Finding myself at home, waiting for time to pass with nothing to keep me busy, is quite hard to manage. At Denby Hall, I was always preparing for some event, trying to hide from Delphina, or studying following Lance’s precious lessons.
Here, I’ve got nothing to do. This perennial idleness torments me. Last week, I even went back to the theatre to see if they needed me for anything, even sweeping the stage for free, just to keep myself busy. But the theatre has closed down and, as I predicted, the company has folded.
After that, I went back home, stopping by at a second hand bookshop to look for copies ofPride and PrejudiceandThe Taming of the Shrew.
I did my best to get Ashford out of my life, I changed my number, broke off my friendship with Cécile, I even left Derek without any means of contacting me. The tickets for the football match between Barcelona and Arsenal are fading, as they lie forgotten in some drawer; however, he constantly and inevitably reappears in my mind and, with my belly growing bigger and bigger, I’ll soon have the memory of our short and shallow relationship right in front of my eyes.
86
Ashford’s Version
She didn’t come for me, but I’ll let her in anyway.
I’ve been turning thoughts over for days now and I don’t know which ones to pay attention to. Seeing Cécile at the door is almost a relief.
Like those disgusting bitter medicines that you’re happy to take, because you know that they’ll make you feel better.
Cécile strides into the living room with her usual aplomb, she sits in the armchair next to the fireplace and rests her elbows on the armrests. Beams of light filter through the window behind her, outlining her silhouette and giving her a disturbing radiance.
“You look awful, Burlingham.”
A Loxley style opening line. There is no offence in her voice, only ruthless sincerity. And it’s true, I do look awful, I thought so myself this morning.
“Always straight to the point, Loxley.”
“It’s so obvious, that it would be hypocritical to pretend you don’t. I haven’t seen you like this since they showed usSchindler’s List, back at school.”
I sigh, but I don’t answer. I want her to talk. Jesus, how much do I want her to talk.
“Where’s Jemma? I came back from Bruges yesterday, and I called to invite her over, but her mobile was disconnected. Then Lance told me she’s not here, and you inexplicably invite me in, looking like crap.”
“What do you know?” I ask her, abruptly.
“What should I know?” She asks me in return.
“She’s gone. Jemma has left.” As I utter those few, short unequivocal words, my voice breaks.
“She has left?”
I collapse on the sofa in front of her, I’m exhausted. “She packed her bags and she left.”
“It seems a bit out of the blue. Just like that, for no reason? It would be too impulsive even for me.”
“We had a fight,” I admit, ashamed. “We said very bad things to each other, we took off our wedding rings and she… she thinks that I have a relationship with Portia!”
“Do you?” Asks Cécile, as direct as a rifle shot.
“God, no! I could never… there’s no…”
“There’s no comparison, I agree,” she ends my sentence.
“Have you talked to her? Jemma, I mean.”
“Obviously not. If I had, I wouldn’t be here. Do you know where I can find her?”
“I have no idea.”
“In London,” she assumes.
