Ashford’s Version
I came home on the sly, like Arsène Lupin.
Why? Because my clothes are still wet after my lovely dip in the Thames. The stench of sewage is so unbearable that I had to take off my trousers in order not to get my car seat dirty while driving back to Denby.
I take a damask tablecloth from an occasional table and wrap it around myself.
I’m not very manly with this salmon coloured silk cloth around my hips – I look rather like Mata Hari on duty – but I’m not going to show myself with my butt naked and lose the last tiny bit of authority I have in this house.
If Harring hadn’t been my best friend since college, I would have beaten the shit out of him for tonight. But he’s also the only person in this grim world who’s able to make me laugh, even at the wrong moments. Yes, Harring’s best performances are tasteless jokes at royal receptions, Masses or funerals, and he’s always very careful to raise his voice so that everyone hears him. Each of us has his role: I’m the one with self-control and decorum.
The truth is that he was upset when he learned of my marriage; we had a sort of tacit agreement that we would never get married, or that it would happen as late as possible. He probably sees it as back stabbing. Even though I’m not as wild and randy as he is, I can say that we’ve always been ‘partners in crime’. But now, our escapades are over, that’s why he particularly enjoyed throwing me in the river.
Back at the club, once we were alone, I tried very hard to convince him that I’m still the Ash he knows.
“So… you’re deserting me on the path of the eternal bachelor.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty, you’ll be fine…”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m sorry for you. Thirty years old, and you’ve tied the knot already! Don’t even think about asking me for moral support. I did warn you, some time ago.” Harring knows how to conceal his disappointment behind a comic mask.
“How about this: if I ever need help, I won’t look for you.”
“Well, if you really are in love…” he says. Here we go, he wanted to test me, he wanted to hear it from me. Harring’s instinct never fails when it comes to catching me lying. If I had said that I love Jemma, he wouldn’t have believed me.
“Harring, here’s what happened: I got married. It was a spur of the moment decision, made on impulse. I wanted to do it, and I did it. I have a wife, but nothing is the way you think it is. In your head, you probably imagine a conventional marriage, a standard marital life with all the subsequent limitations. Just know that my wife isn’t a conventional woman and neither is our marriage. She is unruly and weird, and perhaps that’s what makes her the only woman I could ever have married. Anyone else would have wanted a classic wedding, but not Jemma.”
As a result of what I said, Harring raises an eyebrow, sceptically. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“She’s a nonconformist and she’s absolutely okay with open relationships. That’s what I mean when I say that nothing has changed.”
Harring’s sceptical expression becomes incredulous. “Let me get this straight: you got married, you exchanged vows, ‘until death do us part’… and after all that, you’re saying it’s an open marriage?”
I just nod so as to avoid giving my secrets away. The tiny detail I omit is that we got married for money and actually despise each other, so we don’t share anything, and certainly not a bed.
“You’re lucky starred, my friend. I don’t know how many unhappy wretches would like to be in your shoes right now.”
Damn, I must have sounded sincere!
“Yeah but, Harring, keep this between us, within these walls. There’s already too much gossip about my marriage and I don’t need such details to be disclosed.”
“Old man, I’m so excited about meeting your wife. I want to see this astounding creature with my own eyes!”
Astounding creature? I can’t help but think about Harring’s words as I collapse on my bed. Jemma is snoring like a freight train. One of the negative aspects of connecting rooms – assuming that there are also positive aspects – is that there’s nothing but a door to separate me from Jemma and her noisy sleep.
Harring is excited about meeting her. I already know what he’s picturing in his head, though: a monument to femininity who makes all men turn and stare at her. Not exactly how I’d describe Jemma. She’s as elegant and graceful as a four axle lorry. I can just hope that she will daze Harring with her patter and he will pass out after three minutes and a handshake.
A moment before sinking into sleep, a terrible thought washes over me: the servants will tidy up our rooms tomorrow. Even though we have separate rooms, they may find it unusual – if not suspicious – that the newly wed duke and duchess sleep in different beds on their first night in the same house. At least, there should be clothes scattered everywhere, sheets dragged to the room corners and more concrete signs of uncontrollable passion. Therefore, one of the two beds should remain pristine.
I can’t sleep in my bed. It’s so silly, this is my house, and I can’t even have a good sleep in my emperor size bed. This is what I think as I try to get comfortable on the small sofa.
Jemma and I will have to come to an agreement on this as I can’t spend the next few months sleeping worse than my hounds. We’ll have to take turns: one night in bed each sounds more than democratic.
At least for the first few weeks, when it’s normal for newly-weds to unleash their passion. Afterwards, an average of a couple of times a week will be totally acceptable.
At last, now I’ve hypothesised a plausible calendar for our sexual simulations, I can get to sleep.
*
They’re knocking on my door, and I can hear it as if they were knocking right on my skull. Fuck Harring and his brandy and champagne mixture, or Brandagne, as he calls it. I must remember to tell him that its taste and name are equally disgusting. I’m not deceased yet, but I know my prognosis is pretty uncertain.
“Come on in,” I groan. Nothing happens.
I drag myself towards the door with heavy steps, but there is no one outside. Is my authority so compromised that my own servants play ‘knock and run’ on me?
The knocking continues and I start thinking it’s only in my head, until I realise that it comes from behind me: from the connecting door between my room and Jemma’s.
I open it and find her in the compartment which connects the two rooms; a sort of no man’s land which is likely to become our private battle field.
“You look terrible,” she points out kindly.
“I have just woken up, I haven’t had a shower yet. What’s your excuse?” I say, noticing her heavy make-up and her overly curled hair.
“I’m ready,” she replies, without catching my sarcastic remark.
I shrug. “Exactly.”
“Well, if I remember correctly, last night you said we’d go down for breakfast together. I’d appreciate it if you kept your promise, because I don’t think I could stand another speech on punctuality, schedules, etiquette, and all the things you noble people like so much.”
“Give me five minutes.”
I swear on my way to the shower, but I have a moment of intuition a second before I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket: I turn them inside out and scatter them all over the floor of Jemma’s room, leaving a clear trail that leads from my room to her bed.
“What the heck are you up to?” she spits, ready to start complaining.
“Where are your clothes from last night? Can you give them to me?”
“Not unless you tell me what you’re doing.”
“What do you think?” I say, pointing dramatically at the clothes on the floor.
She turns her palms up in a gesture of surrender.
“In a few minutes, the servants will be here to tidy our rooms. If we want to support the story of our marriage at first sight, we’d better give the impression that we had some Cirque-du-Soleil acrobatics. Now, unless you are one of those rare women who have sex dressed like cross-country winter Olympians, would you please give me your clothes?”
“I’ll do better than that!” Jemma isn’t only scattering her clothes on the floor with mine, but she also starts undoing the bed enthusiastically, ripping off pillows and sheets. If nothing else, she understood. It was hard work, but she understood.
Wait a second. What is she doing with that sheet? Why is she tying it to the canopy post?
“Jemma, what the hell is that?”
“Never heard of bondage?” She replies, in the most natural way.
“No! I mean I have, but stop!” I protest. “Listen Jemma, I appreciate your effort, but it’s enough that the servants think we had normal sex, it’s not necessary to provide details about our erotic tastes!”
“No bondage, then?”
“No,” I just say.
“What about these?” She asks, swinging two flashy red stilettos.
“No, no fetish either.”
“You’re so boring!” She complains, tossing them back into the wardrobe.
“Don’t worry, there are details you’ll never find out.”
“I hope not,” replies Jemma, cringing.
“The disgust is mutual.” I descend the stairs before her, and I see Lance waiting for us in front of the door to the winter garden. “Jemma,” I whisper. “Could you please put on a bright smile, as a happy and satisfied wife?”
“You really need to treat me like I’m stupid to feel like an alpha male, don’t you?”
Well, I knew this would end up in an argument.