Ashford’s Version
Neville Manor is crowded with guests wearing the most astonishing masks. My mother is as euphoric as I haven’t seen her in years: she has never been invited by the duke before and she can’t believe what she sees. She came back from Bath just to boast about this. Luckily, I lost track of her a moment after she arrived and joined all the other shrews dressed up as Elizabeth I. You can see them from a mile away: red wigs, three layers of white greasepaint, ruffs around their necks and skirts of gigantic dimensions. Needless to say, the men are divided into two teams: Henry VIII, thin version and Henry VIII, fat version. The fat version, for obvious reasons, has got many more adherents.
These parties are so predictable.
In contrast, given my lack of inspiration for a complicated costume, I opted for the Phantom of the Opera: white mask on half of my face, morning coat and red lined cape. Simple and handy.
“Who the fuck are you? Batman?” Harring takes me by surprise. How do I know it’s Harring? Because he’s dressed as himself, in his Formula One uniform and helmet.
“I’m the Phantom of the Opera,” I explain.
“You only have half a mask, do you know that?” He asks, pointing at my face.
“Yes, that’s part of the costume. And you? It’s not carnival, it’s supposed to be an elegant evening. Didn’t you know?”
“Yes, but then I thought: hey, I’m a legend, I’ll wear my uniform and helmet!”
“Admit it, you forgot it was a costume evening and you put on the first thing you found,” I say, cutting things short.
“Yes, that’s it,” he admits, lowering his voice and then changing the subject. “Hey, are you alone tonight?”
“So it seems. Jemma vanished in the early afternoon to go visit that Loxley freak, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“Wow, sleepover party for girls only!” He says enthusiastically. “What are we doing here? Let’s go and join them.”
“In your twisted mind you probably picture them in a pillow fight, wearing sexy underwear on a bed with goose feathers floating around, right? Well, those two are witches, and if they get their claws into us it’s more than likely that we will get our balls cut off during one of the their Satanic Sabbaths. No sleepover, my friend!”
“Ashford, tell me why you feel the need to destroy my fantasies every single time.”
“If you tell me why your fantasies include Cécile Loxley more and more often.”
“It must be the aspirin I took with a Margarita earlier on. Three Margaritas.”
“The thing is, if Jemma doesn’t show up, I won’t be forgiven. For some strange reason, His Grace the Royal Duke finds her adorable, and has expressly requested her presence at this evening, but where is she? As usual, she left on her own, saying nothing to anyone, and now I’m here pretending she’s gone to the toilet.”
“You’re being paranoid. Shall I get you some champagne? It will help you relax.”
“A whole bottle, thank you.”
Harring blends into the crowd; I stand at the foot of the entrance staircase, examining the masks of the incoming guests while waiting for Jemma: there’s Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn with a blood trail on her neck – very tacky, to be honest – two Chancellor Cromwells, a Margaret Thatcher, an Archbishop of Canterbury… I don’t know who this one is, and that… hey, wait a second!
I linger for a while on the first person I’ve seen who doesn’t look ridiculous this evening, who is coming down from the top of the staircase.
I have a strange déjà-vu feeling. Everything in her causes flashes in my mind, but I’m not able to compose a single image.
All I can do is acknowledge what is in front of me: it’s a young woman – she isn’t old enough to be dressed as Elizabeth I, but not young enough to be a Disney princess either – light brown hair with caramel and copper shades falls onto her shoulders in soft waves that make you want to caress them, her face has a shiny, rosy complexion and is covered by a simple lace mask which frames two deep blue eyes. She’s going down the stairs with a light step, wrapped in a floating ice coloured silk dress.
An unknown force propels me to go to her and stand in her way before saying, with no hesitation: “You took your time.”
“It’s not time for pumpkins, yet. I had to hitchhike.” Underneath all that silk, there is Jemma.
I offer her my arm. “What are you dressed up as?”
“The woman you want me to be.”
“This is not how I imagined you.”
“How did you imagine me, then? A mute?”
“Let’s say you did better than the brightest of my expectations,” I candidly admit.
Jemma looks speechless, as if she had been ready for a fight that’s not going to happen, and now doesn’t know what to do with the sword in her hands.
“Come on, Ashford, I know you can do better. You spit up all your bile when you’re in good shape. I expected something worthy of your style, you’re disappointing me!”
I look at her and I’m intrigued. “This must have taken some effort, hasn’t it?”
“It’s all about mental strength. Besides, I was out of ways to shock you.”
I lead her to the centre of the hall, just as Harring comes to meet us. “Champagne, for you,” he says, offering me his flute and taking Jemma’s hand. “And this charming young lady you found for me.” He raises his helmet visor to introduce himself. “Kenneth Harring, heir to the title of Viscount of Westborough.”
“Haz. I’m Jemma,” she replies with unusual composure.
“You… what? Jemma? Bloody hell!” Harring says in shock.
“Be careful what you wish for, Harring. You could get it!” Cécile says, covered by various layers of black taffeta.
“Loxley! The Dark side of the Force! What are you dressed up as? A manic depressive in early menopause?”
“Early menopause, if it helps keep pigs like you away,” she replies with her typical sharpness.
“You’d be amazed if you knew how many mature ladies appreciate my company,” he says, while winking at a trio of rouged oldies on our right.
Cécile grimaces, looking away. “You disgust me.”
“Very well, ladies and gentlemen, sex maniacs and sociopaths,” I say, addressing Harring and Cécile, “I’m going to hit the dance floor now, there’s some tolerable slow music. Jemma, would you care to join me?”
“With pleasure,” she replies, with a broad smile.
Jemma and I reach the centre of the ballroom and start moving together, following the rhythm of the music.
“So?” I ask her.
“So what?”
“How come you made this sudden change? What happened on the road to Damascus?”
“I figured out that I needed a makeover,” she says.
“And why?”
“To be able to kick your arse and those of all these arrogant snobs.”
“Here’s the duchess I know!” After all, we’re having a diplomatic truce, and her answers make me smile.
“Seriously! You wouldn’t last fifteen minutes in my world. I’d love to see you catch the Tube in the rush hour without being crushed by the crowd, or survive the first day of the sales!”
“But we’re not in your world,” I point out.
“Exactly, I’m in yours. I won’t only survive, I will show you that I can do even better than people who were born to it.”
“These are delusions of grandeur.”
“Maybe, you’re an expert, aren’t you? Are you afraid that someone might steal your spotlight?”
“Not really, no.” For some unknown reason, I feel like whispering in her ear: “I admit you’re good, but you still have a lot to learn.”
“You haven’t said anything yet,” she reproaches me.
“About what?”
“About me! My look! After months of criticism and reproach, I polish myself up like Harrods at Christmas and all you do is ask me why I did it? No comments?”
“Maybe you didn’t realise, but I did,” I object.
“What would that be?”
“When you entered the hall…”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, peacefully.
“What do you mean nothing?” She frowns.
“For the first time since you and I have been together in public, nothing happened at all.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Let me explain: every time you entered a room, you drew all the attention to yourself. Don’t bother being flattered, it was not a good thing. Everyone turned to look at you, and was disturbed by your odd appearance. Tonight, for the first time, you went unnoticed. Nobody turned towards the staircase looking at you as you look at a gang of robbers.”
Jemma looks away, lowering her head almost completely.
“Hey, don’t be disappointed. That means your makeover was successful.”
“If you say so,” Jemma doesn’t look too enthusiastic about my explanation.
“I do. Besides, since I feel very honest tonight, I’ll tell you two more things: I truly appreciate your effort, even though it took you some time. Whoever helped you, did a great job and you look great. I must thank you.”
“Three, then.”
“What?”
“You said three things, not two: you appreciate my effort, I’m beautiful, and ‘thank you’.”
“I didn’t say you’re beautiful. I said you look great.”
“You’re totally unable to give any compliments, aren’t you?”
“Don’t push it too far.”
We dance for a while, in silence, then I notice that she’s looking around the ballroom, and so I can’t help asking her a question: “I assume that there’s something else behind your change… or maybe someone else?”
“Who?”
“You’ve thrown it in my face for weeks and now you play dumb? Willoughby.”
Jemma shakes her head. “No. Willoughby has nothing to do with it.”
“Are looking for someone?”
She lets out a hint of a smile. “I was looking for your mother. I wanted to shock her as I did at the fashion show.”
“I don’t think you can ever reach that level again.” I hold back a sigh: I don’t care about my mother. And if Willoughby is no longer in my way, I have one problem less. “Would you please relax a bit? You’re so stiff that it feels like dancing with Admiral Nelson!”
“I’d rather be cautious. I’m sure that as soon as I lower my guard you will come out with one of your little jokes. I’ll be ready for it.”
“You’re wrong. I’m so at peace with the universe, right now. It didn’t take long to figure it out, yet you refused to do it until the very last second: all I asked for was someone who didn’t humiliate me or embarrass me.”
“That’s too bad. Humiliating you is the only thing that can resize your endless ego, and embarrassing you is the perfect way to break down your arrogance,” she replies, sporting an angelic smile on her face.
“You mean you always did it on purpose?” I ask.
“All the time,” she replies, satisfied.
“You’re a stunning bitch.”
We dance through the last notes of the song, before she gives me a victorious look.
“See? You finally admitted it.”
“What?”
“That I’m stunning.”
She won. This time, she really won.