Harring gets all excited and proud. “Let me explain one thing: I was born when my parents were not yet married, and it was a scandal at the time. My father was the younger son and the title of viscount should have gone to his older brother, my uncle. Unfortunately, the latter died a few years ago in a car accident and, since he had had no children, my father ended up with the title of Viscount of Westborough. This makes me the heir to the title, and a lucky bastard, according to these people. But it’s a birthright, so they have to accept it, and kiss my ass.”
“My story, well, you know about it. Half French for generations, misanthrope and atheist, and I still inherited the title from my parents. I’m allowed to hate anyone at my discretion, because no one, not even a husband, can take my title away,” Cécile adds.
“Don’t go bragging, lady!” Harring reproaches her.
“For your information, Viscount Harring, as a marquise, I’m right on top of you.”
“Oh, really?” Harring winks.
“Cécile… you served it on a silver platter!” I point out.
Ashford is amused by my friend’s mistake. “Yes, Loxley, you scored in your own goal, this time. Let’s get a drink and make sense of this evening!”
*
“Anyway, I have to congratulate you, Cécile. Tonight, you had the longest conversation ever with Harring. An authentic record.”
“You’re right, I’m being a little dull. I should go back to my old standards: fulminating insults shorter than four seconds,” she grumbles.
“Accept it, the older, the wiser,” I mock her.
“Anyway, let’s go back to when you said you love me and Harring, you didn’t mean in the same way, did you? I mean, you love me a bit more, right?”
“Let’s put it this way: if I were a lesbian, you’d be my first choice.”
“IfIwere a lesbian, my first choice would be any ofVictoria’s SecretAngels. Sorry, Jemma, but I aim high.”
“Bugger off, Cécile,” I say. Then I turn towards the entrance of the hall and I freeze. “Bugger off.”
“Yes, I heard you, no need to repeat that,” Cécile complains.
“The second one was not for you. That praying mantis, Portia, is here.”
“What do you care? She’s not alone! She’s with… what’s his name? Baldy!” Says Cécile, pointing at the chap standing next to her.
“Who?”
“The guy she came with, Baldy! I can’t think of his name, but I remember that’s what they called him at university. Exams caused him so much stress that he lost his hair in strands, and his head was all patchy,” Cécile narrows her eyes to see the couple more clearly. “I can’t say if he still suffers from hair loss, because his head is shaved, but I’m sure it’s him. Turning up with such a type is quite a strange choice for one who was aiming for a duke.”
“Hair loss or not, her presence annoys me. Knowing that she’s in the same room as Ashford makes me…aargh,” I can’t even finish my sentence.
“Yeah, if I have to be ruthlessly honest with you, you’ve been looking awful for a while, now. You’re tense, tired, pale… are you eating?”
“Not much. I don’t feel like it. I have thoughts in my head, my stomach is closed and food is the least of my worries. Cécile, I’ve been cheated on repeatedly in the past, and finding myself in front of the ghost of Ashford’s ex brings back my worst fears.”
“We just have to hope that Baldy hides a monster penis in his underwear, so that Portia will be busy for a while.”
“Weren’t you the one who found sex disgusting? How come you’re weighing the equipment of the guests, now?”
“I’m just evaluating the various possibilities.”
“Okay, then. While you evaluate possibilities, I’ll be in the bathroom.”
78
Ashford’s Version
“That Loxley should be locked up in a cell with padded walls, and someone should throw away the key,” Harring mumbles.
