It’s as if someone had entered to divide us. We pull ourselves together and move away from each other, then she goes back to the table to recover her shoes, whispers me a clumsy goodnight and leaves the ballroom.
Turn round.
Turn round.
Turn round.
I knew it! She turned round! She did!
You have the feeling you have left something in here, haven’t you, Jemma? Something suspended in the air between you and me?
When she turns round again and leaves, it’s as if a part of her remains in the room.
And I fall again into that hypnotising feeling of déjà-vu, just like that afternoon at the swimming pool.
57
Jemma’s Version
I’m no longer in control of anything.
I’m in a state of total confusion.
That kind of confusion that starts in your belly and goes up right into your head.
You know that feeling of weightlessness you get when you’re in a free fall?
Once, in an amusement park, I went on a ride which involved the seats going up a tower as high as the top of a skyscraper, then the platform unhooked, dropping the seats. Now I have the same dropping feeling, with my stomach rising up to my brain and bringing my heart with it.
I tug at my dress until I succeed in making it fall to my ankles. I am so hot I would take my skin off as well if I could. I feel myself burning.
I open the window and the crisp September air makes the long curtains flutter and touch my skin like a thousand fingers. If only they were Ashford’s.
It’s all true, then. A part of me likes Ashford.
Ashford, the smartarse.
Ashford, the show-off.
Ashford, the spoilt brat.
Ashford, the snob.
Ashford, who was as handsome as a God tonight.
I still can’t accept it. But I can’t help it.
I look at him and I think he’s handsome, I can’t wait for him to speak just to hear his voice and I’m even interested in what he says.
I can hear noises coming from the next room. It’s him, he’s back.
I start panicking. I measure the room with long strides, until I end up in front of the connecting door. It’s not locked. I haven’t been locking it for a while now.
I lean against the door with my hands, arms, chest, stomach, legs, as if I could cross it with my body. The cold varnished wood makes me realise how hot my skin is. How could four minutes of slow dancing reduce me to this?
Enough. I’m a grown-up, I have to take control of this absurd obsession and put an end to it.
I need something, or someone, to take my mind off these thoughts once and for all.
