“But certainly one to fight with,” I comment.
“And you know something about it.”
“I’m speaking from experience.”
She turns to look at me. “Am I that terrible?”
“Shall I be completely honest?”
“Are you kidding me? No! Since when does a woman ask for an honest answer?”
“I’m just asking because you seem so keen not to be like any other women,” I defend myself.
“Okay, then you can be completely honest and to show you that I’m not like other women, I won’t take offence. Shoot.”
Without thinking, I reply: “You’re not that terrible.”
Jemma’s jaw drops open. “I told you to be honest.”
“You’re not terrible. Maybe you were at the beginning, but I’ve been getting used to you over time, and you have improved a lot, so I would say that no, you’re not terrible.”
“I wasn’t ready for that answer.”
“As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of surprising you, even if you’re a troublemaker and always want to have the last word.”
When we get to Denby Hall, everyone is already asleep.
We head towards our rooms together, but not before Jemma has taken off her heels to avoid making any noise. There’s a hundred and fifty rooms in this mansion and she hasn’t understood yet that it’s unlikely she could make enough noise with her heels to wake anybody up.
In some hidden corner of my mind, I hear the word ‘adorable’ echoing, but I force myself to ignore it.
“Well, Jemma,” I say, as we reach our respective doors. “Once again, your charity night was a success. I have to recognise that, eccentric as you may be, you’re good.”
“Cheers,” she replies, looking down at the floor. “Goodnight.”
As I’m getting changed to go to bed, I hear someone knocking on the connecting door. I turn the key and find Jemma standing there, still dressed. “I wanted to apologise for including you in the auction without telling you. I should have asked. Thank you for playing the game.”
“It was for charity. After the initial shock, I took it quite well.”
“And I wanted to tell you that I’m glad I won against Portia.”
“I know that.”
Jemma hesitates a moment before saying in a thin voice: “Good value for money.”
I stop and look at her, intrigued, without understanding what she means exactly.
“Goodnight, Ashford.”
“Goodnight.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. A little later, I hear the door being closed on her side as well.
Then I wait a few seconds, but nothing. One minute and, again, nothing.
She hasn’t locked the door.
Some sounds have become familiar by now; we rarely open the communicating doors but, when we do, we are very careful to lock them: the handle clicks, the knocker thuds and the key turns in the lock at least twice.
