“Why do you reply every time she speaks to you? Ignore her!” I stress.
“We’re at a charity evening! I have to be kind to the less fortunate!”
“You and kindness are two parallel lines. Not destined to meet.”
“Speaking of meetings, what did Portia want the other day at the polo match?”
“To talk. Or rather, she humiliated me first, and then she talked. She pointed her finger at us wicked men who break the hearts of young innocent damsels.”
“Innocent? Her? The same person you found open legged with no underwear on your billiard table?”
“I shouldn’t have told you that story.”
“And all the others: in the Leighs’ shed, in the conservatory behind your mother’s ficus, in the trophy room at the polo club…”
“Haz, I don’t need a summary of the previous episodes!”
“I’m your memory, brother.”
“You’re a pain in my arse! However, Portia resolved that, as we’re obliged to attend the same functions, we’d better bury the hatchet and move on with our lives.”
“How strange… knowing Portia, I would have expected her to use the hatchet to chop you into pieces and toss you into the Thames on a foggy February night.”
“Being Portia, she probably considered that option first,” I comment absent mindedly while looking around. “I can’t see Jemma. She was with Loxley.”
“I have no idea,” he says. Then, his mobile phone rings, he reads a text and gives me a hasty pat on the shoulder. “I’m busy now. Enjoy the evening, Parker. See you later. Maybe.”
I leave Haz to his adventures and decide to look for Jemma. I walk through the ballroom but I can’t find her, then I get into the maze of Greer Hall’s corridors.
These parties are wicked: when you’re looking for someone, you meet everyone except who you want.
In fact, I was blocked by Murray, Sir Robert, Lord Neville, Lady Venetia and Lady Augusta.
As I descend the staircase to return to the ballroom, I see someone sitting on the bottom step, leaning against the marble parapet and sinking in a cloud of tulle. By the time I realise who it is, it’s too late to turn round and leave. She’s already looking in my direction.
“Ashford!” Her tone is somewhat friendly.
“Portia.”
“Are you fleeing from the crazy crowd?”
“You’re not enjoying the party yourself,” I remark.
She lifts the hem of her skirt showing her bare foot. “I stumbled and sprained my ankle. I’m waiting for the cold marble to relieve the pain. Unfortunately, my partner for the evening is not much of a gentleman, and I think he disappeared in the brandy room.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“If I have to be honest, no, thanks. Better alone than in bad company, and Lewis confirms the proverb.”
“Does he still suffer from hair loss?”
“Only in the season changes,” she says. “It’s one of the features which make him charming.”
The usual awkward silence falls between us. I know I should probably say something, but, at the same time, I would like to find a nice way to tell her that now, sprained ankle or not, I have to go.
She looks at me with a pacifying smile. “Would you mind escorting your old friend Portia to the terrace? If nothing else, I can sit comfortably and enjoy the illuminated garden.”
I hesitate. “I—”
