Ashford’s Version
I should hate Jemma for that gentlemen’s auction, but I can’t.
I know I’d have every right to make an angry outburst but for some reason, I don’t feel the need to ‘open fire’. Anger: not reported. Resentment: not available. Irritation: at an all time low.
As is customary between Jemma and me, high society events end with an argument, but tonight, I have no pretext to start one. Regardless of our truce, traditions should be respected.
The thing that amazes me is that I’m trying hard to find an excuse, as if I didn’t want to accept that I’m not mad at her for the very first time.
And I have something else to confess, something I have tried to ignore so far: after Jemma bought me for ‘a hundred fucking thousand pounds’, and I went off stage to join her, I didn’t give her any hateful looks. On the contrary, I felt a rather strange force urging me to go and hug her, and I had to use all my self-control to deny it.
The hug that my subconscious was picturing was not that of a friend, though. Not at all.
She stood there with a victorious expression on her face and her hands on her hips, all wrapped up in that long grey satin dress that envelopes her buttocks in a way that would drive any man crazy.
Enough!
I shake my head to banish that image from my mind and try to focus on the road.
Jemma sits next to me with her legs crossed and is looking out of the car window.
In the darkness of the night, the glass acts as a mirror and I can see that she’s still got that smile on her face.
“Your chequebook war with Portia will be the main topic of conversation for months.”
“Someone had to put her in her place. I don’t care if it cost me a hundred grand.”
“Was that the whole point, then? Winning against Portia?”
“Yup.”
What’s this thing I feel in my chest? I hope it’s not disappointment. Why would I be disappointed, anyway?
“Apart from Portia, I would say that many other ladies understood that the Duchess of Burlingham is not to be messed with.”
“But certainly one to fight with,” I comment.
“And you know something about it.”
“I’m speaking from experience.”
She turns to look at me. “Am I that terrible?”
“Shall I be completely honest?”
“Are you kidding me? No! Since when does a woman ask for an honest answer?”
“I’m just asking because you seem so keen not to be like any other women,” I defend myself.
“Okay, then you can be completely honest and to show you that I’m not like other women, I won’t take offence. Shoot.”
Without thinking, I reply: “You’re not that terrible.”
Jemma’s jaw drops open. “I told you to be honest.”
“You’re not terrible. Maybe you were at the beginning, but I’ve been getting used to you over time, and you have improved a lot, so I would say that no, you’re not terrible.”
“I wasn’t ready for that answer.”
“As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of surprising you, even if you’re a troublemaker and always want to have the last word.”
When we get to Denby Hall, everyone is already asleep.
We head towards our rooms together, but not before Jemma has taken off her heels to avoid making any noise. There’s a hundred and fifty rooms in this mansion and she hasn’t understood yet that it’s unlikely she could make enough noise with her heels to wake anybody up.
In some hidden corner of my mind, I hear the word ‘adorable’ echoing, but I force myself to ignore it.
“Well, Jemma,” I say, as we reach our respective doors. “Once again, your charity night was a success. I have to recognise that, eccentric as you may be, you’re good.”
“Cheers,” she replies, looking down at the floor. “Goodnight.”
As I’m getting changed to go to bed, I hear someone knocking on the connecting door. I turn the key and find Jemma standing there, still dressed. “I wanted to apologise for including you in the auction without telling you. I should have asked. Thank you for playing the game.”
“It was for charity. After the initial shock, I took it quite well.”
“And I wanted to tell you that I’m glad I won against Portia.”
“I know that.”
Jemma hesitates a moment before saying in a thin voice: “Good value for money.”
I stop and look at her, intrigued, without understanding what she means exactly.
“Goodnight, Ashford.”
“Goodnight.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. A little later, I hear the door being closed on her side as well.
Then I wait a few seconds, but nothing. One minute and, again, nothing.
She hasn’t locked the door.
Some sounds have become familiar by now; we rarely open the communicating doors but, when we do, we are very careful to lock them: the handle clicks, the knocker thuds and the key turns in the lock at least twice.
Tonight, I could only hear the handle click and the knocker thud.
No key turning. Perhaps she forgot.
But what if she didn’t?
What if she hadn’t locked the door on purpose?
Does she know that I noticed?
*
In order to get rid of the confused thoughts that have been nagging me for a week, since the evening of the gentlemen’s auction, I decide to have a swim in the pool and make peace with myself.
Opening the massive carved oak doors, I realise that my own sanctuary, the last haven of peace left at Denby, has been desecrated.
Jemma is lounging on an inflatable chair, floating with a foot in the water, a glass of champagne in her hand, and a pair of absurd sunglasses.
We are indoors. Okay, the glass dome of the pool lets in a lot of light with its ‘sky in a room’ effect but, believe me, wearing sunglasses is really not necessary.
The swimming pool was my great-grandfather’s idea, he had it built at the beginning of the twentieth century; unlike many houses with tacky and pretentious modern pools, our mansion gains a lot of charm thanks to this old lady.
“I see you made yourself comfortable,” I observe.
“I have to make up for lost time.”
“You get used to luxury rather quickly.”
Jemma lowers her glasses and shoots me a sidelong glance. “I’m the one keeping the whole thing afloat, aren’t I?”
“Didn’t we agree to stop bringing up our arrangement?”
“As far as I’m concerned, we’re even,” she says.
“We will never be even.”
“Won’t we?” Jemma, with her feet in the water, kicks hard in my direction, wetting my trousers up to my knees.
“Very mature, congratulations. You happy?”
She nods, satisfied. As I turn towards the exit, I notice the champagne bucket by the pool. I pick it up and pull the bottle out. “La Côte Faron, Jacques Selosse… I see you have remarkable taste.” I sneak a look at her to make sure she’s within range. “Enjoy the luxury, then,” and I throw the melting ice over her.
“Very mature yourself!” She protests, sliding down from the inflatable chair to reach the pool ladder. “Damn you, Ashford. You spoilt my meditation!”
Cursing in a low voice, she goes to the wicker deckchair to wrap herself in a bathrobe.
While I’m putting the bottle back in the bucket, a forceful thrust hits me and a second later, I find myself in the pool. Jemma snuck up from behind and pushed me in. What a fool I was to put myself in such a vulnerable position! All the years I spent in the army and my strategic studies just went down the drain.
I hang onto the edge of the pool and wipe the water away from my face, while Jemma laughs out loud at her victory.
This isn’t over, you little bitch.
I’m about to get out, but instead of putting my feet back on the edge, I use the momentum to grab the edges of her bathrobe and pull, so that Jemma joins me in the water.
She doesn’t give up and, even if I don’t see the point in it, she keeps splashing me, raising annoying spurts of water with her hands.
I grab her wrists, which doesn’t require much effort, but I linger for a moment, just to let her believe that her little battle makes any sense.
She stiffens, trying to escape my grip, with the result only of getting even closer to me.
“Who’s in charge, now?”
“Let go, let go,” she protests, without too much conviction.
From her fidgeting I understand that she’s kicking underwater as if it might help, so I drag her to a point where the pool is deeper.
“I said let go of me,” she repeats.
“All right.” I release her and she sinks up to her eyes, surprised not to touch the bottom.
I swim towards the ladder, but I feel two slender arms grasping me from behind and encircling my neck.
Jemma is trying to push me underwater, but I free myself from her grip. “If you play it this way, then I’ll have to drown you.”
She swims as fast as she can to the inflatable chair, but before she can get up on it, I grab her by the hips and drag her back down with me.
She struggles in the narrow space left between me and the chair, which I decide to reduce even more.
We are clinging to each other and panting after the fight and, to be honest, I doubt that either of us dislikes it.
If it bothered her, she would end it here.
I realise that we’ve never had so much physical contact.
She keeps wriggling with less and less conviction, until her legs encircle my waist and her fast movements become gradually slow ones.
Is it possible that she’s clinging to me on purpose? Or is it just a trick of my imagination?
I relax my grip, now I’m holding her gently.
I look at her. The water has washed away all traces of make-up from her face. Although her make-up is no longer as heavy as it used to be, it’s surprising to see her like this, with her cheeks reddened by the heat of this moment and moist lips. This close, I realise how big her eyes are.
Her face looks so innocent, but there’s a spark in her eyes, a flirty flash that makes it impossible for me to take my eyes off her.
Her fast breathing makes her breasts raise and lower against me, and this is torture.
“You… you won,” she says, in a whisper.
“You fought well,” I answer.
On paper, this situation would be perfect for a kiss. Just the two of us in a pool, clinging to each other. A textbook kiss.
But this is Jemma and I, there’s no textbook for us.
She remains there, as if she didn’t want to do anything else. What if she were waiting for me to do something?
No! Let’s not be silly, it’s unimaginable.
And yet… fuck it! I’ll do it. I’ll get closer and see how she reacts.
I tilt my head slightly, gradually getting closer and closer.
Wait a second: am I hallucinating? Is she doing the same, as if to humour me?
I pluck up the courage to get even closer, now we’re just a breath away from each other.
“Your Grace?” I hear Lance’s muffled voice from the other side of the doors, together with his light knocking.
Instinctively I release Jemma from my hold and let myself back in the water with two strokes. “Yes, Lance.” In the meantime, she takes the opportunity to run to a deckchair, get a towel and slip out as soon as Lance enters. Not before stopping in the doorway for a second to throw me an enigmatic look.