“You men are so lucky! You’re always well covered in your suits and dinner jackets, whereas we women spend our time freezing, wrapped in our silk and taffeta!” She says, rubbing her arms with the palms of her hands. “I would ask for your jacket, but then you’d be cold.”
With a light snort of annoyance, I take off my jacket and hand it to her. Why does every word she says sound manipulating, as if I owed her something for ditching her? If I didn’t feel obliged to be polite to her, at least in public, I would have left her on the staircase.
“Come on, sit down, there’s no point in standing there! Sooner or later Harring, Loxley or your wife will pass by. You’re more likely to find them if you wait here, rather than search throughout Greer Manor.”
I sit down just to please her, but I decide to be very clear with her. “I hope that no one starts making things up or puts strange ideas in Jemma’s head after seeing us here.”
“Does she know about us? Did you tell Jemma?”
“Yes, I did. As you can imagine, she wasn’t happy at the idea, and I can’t blame her.”
“If she really loves you, she must believe what you say, not the gossip she hears here and there.”
“You know this is a difficult environment to live in.”
“Oh, look! An eyelash!” She says, touching my cheekbone with a finger. “Blow and make a wish.”
Before I can push her hand away from my face, I hear people muttering in the party hall, and I see that the guests have gathered in front of one of the glass doors of the balcony.
79
Jemma’s Version
When I open my eyes, everything is spinning. I am dazzled by the candelabra and I feel the cold marble floor against my back, while an indistinct number of people are bending over me.
“Jemma.” It’s Ashford. He kneels beside me, lifting me up against his chest. “What happened to her?”
Audrey Davenport arrives with a glass. “Drink this, dear, sugar water. Oh, Ashford, it was terrible! We saw her panting, she was as pale as a ghost and, before she could say anything, she collapsed!”
“Ashford, let me tell you that your wife looks terrible,” Neville grumbles. “I will send my personal doctor to Denby tomorrow.”
“Lady Audrey, would you please have our car prepared? Jemma needs some rest. Perhaps the wine and the crowd have been too much for her.”
I don’t utter a word; I do not know what to say. It’s true, I feel terrible, but I’m sure it’s not due to the wine or the crowd.
When I went out for a breath of fresh air, I saw Ashford and Portia from the window. They were on the balcony in the moonlight, in an attitude of unmistakable flirtation. He had his back to me, but he didn’t seem to be rejecting her advances. When she caressed his face, I started feeling dizzy, and I don’t remember anything else.
I’m quiet, pretending to be in a state of semi-consciousness until we get to Denby. I let them put me to bed like a rag doll – my bed, in my apartment – and, as soon as I’m alone, I abandon myself to tears until I fall asleep.
The next morning, I sit by myself in the dining room, where they’ve prepared a rich buffet to help me to recover, but nothing attracts me. I’m falling apart.
Ashford is already dressed, wearing one of those cashmere jumpers that look impeccable on him. He’s coming to greet me. “You made me worry! I wanted to have breakfast with you in bed, and instead I find you up already!”
As soon as he tries to kiss me, a violent wave of nausea attacks me, so I jump up and run for the nearest bathroom.
He won’t touch me with the same hands with which he touched Portia.
What I saw last night, the two of them on the balcony, is engraved in my mind, and every time I think about it, I have the same feeling of malaise that made me faint.
I feel Ashford grab my arm. “Where are you going? What’s the matter?”
“Let me go, Ashford,” I order.
“Not if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“If you don’t want me to throw up on the polished floor of your ancient manor, I suggest that you release my arm now.”
“Jemma, you haven’t talked to me since last night. I don’t even know if you’re okay or not. Remember that I found you passed out on the floor? I have the right to be worried about you!”
“No, Ashford, I’m not okay, if that’s what you want to know. And no, you have no right to be worried.” I set myself free from his grasp with a jerk. “I’m going to Cécile’s.”
80
Ashford’s Version
It’s exhausting. When Jemma acts like this, she drains me of all my energy. I wish I could get inside her head, to read all the things she’s not telling me.
There’s a menacing hypothesis that I barely consider but I don’t dare mention: maybe she saw me with Portia, or worse, someone told her they saw me with Portia, perhaps exaggerating their report with imaginary details.
I’m more than at peace with my conscience.
I’m in the study, trying to focus on the estimated value of the paintings of that unfortunate Russian artist whose death apparently restored my economic prosperity, but I can’t.
Besides, I’m worried that Loxley will turn Jemma against me even more.
Lance knocks on the door. “Miss Portia is waiting to be received.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, astonished.
“She has just arrived.”
If I don’t receive her myself, I’m sure she’ll ask to meet my mother, who will invite her to stay for lunch, and I want to prevent them from teaming up. I’ll do it, but I’ll be concise, then I’ll personally accompany her to the door and ask her to never come to Denby uninvited again.
“Let her in.”
When she enters the study, I don’t take my eyes off the papers.
“Am I interrupting business?” She asks cheerfully, while closing the door behind her with a slight thud.
“What do you need?” My tone is cold and detached.
“I stopped by to give your jacket back,” she answers, swinging a hanger with my jacket wrapped up in cellophane. “Last night, in the chaos, you left before I could return it.”
“You could have left it with Lance.”
“I took the opportunity to say hello and thank you for your chivalry.”
“I see that your ankle is much better.” I can’t help but notice that she’s walking without any problems, and she’s even wearing high heels.
“Ice works wonders,” she replies, most naturally. “And how is your wife? Is she okay?”
“She’s already left the house under her own steam, so I’d say she is. It takes more than fainting, to keep her down.”
Portia comes round to my side of the desk to poke her nose into my stuff. “Property management must be rather boring … if you want, I can get my father to assist you. He’s a very capable financial adviser.”
I close the folder with a sharp movement. “Portia, your game is starting to annoy me, and I don’t like it.”
“What game?” She asks, naively.
“This! You come here, look for me, talk to me with any excuse. What are you doing, what’s your objective?”
“You know, if you were really as in love as you say, you wouldn’t be afraid of what you call ‘my game’… if you are, then I must assume that a part of you is tempted to give in.”
“Give in to what? What are you talking about?”
“About me, about us. I’ve always believed that our story wasn’t totally over, and I’m even more sure, after last night. Jemma is a temporary interlude, but I was here before her, and I always will be.”
“This is not true, and do you know why? I’ll tell you a secret about us men: if we really value something, we don’t let go of it. If I ever wanted you to become my wife, I wouldn’t have hesitated to ask you.”
Portia doesn’t look shaken by my words.
“I’ll tell you something about you men: you don’t know what you want. You never do. But I’m pati
ent. In the end, you’ll get tired of Jemma and you’ll miss what we had.”
“We never had anything, Portia.”
“Let me refresh your memory.” She says, then she bends over to kiss me.
I’ve never thought that I would find a woman revolting, yet that’s how I feel now: I’m disgusted. I pull away abruptly. “You’re crazy. The idea of marrying you never even crossed my mind back then, and it never will.”
As she picks up her bag and shoots me a grim look, I notice with horror that the door of the study is open.
81
Jemma’s Version
She’s kissing him.
She’s kissing him!
Portia’s hands are clinging to his shoulders and her lips are on his.
I’m short of breath again, the same way I was last night, when I saw them on the terrace.
As I walk away, my heart starts pounding faster and faster. A part of me, which I didn’t even know was there, is holding the reins of my melodramatic side: in the past, I would have stormed into the room screaming and throwing the first things to hand. Now, there’s something inside me which is looking for a warm blanket to wrap myself up in after this cold shower, or a piece of chocolate after this bitter pill. I’m not angry, maybe I will be later, or maybe I’ll never be. I have no desire for revenge or violence.
If I hadn’t been back, I would have never seen that horrible scene. Why did I return?
Halfway to Cécile’s place, I felt guilty for what I had said to Ashford, so I had the chauffeur turn the car round and head back to Denby, to apologise to him and talk. And I found him with Portia! Guilty, my arse!
I drag myself to my room, but before collapsing on my bed, I go to the connecting door, which I’ve always left open lately, and I turn the key twice.
This is self-preservation in full swing. Once again, after I lowered my defences and got vulnerable, I was stabbed in the back. I’ve never felt my heart bleed as much as today. In my mind, I see confused flashes of the most beautiful moments of the last few months, when a secret fairy tale seemed to have come true between me and Ashford, but they abruptly alternate with the image of a victorious Portia holding him and kissing him away from prying eyes, mine.
I can’t take it any more. I would like to vent my fury and abandon myself to one of those angry outbursts that are generally so natural for me at these times, but I can’t do anything. I’m unable to react. Just like when I saw them on the terrace. I didn’t wade in to give them hell; I beat a retreat instead, to nurse my wounded pride and the pieces of my broken heart.
I don’t even dare open my eyes, because I’m afraid to see the walls closing in on me.
Why did it happen again? Why with Ashford?
I suddenly sit up in a panic when I hear the handle of the connecting door being pulled once, twice, before I hear Ashford’s voice calling me.
“Jemma, are you in there?”
If I don’t answer, he’ll think that the room is empty and that the servants have locked the door by mistake. In this way, I can buy some more time.
Ashford stops calling me and leaves.
Oh, no, he’s not leaving. He’s now knocking on the main door, and I can no longer ignore him. Lance must have told him that I’m back, and locked doors are a pretty clear message, even for him.
I open it reluctantly, as I’m aware that I can’t pretend that everything is fine.
Ashford gets in and tries to hug me. “Jemma, why have you locked yourself in your room?”
I take a deep breath before I can utter a sentence that makes sense. “I saw you. You and Portia, you were kissing each other in the study.”
Ashford’s eyes are crossed by a flash of horror. “You do not know what you saw.”
“Do you think I’m blind? Was it my imagination? Or can you say it wasn’t you?”
Silence.
“Your silence speaks for you.”
“Portia did everything by herself: she came here with an excuse, then she started pressing me more and more, but I rejected her.”
“My hero!” I shout, exasperated.
“I rejected her,” he repeats.
“That’s not what I saw.”
“What are we even talking about?”
“You, us, love and truth, that’s what we’re talking about. And the relationship you still have with Portia, even if I was convinced that something was going on between you and me.”
“I don’t have a relationship with Portia!”
“Don’t lie to me! I have too much experience in being cheated on, and I know how to spot a lie.”
“Jemma, this is all wrong.”
Why is his defence so weak? “Stop it. You don’t want me, you never did. At the beginning, at least, you didn’t hide your contempt. The cruellest thing you did was stringing me along!”
“Jesus Christ, Jemma, what do you mean?”
“This! You court me, you’re attracted to me, you fall in love with me… while you’re having an affair with Portia behind my back! In the stables of the polo club, at the Davenports’, even here in your study!”
“I don’t want Portia and I will never do.”
“Go tell someone who feels like believing you.”
“I can’t be more honest than this!”
“It’s not the first time. I saw you, as I saw you at the dance party on the terrace! She was all over you, as if her life depended on it.”
“She had a sprained ankle!”
“You’re pathetic, you can’t even make up decent excuses! I saw you, and my blood dried up in my veins. I fainted, and you were there next to me when I woke up, so I thought it was just a trick of my imagination, but what I saw today confirms that I didn’t invent anything.”
“Jemma, are you looking for an excuse to end it? Because there’s no need to.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you would be delighted to be free again with a queue of women drooling over you! I won’t stay here cramping your style!”
“And you can’t wait to go back to London to go clubbing and show off, can you?”
“I’m not one of those blind, deaf and mute dummies that you high up people are used to having as your wives. I have a shred of self-esteem left, and I won’t let you take it away from me.”
“You’re free not to believe me. I know that you are only interested in your own opinion. You’re as stubborn and uncontrollable as you’ve always been! Getting cleaned up and watching some movie with Keira Knightley in it did not change your bad temper!”
“You know what I think? That this train was destined to stop.” I take off my wedding ring and throw it across the room. “I’ll pack my bags now, I won’t stay here one more minute to let an arrogant and unfaithful liar like you make a fool of me. My life has never sucked as much as it did in these last months with you.”
“Well, do some soul searching, young lady! Living with you would turn the most reasonable man into a basket case! Ask yourself why everyone cheated on you in the past. Marrying a duke is the best thing that has ever happened to you! You’ve experienced more fidelity in six months than in your whole life.”
“You’re not a duke. You’re a bastard.”
“Want to insult me, after the slander you’ve made up so far? Be my guest! God knows I’m enough of a gentleman to take it.”
“Then be a gentleman and get out of my room.”
“This is my manor, so this is my room, and I’ll stay here as long as I want, whether you’re here or not.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be here for long,” I growl.
“Good.”
“Good.”
“I’m off now, but not because you told me to. I have better things to do.”
He slams the door behind him and, for a split second, I wish I could take it all back.
I can’t stay here any longer.
I go to the wardrobe to empty all the shelves and racks; I take dresses, trousers, shirts and God knows what else, because the tears in my eyes prevent me from seeing wha
t I’m doing.
82
Ashford’s Version
My hands are shaking with anger, I swear. I’m pissed off with Jemma, because she won’t let me explain; she has already passed judgment and I haven’t even had a chance to defend myself.
I’m pissed off with Portia, because it’s clear that, by behaving in that way, she hoped that Jemma and I would split up. She’s a cold and calculating bitch, and I should have known that she had a plan up her sleeve. She’s got no respect for anyone or anything, even herself.
And, finally, I’m pissed off with myself because, as much as I can justify my actions, I’m a dickhead.
I’m a dickhead because, in my naivety, I wasn’t clear enough with Portia, and I didn’t keep her at a safe distance. I wanted to treat her as politely as possible for matters of etiquette, but this only encouraged her. If I had set aside good manners and shut the door on her, I would have avoided every misunderstanding.
I’m a dickhead because I never told her clearly and unequivocally I wasn’t and I will never be interested in spending my life with her.
I’m a dickhead because she was an easy shag and I took advantage of it, without ever defining that we weren’t a couple.
I’m a dickhead because, one hand after another, I dealt her excellent cards to play her game.
And now, Jemma and I are paying for this.
Jemma is full of flaws, and she’s light years away from what I thought my ideal woman was, but, unfortunately, she’s the only one that I want.
I slept on the sofa in the library, on which I collapsed after taking out at least ten books, without being able to concentrate enough to read any of them.
I don’t know what time it is, but what I know for sure is that nobody came to find me.
I feel a bit disappointed. Jemma and I have had arguments of all sorts, using every tone in our vocal range, and a tiny part of me expected – or hoped, at least – that she would take her time to cool off, and then she would find me and ask for explanations, so that we could sort it out together, as adults.
How (Not) to Marry a Duke Page 31