Jemma is keeping herself busy. On the dance floor, right under her podium, a small crowd of horny chaps has gathered and, I’d bet Denby Hall on this, they’re trying to look under her slip.
I’d win this bet for sure. I know what men are like.
She looks pleased, judging by the way she’s smiling. And she knows that I am watching. She’s already looked in my direction several times and, with every single glance, her moves grew sexier. At least I think so. That’s how it seems to me.
65
Jemma’s Version
What a twat! The more I stay here, dancing on the podium, the more he sits on that bloody banquette with that stupid blonde who’s looking at him adoringly.
And what do these tossers want from me?
66
Ashford’s Version
This girl is a bore, what’s she saying? And what’s her name… Tanya?
Hey! One of those chaps has just got on the podium, right next to Jemma, and he’s got his hands all over her waist.
67
Jemma’s Version
I don’t particularly like this guy who’s climbed on the podium, and he’s even touching me a little too much.
I mean, he’s too big, so muscly he almost looks inflated, and he’s artificially tanned, his hair is waxed and his clothes are really too tight for a man. No doubt he’s very coarse, vulgar. But Ashford can see me clearly up here. Well, let him see! He’s the one who’s been flirting with the blondie so far, isn’t he?
Look here, mister! Take that!
68
Ashford’s Version
To hell with Tamara and this silly challenge. Jemma will not go home with that individual!
69
Jemma’s Version
I make a pirouette to try to get that guy’s hands off me, since I don’t really like his touch, but when I turn round I’m quite surprised to see that Ashford is on the podium, right between the stranger and me.
“I don’t want to make a scene, but keep your hands off my wife,” I hear him say.
“Your wife?” The guy replies incredulously.
For an answer, Ashford raises my left hand and shows him my wedding ring. “See this?”
“Take it easy, pal. Maybe you shouldn’t leave your wife alone,” the guy protests, while getting off the podium.
“You can be sure of that,” Ashford replies.
“Really? ‘Take your hands off my wife’? What a possessive thing to say!” I point out.
“I hate when others touch my belongings.”
“I’m not your belonging, and this wasn’t the spirit of the evening,” I protest, somewhat half heartedly.
