Ashford’s Version
I wish I could go into a coma and wake up tomorrow morning. Or fall into a kind of trance. Anything that could help make me unconscious for the next four hours.
No, the Armageddon is not coming. It’s even worse. What is coming, is the official dinner to introduce Jemma and me, aka the Duke and Duchess of Burlingham, into society.
I look down at the staircase and I’m strongly tempted to attempt a triple pike dive, but I would land exactly outside the parlour, among the guests my mother is entertaining while waiting for us. Jemma’s nowhere to be found. I go and knock on her door. Nothing, no answer.
Well, this is my house, and that’s my wife’s room, aren’t they? Then I have the right to go in there, if I want to – I know, I should say whenever I want to, but the truth is I never do!
I open the door and there’s nobody inside the room, just the tv tuned on mtv and Nicki Minaj shaking her derrière with the utmost elegance.
“Jemma?” I call.
“In here!”
Damn! The wardrobe is talking to me.
For a second, I fantasised that the floor had swallowed her up.
“Are you coming out or what? We’re so late that we could as well get ready for next year’s reception!” I say, knocking insistently.
“I’m not ready yet. Give me ten minutes!” Jemma says, with her usual irritating voice.
“There’s no need to put ten layers of make-up on your face. I didn’t marry you for your beauty.”
“I know. You married me for my money.”
“Yes, Jemma. So did you.”
‘You married me for money’ has become our daily mantra. We include it in our conversations as nonchalantly as we use punctuation. I have no idea how this started, but it’s a regular thing now. Perhaps, that’s the reality check we need to keep each other at a distance after the my darling and my love we’re forced to say to each other for stage purposes.
I could do without it, but she’s so exasperating that she brings out the worst in me and my bile levels increase day by day.
While I’m waiting for her, I look at her room: it’s in total disarray. The apotheosis of chaos. No wonder she always looks like… like… a Picasso painting! That’s it, when I see her, I immediately think of a Picasso painting: everything is dismantled, sharp cornered, warped. Picasso made art, but in Jemma’s case, I’m sure the outcome is merely accidental: unmatched clothes which are way too provocative, or unsuitable for certain occasions, extravagant hair colour and exaggerated make-up. I really don’t see why she spends hours worsening her appearance.
“Jemma, I’m getting old waiting for you!”
“That’s impossible,” her voice replies sarcastically. “How could you get any older than that.”
Ashford, take it easy. I have to take it easy. Wait, do I? “You know what? I’m going on my own!” And I head towards the door to leave the room.
“All right, I’m ready!” She says, coming out of the wardrobe. “Let’s go.”
I stop and look at her, bewildered. “Are you coming like that?”
She’s got a very high ponytail, which makes her dyed blonde hair with the fuchsia strands look even flashier than usual. A damn neon lamp. As for the rest, the atelier dress I ordered for her remains in its box, ignored, and she’s wearing a low-cut purple dress which is so short that her legs are almost totally in plain view. Not to mention the bad taste trinketry she must have found in the worst London flea markets.
“Got a problem?” She answers defiantly, shaking her head so that her ponytail and her big circle earrings swing. That’s so irritating.
I raise my eyebrow almost automatically. “What do you think?”
“I’m most definitely coming like this, yes.”
“But you had the perfect dress sent right to your door!” I exclaim, and I’ve almost reached the limit of human endurance.
“I saw it, but I prefer this one. Don’t worry, I’ll sure have other occasions to wear it!”
“Such as?”
“A funeral!” Jemma naturally replies.
I not so politely grasp her by a wrist, arrange a silk scarf the best I can to conceal her neckline, and drag her to the hallway. “Let’s go. I know we could keep on arguing all night, but let’s just end it now!”
She doesn’t reply, and descends the staircase visibly irritated.
As the guests gather outside the parlour, we hear my mother announce: “Well, after such a long wait, here comes my son Ashford, the Duke of Burlingham.”
Lance, behind her, coughs quite obviously.
“And his wife, the adorable Jemma,” she adds, coldly. This time, her tone is rather subdued and resentful.
The entrance is immersed in complete silence, but I don’t think it’s out of admiration; they’re probably just in shock.
I know what everyone thinks: this event wasn’t supposed to take place after our marriage, but prior to it, for the engagement announcement. The future duchess should have been introduced well in advance, and she should have worn an elegant tailor made dress. Everyone expected to see another kind of woman by my side, yet now, there’s Jemma, whether they like it or not.
She’s here and they owe her the utmost respect, because to slight her affects me too.
I look at her from the corner of my eye, and I notice that her attitude has changed. She no longer looks apathetic and lazy as she did a while ago in the hallway. She’s stiff, her eyes are wide open and she’s holding my arm with all her strength.
The entrance is crowded and all eyes are on her.
“You’ll break my arm,” I hiss.
“Who the hell are all these people? Is it a damn parade?” Jemma mumbles.
“Don’t be silly, my mother has just invited a few close friends round for an informal soirée.”
Yes, I guess there are about forty people, but there can be up to a hundred, even a hundred and fifty, at formal receptions. Not that I like them, anyway. My mother has gathered all her fossil friends together, the youngest of whom is Celia Fansworth, Lord Fansworth’s wife. However, judging by the frenzy with which she’s waving the invitation to fan herself and by the redness on her cheeks, I would say she’s successfully reached menopause.
Then there are the Davenports, the Porters – Antonia is the queen of gossip and I can’t see why my mother has invited her, if not for self-harm or sheer masochism – the Norfolks, Lord Balfourt with his third wife and none other than the Duke of Mouthmour and Whilmshire, ‘His Royal Highness’ Cedric Neville.
My mother has been trying to impress Lord Neville for ages. He’s remotely related to the Royal Family and, in my mother’s head, this connection is enough to get to the Queen. Thus, she invites poor Neville to every possible event, which he almost invariably declines. That’s why seeing him tonight surprises me, but then I notice his wife, Lady Laetitia – who’s possibly even more of a gossip than Lady Antonia – and she looks rather impatient. Now I see why he’s here, but his expression tells me he isn’t that happy, either: my marriage is the scandal of the moment, and everyone wants a piece of this story as a souvenir, like tourists do with the fragments of the Berlin Wall. I know that, most likely, these names don’t ring a bell for you. However, since the day I was born, they’ve always been part of my life, whether I liked it or not, and this sort of event reminds me that I’m imprisoned in a vicious circle I have no hope of escape from.
Everything would be more bearable if Harring were here too, but he’s already on a flight with the team for the next Formula One race.
Once we get to the bottom of the stairs, my mother grabs Jemma like a vulture in order to keep her under control, while Lady Antonia clings to my right arm with the excuse of being escorted to the dining room. “And so, what a surprise we had from the most desirable bachelor of the realm! You know, there were many bets about when you would take a wife.”
“I’m not surprised, Lady Antonia. You’ve always been a dedicated bookmaker, and you’ve never missed an event worth betting on.”
“We’ve had no winner,” she says, and I can detect a hint of disappointment.
“The bookmaker always wins,” I digress.
“Aren’t you curious to know who was odds-on?” Lady Antonia’s tone is increasingly screechy.
“Amaze me.” I bet a kidney that the name begins with ‘P’.
“Portia.”
“Oh, really?” I wonder whether she’ll sense my sarcasm.
“They all bet on her.”
“No one broke the bank, then.”
“They were all convinced that you would marry her by the end of this season. I thought so myself…”
I settle her at the table. “Lady Antonia, it has been a pleasure, but if you will allow me, I will join my wife; I’m afraid that my mother is monopolising her too much,” I say as I take my leave. “You know, she adores her,” I can’t help adding.