This is a low blow.
In the car, we remain silent while we head towards London in the dusk.
He doesn’t look at all annoyed, he’s calm, placid and relaxed. I’m the one who’s nervous. Perhaps I over did it this afternoon: I wanted to keep a distance, but I ended up being rude and he couldn’t help pointing it out.
I pluck up the courage to apologise. “I’m sorry for this afternoon. I was rude.”
“Thank you,” he answers, concisely. Is that it?
“I was nervous, I had thoughts in my head and you know that I have a bad temper. It’s not an excuse, I was impolite and you didn’t deserve it.”
“It’s all right. What’s most important is that we treat each other in a civilised way.” He doesn’t even turn to look at me, though, he keeps his eyes on the road and focuses on driving.
“What’s thisTaming of the Shrewabout?” I ask. Maybe talking will break the tension.
“Didn’t Lance instruct you on the complete works of the greatest British dramatists?”
“I’m only halfway with Shakespeare. Yesterday, I finishedCleopatra, with Liz Taylor.”
“Okay, then.The Taming of the Shrewis a comedy of misunderstandings based on the character of Katherina, or Kate, a very rich damsel who is petulant, bad tempered and stubborn, but also witty and sharp. She reluctantly marries Petruchio, an impoverished nobleman in search of a wealthy wife, who spends his time making fun of her and humiliating her. Does it ring a bell?”
I turn a deaf ear. “No, not really.”
“Seems legitimate, since Kate eventually falls in love with him and becomes a docile little wife,” he says with a mocking smile.
We’re in London. It’s been a long time since I last set foot here, and the thousand lights of the West End fill my eyes.
The theatre is packed with people and, once we’re inside, we remain in the foyer for a few minutes to greet some small groups of Ashford’s acquaintances – who have recently become mine, as well.
The Parkers, like any noble family, have their own private viewing area. I’m almost panicking when Ashford closes the velvet covered door behind him.
These viewing areas are instruments of the devil: in a public place as crowded as a theatre, they’re the only spot where two people are left entirely alone, immersed in the most complete privacy. In the dark, no less.
And I already know what happened the last two times Ashford and I were too alone, too close, and with too much privacy.
I move my seat as far away as possible from his and avoid any contact, even eye contact, then I put the silver binoculars on my nose and examine the crowd in the stalls.
I have to find someone to turn my attention to.
*
I’m so enchanted by the performance that two hours fly, and I don’t even notice that I’m clinging to the padded parapet. In the end, I couldn’t help but exchange a few comments with Ashford about the most engaging scenes in the play. It’s undeniable: the quarrelling between the protagonists and their misunderstandings are carbon copies of those between us.
On the return journey, I notice that for no apparent reason, he’s taking the scenic route back to Denby.
“At this rate we’ll end up in Yorkshire,” I tease him, trying to understand what he’s up to.
“I’m not sleepy,” he replies shortly. “Driving helps.”
“I have an idea.” Maybe I can seize the moment and find a cure for my crush. Fight fire with fire, they say…
“You’ll never hear me say something like this again, so take advantage of it: speak your mind.”
“Let’s go clubbing,” I suggest.
“My club is for gentlemen only, they won’t let you in.”
“I wasn’t referring to your sanctuary of manliness. I meant a club. To drink and dance. Like two normal thirty year olds. Well, you’re a thirty year old, I’m only twenty-six.”
