Jemma’s Version
Since Delphina left, I’ve found myself in a rather demanding position. Yes, I have always considered that woman a waste of space, but the management of Denby Hall is involving me more and more every day. And, strange as it may seem, I like it.
I’ve always been subordinate to someone, playing second fiddle for years, but now every decision, even the smallest details, seem to require my approval.
Lance and the rest of the staff are so good to me and they do everything to put me at ease, as they’re well aware that this is all new to me.
The charity is a different matter: I’m their experiment and they’re all keeping me under the microscope. The fashion show was a long shot and it went well, but I don’t know if luck will be on my side this time.
I got a call from Lady Antonia who, in a quiet tone which was as fake as seasonal sales, told me that I will have to take care of the evening which had been assigned to Delphina: the Gregorian Choir concert in the big conservatory at the Country Club.
I don’t know anything about Gregorian Choirs.
And then, where do you get these Gregorians?
I’m forced to improvise again, for two main reasons: first, because the fashion show was a master stroke and they say you shouldn’t mess with success; second, because I wouldn’t know what else to do.
*
When the charity evening starts, the hall is packed and Lady Venetia is already on stage, ready to take over my event. I can’t deny that I’m not completely sure this will work, and I know that half the people sitting out there are waiting for me to fail, big time.
I cross my fingers and hope that, once again, my lucky star works its magic. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren: this year, in lieu of the Gregorian Choir concert, the Union Jack Charity Society is proud to propose an entirely new event organised by the Duchess of Burlingham, Lady Jemma Parker! Let’s give her a round of applause.” Lady Venetia pauses to shift the attention onto me. “I’m sure that this initiative will be widely appreciated, especially by the ladies. As the invitation states, there will be a light buffet later, followed by dancing, but first, each lady will choose a partner for the evening.” The guests start muttering. “Yes, the gentlemen are about to be auctioned off, dear ladies of the audience. They will be at your command to satisfy your every wish, within the limits of decency, of course – I’m addressing the married ladies in particular. My dear dames, choose well, raise your paddles, fight for your man and don’t forget to use your chequebooks. Be generous, this is for charity! The starting bid is five hundred pounds!”
I feel all eyes on me, and someone sitting at the back hisses: “So disreputable,” or: “She’s foolish.”
“Without further ado, let’s see the first lot: Lord Havisham, would you please join me on stage?”
Lord Havisham clears his throat, looking around uncertainly, and then he walks towards Lady Venetia, encouraged by his sister. He’s been a widower for more than four years, he should be over the grieving process by now.
“Very well, then: Lord Havisham, ninth Earl of Twickens, passionate chess player, master of foxhounds and two-time Ryder Cup Champion with the European team.”
The room is deeply embarrassed, so his sister is the first to break the ice and raise her paddle. “A thousand pounds.”
“Our Juliet is not going to let any other lucky lady enjoy the company of the Earl. Come on, you can have him for yourself whenever you want!” Urges Lady Venetia.
From the back of the hall, someone else raises a paddle. “Two thousand pounds.”
“Brilliant, Lady Smythe. Thank goodness your husband is in Belgium. We won’t tell anyone, shall we? Keep it under your hat, ladies and gentlemen!”
Other paddles are raised, but rather timidly, until Lady Smythe succeeds in winning the Earl.
Once the format is established, the following gentlemen sell like hot cakes, so the Earl of Clerkenwell and Baron Fansworth are on and off the stage in no time.
I have chosen the gentlemen carefully after observing them at these interminable events.
I included the widowers to spice up their lives a bit, as you never know what could come out of such an evening, then the married men who are able to laugh at themselves – strange as it may seem, there are some, like Murray Davenport – and, of course, confirmed bachelors and single men.
Speaking of single men, Lady Venetia has just called Harring onto the stage. He accepted readily, but on one condition.
“Ladies and young Ladies, please welcome the ineffable Kenneth Harring, heir to the title of Viscount of Westborough. Car enthusiast and Formula One driver, collector of 1995 champagne, he owes his perennial tan to his villa in Marbella and his forty metre yacht. He hasn’t been in a steady relationship for a long time. Place your bids!”
It’s like a western movie, when there’s nothing in the street except for rolling dust and tumbleweed. The room is immersed in silence; if there were any crickets about they would be heard loud and clear.
Harring takes off his jacket, throwing it nonchalantly over his shoulder and starting to walk up and down the stage.
“Come on, ladies, don’t be shy,” he winks at the audience. “It’s your chance. One night only.”
Silence. Apart from Ashford.
He’s next to me and he’s laughing so hard that I’m afraid he might have a heart attack. He looks as if he is having a seizure, I swear. I’m horrified when I see him grab my paddle.
“I saw a paddle move over there?” Lady Venetia lingers. “Duke of Burlingham? I’m afraid that what you’re doing is a little ambiguous… the bids are reserved for the ladies!”
I force him to replace the paddle on the table and the crystal glasses clink against one another.
Ashford wipes the tears from his eyes. “I had to fan myself or I would have fainted,” he can hardly swallow as he holds back a final guffaw. “You got it, Haz.”
Harring is still walking up and down on stage, winking to the right and left, in an attempt to encourage the ladies to bid.
His problem is his bad reputation: every young lady here has been in his bed, but no one wants to let anyone know.
“One pound,” I hear, recognising the voice and the subtle sarcasm coming from the table behind me: it’s Cécile.
“Lady Loxley, may I remind you that the starting bid is five hundred pounds. It’s for charity, after all!” Lady Venetia urges her.
“Five hundred pounds, then,” Cécile repeats irritably.
“No other offers? Going, going…” she pauses for a moment. “Gone! Kenneth Harring is sold to the Marquise of Hungeford, Lady Loxley.”
Harring comes off stage and approaches Cécile sporting a cocky smile. “Lady Loxley, you got yourself a bargain.”
“You owe me four hundred and ninety-nine pounds,” she growls.
“Lady Loxley! This is for charity,” Harring replies.
“I’m not sure you noticed that I saved you from being humiliated out there. No one else bid.”
“I’ve already shagged them all, anyway.” He turns towards Sir Philip’s daughter, who’s sitting in the front row, and winks at her.
“You’re repulsive,” Cécile says.
“And I’m all yours, for tonight. Who knows, maybe I can make you change your mind about that American nerd that is your boyfriend.”
“I’m already regretting it,” sighs my friend.
“See? I told you so. Besides, Americans have small willies!”
“I was referring to you, idiot! I already regret buying you at the auction.”
Lady Venetia’s voice distracts me from their little quarrel. “And now, the last lot, which I’m sure will enliven the hall. Courtesy of Lady Jemma, here is Lord Ashford Parker, Duke of Burlingham.”
Ashford goes pale beside me. “Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s for charity,” I reply angelically.
He pushes his chair back with thinly disguised anger, then he bends over and puts his face a breath away from mine. “You and I will sort this out later.”
Harring agreed to take part in the auction only if I included Ashford. The idea of embarrassing him was so exciting that I didn’t even have to think twice.
Lady Venetia looks overjoyed when he gets on stage. “The twelfth Duke of Burlingham, captain of the West London polo team, collector of vintage cars, two degrees, speaks six languages. Place your bids!”
A multitude of paddles rise.
“A thousand pounds.”
“One thousand, five hundred.”
“Two thousand.”
“Four thousand.”
The female voices overlap and, when I look on stage, I notice Ashford’s chuffed expression. If good taste didn’t prevent him from doing it, I’m sure he would show me his middle finger. I stretch my neck to identify the owners of the paddles. There are Lady Valéry and Lady Audrey. Even Lord Cedric’s wife. And all the unmarried ladies. The Triple Six squabble with each other by adding zeros. They want him as if he were made of chocolate.
There’s also a woman standing by the door. She has got impeccably styled black wavy hair and assured, piercing eyes that are trained on Ashford. I’ve never seen her before, but a glance is enough for me to know who it is: Portia. And she’s raising her paddle very high in the air.
Without thinking, I raise mine too. “Eight thousand pounds.”
Lady Valéry chuckles. “Lady Jemma, there’s no need to raise bids.”
“Twelve,” Portia firmly offers.
“Fifteen,” is my counter bid.
Is it my imagination, or is Ashford holding back a smile? Maybe he hopes that Portia wins the auction. Of course, he’d love to humiliate me like that in public, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with.
Portia raises her paddle again with a nonchalant gesture “Eighteen.”
“Twenty thousand,” I growl.
“Twenty-five thousand,” says Portia, addressing me more than Lady Valéry.
I stand up and I shout out: “Fifty thousand pounds.” Then, before she can utter a word, I raise my own offer: “Sixty.”
I feel her ice cold look on me. I approach her and, once I’m in front of her, as if I were at the stadium facing the leader of the opposition’s supporters, I snatch the paddle out of her hands and hiss: “A hundred thousand pounds.”
Yes, a hundred thousand. I am super rich, and I want to use my money to win over this arrogant bitch and teach her a lesson.
“I’m afraid I did not understand the offer,” says Lady Venetia.
“A hundred fucking thousand pounds,” I repeat, articulating the words slowly.
“No other offer?”
I turn round but Portia has vanished.
“Going, going and… gone. Lady Jemma has just won… well, her husband.”
I was hoping to catch him by surprise, but Ashford is shaking his head and smiling. Yes, one of those beautiful smiles that light up his face, just like when you open a big window in a dark room while the sun is rising on the sea… wait, what am I saying?
He keeps smiling, walks off the stage, comes back to me and… stop it! Oh my God, I have to stop staring at him.