Ashford’s Version
“Call.”
“What?” Harring shouts.
“Call,” I repeat.
“Are you crazy? First you fold with a pair, now you call with an ace and a face card on the table without even raising?” He asks in disbelief.
“Mmm,” I moan as I look at the pendulum clock for the umpteenth time.
Harring snatches the cards out of my hands. “You have a full house,” and then he throws them in the air. “Where the hell is your head tonight? Do you want to play or not?”
After the Russian soprano’s performance and, above all, after Jemma’s message, I didn’t feel like staying at the party, so I invited Harring to Denby for a poker hand.
“Yes… no… I don’t know.”
Harring takes the cards back and starts shuffling them. “Will you talk to me and tell me what the fuck is wrong?”
“Nothing,” I growl.
“You’ve been looking at the clock with that blank expression ever since we got here.”
“Okay, then!” I give up. “I have to tell you, because I’m going nuts.”
“Speak! That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
“Jemma has gone out.”
“I know.”
“Remember that story I told you? That we got married but that we have agreed on an open marriage, and so on?”
“Crystal clear.”
“It isn’t exactly how it really went: my father left me swimming in debt, and the banks were about to foreclose on everything I owned. Jemma, on the other hand, could inherit her grandmother’s millions and leave that rat hole in Lewisham only by marrying a titled man. Coincidentally, my solicitor was also the executor of her grandmother’s will, and he arranged our marriage so that she could inherit after becoming a duchess, and I could repay my debts with part of her money. It was totally driven by financial interests, but some bigmouth leaked the whole thing and we’re now forced to live as husband and wife for a reasonable time to make it credible. In order to keep our love lives and business apart, we agreed that we can have our own relationships.”
Harring stands up, astounded. “I need a drink. Do you have any brandy?”
“Can you stay sober until I’m done with the story?”
“This story is getting more and more compelling,” he comments.
“According to the agreement, Jemma has wasted no time. After the concert, she left with…”
“What a woman of her word!”
“… with Carter Willoughby.”
Harring is visibly startled.
“What? And did you let her go?”
“And how could I prevent it?”
“By telling her that he’s a twat, for example?”
“I have no right to do so. Besides, she would think that I’m jealous.”
“Would that be the truth?”
“No!” I exclaim vehemently, I’m almost shocked by Harring’s question.
“Willoughby, that dickhead! Well, if it doesn’t bother you at all to think of him holding her hand, putting his arm around her waist and lowering the straps of her dress…”
“It doesn’t bother me, no. It drives me crazy! It makes me sick, it disgusts me and it makes me want to smash everything.”
My friend rolls his eyes. “That’s very strange for someone who got married just for money…”
“What about my self-esteem? My pride? The woman who’s officially known as my wife goes out and flirts with my nemesis. It could be anyone else, but not him.”
“Jealousy has nothing to do with it, then?” Harring insists.
“No!”
“All right, I believe you. I’ll pretend not to have a brain and I’ll believe what you say.”
“I asked you to listen to me, not to draw conclusions.”
“Now that you’ve vented, I assume you’re able to think clearly again. Can we play another hand of Hold’em?”
“I won’t be able to think clearly until I see Jemma cross that threshold, for God’s sake!” I roar, slamming a fist on the windowsill. “I don’t care if I have to wait all night,” I mutter to myself.
Thinking of dealing with that loose cannon Willoughby again makes my blood boil.