Jemma’s Version
Yet another reception tonight. I still don’t get their purpose, though.
I always go reluctantly but this time the evening will be more bearable: there will be Cécile, at least I won’t be a wallflower.
And then, who knows? Maybe Carter will be among the guests. I can’t get his clever piercing eyes out of my head.
The evening will be held at Earl Warlock’s residence and, as far as I understood, there will be a performance by a Russian soprano, Olga Vishnevskaya. I wrote her name on my hand, so that I don’t make a mistakes if someone asks me.
We arrive at the residence and, for once, we’re welcomed quite warmly; I can’t help noticing that all the guests in the hall fall silent when Lord Neville – my good old friend Cedric – comes to say hello and have a chat.
“I’m not in the mood for a screaming Soviet hen, after a terrible week like this,” he mumbles.
“Neither am I. Losing the Champions League final still stings like hell. Everyone at Denby was ready to celebrate the victory! We never thought they would kick us out with a 3-0 score. Lance and I had been fantasising about this big Arsenal-Real Madrid final for months. We had prepared such powerful stadium chants that we could have swept Denby Hall away,” I agree.
“How’s old Lance?”
“He hasn’t recovered yet,” I comment, shaking my head.
“Excuse me, I think I’d better join my wife now. If she doesn’t stop swinging her fan to summon me, I fear she might behead someone.”
While Ashford and I are walking toward the seats, we hear a voice calling from behind.
“Parker! Did you bring razor blades?” It’s Harring, who throws an arm round Ashford’s shoulders. “In case we want to slit our wrists tonight!”
I spot a familiar curly red head, and I start waving in the crowd. “Cécile!” I beckon her to join me.
She is wrapped in a long black evening dress – by now I understood that it must be her typical style.
“Speaking of suicide…” Ashford says in a low voice, speaking to Harring.
“Cécile, this is my husband Ashford and his friend Harring,” I tell her, introducing the two men.
Nobody says a word. Except for Harring. “Hey, old witch! Came out of your crypt for an evening stroll?”
Ashford elbows Harring in the ribs, but the latter does not understand. “I see that you came to bring a breath of joy as usual.”
“And you brought a breath of ignorance,” she replies, ice cold.
“Do you know each other?” I ask, surprised by their banter.
Ashford cuts in to explain: “See, we were born and grew up in the same places, we did the same things and attended the same schools. It would have been impossible not to know each other.”
“Or to avoid each other,” Cécile comments.
“I see you’re still a sociopath!” Says Harring, with his typical light-hearted smile painted on his face.
“I see you still lack self-control,” my friend hisses.
Harring seems more and more amused. “That’s one of my best imperfections.”
“He’s also modest,” Ashford observes with irony. “These two can’t stand each other. They’ve been in open war since middle school.”
“I don’t like you either,” says Cécile, talking to Ashford.
“As if I even cared.”
Harring cuts in, with his usual sensitivity. “Are you still with your nerd from Palo Alto?”
“Obviously,” my friend nods.
“Nerd from Palo Alto?” I ask.
“Sean Page,” she informs me.
“He invented Razorstreaming,” Ashford adds. “The illegal platform for streaming and download.”
“You have a boyfriend?” I ask Cécile, surprised. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; she is always so detached and independent that she doesn’t really look like the kind of woman who would want relationships.
She confirms: “I’ve been seeing him for two years. I’m glad you look so surprised.”
“And I’m surprised that it has lasted for so long,” says Ashford, supporting Harring.
“We never see each other. That’s why it lasts,” replies Cécile.
“Your sexual life must be really intense.” Harring comments with sarcasm.
“Sex makes me sick,” Cécile just says.
“Is that because he’s got a micro penis?” He asks, even more amused.
“This conversation has gone on long enough. Jemma, shall we go and get something to drink?” Cécile asks me.
“Absolutely.”
As we walk away, we hear Harring shout: “Tell your American micro penis I said hello!”
*
“You aren’t exactly friends with Harring and Ashford, are you?” I observe.
“I’m not exactly friends with most of the people in this room. Old grudges. We started hating each other when we were children and our loathing simply grew up with us. But I prefer those who openly despise me to the fake flattery of the Triple Six. Ashford and Harring have always been a team, so I see them more as a single unit than two separate people. Ashford embodies the arrogance of those who undeservedly think they’re better than you; Harring is coarse and spoilt, an exhibitionist; together, they’re frankly unbearable, and they’re able to bring out the worst in people.”
“I see that we feel the same about my husband,” I say, letting the words slip out of my mouth.
Cécile thinks I’m joking and laughs. “You must have had at least one good reason to marry him.”
“Yes. His title.” If my previous answer made her smile, this one makes her burst out laughing.
“I know the social climber type quite well and, believe me, you don’t look like one.”
Given that I risk talking too much, I change the subject. “Who cares, let’s talk about important stuff! I had no idea you had a relationship with Sean Page! Isn’t he that Californian mega-millionaire computer genius who lives as a recluse? How the hell did you two meet?”
Cécile shrugs and replies: “I saw a picture in a newspaper. I liked him.”
“And how did you meet him?”
“I sued him,” she replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I look at her and realise that, given that she’s quite a peculiar person, this way of doing things fits her perfectly.
While the barman makes cocktails for the guests, I scan the chairs and see the heads of those who are listening to the high notes of the soprano.
I stop on two ice blue eyes that are looking directly into mine.
It’s Carter!
He raises an eyebrow and invites me to sit next to him with an imperceptible nod of the head.
“Lady Burlingham,” he greets me in a whisper as soon as I sit down.
“Please! You made that sound like an insult.”
“Perhaps I would have taken it better if you had told me right away,” he replies.
“If you had asked me: ‘Are you married to Ashford Parker?’ I would have said I am. You didn’t ask me, so I thought that announcing it was not necessary… you didn’t seem particularly interested in titles.”
“Neither did you.”
“I’m sorry you had that impression, but it’s not like that.”
“You owe me a scotch. Double, neat,” he replies.
“But that was the Skyper-Kensitts’ scotch!”
“Yes, but I offered it to you,” he whispers jokingly.
“Second row, eh? You must really be into this concert,” I point out.
“I couldn’t refuse.”
“Neither could I,” I comment, looking towards Ashford.
Carter shows me an mp3 player protruding from his pocket, and he points at the earpiece hanging from his right ear. “I was forced to be here, but not to listen.”
“Genius.”
He hands me the other earpiece. “To save you, tonight, I can only offer Dire Straits.”
In my life, I’ve imagined all sorts of things: roses, chocolates, heart shaped balloons, but I had never thought that sharing headphones could be this romantic.
While Romeo & Juliet is playing, we don’t pay any attention to the concert taking place in the hall, we just clap mechanically every time we see the other guests do it.
Carter and I don’t say a word, we just occasionally exchange knowing looks; I start thinking that it could be time to put that open marriage thing into practice.
Carter is interested in me, this is obvious, or he wouldn’t spend so much time with a married woman.
Besides, it’s the second time he saves me from boredom!
Towards the end of Dire Straits’ Greatest Hits, I feel a hand beating lightly on my shoulder. It’s Cécile.
“I’m about to go and I wanted to say goodbye. For your information, Ashford is up there on the balcony,” she says pointing at him in the gilded parapet, “and he’s pissed as hell. I know this is none of my business, but maybe you should join him.”
For a moment, my eyes meet Ashford’s, and I see that they’re narrowed in anger; he’s furrowing his brow and his lips are tightened. He’s challenging me openly: get up from that chair and come on up, or stay there and I’ll deal with you later.
I have a third option.
I turn towards Carter and say: “How about that double scotch I owe you, how about we go and get it? I feel generous tonight.”
“Now?” He asks, more out of amusement than of lack of confidence. He never seems to lack confidence.
“You came by car, didn’t you?”
“As I always do.”
“Awesome,” I say, looking sharply at Ashford, who gives me a grim look from the gallery in exchange.
As soon as I get into Carter’s Porsche, I send a message to Ashford.
Heading to have a drink with Carter. Enjoy the Siberian howler monkey. Don’t wait up for me.
“Shall we go to Mason’s Head?” He asks.
I don’t even know where it is. “Sounds perfect.”