Ashford’s Version
I feel as if I’ve been living in one of Dante’s circles of hell for months.
My mother got it into her head that she will personally select the next Duchess of Burlingham, because she believes that my judgment is unreliable, given the latest incident.
Yes, she downgraded Jemma to a mere incident in the course of her strategic planning.
Since Jemma left, a number of candidates have been coming and going, and I have found them next to me at dinners, events, and evenings which were organised just to that end.
More than once, Denby Hall has put up someone’s niece/daughter/cousin, all of them strangely fleeing London with the excuse of looking for ‘some fresh air’ and ‘my mother’s pleasant company’.
And they expect me to believe it. The devil himself wouldn’t enjoy my mother’s company.
She even invited Portia again, but I didn’t show up, leaving them hanging like two sausages, and I believe they got the message loud and clear this time.
Then, obviously, came the turn of Sophia and her clones.
All I did was stand there, as still as a statue, overwhelmed by apathy.
I don’t care about anything now, and the longer I go on without Jemma, the more Denby Hall seems like an empty mausoleum.
The only person I still keep in touch with is Harring, although the Grand Prix has started again, and we can only see each other between races.
Like today. He’ll be back from Azerbaijan in a few hours.
In order to occupy myself and escape my mother’s fiendish plans, I take Agincourt and go for a long ride in the park.
However, when I come back, I find an alarming number of missed calls from Haz.
“Haz? Twenty-three calls? You haven’t been this desperate to talk to me since you got arrested by the Border Force on your way back from Bangkok.”
“You would have been desperate too, if an inspector had been about to search you with a latex glove in one hand and lubricant in the other.”
“What kind of connections do you need this time?”
“You can bury yourself with your connections! I’m calling you about Jemma.”
Hearing her name strikes me like a slap in the face. “Je… Jemma?”
“Yes! I saw her! I know where she lives.”
“In Azerbaijan?”
“No, in London. Egerton Gardens.”
“And when did you get back to London?” I ask.
“Yesterday, but that’s a detail. She was entering one of those red brick Victorian houses. Right in front of the Egerton Hotel.”
“And why didn’t you stop her?”
“Um, I was not on the street. I was inside the Egerton Hotel. Second floor. Supreme Suite. Beautiful windows.”
“But you could—” I say, but before I can finish my sentence, I realise. “Oh, Haz!”
“Yeah, um… my hands were… busy.” I roll my eyes. It’s Haz, and I have to accept him the way he is.
“Are you sure? You could be wrong…”
“Her parents were there too. They are quite recognisable.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m still here,” he replies, with a hint of smugness.
As I pause to think, I hear my friend humming.
“If you dare sing Sex Machine, I swear I’ll hang up.”
“Hey, hey, hold on. I didn’t tell you the most important bit.”
“The house number!” I urge him.
“No! That she’s pregnant!”
I almost drop the phone on the floor. “Pregnant?” My blood freezes in my veins. Deep down, I’ve always known that she would start a new life, but what I’ve just heard strikes me like a dead knell. Of course, she must have met a man, one she really loves, they live in a warm and cosy cottage, and they’re having a baby.
“Yes, pregnant! You know, when a woman expects a child…”
“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling miserable.
“Either she’s pregnant, or she’s put on a lot of weight, but, judging from my experience, that didn’t look like fat to me!”
“Experience in pregnancies?” I remark sceptically.
“You don’t know how many of those I’ve avoided.”
“Jemma is pregnant.” I don’t know if I’m repeating it to myself or to Harring. The thought of her and another man having a child together makes me fall into despair.
“Yes, she is.”
I do the maths without speaking. “How far is she?”
“What?”
“How many months is she pregnant?” I rephrase, impatiently.
“Oh, what do I know? I’m not a fucking midwife!”
“You saw the belly! How big was it? Six, seven months?”
“Ash, forgive me if I go into detail, but I was busy giving an unforgettable orgasm at that moment, and the fact that we were in front of the window was purely coincidental. Sorry if I didn’t verify the state of pregnancy of your ex-wife. How far is she? How can you ask me such a thing?”
“Oh, fuck you, Haz,” I shout into the receiver.
“If not nine months, certainly past eight,” a female voice says on the other end of the phone.
“What did you say, sexy?” Haz asks the female voice.
“It was a big belly. Either it’s twins or she’s nine months pregnant.”
Haz comes back to me. “Either twins or nine months.”
Nine months. I scroll the calendar backwards. At the lake, in the stables, in the little church of the woods, in the car… it’s a long list, but if Jemma is nine months pregnant, the baby can only be mine.
“Haz, I’m coming. I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll be right here.”
“Oh, hey… say hello to Cécile from me, sexy!” Even if it was altered by the phone and muffled by the distance, I would recognise that irritating voice anywhere.
In a frenzy, I rush down the stairs to get to London as fast as possible.
“Thank you, Lance,” I say, taking the keys from his hand and getting into the car. “Perfect timing.”
As soon as I start the engine, a voice behind me makes me start: “But, Ashford! Where the hell are we going?”
It’s my mother.
*
When I get to the Egerton Hotel, I call Harring back; after a few minutes, he comes out of the front door with messy hair and his shirt is buttoned up wrong and half out of his trousers.
“So, where is she?” I ask him.
“In one of those houses, over there.”
“Excuse me, where is who?” My mother cuts in, opening the car window.
Harring looks at me, confused. “Your mother?”
“She wouldn’t get out,” I reply, drily.
We ignore her and rush along the line of identical dark doors. We can’t see Jemma’s name anywhere, so we decide to ring every doorbell.
Empty houses, nobody home, servants who know nothing. We have no luck, apparently, until an old lady comes out of one of the houses.
“Madam!” We rush towards her. “Do you know a girl named Jemma?”
“Jemma? No, I’m afraid that doesn’t ring a bell…” she says, shaking her head.
“She’s pregnant,” I add in haste. “Ninth month.”
“Oh, yes, Jane!” The lady exclaims.
“Jemma, not Jane,” I correct her.
“I’m quite sure her name is Jane.”
“Haz, it wasn’t her!” I tell him, disappointed by the certainty that he must have been mistaken.
“Of course it was! She was with Vance, with his ponytail, and Carly, dressed in orange. I’m sure!”
“Oh yes, Carly,” the old woman replies. “She makes delicious rhubarb and ginger cakes!”
Haz and I look at each other. “It’s her! She used another name!”
“Madam, does this Jane have a husband? Or a boyfriend?”
“Oh, no, poor darling. She is single, but she lives with her parents. Three doors down, on the left…”
Harring and I sprint.
“But you’re not going to find her! She went out an hour ago or so. She was going to the hospital… it’s about time.”
“What hospital?”
“I think it’s St Mary’s…”
“Let’s go,” I beckon Haz to get in the car.
“I’ll drive, I’m a Formula One driver.”
“Forget it. The car is mine and I’ll drive.”
Harring reaches for the keys. “If I drive, we’ll get there faster.”
“If you drive, you’ll kill us all,” I object.
“Come on, it’s a Rolls Royce Phantom! Please, please, please. I’ve always wanted to drive it!”
“No.”
“You owe me,” Harring insists.
“Fuck you!” I throw him the keys.
“Where are we going?” Asks Cécile, already sitting in the passenger seat.
“She’s not coming with us,” I say to Harring.
“You try and convince her.”
“Go sit in the back, Loxley,” I growl.
“But I have a charity society meeting,” my mother protests.
“Right now, I couldn’t care less, mother. Jemma is about to have a baby. Our baby.”
“My smelling salts!” She whimpers. “I’m about to faint.”
“If you try to throw up on the seats, I swear I’ll leave you here!” I threaten her.
*
Regardless of road signs, we double park the car and rush into St Mary’s Hospital. As soon as I get to the front desk of the maternity ward, I announce anxiously: “I am the father.”
The nurse shakes her head for a moment, trying to figure me out: “Whose father?”
“Jemma Parker.”
“There are no patients named Jemma Parker,” she says.
She must have given her maiden name, damn her. “Pears! Jemma Pears.”
The nurse is more and more incredulous. “Frankly, I think you’re way too young to be Mrs Pears’ father!”
“No, not Jemma’s father, but of the baby she’s giving birth to! Is she inside? Has she had it yet? Can I go in?” I ask, trying to walk on, but she stands in my way.
“So you’re Mr Pears, right?”
“Parker, my name is Ashford Parker!”
It really seems she wants to know my story. “Are you her husband, then?”
“I am.”
“He’s not,” my mother replies.
“Are you her husband or not?” The nurse asks again.
“I’m her husband, but we got divorced, and then she found out she was pregnant,” I explain, cutting a long story short.
“It’s a long story, but it’s easy to understand,” says Cécile.
“And who is this?” The nurse points at her with irritation.
“Someone who talks too much and has an opinion on everything,” I snap.
“I know how to shut her up,” Harring adds.
“Oh boy, what do you have to do with it?” The nurse asks Harring.
“Me? Oh, nothing special, I just shag her,” he shrugs.
The nurse’s confusion is growing. “So… you’re the husband she’s divorced from, and he’s the one she sleeps with. But who’s the father?”
“I am!” I roar.
“He is!” Cécile and Harring shout.
“That’s highly debatable,” my mother objects.
“Is the lady with you?”
“She’s the grandmother,” we all say in unison.
“Let’s be clear once and for all: I am the Duke of Burlingham, for God’s sake! This is my mother, so she’s the grandmother, I’m the husband of the mother-to-be and the father of the child; these two sleep together and have stuff all to do with all this. Can I see Jemma, now?”
“I’ll ask the doctor. Wait here.”
*
When the nurse comes back, I’m ready to follow her, but she stops me again. “I’m sorry. The patient doesn’t want to see you.”
“It’s not possible!” I protest.
“In any case, I suggest that you take a seat and wait here.” Her tone is not open to discussion, so I give a snort of indignation and sit on one of the chairs in the corridor with my arms crossed; although I’m quiet, I’m fuming.
Harring, Cécile and my mother don’t dare talk to me, because they can feel it.
I hear incoming steps, then someone sitting beside me. “Remember when I told you that you would pay, if you ever made my daughter suffer?”
I turn round and see Vance on my left. “What if I told you that I’m already paying?”
His expression is inscrutable. “The fact that you’re here today tells me that there’s something Jemma doesn’t know. That woman, Portia, does she mean anything to you?”
“Jemma has always been the only one. But she didn’t give me any chance to explain.” After a short pause, I ask him: “Why didn’t anyone tell me that she was pregnant?”
“It was her choice, Carly and I respected it. Personally, I don’t agree. I think that assuming your responsibilities as a father is your right and duty. Pure joy, but also constant trouble. Look at me, my daughter is twenty-six, she’s married, she’s about to give birth, but she’s still my bairn and she needs my love and protection. And this will never change.”
“There’s nothing I want more,” I murmur, staring at the floor.
Vance pats me on my shoulder, and I realise that he understood me.
We remain silent and we wait for hours. It’s been quite a while after sunset when Carly comes out and announces. “They’ll perform a Caesarean section, she’s going to the operating theatre any minute.”
The words ‘Caesarean section’ make me panic. “Operating theatre? Is there a problem?”
She shakes her head. “The baby is in position and the contractions are close together, but the cervix is not delating enough. They broke her waters and, despite the iv, it won’t go beyond five centimetres. The doctor decided to proceed with the surgery, but he didn’t look worried.”
“How long has she been in labour?”
“This morning, she wanted me to go for a manicure with her, and that’s when the pain started. When we got back home, shortly after 11 a.m., the contractions became more and more intense and close together, so we took her to the hospital. After the examination, they admitted her, because the labour had started. I went into the delivery room with her two hours ago, but nothing happened. I’ll go back to Jemma now, I’m sure they’re ready for the surgery,” she says, looking at her watch. Then she adds: “I’m glad you’re here, Ashford.”