Jemma’s Version
I look at myself in the mirror, satisfied. My hair is up, with some strands falling softly on my shoulders. The dress is a perfect fusion between the my true self and what I’m supposed to be according to good taste and elegance: it was designed by Oscar de la Renta and it costs a year’s salary as a make-up artist; it’s an evening dress with a long voluminous fandango purple silk taffeta skirt and a black strapless sweetheart corset. The shoes are hidden under the hem, but knowing that I’m wearing those glittery Caovilla stiletto sandals makes me feel sexier than ever. I put particular effort into doing a light but impeccable make-up job. Okay, perhaps I would never have dressed like this a few months ago, but the more I look at myself, the more I like it.
I shoot myself flirty looks through the mirror, because I know that I didn’t just work hard on my dress and make-up, but also on my underwear. I’m wearing a La Perla lingerie set with a beautifully embroidered, strapless push up bra.
I know that no one will see what I’m wearing underneath my dress, but for the whole time I was getting ready, I couldn’t help thinking about Ashford. And when I looked at myself in the mirror in that lingerie set I thought: ‘If he saw me right now, I would blow his mind’; perhaps that’s also why I walked up and down the room aimlessly in my underwear for half an hour, hoping to hear him knock on the connecting door. Do I want Ashford? No, I don’t! But the idea of teasing him is so tempting.
Delphina came back to Denby just to arrange the reception for my birthday, would you believe it?
The whole mansion was turned upside down for the evening. I don’t know, this probably isn’t the way I would have celebrated my birthday, but this is my event, and all the guests will be here for me, tonight. Everything will be done properly and, even if Delphina is an all-Botox-and-bones pain in the arse, she knows what she’s doing. Besides, the fact that she’s bothering so much for me makes me think that, despite everything, maybe she’s starting to appreciate me.
When the clock strikes, I rush out of my room, bang on time. I haven’t seen Ashford all day, and this makes me feel as if my blood were burning under my skin.
As I descend the staircase and make my way to the ballroom, Lance and the servants give me admiring looks.
I open the doors and what I see is simply spectacular: long drapes of white organza flutter from the balconies, the lighting is suffused and the dim lights of the candelabra are reflected in the polished marble floors.
At the centre of the room, there’s Ashford, who’s observing the finishing touches. He’s impeccable in his perfectly cut velvet lapel dinner jacket. He’s walking towards me and I can’t help but notice that his intense green eyes are looking straight into mine; his cheekbones and jawline seem carved in marble, his nose is perfectly straight and his lips are… oh, enough!
He stops right in front of me and pulls out one of his rare deadly smiles. “So? What do you think?”
“Imp… impressive,” I stutter, losing all the assurance I had up to a second ago.
And I don’t know if my ‘impressive’ referred to the ballroom or to Ashford; the more I think about it, the more I doubt I was referring to the ballroom.
“It’s not an amusement park, though.” Ashford sounds as if he were apologising for that.
“I’ve been to a lot of amusement parks, I won’t miss them this year. But I’ve never had a ball of my own.”
Ashford offers me his elbow and leads me towards the entrance where the guests are starting to gather; my heart rate accelerates. “It might disappoint you to find out that this ball is my mother’s, rather than yours. She decided to bury the hatchet and use you as a battering ram to penetrate into the Royal Family.”
Before I can say anything, my parents join us; they’re dressed to impress, and I’ve never seen them like this before. My mother is all jaunty. “Hey cutie, look at us! I haven’t been this dolled up since my eighteenth birthday!”
“You look amazing, Carly,” Ashford says.
Well, I can’t deny that, although she’s approaching sixty, my mother still sports a remarkable body, probably thanks to her healthy diet and all the yoga she practices.
“Guess who’s coming to your birthday party?” Dad cuts in.
“Who?” I ask.
“Yes, who?” echoes Delphina, in her usual ice cold tone of voice.
“Amjad!” My parents announce in unison.
“Are you serious?!” I shout, surprised.
“Aye, he was passing through town, so he gave us a phone call and we happened to tell him it was your birthday. You were ten the last time he saw you and, since he wanted to wish you a happy birthday, we told him to stop by at Denby Hall.”
I’m amazed. “That’s awesome!”
Delphina doesn’t seem to agree and asks: “Would you be so kind as to tell me who Amjad is?”
“He’s an old friend of my parents, from the days of the commune in Wadi Jalal.”
“He’s got a natural talent for playing the santoor and his falafels are pure magic,” my father adds.
“Is he coming here now?” Delphina starts getting nervous.
“He was in London an hour ago, I’d say that he’ll be here any minute. He’s with his brother Mansour!” My mother informs us.
“We invited very select few guests exclusively, everything was arranged with surgical precision. Ashford, we can’t let a Bedouin tribe ruin everything!”
Lance approaches our group with his usual impassive expression. “Lady Delphina, we have just received a call from the orchestra. Their bus suffered an engine meltdown near Winchester, therefore they won’t be able to join us.”
“You know, mother, I reckon that the Pears’ friends are the least of your problems.” Ashford looks more amused than worried.
“Margaret!” shouts Delphina while walking away. “My smelling salts!”
“Don’t worry. Your friends will be more than welcome tonight,” Ashford reassures us.
The guests are arriving one after the other, so Ashford and I wait for them at the door. As I receive their birthday wishes, Lance and the other servants are busy distributing lots of champagne, hoping to make the lack of an orchestra go unnoticed.
“It will be a disaster,” says Delphina appearing behind us as we’re welcoming the Davenports. “I called every orchestra in London, but none are available. We must cancel the evening.”
“Mother, that’s impossible, can’t you see that the hall is already full of guests? If you’re looking for a disaster you can send one hundred and fifty people home,” Ashford replies through clenched teeth. “That gentleman over there looks like Neville, why don’t you send him home first!”
“What in the name of God are those?” Asks Delphina, indicating the driveway.
Ten shiny black Maybachs with flags on their bonnets are pulling up outside. As they draw to a halt, just as many uniformed valets prepare to open the car doors and escort a group of elegant and exotically dressed people towards us.
“As-salāmu ’alaykum,” greets us the tallest and most elegant man in the group.
“Amjad!” My mother yells, overjoyed. “Wa ’alaykumu s-salāmu!”
Amjad, my mother and my father greet each other with cheerful hugs while speaking Arabic, until I interrupt them. “Amjad! No hug for me?”
“For the ninety-nine names of Allah!” Exclaims Amjad, with his strong Arab accent. “Are you really little Jemma?”
“In flesh and blood!”
“You are beautiful! The last time I saw you, I told you the stories of the Arabian Nights to send you to sleep!
“Amjad, this is Ashford Parker, the Duke of Burlingham. My husband,” I can’t deny that I quiver a little while uttering the last two words. “And this is his mother, Lady Delphina.”
“My name is Muhammad Amjad Rashid Al Thanyan, the first son of Hadi Muhammad Kalil Al Thanyan,” he introduces himself.
Delphina’s eyes are nearly popping out of her head. “Sh… Sheikh Al Thanyan.”
“Come on, Delphina, don’t be that formal. Amjad prefers to be treated in a more friendly manner!” My father encourages her.
“These are Fatima, my first wife – now my second wife – and Lathva, my third wife. And this is my younger brother Mansour Hadi.”
Ashford gets closer to me and whispers: “Are you telling me that one of the most prominent sheikhs in the Arab Emirates is an old friend of your parents?”
“He was not a sheikh thirty years ago, at the time of the commune. His father was, but he liked to live freely and unconventionally. They’ve been good friends ever since, and, every time he stops by in London, he comes for a visit.”
“I hope that my sudden arrival was not an unwelcome surprise,” says Amjad.
“Absolutely not, it’s an honour and a pleasure, this house is your house.” Delphina takes a deep bow.
While my parents walk to the salon with Amjad, Delphina looks miraculously heartened. “A sheikh at Denby Hall! Ashford, this event will make history. Lord Neville and a sheikh!”
“Let me remind you that, until five minutes ago, you were ready to erect barricades and deploy troops to repel Jemma’s parents’ friends. And, by the way, this is her evening, her birthday, remember?”
Delphina rolls her eyes like the child from the Exorcist, and then she goes chasing after her eminent new guest.
Ashford looks at me, embarrassed. “I apologise for my mother.”
“Don’t stress. Your mother is unforgivable, but I accept her the way she is, just as she’s obliged to accept me.”
“Happy Birthday!” Harring enters Denby with his usual assurance. “After the amusement park, I was hoping for at least a mechanical bull.”
Ashford shrugs. “My mother took over. As you can see, her signature is quite recognisable.”
“1997 vintage champagne, heavy-as-hell dinner courses I will probably need two days to digest, and a soporific string quartet…” Harring lists.
“No string quartet. Luckily, the bus let them down,” Ashford informs him.
“God exists!” Harring rejoices.
Just as Cécile enters, we hear the notes of Bang a Gong by T. Rex coming from the ballroom.
“This is music!” she exclaims.
“You only listen to funeral marches, what do you know about music?” Harring mocks her.
“The only funeral march I’m interested in is yours. With any luck, I’ll hear it sooner rather than later.” They’re at it again.
The crowd moves towards the ballroom and I notice that my father is on the balcony; he’s wearing his headphones and is busy playing his records.
“Your father is a genius,” says Ashford. “He has wired the stereo and the turntable together.”
“My dad always knows how to save the day.”
“But we’re running a big risk.”
“What risk, Ashford?” I ask him.
“This might be the best party ever.”
*
At first, the guests are surprised by the way the evening is developing, but no one dislikes this return to the seventies and eighties, so the atmosphere soon heats up and the centre of the room fills with people.
My father knows his stuff, and plays hits by Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors, Janis Joplin, The Beatles and the best of the rest of his record collection.
All the gentlemen invite me to dance to wish me a happy birthday, a colossal cake is served and, as a present, Ashford places a gigantic emerald ring – a family heirloom – on my finger.
Everything is just perfect, and it almost hurts me to think that none of it is real.