I’m a dickhead because, in my naivety, I wasn’t clear enough with Portia, and I didn’t keep her at a safe distance. I wanted to treat her as politely as possible for matters of etiquette, but this only encouraged her. If I had set aside good manners and shut the door on her, I would have avoided every misunderstanding.
I’m a dickhead because I never told her clearly and unequivocally I wasn’t and I will never be interested in spending my life with her.
I’m a dickhead because she was an easy shag and I took advantage of it, without ever defining that we weren’t a couple.
I’m a dickhead because, one hand after another, I dealt her excellent cards to play her game.
And now, Jemma and I are paying for this.
Jemma is full of flaws, and she’s light years away from what I thought my ideal woman was, but, unfortunately, she’s the only one that I want.
I slept on the sofa in the library, on which I collapsed after taking out at least ten books, without being able to concentrate enough to read any of them.
I don’t know what time it is, but what I know for sure is that nobody came to find me.
I feel a bit disappointed. Jemma and I have had arguments of all sorts, using every tone in our vocal range, and a tiny part of me expected – or hoped, at least – that she would take her time to cool off, and then she would find me and ask for explanations, so that we could sort it out together, as adults.
I have a clear conscience.
I hear people moving in the corridors, and this tells me that everyone is up and about already.
I leave the library and lean over the parapet to establish what is causing all this activity so early. Everyone is bustling about in silence: doors are opened and closed, someone goes up the stairs, someone goes down, and the servants pass luggage from hand to hand. Finally, in a faint voice, Claire announces: “The taxi has arrived.”
Who the hell is here, now?
I head to the private parlour that overlooks the driveway, to spy on the mysterious guest.
I go past Jemma’s room; the door is open but she’s not in there.
It’s quite early for her standards, as it’s only 8:15 a.m..
I pause cautiously on the threshold. “Jemma,” I call softly.
No reply. I take a few steps inside, and notice something disturbing: the room is tidy. Nothing is out of place, every surface is empty and shiny, the armchairs are all free and the drawers are closed, with nothing hanging out chaotically. A terrible thought comes into my mind, and I go into the wardrobe to confirm it.
It’s empty.
Walking quickly, I enter the private parlour and see a taxi in front of the entrance: the driver is ready to leave and, on the back seat, there’s a silhouette which sits still and looks straight ahead, waiting for the servants to finish loading luggage into the car boot.
She’s leaving. She’s really leaving.
“She’s leaving!” I shout, incredulous, as I run down the stairs as fast as possible.
I arrive outside once the taxi has already turned round; it’s now going up the driveway towards the gates, raising a cloud of dust.
All the servants are staring at me.
83
Jemma’s Version
“I was expecting to hear from you any day. It took longer than I had anticipated, but anyway, here we are,” Derek observes, stacking several folders on his desk. “Why isn’t Ashford here?”
“Do we need his presence?” I ask, drily.
“No, but since the documents relate to both of you—”
“He was busy,” I say, interrupting him. “I wanted to speed things up, at least as regards my part.”
