Ashford’s Version
The party is over, all the guests have left.
Back in the ballroom, I find Jemma is sitting at one of the tables, with her dress pulled up to her thighs, her shoes off and her bare feet on the floor.
She looks tired but happy.
The servants are busy tidying up around her.
“The party was stunning. It seemed it would all go wrong, yet all the guests loved it. Lord Neville wouldn’t stop paying me compliments,” comments Jemma.
“And you? Are you happy?” I ask. “It was your birthday, what people think doesn’t matter much.”
“Yes, I had so much fun. Thanks for letting my dad take care of the dj set.”
“It was outstanding,” I say, and I really mean it.
“Yes, my dad is outstanding.”
“What about your present? Do you like it?”
She looks at the emerald ring sparkling on her hand. “Yup, it’s great. It’s an important ring, and if I dive in the pool, I’m sure it will make me sink like the Titanic, it’s very nice…”
“… but it’s not your thing,” I finish her sentence, perceiving a hint of embarrassment in her voice.
Jemma apologises in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re not the type of woman who jumps for joy seeing treasure chests, I know that.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I thought I would ever have, so I’ve never fantasised much about it. And I confess my ignorance: if it were a fake, I wouldn’t notice.”
I can’t take my eyes off her. “But you should accept being spoilt every now and then. Men like doing it.”
I notice a sparkle in her eyes. “Do you?”
“Sure I do,” then I reach out my hand. “Shall we dance?”
“We’ve been dancing all evening.”
“Yes, but we had a hundred people around us.” I nod towards the centre of the ballroom. “Do I have to beg?”
“No, you don’t.”
I dismiss the servants and put on one of Vance’s vintage records.
The music starts and I put Jemma’s arms around my neck, while my hands encircle her hips.
“A Whiter Shade Of Pale, classy choice,” Jemma comments.
“It’s probably the same record God is listening to right now.”
“You and my father get on very well.”
“He’s easy to get along with, very different from—”
“… me?” She says before I can finish the sentence.
“No, I was about to say ‘my mother’.”
“It was easier when you were predictable, you know?”
“What was easier?” I ask.
“Hating you,” she admits with a mocking smile.
“I can make that even harder, you know?”
“How?”
I draw her nearer in a very intimate way and I can see she’s almost shaking. “Check my jacket pocket.”
Jemma hesitates as if I had hidden a mousetrap in it; at last, she pulls her fingers out of the pocket.
She looks at the tickets for a few seconds before realising what they are. “These are central stand tickets for the first Champions League match against FC Barcelona! In Barcelona! My God, I can’t believe it!”
“You worked so hard to make my birthday special, I had to find something just as special for you.”
“I’m lost for words.”
“No need for words. I can see your gratitude on your face.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ll be honest. Lance kept me informed about the draw results.”
Jemma shrugs, and she’s almost embarrassed. “I feel really humble right now.”
“As you can see, I’m not so narrow minded as to believe that an emerald ring can make you happy. I’ve got to know you, for better or for worse, and ordinariness is not part of you.”
Jemma lowers her eyes towards the minuscule space between my body and hers as we sway gently following the music.
“Can you lift your face? I’m sure you’re blushing and I don’t want to miss it. It happens so rarely.”
She suddenly looks up, and what I see could kill me right here and now: those big blue eyes, so deep and liquid, framed by her long lashes; that angel face lit up by the amber light of the candelabra, and those lips. Dear God, those lips have become my obsession: full, perfectly outlined, and now slightly parted. I would like to kiss her. I could kiss her.
And she looks as if she is expecting me to. Then, just when I’m a millimetre away from her, the music stops and the loudspeakers make the typical ripping sound of the needle rising from the turntable.
It’s as if someone had entered to divide us. We pull ourselves together and move away from each other, then she goes back to the table to recover her shoes, whispers me a clumsy goodnight and leaves the ballroom.
Turn round.
Turn round.
Turn round.
I knew it! She turned round! She did!
You have the feeling you have left something in here, haven’t you, Jemma? Something suspended in the air between you and me?
When she turns round again and leaves, it’s as if a part of her remains in the room.
And I fall again into that hypnotising feeling of déjà-vu, just like that afternoon at the swimming pool.