Ashford’s Version
During the hunt, I stopped several times to look for Jemma behind me, but neither she nor Willoughby were there.
A terrible thought crossed my mind and brought me out in a cold sweat. I remembered all my past experiences with Willoughby, and I instinctively came to a halt and turned round.
I handed over the field master’s job to Davenport and went back to look for them.
I found Poppy in the woods, she cantered towards me with a nasty wound on her belly.
A thousand dramatic scenarios passed through my mind, so I searched the woods hoping to find Jemma.
Nothing.
Finding no trace of her, I went to Avon House.
Just before going back into the woods, I hear a familiar and irritating laughter: Willoughby.
I open the door to the games room and find Carter with Wandsworth and Branagh, or as I call them, the Dickhead Society. Willoughby, the biggest one, stands out in the middle, of course.
The chief dickhead turns towards me with a smile on his face. “Hey there, Parker! Caught up with the fox yet?”
“Where’s Jemma?” I ask, straight to the point. He’s the last one who saw her, I’m sure.
“Not with you, of course,” he replies with his usual insolence. “Join us, Parker. There is a free chair and Wandsworth is cutting the deck. Poker.”
“I don’t play for money. I don’t need to get money out of others, you know.”
“Are you afraid of losing?” Willoughby challenges me.
That’s the question which no man can back down when faced with.
I approach the green table in silence, pull out a chair which scrapes along the floor, and sit down. “I’ll deal.”
Carter gives a knowing look to his fellow dickheads, then he says, nonchalantly: “So… you’re a happy husband now.”
“I think I’m not wrong if I say it’s none of your business.” He looks at his cards with total composure and keeps bugging me. “Yeah, technically, it wouldn’t be my business, but it seems that Jemma has a different idea.”
“I suggest that you stay away from her,” I growl.
“What will you do to me if I don’t, Parker?” He asks, then he leans forward and hisses: “Nothing, just like every other time.” So saying, he sits back, satisfied.
It’s true, I’ve let it go so far, because I’ve always considered myself superior to him and I don’t feel the need for revenge.
“You’re not worth the effort, Willoughby.”
He keeps showing off. “Take out some money instead of words. Do you want to bet or not?”
“I’m in,” I say, pushing a stack of chips on the table. “Three thousand.”
Wandsworth and Branagh have understood they’d better step back, since this is between me and Carter, so they fold and leave the game.
Chief dickhead pushes his chips into the centre of the table. “I call your three thousand and raise three more.”
I couldn’t expect anything else from him. “Ten.”
I don’t like making wild bets, but I have a nice set of cards and I hope that luck isn’t on his side this time.
“You know what? Raising three by three bores me to death, it could go on forever. Let’s put something more juicy on the table,” he challenges me.
“You’re really broke, aren’t you, Willoughby?”
“I need something stimulating. Bet something you care about, you identify with. Something you would never jeopardise.” Willoughby’s tone of voice is very annoying.
“I have a nice long list, but you… you just care about yourself, and I would never want to win you, not even if you were made of gold.”
“Did you come in your Jaguar?” He says, nodding towards the window.
“Yup.”
“That’s nice. A 1956 Roadster with 213 hp. It spectacular, it’s got a nice engine, it’s a competition version. For connoisseurs only,” he observes, enigmatically.
“Not for you, then,” I comment in response to his innuendoes.
“Not necessarily,” he says, then he looks me straight in the eyes. “Are you in?”
It’s all between the lines, you just have to know how to read it: do I have the guts to risk losing something I care about, something unique? Yes, we’re talking about my Jaguar, but his insinuation is subtle: he’s also referring to Jemma.
If I had married her for love, I would not hesitate for a second. Do I really want to do this? And what will everyone think of me if I back out? It’s as if I let Willoughby make a fool of me in public.
If I accept, I’ll show him that I’m not afraid to take a risk for what I care about, but the risk here is losing my Jaguar and seeing Willoughby drive it could give me a fulminating heart attack.
He spits more venom. “It wouldn’t be anything new, if you backed out.”
If Willoughby has asked for the Jaguar, he must bet its value, at least: he either has great cards, or he’s bluffing.
He seems to be sure that I will fold; if I do, he will win the pot (now twenty-five thousand pounds) and the Jaguar. Not to mention my humiliation. I know how much he likes taking what is mine.
I take the keys out of my pocket and throw them on the table. “Let’s see your cards.”
A five and a six, then a seven, an eight and a nine on the table. He has a straight, just a lousy straight.
I stand up, tossing my cards on the table. “Full house,” and I get the keys back, feeling victorious.
Just then I see Jemma, who’s limping near the door. Her eyes are swollen, it’s clear that she’s been crying. “Can we go home?”
“Yes,” I walk towards her and pick her up, and the ice falls to the floor. “Let’s go home.”
I give Willoughby one last look before leaving. “Keep the money.”
*
Jemma looks pretty shaken. I can see her from the corner of my eye in the passenger seat next to me; she’s sitting strangely properly, almost stiff, looking down and sniffling occasionally.
While a part of me has already dismissed the whole thing, thinking that she’s probably suffering because of her fall, another part feels that Willoughby had something to do with it, but I don’t feel like asking. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t like her answer.
All I can manage to say, in a rather cold tone, is: “Hold the ice on your knee, or it won’t help relieve the pain.”
She does it, without complaint.
After a few minutes of silence, she asks me a question that almost upsets me. “Are you mad at me?”
Besides, her subdued tone astounds me, so much so that I find myself almost comforting her. “No. For once, I’m not mad at you.”
“I shouldn’t have let myself get left behind. And I should have worn the right clothes, like everyone else. If I hadn’t had these stupid boots on, I wouldn’t have fallen off.”
“You’re a skilled horsewoman, you can ride with any boots.” After a few moments of silence, she surprises me with yet another question. “Why don’t you and Carter like each other?”
“Saying we don’t like each other is a euphemism. I can hardly stay in the same room with him. I think it’s time to abandon my reticence and tell you about our past, so you can understand what kind of person we’re talking about once and for all.” I notice that she’s listening to what I say, she’s no longer looking out of the window and her head is turned towards me. I resume. “The two of us were friends as kids, we’re talking about our time at Eton. He was a nice rogue, irresistibly smart; Willoughby, Harring and I formed a good trio. Later on, his attitude towards me inexplicably changed. Every time I dated a girl, he would put on a scene to her, like: ‘I’m Parker’s best friend and I shouldn’t do this, but you’re a special girl and you deserve to know the truth: Ashford cheated on you during the summer/Easter/Christmas holidays. He’s dating another girl.” Then he tricked them by playing the shoulder to cry on with bloody Dire Straits in the background. He would put on the Romeo & Juliet record and bam, they slept with him. He played this nice game six times. At first, I didn’t understand why all my girlfriends suddenly disappeared and stopped speaking to me, then Harring caught him in the act with Liza, my last girlfriend, and everything made sense.
After that, we went our separate ways, until I found him in my division in the army in Kabul.
He had the task of checking our vehicle before we departed on a mission, we were left on foot because he hadn’t refuelled. We were stuck in that armoured vehicle for a whole day, but then, at night, I crawled like a worm to our base camp and went back to rescue the team with another vehicle. Well, he would have remained in the desert, if it had been my decision.”
“I could never have imagined it,” she murmurs.
“I should have told you earlier.”
“I wouldn’t have listened to you,” she admits. She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand.
There’s something, but she won’t tell me, and I won’t ask. “Does your knee hurt you very much?”
She nods. “Yes, very much.”