Jemma’s Version
I’m so nervous that I’m shaking like a leaf. Social events were way easier when I saw Ashford as just an arrogant aristocratic puppet. Then, I could just be there, and ignore the aristocracy and their etiquette.
Instead, thinking about tonight’s premiere, I can’t help picturing a parallel universe in which Ashford and I married for love. There is this perfect romantic evening: we hold hands at the theatre and exchange furtive looks between acts; he caresses my leg, warming the silk of my dress; I can look at him without having to lower my eyes and blush; I can fantasise about his sculpted shoulders, outlined to perfection by his jacket; I can lose myself in his bright green eyes lit up by passion, let the tip of my finger run down his jawline, drive my hand through the soft waves of his hair and make all the other women green with envy when he can’t take his eyes off me as he escorts me through the foyer.
But no, it can’t be like that. I can’t fall for him, because this thing will end eventually and, when the time comes, I have the right and the duty to leave Denby with my dignity and with my head held high, not like the pathetic fan of a boy band, with tears in my eyes and a red nose.
Shall I go to this premiere? All right, I’ll put on that amazing Zac Posen chiffon dress with a lovely satin wrap shawl, I’ll grit my teeth and do my duty.
Anyway, my determination crumbles in a few seconds when I see Ashford looking so handsome in his tailcoat.
This is a low blow.
In the car, we remain silent while we head towards London in the dusk.
He doesn’t look at all annoyed, he’s calm, placid and relaxed. I’m the one who’s nervous. Perhaps I over did it this afternoon: I wanted to keep a distance, but I ended up being rude and he couldn’t help pointing it out.
I pluck up the courage to apologise. “I’m sorry for this afternoon. I was rude.”
“Thank you,” he answers, concisely. Is that it?
“I was nervous, I had thoughts in my head and you know that I have a bad temper. It’s not an excuse, I was impolite and you didn’t deserve it.”
“It’s all right. What’s most important is that we treat each other in a civilised way.” He doesn’t even turn to look at me, though, he keeps his eyes on the road and focuses on driving.
“What’s this Taming of the Shrew about?” I ask. Maybe talking will break the tension.
“Didn’t Lance instruct you on the complete works of the greatest British dramatists?”
“I’m only halfway with Shakespeare. Yesterday, I finished Cleopatra, with Liz Taylor.”
“Okay, then. The Taming of the Shrew is a comedy of misunderstandings based on the character of Katherina, or Kate, a very rich damsel who is petulant, bad tempered and stubborn, but also witty and sharp. She reluctantly marries Petruchio, an impoverished nobleman in search of a wealthy wife, who spends his time making fun of her and humiliating her. Does it ring a bell?”
I turn a deaf ear. “No, not really.”
“Seems legitimate, since Kate eventually falls in love with him and becomes a docile little wife,” he says with a mocking smile.
We’re in London. It’s been a long time since I last set foot here, and the thousand lights of the West End fill my eyes.
The theatre is packed with people and, once we’re inside, we remain in the foyer for a few minutes to greet some small groups of Ashford’s acquaintances – who have recently become mine, as well.
The Parkers, like any noble family, have their own private viewing area. I’m almost panicking when Ashford closes the velvet covered door behind him.
These viewing areas are instruments of the devil: in a public place as crowded as a theatre, they’re the only spot where two people are left entirely alone, immersed in the most complete privacy. In the dark, no less.
And I already know what happened the last two times Ashford and I were too alone, too close, and with too much privacy.
I move my seat as far away as possible from his and avoid any contact, even eye contact, then I put the silver binoculars on my nose and examine the crowd in the stalls.
I have to find someone to turn my attention to.
*
I’m so enchanted by the performance that two hours fly, and I don’t even notice that I’m clinging to the padded parapet. In the end, I couldn’t help but exchange a few comments with Ashford about the most engaging scenes in the play. It’s undeniable: the quarrelling between the protagonists and their misunderstandings are carbon copies of those between us.
On the return journey, I notice that for no apparent reason, he’s taking the scenic route back to Denby.
“At this rate we’ll end up in Yorkshire,” I tease him, trying to understand what he’s up to.
“I’m not sleepy,” he replies shortly. “Driving helps.”
“I have an idea.” Maybe I can seize the moment and find a cure for my crush. Fight fire with fire, they say…
“You’ll never hear me say something like this again, so take advantage of it: speak your mind.”
“Let’s go clubbing,” I suggest.
“My club is for gentlemen only, they won’t let you in.”
“I wasn’t referring to your sanctuary of manliness. I meant a club. To drink and dance. Like two normal thirty year olds. Well, you’re a thirty year old, I’m only twenty-six.”
“What a big difference.”
“If I were twelve and you were eighteen, it would be a big difference,” I object.
“If you were twelve and I were eighteen, it would be illegal,” he says.
“I’ll keep emphasising the difference interminably.”
“Interminably?” He asks, incredulous. “I must tell Lance to stop it. It was more fun when I could use my cultural superiority to make fun of your limitations.”
“My limitations? Cultural superiority? Ashford Parker, just so you know, I didn’t only achieve your level of cultural knowledge, but I possibly went well beyond it.”
“Don’t challenge me, you’ll lose.”
“Speaking of challenges… we’ve always played in your field. You should play in mine, if you’re not afraid of losing.”
“For example?” He asks.
“I had to attend tea parties, garden parties, lunches, breakfasts, tableaux vivants, auctions, polo tournaments and so on. You’ve always played on your home territory. It would be fair if you competed on mine, for once.”
“I’m a gentleman and I must admit you’re right. Go ahead, choose the field.”
“We’re in London, let’s go to a club! You wouldn’t survive for half an hour.”
“You underestimate me. You believe that a duke can’t possibly enjoy nightlife.”
“I think it’s improbable, yes,” I say.
“Very well, you’ll have a chance to change your mind. What’s the challenge?”
“Who picks up the most.”
Ashford bursts into hearty laughter. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m serious. We go to a club, flirt with people and, at the end, we see who got the most interest.
Ashford nods. “I’m in.”
“Photos that prove kisses are worth double,” I add. Then again, if I have to find someone to help me banish my recent thoughts, kissing a stranger seems the least I can do.
“I can’t go into a club and kiss random women. I’m the Duke of Burlingham! I would end up on every newspaper. That goes for you too, Duchess,” he protests.
“If you’re not gonna do it, it means you’re afraid of losing.”
He sighs, surrendering. This sentence works with any male.
“Come on! After months of etiquette and good manners, we deserve a spontaneous evening. Besides, one of us may even go home with a trophy for a healthy one night stand.”
“Are you suggesting that we agree on adultery?” He asks, looking more and more incredulous.
“We’re an open couple, aren’t we?” I ask, more to remind myself than him.
“Absolutely,” he says.
“So, are you up for this?”
“Choose the club. We’ll go right away,” he tells me, resolutely.
When we get to the club in Shoreditch, Ashford parks the car with a single manoeuvre. I always think that, if I were a car, I would like to be driven by him, because his movements are confident, straight, with no hesitation whatsoever. He never revs the engine, his bends are precise with just a light touch on the steering wheel, and he always accelerates and brakes very smoothly. For each manoeuvre, the steering wheel is moved just as much as it takes, as if Ashford were equipped with a natural parking sensor even in the most demanding situations.
I try to dismiss these strange thoughts on Ashford’s driving. What the hell am I thinking?
“We can’t go in dressed like this,” I pause, looking at our clothes.
“What do you mean? This is ultimate elegance!”
“For the theatre, maybe… but we’re too flashy for a club!”
“I’m not going back to Denby to change my clothes,” he says, slightly annoyed.
“Of course not… let’s see,” I ponder for a moment. “Yes!” I say, taking off my dress and remaining in my expensive Stella McCartney geranium red silk and lace slip. I’ll just keep the wrap, which I arrange on my shoulders.
“Now it’s your turn,” I say, reflecting on how I can change Ashford’s look. “Take off your jacket,” I tell him.
“I had no doubt,” he comments.
“And the bow tie.”
I drum my fingers on the armrest, meditating. Something is missing, but I don’t know what.
“Mmm, let’s see, the waistcoat is fine, but… here,” I say, rolling the sleeves of his shirt halfway up his forearms and sorting his hair to give him that ‘I’m too cool to comb my hair, but it took me half an hour to mess it like this’ kind of style.
“That’s it. Now you’re really se—” I say, managing to stop a second before saying a word for which I’d have to punish myself. Was I about to say that Ashford is sexy? Oh God, I really have to find someone tonight.
“Really… what?” He encourages me to go on.
“Um… fashionable.”
“Fashionable,” he repeats, not very convinced.
“What are we waiting for? Shall we go in?” I urge, while getting out of the car.
I open and close my hand in order to chase away the feeling of his hair on my palm and the tingling sensation I can still feel between my fingers until I reach the entrance to the club.