Jemma’s Version
I feel small. Here, everything is oversized. The place is huge, the house and its rooms are gigantic, Ashford is so tall and his mother is a first class bitch.
“Welcome to Denby, Jemma,” Ashford announces.
“Lady Bedlam was not in the deal,” I complain.
“You will soon notice that I can’t control my mother, which is rather frustrating.”
“Have you heard her? She said she will stay and instruct me. I didn’t exactly see her jump for joy, and don’t you dare blame arthritis!”
Ashford shrugs. “I admit her back isn’t what it used to be, but you’ll understand that this must have shocked her.”
“Well, just as much as it shocked me. Listen up, Ashford: I don’t need or want to be instructed on anything!” I protest, crossing my arms.
Ashford raises an eyebrow as odiously as usual.
“I’m sure you don’t want to, but allow me to have some doubts about whether you need to be—”
Lance perceives the growing tension between us and feels obliged to intervene. “The duke and duchess must be tired from the drive, may I suggest some rest and perhaps a hot bath?”
With a loud sigh, Ashford says: “Thank you, Lance.”
Lance nods and invites us to follow him up the stairs.
Where I live, the staircase is only large enough for one person at a time, the steps are chipped, the handrail is unstable and there’s only one baluster in four left. This one here looks like that of a shopping centre: wide bends, red carpet and sculptures on the parapets. It’s basically a monument.
“I took the liberty of having the master apartments in the east wing prepared,” says Lance with a hint of pride.
On the first floor, we walk down a long hallway with a black and white chequered marble floor and I can see a long series of heavily carved doors. I can’t help but think of the castle from Beauty and the Beast. I look at Ashford, who is a step behind me, moody and petulant. Here’s our beast.
Lance opens one of the doors with a dramatic gesture and he leads us inside. “This is Lady Jemma’s room.”
“Just call me Jemma,” I say, to break the ice.
Lance doesn’t lose composure. “I must insist, Lady Jemma.”
Ashford cuts in before I can say anything. “Don’t try to overturn the natural order of things. None of the servants will ever call you Jemma, not even if you write it all over the walls.”
Lance coughs lightly to draw our attention while he opens the heavy curtains.
I stand still and my jaw drops open. It really is the castle from Beauty and the Beast!
The room is wide, with many thick carpets, two large arched windows with padded seats and on my right there’s an emperor size canopy bed! Screw you, Ashford, I could stay in this room for months and die a happy girl.
“Is the accommodation to your liking?”
“Blimey, Lance, are you even asking? You should see where I lived! I had a single window, which was as big as a coffee tray and sometimes passers-by let their dogs pee on its corners!”
With a puzzled expression, Lance turns towards Ashford, who makes a nonchalant gesture with his hand.
I start opening doors. Behind the one on the right of my bed, there’s a smaller room with many shelves.
“That’s the walk in wardrobe, My Lady.”
“No way! Hey Lance, this place is as big as my flat!” I say, tossing the sports bag containing my clothes into the empty wardrobe, which is massive.
“Here is the bathroom,” says Lance, pointing at the door to the left of the bed.
Bathroom? This is a spa! There’s an Olympic size bathtub, the shower is so big you could live in it and there’s also a diva vanity table.
“I reckon I’ll start from this room,” I say, examining the bottles of bath products, deliberating which to soak in asap.
“Well, I see that you’re settled and satisfied. I’ll leave you to it and see you at dinner as I have some things to do now.” Says Ashford, leaving the room, followed by Lance.
“Wait a second, what’s that?” I ask, indicating a double door opposite the bed.
Lance turns towards me and answers impassively. “It’s the bedroom we prepared for His Grace, the duke.”
Ashford puts on the expression of someone who has just been woken up with a bucket of frozen water. “Sorry, Lance, what about my room in the west wing?”
“The duchess ordered that we prepared the master apartments for you and your spouse. Obviously you will, um, decide which one to use.” To ease the embarrassment, Lance changes the subject. “We were ordered to prepare all the rooms of the west wing in view of the…” he says, then he lowers his voice and almost whispers: “Royal visit.”
Ashford starts spinning around like a headless chicken. “Everyone has lost their minds! I never said I would move to another room! Have I got any authority left in this house?”
Once again, Lance doesn’t lose any composure. “It made sense.” Ashford crosses my room with long strides and opens the connecting door with a rude gesture. There’s another door which is identical to that of my room, and he opens it with as much anger.
“It’s true then,” he murmurs to himself, irritated, noticing that all his belongings have been taken to that room.
At that very moment I realise with horror that Ashford, who should stay miles away from me, will sleep next door.
Ashford closes the double doors with a violent slam and leaves furiously.
Lance and I stand in the middle of the room exchanging stunned looks.
“If Lady Jemma allows me, I will take my leave. The duke’s mother is waiting for you in her study for a brief interview.”
“Has Lady Bedlam got a name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Bedlam, Ashford’s mother, has she got a name?”
I can see from Lance’s tense expression that he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Lady Delphina.”
I’m sure that as he went out he whispered ‘Lady Bedlam’ to himself, giggling.
*
After calling my parents to announce I have moved in here and reassuring them that I will visit as soon as possible, I gather all my inner strength to face Lady Bedlam.
But it takes me forty-five minutes to find the study.
I found out that the staircase we used earlier isn’t the only one: there’s another every twenty steps, and I’m pretty sure that they weren’t there when I arrived.
And the corridors? There are more than at King’s Cross station!
Luckily enough, I bump into Lance, and he accompanies me to Lady Bedlam’s study, rather sympathetically.
He announces me, then he hands me over to Lady Delphina.
She’s sitting in an armchair by the window and a lanky woman with her hair tied in a very tight bun stands behind her. Delphina is impassive. The skin on her face is as tight as a slingshot (plastic surgery, I suppose), the ash blonde, freshly dyed hair is static, petrified by hairspray; the impeccable white tailored suit, which seems carved in plaster, partly covers two skinny legs with pointy knees (I wonder whether she ever eats).
“Jenna,” she invites me to sit in the armchair opposite hers.
“It’s Jemma. With two m’s. I was expected to be a boy and be called ‘Jimi’, as in Jimi Hendrix. Then the midwife announced that I was a girl and Jimi became J-e-m-m-a,” I say, spelling my name.
Lady Delphina raises an eyebrow sceptically. “We can start.”
“Who is she?” I ask, indicating the woman behind her.
“This is Margaret, my special secretary.” Then she pauses, observing me. “Get up and turn round, slowly.”
“Why?”
My mother-in-law gives me a grim look. “Because I say so, and that’s more than enough. I want to see you better.”
These aristocrats are so full of themselves that they always forget to say the magic word ‘please’.
I get up reluctantly and lazily start turning round.
“Will this take much longer?” asks Lady Bedlam sarcastically.
“I’m turning round slowly,” I explain. She told me to!
“That’s too slow,” she snorts.
“You did not specify how slowly,” I say, continuing with my pirouette.
“That’s enough, sit down. Margaret, write: everything needs to be redone. Hair, hands, face, clothing, posture. Everything.” I sit down, leaning lazily against the armrest. When Delphina turns to look at me, her eyes nearly pop out of her head.
“That’s Queen Victoria’s armchair!”
“Well, she wasn’t sitting in it when I got here.”
Lady Bedlam ignores me again and turns towards Margaret. “Keep writing: ill mannered and lacking composure.”
“So many compliments at once,” I comment ironically.
“What about your family? Mother, father, grandparents?”
“My mother’s name is Carly, she teaches yoga and works in a holistic massage centre. My father’s name is Vance, and he works as a dj for an independent rock radio station. I never met my father’s parents. They died when he was very little, but I know that my grandfather was a Scot.”
“Scot… tish?” My mother-in-law almost chokes.
“Yeah, my father’s surname is MacPears, but the clerk at the gro got it wrong and registered me as Jemma Pears. Pears, she forgot ‘Mac’.”
“Thank goodness! For once, the mistake of a public servant was providential! If you don’t go shouting it from the rooftops, we can avoid mentioning your father’s origins,” the witch sighs.
“My grandfather was from Edinburgh,” I continue, regardless, but she ignores me.
“Margaret, write: no relevant connection on father’s side,” then she looks at me again. “Mother’s side?”
“My grandmother has recently died, her name was Catriona Straw.”
“I’ve already heard this name.”
“Her family manufactured weapons. Mostly rifles—”
Lady Bedlam touches her head in discontent. “Prince Charles is a pacifist, an environmentalist and an animal activist. How in the name of God are we supposed to explain that my son married the granddaughter of some warmongers?”
I can’t help but tease her a bit: “I cannot confirm that among my relatives there are no war criminals.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What about your studies? What colleges did you attend?”
“No college, my parents preferred public schools so that I could go home in the evening and stay with the family.”
“University? Oxford, Cambridge…?”
“No university,” I just say.
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t go to university. I attended a course in Cosmetology after leaving school.”
She sighs heavily, exchanging looks with Margaret. “You wasted your time, as far as I can see.”
“Not really, as it was my job until a few days ago. I worked as a theatrical make-up artist for a musical production.” Delphina appears to have been hit by a thousand volt shock.
“Theatrical make-up artist?”
“Yes, I did the actors’ make-up before they went on stage.” I say.
“How ridiculous…” my mother-in-law murmurs to herself. That’s it, I’ve had enough.
“Well, for a woman like you, working for a living must be ridiculous. Brace yourself, because I’m going to say something that will upset you quite a lot: I have never been ashamed of my work and I am certainly not starting now.”
Delphina gives me a flaming look, crossing her arms austerely.
“I’ll be brief. My son married you, but I do not understand why. Love? I doubt it. Infatuation? That’s most likely. In any case, as soon as he gets to know you better, he will realise that you’re not suitable for him. After just ten minutes in your company, I’ve already detected a long list of inadequacies. Nonetheless, until my son starts thinking again, I must ensure that you do not cause any more embarrassment to our family.”
Family? Is this The Godfather or something?
“I can tell you one thing for sure,” I say, pointing my finger at Delphina and her lady-in-waiting. “You’d better not start a war against me.” With a leap, I stand up from the armchair and head towards the door. “Now, ladies, I’m going to indulge in a long bath and I won’t see you again until dinner.”
That said, I leave.
What is the way back to my room, though?