Harring blends into the crowd; I stand at the foot of the entrance staircase, examining the masks of the incoming guests while waiting for Jemma: there’s Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn with a blood trail on her neck – very tacky, to be honest – two Chancellor Cromwells, a Margaret Thatcher, an Archbishop of Canterbury… I don’t know who this one is, and that… hey, wait a second!
I linger for a while on the first person I’ve seen who doesn’t look ridiculous this evening, who is coming down from the top of the staircase.
I have a strange déjà-vu feeling. Everything in her causes flashes in my mind, but I’m not able to compose a single image.
All I can do is acknowledge what is in front of me: it’s a young woman – she isn’t old enough to be dressed as Elizabeth I, but not young enough to be a Disney princess either – light brown hair with caramel and copper shades falls onto her shoulders in soft waves that make you want to caress them, her face has a shiny, rosy complexion and is covered by a simple lace mask which frames two deep blue eyes. She’s going down the stairs with a light step, wrapped in a floating ice coloured silk dress.
An unknown force propels me to go to her and stand in her way before saying, with no hesitation: “You took your time.”
“It’s not time for pumpkins, yet. I had to hitchhike.” Underneath all that silk, there is Jemma.
I offer her my arm. “What are you dressed up as?”
“The woman you want me to be.”
“This is not how I imagined you.”
“How did you imagine me, then? A mute?”
“Let’s say you did better than the brightest of my expectations,” I candidly admit.
Jemma looks speechless, as if she had been ready for a fight that’s not going to happen, and now doesn’t know what to do with the sword in her hands.
“Come on, Ashford, I know you can do better. You spit up all your bile when you’re in good shape. I expected something worthy of your style, you’re disappointing me!”
I look at her and I’m intrigued. “This must have taken some effort, hasn’t it?”
“It’s all about mental strength. Besides, I was out of ways to shock you.”
I lead her to the centre of the hall, just as Harring comes to meet us. “Champagne, for you,” he says, offering me his flute and taking Jemma’s hand. “And this charming young lady you found for me.” He raises his helmet visor to introduce himself. “Kenneth Harring, heir to the title of Viscount of Westborough.”
“Haz. I’m Jemma,” she replies with unusual composure.
“You… what? Jemma? Bloody hell!” Harring says in shock.
“Be careful what you wish for, Harring. You could get it!” Cécile says, covered by various layers of black taffeta.
“Loxley! The Dark side of the Force! What are you dressed up as? A manic depressive in early menopause?”
“Early menopause, if it helps keep pigs like you away,” she replies with her typical sharpness.
“You’d be amazed if you knew how many mature ladies appreciate my company,” he says, while winking at a trio of rouged oldies on our right.
Cécile grimaces, looking away. “You disgust me.”
“Very well, ladies and gentlemen, sex maniacs and sociopaths,” I say, addressing Harring and Cécile, “I’m going to hit the dance floor now, there’s some tolerable slow music. Jemma, would you care to join me?”
“With pleasure,” she replies, with a broad smile.
Jemma and I reach the centre of the ballroom and start moving together, following the rhythm of the music.
“So?” I ask her.
“So what?”
“How come you made this sudden change? What happened on the road to Damascus?”
“I figured out that I needed a makeover,” she says.
