Ashford’s Version
Today, after the session at the House of Lords, I skipped the club again.
Meeting Harring there for a drink and a chat has always been part of my routine, but he’s not in town. He’s in Munich for the Grand Prix.
If I don’t get stuck in traffic, I’ll arrive at Denby in time to watch the Roland-Garros.
Lance has already been instructed: I’m not to be disturbed, it’s just my pizza and me.
I leave my car out front and toss the keys to John as I climb the stairs three at a time, until I reach the front door.
I’m frozen in the entrance hall as soon as I hear a female voice getting closer.
It’s my mother with her whole charity committee.
“Oh, Ashford! How nice to see you!” Lady Laetitia chirps. Lady Antonia echoes her: “A nice surprise, indeed! What are you doing around here?”
Was she lobotomised or something? “This is my house,” I reply, frowning.
“Oh, of course! What I meant is…” she replies clumsily, aware of the awkwardness of what she said and without knowing how to go on.
“Aren’t you in a meeting?” I ask, to cut things short.
“We are,” confirms my mother. “Today we are organising the charity events calendar and deciding who will run what.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a great job,” I try to end the conversation so that I can leave.
“Ashford, are you going out?” Asks Sophia from behind the group of old bags.
“Actually, I’ve just came back from a Parliamentary session.” There’s some whatshername next to Sophia who shrieks: “Oh, have you talked about something interesting?”
“Just the implementation of anti-terrorism security measures.” I say, barely holding back a snort of irritation.
“Oh, we’re so lucky that you’re in the council! When was the last time Lord Connors served? During the Crimean War?” Asks Sophia, raising a swarm of overexcited giggles.
Poor old Connors. “Admiral Connors is greatly appreciated by both Parliament and the Crown, and I think that his extensive experience in the field is particularly valuable,” I just say. I wouldn’t talk about the weather forecast with these bimbos, much less about strategic plans.
“Well, I meant that your point of view is certainly more up-to-date and dynamic,” whatshername replies.
I stare at her without answering. I can recognise a pathetic attempt to start a conversation.
I swear that even arguing with Jemma is more interesting; at least she tells me exactly what she thinks.
“Well, since you’re here, you can join us!” Suggests Sophia, causing the others to clap their hands.
“What a wonderful idea!” Chelsea agrees.
No! They can’t do this to me. “Actually… I—”
“Sophia’s right!” That bitch of my mother cuts in. “Join us, you could remind us of the dates of the other polo matches so we don’t clash with them.”
“Everything’s already marked on your events calendar, Mother,” I growl with clenched teeth.
But she pretends not to hear me. “God forbid we get confused!”
“What about Jemma? Isn’t she joining us?” Lady Audrey asks.
“I don’t think Jemma would be interested in the organisation of these events,” I object. I can’t stand the Union Jack Charity Society evenings myself, so I don’t really picture Jemma enjoying them. I can’t stand her, either, but I wouldn’t do this to my worst enemy.
“Come on, Ashford, don’t talk nonsense, it’s for charity! And she’s the new Duchess of Burlingham. Organising a fundraising evening is almost a moral obligation if she wants integrate in high society.” Lady Audrey is more and more convinced by her idea.
My mother rolls her eyes, terrified by the thought of Jemma joining her precious society of charitable exhibitionists, but Lady Antonia and Lady Audrey are pretty determined. “Well, Ashford, would you be so kind as to accompany Jemma to the tea room? We’ll see you both there in five minutes.”
I climb the stairs, cursing all the way up. There are times when I don’t feel like the owner of my own house. I just want to get on with life but it seems that every corner hides someone who wants something from me.
I find Jemma in a pink bathrobe, with her hair wrapped up in a towel; she’s lying on her bed leafing through an issue of Cosmopolitan.
She starts talking before I can say anything: “What made you come here and disturb me in this precious moment of reflection?”
“Something you will hate me for,” I can’t help admitting it.
“You’re already halfway there, for your information,” she says without even looking at me.
“My mother is in a meeting with her charity committee. They want you to join them.”
“Do you know I’m a billionaire? I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I don’t need the charity of you lot,” Jemma says in an offended tone, sitting up on her bed.
“Jemma, they don’t want to give you stuff. They want to involve you in the organisation of their evenings. According to them, as the new Duchess of Burlingham, you must be part of the society, just like every married woman or wife-to-be.”
Jemma gives me an angry look.
“In my defence, I must tell you that I was against you being involved.”
“Oh, I’m sure you put all your energy into dissuading them.”
Okay, perhaps I wasn’t that firm.
“If it’s any consolation, they involved me, as well. They inexplicably decided that my presence is necessary.”
“God exists, then.”
“Are you coming?” I ask her for the umpteenth time.
“Give me a minute. Let me get dressed.”
*
Her minute has turned into a quarter of an hour, but the result is, as usual, rather questionable.
Jemma enters the tea room in a silver chenille tracksuit; her hair, which is still wet, falls on her shoulders. The guests look at her, bewildered.
I’m about to sit on one of the farthest chairs when I hear Chelsea chirp: “There’s a lot of room next to me on this sofa! You’ll be more comfortable!”
“I’d rather act as an observer,” I say, as I sit at a safe distance. God forbid they consider me an active participant. I wouldn’t survive that.
For the next hour, these ten women keep squawking, trying to impose on each other, and all I can hear are the words taffeta, tableaux vivants, ice sculptures, memorabilia, without being able to combine them in a complete sentence.
From the chair on which she’s sitting with her legs crossed, Jemma looks at me, full of resentment.
I can’t really blame her, I hate myself too. If only I’d come home five minutes later!
My mother calls for attention by means of a very annoying bell. “Ladies, I’m proud to say that we succeeded in establishing a fine schedule for our fundraising events. Now we only need to decide who will organise each of them. I think that one event for each person is more than reasonable. I volunteer for the opening evening. The season is about to begin and I don’t want to put any of you under time pressure.”
Then, going in a clockwise direction, each member chooses an evening to take care of, until Jemma’s turn arrives, but her dreamy expression says she’s got no idea what they’re talking about.
“Jemma?” my mother urges her. “So?”
“What?” She says.
“Your evening for the charity calendar…”
Jemma shrugs. “I was thinking of a party.”
Sophia blurts out: “They’re all parties!”
Sophia is starting to make me nervous. Besides, it’s her fault that I’m here, so I decide to cut in and shut her up. “Do you feel morally obliged to comment on every single word said, Sophia?”
It’s clear that I caught her off guard. “I just wanted to—”
“I’m not asking because I’m interested,” I say, then I turn towards Jemma, who looks at me with her eyes wide open. “Please Jemma, go on with what you were saying.”
“What events are left on the calendar?” She asks, strangely compliant.
“Let’s see, the Gregorian Choir concert seems a little complicated…” my mother says, while going through the list with Lady Venetia. “The twentieth anniversary dinner has a complex structure…” they say, as concentrated as two surgeons in front of an open heart.
“Of course!” Exclaims Lady Venetia. “The charity fashion show is perfect.”
“Are you sure?” Asks my mother, sceptically.
“Absolutely! It has the same schedule every year! Jemma will just have to sort out the clothes that will be donated and decide upon their order on the catwalk.”
My mother sighs. “Do you think you can do it?”
Jemma shrugs. “Why not? It’s a fashion show, not a bomb to be defused!”
“So be it,” accepts my mother reluctantly, writing Jemma’s name on her list.
After the meeting, Jemma and I leave the tea room. “Hey, Ashford. Have you just defended me publicly or was it my imagination?”
“As irritating and annoying as you may be, you’re still my wife and those who disrespect you, disrespect me. Then, it was Sophia’s fault that I missed today’s Roland-Garros matches: having me at the meeting was her idea. The idiot deserved to be punished.”
“Defending me is the least you can do, since you dragged me into this new farce.”
“I have no excuse,” I admit.
“Absolutely. I should take away your pocket money for this.”
Lance comes towards us. “The mail,” he says, and starts sorting the envelopes on the tray. “These are for the duke,” he adds, handing me a rather voluminous pile, “and this for the duchess,” and he gives Jemma an envelope.
It’s a nice, elegant envelope made of parchment paper with a coat of arms on it, so it can’t be anyone from London. “Who’s writing to you?”
Jemma takes the envelope away. “Would you mind your own business?”
“Nope,” I reply.
Jemma hides in a corner, turning her back to me so that I can’t see. Yet I’m right behind her and as I’m taller than she is, I don’t struggle to see what’s on the card.
The handwriting is elegant and slanted. Fast but precise. It was written with a fountain pen and onyx-black Chinese ink.
At the polo match, I told you to call me. What the hell happened to you? Did you lose my business card? I’d love to have tea with you, how about joining me at Olstrom House on Friday afternoon? I won’t take a no for an answer. I’ll be waiting for you.
Cécile Loxley
“Cécile Loxley?” I ask aloud, in a mix of amazement and disapproval.
“I can’t believe it! You read it! It’s a violation of my privacy!”
“Calm down. She didn’t reveal the third secret of Fatima!”
Jemma looks at me defiantly, putting her hands on her hips. “Yes, it’s Cécile Loxley. Why?”
Yes, why? “Because it’s Cécile Loxley!”
Okay, maybe it’s not a very strong argument, but if you knew Cécile Loxley, that would be enough. She is strange! She’s the most moody person I’ve ever known. Critical, neurotic, a real contrarian, she’s unbearable and antisocial. There’s not a single person who gets on with her. Well, maybe… Jemma could.