Jemma’s Version
The great thing about Cécile’s visits is not having anyone annoying (Ashford) or nosy (Delphina) around.
I’m totally and completely free now, no longer forced into assuming awkward postures or limiting my movements and gestures for matters of etiquette.
We are out on the patio, lying blissfully on two circular deckchairs. Between us, there’s a huge cart laden with food and – wait for it – we can eat it! Do I want a canapé? I’ll have one. Do I want another one? I’ll put it on my plate. Cinnamon rolls? I get as many as I want. And so does Cécile.
“I wish these afternoons could last forever,” I sigh.
“We can have as many as you want. We can do it every day.”
“Yes, but between one relaxing afternoon and the next, there are those awful high society evenings. It’s torture for me. I have to be tested, hear the laughs behind my back and get disapproving looks every single time,” I say, giving a snort of frustration. “I did my best: I read every book Jane Austen wrote! Ask me something, come on! Anything!”
“I don’t need to, I can see you’ve worked on yourself.”
“Would you believe it was completely coincidental? It all started with a film I saw by chance, then I got really passionate about the genre and my interest grew, so much so that I sought out all the other stories by the same author.”
“You see? ‘coincidental’ is a word that you wouldn’t have used a few months ago!” Cécile exclaims, while adjusting her big sunglasses.
“But it’s not enough, is it?” I say unhappily. “I’m always ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ of something, I feel like Don Quixote fighting windmills.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, the literary references continue!” Cécile teases me.
“Are you doing it too, now? Making fun of me? As if the fact that I read and got interested in topics which used to be unknown to me was so unlikely!” I protest.
Cécile suddenly gets up, looking around in search of something.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, no worries. I might know what to do to explain something to you, but first I have to think of the right example.”
“Can’t you try in your own words?”
“Stay there, I’ll be right back.” So saying, Cécile takes the food cart and disappears through the service door. After a little while she’s back, with her hands hidden behind her back.
First, she hands me a crumpled sheet of newspaper with half a crumbled cream puff inside; the icing is all messy and the cream is dripping from all sides.
“What do you want from me?” I ask her.
“Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream.”
I look at her sceptically.
Now, with her left hand, she’s showing me an exquisitely decorated Limoges porcelain saucer and a silver fork. At the centre of the saucer, there’s a similar cream puff half, but this one is intact and perfectly golden. The Chantilly cream looks voluptuous below the pastry top, accompanied by regular soft peaks of whipped cream and small drops of shiny caramel. On the saucer, there’s also a freshly picked daisy.
I’m even more intrigued.
“Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream,” she repeats.
I reach out towards the saucer. “If you don’t mind—”
But she pushes my hand away, preventing me from taking it. “See? This is you!”
“What?” I ask, confused. I want that cream puff.
“The cream puff!” Cécile exclaims.
“I am the cream puff,” I repeat sceptically.
“Yes, you are: you are made of fragrant and buttery choux pastry filled with velvety Chantilly cream and topped with a golden icing that melts on your tongue.”
“It sounds a little crude,” I observe.
“You are the cream puff, but this is how you look,” she says, indicating the pastry wrapped in newspaper. “The content is great, but the appearance is not very inviting. If that cream puff looked better, everyone would fight to have it.”
“Finish your speech while we’re still friends, because I’m not sure we will be later,” I warn her.
“Oh, don’t be prickly and listen to me, I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart. You have a wonderful world inside you, and you’ve further enriched your qualities by extending your knowledge. However, while I deeply respect your choices, we have to face the fact that your clothes and your appearance are off putting for people who don’t know you. I’m free from prejudices, but, as you can see for yourself, most of them aren’t, and they find it hard to give credit to a fuchsia haired girl with green nails who shows up in a leather miniskirt and blows bubbles with chewing gum, even if she has a degree in Quantum Physics.”
“I know this one!” I jump up like a kangaroo. “Quantum Physics: a branch of physics introduced by Planck’s studies in 1900. It describes the behaviour of matter and its interactions with radiation as undulating phenomena of particle origin, consisting of concentrated energy which is measured in quanta, contrary to what had been maintained by classical physics until then,” I say, in one breath.
“Exactly. You might have many things to say, but you have to make other people want to listen.”
“Keep talking until I stop you. It could save your life.”
“This is a snake pit, where someone’s value is directly proportional to their title. It’s even harder for women because, getting their husbands’ titles, they have to work twice as hard to get respect.” She take a little break. “Except for me, but it’s not me we’re talking about.” I look at her as she performs her monologue. “You’ve caught one of the most sought after bachelors, so all the angry bitches are ready to bite your ankles. Moreover, you’re new to this environment, and come from a culture that these people have always made fun of. You have to avoid giving them reasons to mock you. If you don’t serve them on a silver platter, you’ll starve them. You know you are far superior to the people you’ve met so far, but being aware is not enough. If you want to play at their table, you have to identify yourself with a character that makes them feel at ease.”
“Okay, you’re saying that my look is wrong. I can read every bloody book in the library of Denby Hall and learn to speak all the existing languages, but I will never be accepted because of the way I look? Freaking hell! I can use fourteen pieces of cutlery and five glasses!”
“You have to be a chameleon. I’m not saying that you have to change the way you are, you’ll always be yourself, but you should revise your ‘facade’ a bit!”
“I’ll think about it,” I answer, doubtfully.
“Haven’t they humiliated you enough?” Cécile’s tone of voice gets colder.
I sigh, looking away. These are things I’ve already heard a thousand times from Delphina and Ashford. Of course, they put it in a different way, as if there were something wrong in me, and if I’ve opposed any change so far, it was just out of pride. How could I listen to Delphina or the Triple Six, who hate me?
However, this time it’s Cécile saying it, and God knows she’s been the only person to show any interest in me in this madhouse.
Perhaps she’s worth listening to?
*
After I spent days reflecting carefully on her ‘pep talk’, I go to Cécile’s residence immediately after lunch. Tonight there’s an important masquerade ball, a gigantic (of course) fancy dress party thrown by Lord Neville in person.
We arranged a long dress fitting. Cécile called a tailor from Paris and, since I want no less, I asked her if I could use him myself. I was thinking of something very flamboyant, fiery red, with feathers, taffeta and sequins… but nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I arrived.
The private parlour in Cécile’s apartment was set up as a beauty centre and equipped with styling chairs, spa beds and all.
“Aargh!” an effeminate shriek welcomes me as I open the door.
“Pierre, pourquoi tu cries?” Cécile asks.
“I scream for terror! You did not tell me it was such a desperate case!” The man complains while looking at me, almost paralysed.
“Let’s not overreact. I know your talents, you will make a masterpiece,” she encourages him.
“You overestimate me, chérie,” he comments in his strong French accent.
Pierre starts turning me around. “At least the base is good, I have something to work on. If she had been fat, I would have refused tout de suite.”
“Cécile, your tailor looks a little unstable,” I remark.
“He’s not my tailor,” my friend replies.
“So why am I standing here being insulted by a stranger?” I ask, forcing myself to remain calm.
Cécile comes closer and takes my hands. “Remember our talk the other day? Don’t get angry, I just took the liberty of calling Pierre. He owns one of the most exclusive salons in Paris and he’s a real genius with hairstyles and make-up. You won’t regret it. If you don’t like the result, I promise that you’ll have your pink hair and your six mile long green nails back,” she smiles hopefully.
I look at Cécile, then Pierre and Cécile again. “This is on you, though.”
“With much pleasure!” She claps her hands enthusiastically, jumping up and down.
*
It’s evening by the time I’m ready to put on a spectacular dress, and I notice an unbelievable number of missed calls from Ashford, concluded by a cold text message that reads: ‘I’m already at the ball, you’re on your own.’ Of course I am, dear Ashford, as usual. I have long since realised that I’m the Prince Charming in this story.