Ashford’s Version
As with any event on the charity calendar, everybody’s here. Missing any of these evenings could result in being branded with the dishonourable label of stingy or selfish. In fact, it’s rather the contrary: everyone is ready to put their hands in their pockets to win the title of ‘most generous soul of the season’; however, there are those who must be forgiven for boring evenings or unpleasant dinners.
My mother sits at the Union Jack Charity table and she’s carefully ensuring that every single participant stumps up the bare minimum to be considered socially acceptable.
It might seem ridiculous to many, but the tension is tangible. In particular, the families which have been in competition for ages fight to the last pound to defend their honour.
The fashion show is much appreciated by the ladies of a certain age, because they have a chance to show off in the clothes they wore on some renowned occasion.
It’s less pleasant for the male audience, though, because they have to watch the ladies in question, whose bodies are as sensual as sacks of potatoes and move up and down the catwalk with the gracefulness of a small earthquake.
“Every single year I swear it’s my last time and I won’t be back, then God knows why, the following year comes and I find myself here with a chequebook in my hand. I have to find a way to break this vicious circle,” Harring complains, swallowing one glass after another of non-vintage champagne –this being a charity evening, we can’t toast to health with very expensive bottles, or it would be like slapping poverty in the face.
“You’re telling me? With my mother on the committee, my place is reserved for life. I’ve even been thinking of joining the army again, just to get out of it.”
“She dragged Jemma in this too, right?”
“It was inevitable. Every lady in high society must contribute to the management of events. And, by the way, Jemma isn’t just involved, she organised this one. See my mother over there? She’s trying to avoid a panic attack. To be honest, I feel very relaxed and confident. Jemma couldn’t possibly mess it up. This show is so dull that I could handle it myself: dress the old ladies in their clothes, tuck them in with a little help from Vaseline and safety pins, play the same old soporific Valium compilation from 1982 and bam! You send them out on the catwalk one after the other, hoping that their dentures and femur prostheses aren’t dislodged by their agitated hip swinging.”
“Poor grannies, let them enjoy their last blaze of glory.”
They lower the lights in the hall and turn on a spotlight which illuminates the catwalk.
The music starts: Valium compilation, as expected.
On screen, they show a photo of Lady Danbury shaking McEnroe’s hand at the 1983 Wimbledon awards ceremony.
I raise an eyebrow sceptically: despite what she looked like in 1983, Lady Danbury has now assumed the shape of a water butt; which law of physics can allow her to fit into the tiny dress she was wearing back then, I wonder?
I don’t know if I should look or not. It’s like a horror movie: you don’t want to watch, yet an irresistible masochistic instinct forces you keep your eyes open.
The music suddenly changes: now the voice of Lady Gaga resounds from the loudspeakers and the hall fills with smoke, it’s starting to look like the room I shared with Harring at college.
I turn towards the dj, thinking he’ll have to face quite a rough time at the end of the evening.
Harring elbows me in the ribs and tugs at my sleeve. “Look, for fuck’s sake! Look!” And he points at the catwalk.
It’s a Danbury, yes, but it’s the lady’s nineteen year old niece! And the dress she’s wearing has little of the one her grandmother wore at Wimbledon: they shortened it and ripped off the sleeves from the jacket.
Total silence falls in the room: the women are in shock; the men, on the other hand, seem to have recovered from the vegetative state in which they were until a minute ago.
After that, Lord Perry’s twenty year old granddaughter comes out, sporting the updated version of the outfit her aunt wore at a golf championship. And let me say that I wish I had never seen her aunt with those shorts on, neither on nor off the golf course. The niece, on the other hand, collects enthusiastic applause. Harring’s hands, for example, are almost bleeding.
One after the other, the daughters, nieces and grandnieces of the mummies sitting in the hall come out on the catwalk wearing the dresses donated for charity, which have been radically updated.
The ladies are as silent as wax statues, whereas the gentlemen have never been so full of life. And so bent over on their chequebooks. Harring and Samuel, who are next to me, have improvised a jury and raise sheets of paper with points for each girl that comes out.
Even Lord Neville, the Royal Duke, hasn’t stopped applauding since the beginning.
The gentlemen will be grateful to Jemma forever, but I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes when they go home.
Perhaps, I will providentially become a widower.
It’s almost over when the last girl takes to the catwalk: she’s wearing big sixties diva style sunglasses and she’s wrapped in a short white chinchilla fur; when she reaches the end of the catwalk, she undoes her belt with a flirtatious gesture, and she lets everyone see that she’s wearing little else below: a semi-transparent sand coloured lace leotard and a long pearl necklace which hangs down to her groin.
“Who-is-that?” stutters Harring in a faint voice and the sheet of paper with his vote crumpled up in his hands.
“My…” I can’t even say it. “Wife.”
As if to confirm my fears, she turns round, takes off her glasses and lets her fur slip all along her shoulders.
It is Jemma.
I’m clearly picturing my mother’s chair toppling over as she falls to the ground, losing consciousness.
After Jemma finally disappears behind the curtain, darkness falls in the hall.
I’m almost certain that Lady Antonia’s great-grandmother was wearing something else under her fur when she met the Tsarina Alexandra back in 1911.
“Someone up there loves you, Parker,” Harring tells me, still excited about the evening.
“Yeah, sure,” I comment, in astonishment.
*
The following morning, Denby is hell on Earth.
“I will not stand by and watch while the Parker name is dishonoured!” My mother screams, as the servants take out a long line of luggage. “I’m going to Bath!” She goes on, as I look at her on the threshold with indifference.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic?” I ask.
“Melodramatic? Your wife shredded the antique fashion pieces of the aristocracy and she went out on the catwalk half naked, am I being melodramatic?”
“I think you’re overreacting,” I shrug and go back inside.
“You married a lunatic, you brought her family of freaks here, this house looks like a circus, and all your wife does is embarrass me! I’m telling you, loud and clear: I’m the only one left of sound mind, here. If you’re fine with being humiliated and turned into the laughing stock of high society, go ahead; as far as I am concerned, I will not stand by watching a sinking ship.”
Her soliloquy barely touches me. “Perhaps you’re missing a tiny detail: I’m not holding you back, I’m just expressing my opinion on your reaction. It was a charity fashion show, not the launch of an intercontinental ballistic missile. If you want to go to Bath, you have all my support.”
“Of course I’m going to Bath! I have no reason to stay here! After last night’s disaster, there isn’t the slightest chance of a royal visit left! The Queen will never set foot in this madhouse.”
While my mother is venting the best of her hysteria in front of her car, which is ready to leave, Jemma appears by my side, peaceful and smiling, as if nothing had happened.
“There you go,” she says, almost singing, while waving a bunch of cheques in front of my eyes. “Look, there are thousands of pounds here! I did the accounts and, when I called the bank to arrange to make the deposit, they told me that the Union Jack fashion shows have never made this much money!”
In disbelief, I look at the cheques signed by my mother’s friends and acquaintances. “This is astounding!”
“And look here!” Jemma hands me her smartphone with an open Twitter page. “Three fashion designers have tagged me in their posts to compliment me! Real fashion designers who do fashion shows in Paris! It was a triumph!”
Seeing Jemma revelling in her own success, my mother is fuming. “A success! You annihilated years of pride and tradition with your antics!”
Jemma gives my mother a freezing look, and keeps swinging her cheques. “As far as I know, you don’t feed the poor with pride and tradition.”
“I fully agree,” I say.
My mother stamps her feet and gets into the car, shouting: “Go to hell, both of you!” And then the Rolls Royce starts moving along the driveway, raising a cloud of dust.
“Where is she going?” Asks Jemma.
“I think I owe you one.”
“Why?”
“She’s off to Bath.”