“If a dance party does not have a theme, it’s a dinner dance. Otherwise, it’s called a dance party with refreshments,” Lance explains.
“I never stop learning,” I mutter to myself. “I reckoned that thinking like Delphina would be easier.”
“But you don’t have to think like Lady Delphina.”
“And what am I going to do?” I ask, discouraged.
“How would you celebrate your birthday?”
“Um, for the last few years… I’ve been getting drunk, staggering from one Shoreditch pub to another looking for more gin and lemon,” I confess, with a hint of embarrassment.
Lance doesn’t seem to approve. “I’m quite sure it’s not a viable hypothesis.”
“It was easier when I was little. My parents took me to the amusement park,” I say, biting the remains of cotton sugar from the stick. “But Ashford would not understand, they never took him to an amusement park.”
48
Ashford’s Version
Haz and I are returning to Denby after two days of trap shooting at his cousin Juni’s castle in Inverness, Scotland.
I’m not crazy about trap shooting, and Juni is a terrible shot, but Haz kept asking non-stop for a whole day, and I accepted because he literally wore me down. If nothing else, Juni’s family has an outstanding whisky distillery in the bastions of the castle, so at least I kept my left hand and my liver busy with a double malt whisky aged in Madeira barrels.
It’s my birthday today and, for the first time in the thirty-two years of my life, no impressive parties will be held at Denby.
My mother has always arranged opulent celebrations, not so much for me, but to have a good excuse to spruce Denby up and invite every single member of high society, with eleven course dinners and symphonic orchestras whose concerts would sell out at the Royal Albert Hall.
It’s a strange feeling and I don’t even know if I like it, but bad habits are still habits.
Once at Denby, Haz drives through the gate and along the driveway and, at a certain point, I notice a long line of Rolls Royces and Bentleys parked near the manor.
No way, my mother can’t have come back from Bath!
I get out of the car and enter, but I see no signs of celebration in the halls; on the contrary, the manor looks deserted.
“Welcome back, Your Grace.”
“Lance! Whose cars are those? What has this become, a bloody car park?”
“They belong to the guests who came to celebrate your birthday and, by the way, I would like to give you my best wishes.”
“To celebrate? I thought my mother was in Bath!”
He won’t provide thorough explanations. “Let me escort you to the park.”
We go out on the west side of the mansion, which overlooks the park, and I hardly believe what I see.
“Lady Jemma took the liberty of arranging a little party for you.”
Even though it’s well after sunset, the park is lit up by the light from a dozen rides. Yes, the Denby Hall park is scattered with amusement attractions: there is a carousel, a ferris wheel, a helter skelter, a mirror maze, a swing ride, a dartboard, a hammer and a boxing machine, and then there are stands with sweets, popcorn, hot dogs, doughnuts and cotton candy.
The guests, in their best clothes, are queueing up to get on the rides or indulge in a doughnut dripping with cream, just like Lord Neville, who holds one in each hand, regardless of his coronaries.
“Happy Birthday, Ashford. Delphina didn’t leave any instructions for tonight, but the guests had been invited and I had to come up with something.” Jemma’s there, at the bottom of the stairs, in the shimmering dress she bought in Portobello market, with her fuchsia hair blowing in the wind and a smile from ear to ear.
“This is so freaking cool!” Says Harring, by my side.
“You didn’t tell me he would be here, too,” growls Cécile Loxley, appearing at Jemma’s side.
