“Your father is a genius,” says Ashford. “He has wired the stereo and the turntable together.”
“My dad always knows how to save the day.”
“But we’re running a big risk.”
“What risk, Ashford?” I ask him.
“This might be the best party ever.”
*
At first, the guests are surprised by the way the evening is developing, but no one dislikes this return to the seventies and eighties, so the atmosphere soon heats up and the centre of the room fills with people.
My father knows his stuff, and plays hits by Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors, Janis Joplin, The Beatles and the best of the rest of his record collection.
All the gentlemen invite me to dance to wish me a happy birthday, a colossal cake is served and, as a present, Ashford places a gigantic emerald ring – a family heirloom – on my finger.
Everything is just perfect, and it almost hurts me to think that none of it is real.
56
Ashford’s Version
The party is over, all the guests have left.
Back in the ballroom, I find Jemma is sitting at one of the tables, with her dress pulled up to her thighs, her shoes off and her bare feet on the floor.
She looks tired but happy.
The servants are busy tidying up around her.
“The party was stunning. It seemed it would all go wrong, yet all the guests loved it. Lord Neville wouldn’t stop paying me compliments,” comments Jemma.
“And you? Are you happy?” I ask. “It was your birthday, what people think doesn’t matter much.”
“Yes, I had so much fun. Thanks for letting my dad take care of thedjset.”
“It was outstanding,” I say, and I really mean it.
“Yes, my dad is outstanding.”
“What about your present? Do you like it?”
She looks at the emerald ring sparkling on her hand. “Yup, it’s great. It’s an important ring, and if I dive in the pool, I’m sure it will make me sink like the Titanic, it’s very nice…”
“… but it’s not your thing,” I finish her sentence, perceiving a hint of embarrassment in her voice.
Jemma apologises in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re not the type of woman who jumps for joy seeing treasure chests, I know that.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I thought I would ever have, so I’ve never fantasised much about it. And I confess my ignorance: if it were a fake, I wouldn’t notice.”
I can’t take my eyes off her. “But you should accept being spoilt every now and then. Men like doing it.”
I notice a sparkle in her eyes. “Do you?”
“Sure I do,” then I reach out my hand. “Shall we dance?”
