done enough dance parties and receptions,” Dad encourages me.
“Not tonight, though. There’s the last charity society evening of the season. We were invited by the Davenports.”
*
The evening could not be more pompous. The Davenports have opened the large gothic gallery with spectacular fan vaulting and majestic stained glass wi
ndows which go all the way up to the ceiling.
“Whenever I enter this room, I always think that I could find myself in the middle of a medieval sword fight,” says Harring, who walks in with us.
“Don’t worry, there’s no danger. In the Middle Ages, duels were fought to defend one’s honour, but since you don’t have any, you’re the last person in this room to be at risk,” says a female voice behind us.
“Loxley! Stop sneaking up on people! How old are you, three?” Harring says.
“I wish. I’d be much better. So? What are we signing cheques for tonight? Wells in Africa? Schools in Bolivia?” Asks my friend, getting straight to the point.
“Reintegration of misfits into the community,” Ashford replies.
“Have you heard him, Harring?” Cécile asks, nudging him. “It’s our evening!”
“Speak for yourself, Loxley. I don’t want to be reintegrated anywhere.”
“I just don’t get why I made everyone in high society turn their noses up for months. The two of you behave even worse in public! I mean, look at you! Cécile, you could be a character from Shining, and, Harring, your reputation is simply embarrassing! No offence. I love you both, but it’s a fact, and you’re the first to admit it.”
Harring gets all excited and proud. “Let me explain one thing: I was born when my parents were not yet married, and it was a scandal at the time. My father was the younger son and the title of viscount should have gone to his older brother, my uncle. Unfortunately, the latter died a few years ago in a car accident and, since he had had no children, my father ended up with the title of Viscount of Westborough. This makes me the heir to the title, and a lucky bastard, according to these people. But it’s a birthright, so they have to accept it, and kiss my ass.”
“My story, well, you know about it. Half French for generations, misanthrope and atheist, and I still inherited the title from my parents. I’m allowed to hate anyone at my discretion, because no one, not even a husband, can take my title away,” Cécile adds.
“Don’t go bragging, lady!” Harring reproaches her.
“For your information, Viscount Harring, as a marquise, I’m right on top of you.”
“Oh, really?” Harring winks.
“Cécile… you served it on a silver platter!” I point out.
Ashford is amused by my friend’s mistake. “Yes, Loxley, you scored in your own goal, this time. Let’s get a drink and make sense of this evening!”
*
“Anyway, I have to congratulate you, Cécile. Tonight, you had the longest conversation ever with Harring. An authentic record.”
“You’re right, I’m being a little dull. I should go back to my old standards: fulminating insults shorter than four seconds,” she grumbles.
“Accept it, the older, the wiser,” I mock her.
“Anyway, let’s go back to when you said you love me and Harring, you didn’t mean in the same way, did you? I mean, you love me a bit more, right?”
“Let’s put it this way: if I were a lesbian, you’d be my first choice.”
“If I were a lesbian, my first choice would be any of Victoria’s Secret Angels. Sorry, Jemma, but I aim high.”
“Bugger off, Cécile,” I say. Then I turn towards the entrance of the hall and I freeze. “Bugger off.”
“Yes, I heard you, no need to repeat that,” Cécile complains.
“The second one was not for you. That praying mantis, Portia, is here.”
“What do you care? She’s not alone! She’s with… what’s his name? Baldy!” Says Cécile, pointing at the chap standing next to her.
“Who?”
“The guy she came with, Baldy! I can’t think of his name, but I remember that’s what they called him at university. Exams caused him so much stress that he lost his hair in strands, and his head was all patchy,” Cécile narrows her eyes to see the couple more clearly. “I can’t say if he still suffers from hair loss, because his head is shaved, but I’m sure it’s him. Turning up with such a type is quite a strange choice for one who was aiming for a duke.”
“Hair loss or not, her presence annoys me. Knowing that she’s in the same room as Ashford makes me… aargh,” I can’t even finish my sentence.
“Yeah, if I have to be ruthlessly honest with you, you’ve been looking awful for a while, now. You’re tense, tired, pale… are you eating?”
“Not much. I don’t feel like it. I have thoughts in my head, my stomach is closed and food is the least of my worries. Cécile, I’ve been cheated on repeatedly in the past, and finding myself in front of the ghost of Ashford’s ex brings back my worst fears.”
“We just have to hope that Baldy hides a monster penis in his underwear, so that Portia will be busy for a while.”
“Weren’t you the one who found sex disgusting? How come you’re weighing the equipment of the guests, now?”
“I’m just evaluating the various possibilities.”
“Okay, then. While you evaluate possibilities, I’ll be in the bathroom.”
78
Ashford’s Version
“That Loxley should be locked up in a cell with padded walls, and someone should throw away the key,” Harring mumbles.
“Why do you reply every time she speaks to you? Ignore her!” I stress.
“We’re at a charity evening! I have to be kind to the less fortunate!”
“You and kindness are two parallel lines. Not destined to meet.”
“Speaking of meetings, what did Portia want the other day at the polo match?”
“To talk. Or rather, she humiliated me first, and then she talked. She pointed her finger at us wicked men who break the hearts of young innocent damsels.”
“Innocent? Her? The same person you found open legged with no underwear on your billiard table?”
“I shouldn’t have told you that story.”
“And all the others: in the Leighs’ shed, in the conservatory behind your mother’s ficus, in the trophy room at the polo club…”
“Haz, I don’t need a summary of the previous episodes!”
“I’m your memory, brother.”
“You’re a pain in my arse! However, Portia resolved that, as we’re obliged to attend the same functions, we’d better bury the hatchet and move on with our lives.”
“How strange… knowing Portia, I would have expected her to use the hatchet to chop you into pieces and toss you into the Thames on a foggy February night.”
“Being Portia, she probably considered that option first,” I comment absent mindedly while looking around. “I can’t see Jemma. She was with Loxley.”
“I have no idea,” he says. Then, his mobile phone rings, he reads a text and gives me a hasty pat on the shoulder. “I’m busy now. Enjoy the evening, Parker. See you later. Maybe.”
I leave Haz to his adventures and decide to look for Jemma. I walk through the ballroom but I can’t find her, then I get into the maze of Greer Hall’s corridors.
These parties are wicked: when you’re looking for someone, you meet everyone except who you want.
In fact, I was blocked by Murray, Sir Robert, Lord Neville, Lady Venetia and Lady Augusta.
As I descend the staircase to return to the ballroom, I see someone sitting on the bottom step, leaning against the marble parapet and sinking in a cloud of tulle. By the time I realise who it is, it’s too late to turn round and leave. She’s already looking in my direction.
“Ashford!” Her tone is somewhat friendly.
“Portia.”
“Are you fleeing from the crazy crowd?”
“You’re not enjoying the party yourself,” I remark.
She lifts the hem of her skirt showing her bare foot. “I stumbled and sprained my ankle. I’m waiting for the cold marble to relieve the pain. Unfortunately, my partner for the evening is not much of a gentleman, and I think he disappeared in the brandy room.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“If I have to be honest, no, thanks. Better a
lone than in bad company, and Lewis confirms the proverb.”
“Does he still suffer from hair loss?”
“Only in the season changes,” she says. “It’s one of the features which make him charming.”
The usual awkward silence falls between us. I know I should probably say something, but, at the same time, I would like to find a nice way to tell her that now, sprained ankle or not, I have to go.
She looks at me with a pacifying smile. “Would you mind escorting your old friend Portia to the terrace? If nothing else, I can sit comfortably and enjoy the illuminated garden.”
I hesitate. “I—”
“Come on, I’m not asking for the moon, after all.”
Before she starts making me feel guilty, I offer her my arm to help her stand. God, why did you give me this cross to bear?
“Don’t you find it strange that these parties are so crowded with people who crave an invitation, and then most of them look for an excuse to disappear and have a moment of peace?” She observes. “Lewis, you, me—”
“Actually, I was looking for my wife.”
“Did you lose your beloved bride?”
“She was in the ballroom with Loxley. I went to get a drink and when I got back, both of them had disappeared.”
“Loxley is a terrible person. Everyone I know barely tolerates her.”
“She’s odd, but Jemma gets on very well with her.” Although Cécile is not in my top ten favourite people, I don’t want to talk badly of her with Portia.
“You and Harring are great friends too, although you’re not much alike.”
“We complete each other. We’ve been friends for twenty-five years now.”
“And how long have we known each other?” She asks.
I sit her down one of the stone benches of the large balcony surrounded by ivy.
“I don’t know.”
“I met you at my brother’s first match at the polo junior championship, fifteen years ago.”
“Wow, double digits!” Should I care?
“You already stood out, back then. It has always been a natural gift of yours.”
I don’t reply to Portia’s compliment, with which she’s trying to flatter me, so she shrugs and changes the subject.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 30