None of my clothes fit me any more, and I go unsteadily from the sofa to the bed all day, wrapped up in my mum’s patchouli-smelling kaftans.
Today, I had the last visit from my gynaecologist. Patting my shoulder, he placidly complimented me on my health and for not gaining too much weight – really? I see no difference between me and a hippo. Later on, he tried to cheer me up because, according to him, ‘we’re not in troubled waters’.
How silly. Only a man can make such jokes to a woman whose waters are about to break.
88
Ashford’s Version
I feel as if I’ve been living in one of Dante’s circles of hell for months.
My mother got it into her head that she will personally select the next Duchess of Burlingham, because she believes that my judgment is unreliable, given the latestincident.
Yes, she downgraded Jemma to a mere incident in the course of her strategic planning.
Since Jemma left, a number of candidates have been coming and going, and I have found them next to me at dinners, events, and evenings which were organised just to that end.
More than once, Denby Hall has put up someone’s niece/daughter/cousin, all of them strangely fleeing London with the excuse of looking for ‘some fresh air’ and ‘my mother’s pleasant company’.
And they expect me to believe it. The devil himself wouldn’t enjoy my mother’s company.
She even invited Portia again, but I didn’t show up, leaving them hanging like two sausages, and I believe they got the message loud and clear this time.
Then, obviously, came the turn of Sophia and her clones.
All I did was stand there, as still as a statue, overwhelmed by apathy.
I don’t care about anything now, and the longer I go on without Jemma, the more Denby Hall seems like an empty mausoleum.
The only person I still keep in touch with is Harring, although the Grand Prix has started again, and we can only see each other between races.
Like today. He’ll be back from Azerbaijan in a few hours.
In order to occupy myself and escape my mother’s fiendish plans, I take Agincourt and go for a long ride in the park.
However, when I come back, I find an alarming number of missed calls from Haz.
“Haz? Twenty-three calls? You haven’t been this desperate to talk to me since you got arrested by the Border Force on your way back from Bangkok.”
“You would have been desperate too, if an inspector had been about to search you with a latex glove in one hand and lubricant in the other.”
“What kind of connections do you need this time?”
“You can bury yourself with your connections! I’m calling you about Jemma.”
Hearing her name strikes me like a slap in the face. “Je… Jemma?”
“Yes! I saw her! I know where she lives.”
“In Azerbaijan?”
“No, in London. Egerton Gardens.”
“And when did you get back to London?” I ask.
“Yesterday, but that’s a detail. She was entering one of those red brick Victorian houses. Right in front of the Egerton Hotel.”
“And why didn’t you stop her?”
