Ashford’s Version
“I’m castling,” announces Harring, moving his king next to the rook.
“Feel free to amaze me with a move you haven’t done in every single game for the last twenty years,” I mock him. “I don’t know, a Sveshnikov Sicilian, or any strategy that can allow me to consider you a challenging opponent.”
Haz pours himself another lavish sip of brandy. “Just think of your half of the chessboard.”
“Well, I still have all my pieces.”
A roll of thunder makes the windows in the room vibrate. The summer was exceptionally nice and warm but it is drawing to an end now and there’s a violent storm tonight. It is rather cold for the end of August, too.
“For fuck’s sake!” Haz exclaims. “I’ve just waxed my 911!”
“You mean you watched someone else do it…”
Lance enters the room, carrying a tray of canapés and a basket of logs for the fireplace. “Your Grace, Lady Jemma called to let us know that, due to the sudden storm, she will spend the night at Olstrom House, with the Marquise of Hungeford. She will be back tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you worried about Jemma spending so much time with that misfit, Loxley?” Harring asks.
“I was at the beginning but, to be honest, she looks happy to have found a friend, even if she’s a little odd.”
“A little odd? She belongs in a mental health clinic!” Haz comments.
“Jemma isn’t quite conventional either…”
“Well, she may not be conventional, but she’s a genius! That amusement park party she set up for your birthday was awesome! You’ll have to work quite hard for her birthday!”
“What?” I ask, dazed.
“Her birthday, Ash. That thing that everyone has, one day a year?”
“Shit. When is her birthday?” Haz and I look at each other and remain speechless.
Lance coughs as if to clear his throat.
“Yes, Lance?”
“In three weeks,” he answers, promptly.
“What?!” I ask, worried.
“Three weeks. I dare say it’s much longer than Lady Jemma had to arrange that of Your Grace.”
I’m panicking. “Don’t just look at me like that! Help me! What do you do in these situations?”
“You wish people a happy birthday?” Haz replies.
“Any other bullshit to propose?”
Harring shrugs. “I don’t get why you bother. Do what you always do on these occasions.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“Nothing!”
“Although Lady Jemma has not expressed any particular wishes for her birthday celebrations, I’m quite sure that she would appreciate some initiative,” Lance adds.
“Initiative? What can I do?” I ask again, in panic.
“Edible underwear,” suggests Harring as if he had found the formula for cold nuclear fusion.
“When I was dating that actress… what’s her name, the one that starred in that tv series where everyone dies and she is always half naked… you understand, right?”
I look at him petrified. “No. I don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. Edible underwear. I had found a spectacular pineapple and coconut flavoured thong, and then she poured rum all over herself…”
“Are you done?” I ask, to cut his crap.
“Yes,” Haz says, looking at the ceiling before adding: “What a night…”
“Jemma worked hard to arrange something original for me, and I should do the same, whether she expects it or not. I don’t know: a dinner, a box of chocolates, some flowers?”
“What a breath of novelty, Your Grace,” says Lance, keeping his composure.
“Keep your sarcasm to yourself, Lance.” I remark. “Sorry if I’m no expert in women’s birthdays.”
Haz shrugs. “Well, you dated many women…”
“Yes, but I’ve always avoided anything that could make them think that something serious was going on.”
“Such as?” Asks Harring.
“Such as those three rules that you know perfectly. The Bible! Never let them sleep at Denby Hall. Never invite them to lunch or dinner with my mother. And never ever celebrate our birthdays together!”
“Amen, brother,” answers Haz.
“Everyone knows that if you do those three things with a woman, she will automatically think you have a steady relationship, and will start daydreaming about marriage, children, and holidays in Dorset.”
“Can I stop you for a moment?” Asks Harring, interrupting my monologue. “A: Jemma sleeps here every night. B: Jemma has lived with your mother long enough to suffice for her entire life. C: Jemma is already your wife!”
“Yeah!” I yell. “And do you know what I hate the most about all this?”
“What?” Asks Haz, yelling too.
“That you’re damn right!”
“Lance! Bring more brandy!” Harring rejoices.
*
The night I spent with Harring racking my brain to decide what to do for Jemma’s birthday was completely unproductive. At 2 a.m., we went to the cellars and played bowls with empty Château Latour bottles, at 3 a.m. we ordered take-away pizza and watched Top Gear reruns, and at 5 a.m. we played darts on the portrait of my great-great-granduncle Walter – nobody will cry about this as he wasn’t exactly loved and he died in 1902, anyway.
Result: on the sheet of paper which reads ‘Jemma’s birthday’, there’s nothing but an illegible line we scribbled while drunk, and Haz is sleeping awkwardly on the chaise longue.
I’m on the sofa, sleeping fitfully, until the ringing of my mobile suddenly wakes me up.
It’s my mother. “This is Ashford Parker’s answering machine, I can’t answer at the moment…” I mumble in a drowsy voice.
“Ashford, I’m coming back,” she says briefly.
Without checking the time, I go back to sleep, and I wake up again just in time to make myself presentable and reassemble the corpse of Harring before my diabolical parent arrives home.
“Where is that savage of your wife?” Is my mother’s warm greeting, as soon as she crosses the threshold.
“She is visiting Cécile Loxley. She will be back later today.”
“Very well, because we need her.”
I look at her curiously.
“I met Lord Neville in Bath. He spent a few days there to recover from an annoying cough. We didn’t talk to each other much, but he asked me for an invitation to Jemma’s birthday party, as he’s very keen to come. He adores her and I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about attending anything here at Denby. Ashford, we’re almost there. We’re getting closer and closer to the Royal Family and, if we manage this very well, we might receive a visit from the Queen before the end of the year.” My mother rejoices.
“You hate Jemma,” I stress. “You left offending both her and her family.”
“Let’s forgive and forget, shall we? If I have to accept Jemma for the sake of the royal visit, I will,” she says, waving her hand as if she wanted to erase the past. “I didn’t even know it was her birthday. In any case, I have thought of something magnificent, elegant, very refined…”
There. If I wanted to arrange something special, I can just forget it. It will be the usual Delphina style party, and Jemma will accept the situation reluctantly, gritting her teeth.