Jemma’s Version
There was great excitement in the house for my first public event: the first match of the polo league Ashford’s team plays in. And by ‘Ashford’s team’ I mean that he’s no less than the captain. Could he ever play another role? Of course not, I’m not surprised that a person like him is always in the most important position.
I will be there as a loving wifey who follows from the front row.
“Just like Victoria when she went to David Beckham’s matches?” I asked at breakfast.
“Of course not! You will not dress up like a vulgar parvenue who gained a title overnight!” Delphina replied in disgust.
I didn’t mean to offend anyone, I was just trying to get an idea!
“I had a perfect tailored suit made for you, and of course we will try to style your hair so as to conceal those fuchsia strands as much as possible.”
And here I am, in the ‘perfect tailored suit’: it’s at least two sizes too big, and it features all the colour variations of porridge! Yuck!
They even gave me one of those cross-bandage minimiser bras. Heaven forbid that anyone notices I’m a woman.
The shoes are terrible: a pair of flats which would be perfect for the members of any religious order.
I look at myself in the mirror with my hair done up in a bun, and I’m disheartened. I can’t believe that I’m really forced to show myself in public like this.
But I am. The car stops at the polo club to let Delphina and me out and, looking at myself one last time in the rear view mirror, I feel like I’m dying inside.
It’s a beautiful sunny day and we shelter under marquees; it’s no circus stuff, though: they’re elegant wrought iron gazebos with fluttering immaculate curtains made of linen and organza.
There are small groups of people sitting on wicker chairs in several small lounges within the marquees and a swarm of waiters circulate offering champagne in elegant glasses and fresh fruit to all.
Delphina knows everyone here, apparently. She waves her hand to the right and the left, and every time I turn my head, I have to avoid being bumped by the large brim of her hat.
Yes, let’s mention the hats! Every woman is wearing a monument on her head! Mine is quite fancy, and I felt stupid until a moment ago with this life size dinghy which slips on all sides of my head, but I’m starting to realise that it’s probably one of the simplest.
I take a seat on one of the sofas near the sideline, surrounded by those old crocks who are Delphina’s friends. If nothing else, Lady Audrey Davenport and Lady Valéry Fraser are very kind to me and, as soon as Lord Neville comes to greet me, they all fidget on their chairs.
“Dear Jemma, what an honour! His Highness the Lord Neville came to greet you personally!” Chirps Lady Audrey.
“And he lets you call him Cedric!” Adds Lady Valéry.
“Our Jemma has this innate gift of getting people to love her from the very first moment,” comments Delphina with a fake smile. “And yes, Neville is really a wonderful man. He’s always had much respect for our family, but ever since Ashford married Jemma, I could say that our friendship is even stronger.”
Delphina enthuses about her relationship with Cedric who, to be very honest, didn’t even say hello to her. I wonder how it’s possible that all these stories sound credible.
“Speaking of Ashford, we haven’t seen him, yet!” Says Lady Valéry, looking around.
“We didn’t come here together. He arrived earlier to get his horse ready in the stables.” Here’s my chance to duck out! “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and call him, ask him to come and say a quick hello before taking to the field.”
Lady Audrey claps her hands. “What a wonderful idea.”
I ask a waiter to show me the way to the stables, where I see men busily coming and going and tending to their horses.
I hear Ashford’s familiar voice coming from a stable and I stop, perplexed: is it my imagination or is he really laughing? I look inside the stable and I have confirmation: he is actually laughing.
He’s in there with someone, but I can’t see who it is, because he’s behind the horse.
As soon as Ashford notices I’m there, he stops laughing, clears his throat and greets me as formally as usual. “Jemma. You’re here.”
Wow, what a keen eyed observation!
“Yeah, I came to look for you. The ladies at the table would like to see you before the match.”
A young man of his age emerges from behind the horse; he’s got messy dark blonde hair (that kind of messy hair which is the result of hours spent at the barber’s), blue-grey eyes and a cheeky face.
“Parker’s brand new bride, I guess,” the man comes closer and shakes my hand. “Kenneth Harring, Kid for friends. Or Harring. Or lucky bastard, for those who hate me.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “I’m Jemma.”
Then he turns towards a girl who’s crossing the lane between the stables with a horse. “Hey, got up all pretty, today, eh?”
The girl blushes. “I’m wearing nothing different from last night.”
“I was talking about the mare…” Harring replies.
The girl looks at him with narrowed eyes. “What a bastard.”
I stare at Ashford and Harring alternately, then Ashford explains. “Harring is an experienced playboy with no inhibitions whatsoever.”
“With a special inclination for coarse, saucy and politically incorrect jokes,” his friend points out.
“We’ve been friends since school, then Oxford and everything in between.”
“You’re not wearing polo kit,” I say.
“You gotta be joking! I’m a Formula One driver, I can’t risk falling off a horse and breaking a wrist,” he says while lowering his sunglasses and adjusting the khaki coloured jacket he’s wearing over a white linen shirt.
“This is one of Harring’s many contradictions. He risks his life at every lap on a race circuit, yet he worries about falling off a horse.”
“The risk is mine to take, isn’t it, Parker?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Well, so this is your Jemma! She doesn’t look like a Londoner, to be really honest.”
With Harring, I feel free to speak frankly. “His mother can’t stand the way I look, so she’s made this desperate attempt to turn me into her younger self.” So saying, I take out the hairpins from my bun, letting my hair fall on my shoulders. “And she can’t stand these, either,” I say, indicating the fuchsia ends.
“Delphina must have had a heart attack!” Says Harring, observing my coloured strands.
“Unfortunately not,” Ashford replies.
Then, the sound of trumpets calls the players onto the field. “The match is about to begin,” Ashford announces.
“Since you’re not playing, how about joining the mummies collective and helping me lower the average age?” I ask Harring. He’s nice, and I’m sure he could tell me some embarrassing anecdotes about Ashford.
“Actually, I was considering doing something else,” he says, stretching to look at someone behind us. “Alicia Trahern is as hot as hell, today!”
Ashford looks at him sceptically. “Alicia Trahern? You’ve always said that she’s got Dumbo ears!”
“I can barely see them with her hair down,” Harring says, and then he slips through the crowd of spectators.
Ashford shrugs. “This is Harring.”
While Ashford and his team take to the field and I make my way back to the lovely geriatric area, I run into a group of girls who are about my age and… oh God, I wish I could disappear!
Bloody Delphina, she made me believe that I was expected to wear this faded wallpaper, but these girls’ outfits are so fashionable: they’re all wearing short colourful dresses or frilly skirts, and it feels like looking at the front page of Vogue.
When they notice I’m among them, they form a circle and I find myself in the middle of it.
“Lady Burlingham, I suppose. The new incumbent at Denby Hall,” says the tallest girl looking at me. “I’m Sophia Skyper-Kensitt. I’ve known Ashford for ages,” she looks me up and down again. “What an incredible choice!”
“Quite odd,” another girl echoes. “We were all impatient to meet the new duchess.”
“And what a delightful look,” adds a third young lady.
“You look amazing, too. I saw dresses like yours discounted at Selfridges’.”
They suddenly shut up and Sophia (I think) says: “I don’t go to Selfridges. This is my dressmaker’s work.”
I look at her and I hesitate: I don’t want to go back to those mummies! I want to join these girls and talk about fashion and parties.
“We could watch the match together and have a chat. I don’t know, maybe you could recommend a good dressmaker so that at the next event, I can hang around with people who didn’t fight in the first World War!”
Sophia’s face contorts in sheer misery. “Our gazebo is fully booked; there’s always someone missing, but today is the first match of the championship league and everyone came,” she stresses ‘everyone’ quite strongly. “We don’t even have room for a dog, even a small one,” she says, and all the others laugh as if they had heard the joke of the century.
Was she trying to offend me?
“Let’s hope that there will be other occasions,” I say, while I adjust the hideous hat on my forehead again.
“We cannot wait,” they say, heading towards their gazebo.
Time to go back to the elders.
*
This damn bra has come undone and I’ve felt it hanging on my back until now; the discomfort is torturing me, but, of course, I can’t fix it here, so I run towards the toilets as soon as the first half ends.
In the cubicle, I take off my jacket and shirt and I try to fasten the hook. To hell with Delphina and her wrong size minimiser bras. While I take it off to shorten the straps, I hear someone open the toilet block door in a flurry of heels and giggles.
What the heck was the name of that broomstick I met earlier who gave me such a flaccid handshake? Sophia. Yes, it must be her, I recognise her voice, and she’s probably accompanied by her little entourage of porcelain dolls.
“Coming here was worth it just to see her. It’s a show!”
“A freak show, you mean!” A second unknown doll says.
“Or a zoo specimen!” A third one adds.
I try to hold back a laugh, thinking of the unwitting victim of this gossip.
“Seriously, have you seen the way she walks? She sways as if she were recovering from a hangover!”
“Not to mention her dress! You can see they forced her to wear it from a mile away. She squirms as if she wanted to shake it off!”
“I thought Ashford had better tastes. She is so common!”
“I bet she doesn’t even speak French! Or German!” Says a more squeaky voice.
When I realise that I’m the target of their spite, the laugh I was barely holding back dies on my lips. God, I’m so furious! I’d like to go out and kick their posh asses, take them by their fancy styled hair and make a mess of them. If we were at the stadium, we would do this my way. If only I had my own clothes! But I’m wearing this garbage bag instead, which embarrasses me to death, and I even have to agree with them: yes, they chose it for me and yes, they forced me to wear it. No, I don’t speak French or German. But I’m not a bitch like you are, ladies!
Their chatter and giggles are suddenly interrupted by someone emerging from one of the other cubicles, and a fourth unknown voice joins the conversation. “You know, Linda, I had the displeasure of having to mark your German, both spoken and written, and they’re quite poor, both of them. As for your French, I won’t comment. It would be rather unfair, considering it’s my mother tongue.”
The three gossips fall silent and, after a short sound of rushing water followed by that of a hand dryer, the fourth person seems to leave the toilets.
“Bloody baguette eating frog.”
“Cécile Loxley is among the people I wish were swallowed up by the ground they walk on. That Jemma isn’t, at least she’s funny. Ashford Parker’s laughable wife!”
I can hardly gulp, but I raise an ear to listen to the rest of the conversation while I’m still half naked in the cubicle, with my bra lying on the toilet lid and my arms covering my breasts.
“I thought he would marry Portia,” one of them comments.
“Yes, everyone thought so.”
“I talked to Portia before Christmas and she was confident that Ashford would propose by spring!”
“Well, she wasn’t quick enough. The fishmonger beat her.”
“She was a theatrical make-up artist, I think,” says the other.
“It makes no difference,” Sophia says nonchalantly. “Anyway, since Ashford is no longer Portia’s stuff, let me say something.” She noticeably lowers her voice. “His polo trousers are so tight that you barely need to imagine anything… you can actually see how well hung he is! There’s a lot of fun to be had there!”
The group bursts into an overexcited giggle.
“What a waste.”
“I bet that Jemma doesn’t even know where to start!”
“Why? Do you?” One of the bitches asks.
“Are you challenging me, Linda?” Sophia replies maliciously.
My cheeks are on fire. Those three think Ashford is attractive! And they shamelessly examined his package!
Everything makes sense, now: this is the reason why the polo matches are packed with all these women with binoculars. It’s not for the competition, but to look at the players’ equipment through their tight trousers!
I return to my seat as soon as the way is clear. I look at the spectators under the big gazebo. Sophia and her retinue of witches are crowded around the bar with their legion of snobs, drinking champagne and laughing, probably at me.
And I’m here, confined among these British Museum relics whose dentures sound like Spanish castanets every two words they say.
The second half begins after a few minutes, accompanied by the applause of the audience as the players enter. Against every prediction, I follow the game with much more interest. During the first half I gazed at the sky absent mindedly, but now I’m focusing on the game, on Ashford in particular. I watch him riding safely but positively and giving directions to his team mates. He’s the only one standing in his stirrups, and, with the reins in one hand and the mallet in the other, he changes direction quickly and reaches out to strike the ball. He’s my husband, but I had never considered him as a man, or that other women may find him interesting. Or attractive. Or sexy! And, above all, they know more about his ‘equipment’ than I do.
Lady Valéry sits next to me, with her walking stick in the left hand and a pair of opera glasses in the right hand; she’s absorbed by the match as if she had never seen anything more compelling.
“Excuse me, Lady Valéry, may I ask you a favour? Would you lend me your opera glasses for a moment?”
“Of course, dear,” she says, giving me the silver pair with a knowing wink. “And… congratulations, young lady!”
*
At the end of the match, all I can do is stand in the corner of the gazebo where the refreshments are. Well, if there’s one thing these pompous nobles are insuperable at, it’s feasts! Those I usually go to are either shop inaugurations – and I have to fistfight to conquer a couple of canapés – or they’re held in bars where I have to order a ten pound cocktail if I want to eat something, which usually consists of chopped up leftover sandwiches. I don’t understand why nobody here is enjoying the buffet, though! Perhaps they’ve already eaten at home.
Ashford is at the stables getting his horse ready to be brought back to the manor; since I have to wait here, I take another glass of white wine and put an empty one on the tray. Apart from eating and drinking, there isn’t much to do, as nobody speaks to me and I feel pathetic in the elders’ club.
Then a hand touches my shoulder and I hear a voice, the same one I heard in the toilets while the three gossips were laughing at me. “Jemma.”
I turn round slowly and cautiously. “Yes?”
“Cécile Loxley,” says the girl standing in front of me. Voluminous copper red hair, fair complexion, high cheekbones, big penetrating grey eyes, athletic body and, strangely enough, a sincere smile. And she’s the only one here wearing dark clothes. A gunmetal tailored suit and a veiled hat.
“Jemma Pears, um, Pa… Pa… Parker.” Strangely enough, I stutter.
“Tell me, Jemma Pa-Pa-Parker, how long were you stuck in the toilet cubicle listening to the Triple Six’s nasty talk?”
“Was it you in the toilets, then?”
She raises an eyebrow, as if I had asked the most widely asked question of the century. “What do you think?”
“Triple Six? What do you mean?” I ask, without understanding.
“Sophia Skyper-Kensitt, Linda Rickson and Julia Bromley. They were born on 6 April, 6 June and 6 July, respectively. I find it much more convenient to refer to them as ‘Triple Six’.”
That’s also Satan’s number. It fits those witches just fine.
While I’m looking for something to say to the only person who seems happy to talk to me, Cécile nods at someone behind me, then she takes a business card from her bag and puts it in my hand. “Here is my number. Home and mobile phone. Call me in the next few days. There’s also my address, but I suggest you don’t stop by without notice, as I could be out. I have to go now, see you soon.”
She leaves, and I remain there, frozen, contemplating that elegant ecru piece of cardboard, featuring embossed enamel letters and a coat of arms.
Cécile Margaux Loxley
Marquise of Hungeford
Foweyard Manor – Upton Hill – Gloucester
Olstrom House – Greeley Road – Hertfordshire
2, Hanover Square – London