“Unnecessary? Are you saying that I’m unnecessary?”
“Jemma, let’s face it, your role is not essential to the new play.”
I point my finger at him but I fail to find any satisfying insults, so I turn my back and march towards the door, but then I turn round and say: “You know what? The old play sucked, and this will be even worse. A great opportunity down the drain. Someone else will soon have the same idea and they will put it into practice way better that you ever could! You’re just another ‘wish-I-could-but-can’t’ type and I don’t even need to hope you fail, ‘cause I already know you will! When was the last time we had more than fifteen spectators, relatives excluded? Are you sacking me? Good! I’m more than happy to leave this morgue!”
And then I find myself alone on the pavement, under pouring rain. I’m furious. Unemployed. And without an umbrella.
6
Ashford’s Version
Second sleepless night in a row. All I can do is lie in bed contemplating the darkness.
Bankruptcy is the most humiliating thing that could ever happen to me: I could be expelled from the House of Lords, become the laughing stock of the whole Parliament and, of course, put my own title at risk.
It’s pretty simple: a title of nobility is honorific, and those who fail to account for their debts result in being dishonoured, because their word has no value.
If, the other night, the news of bankruptcy made mesimplynervous, now I’m really pissed off with Derek. Not only didn’t he find a solution, he didn’t even try. He picked a case which is even worse than mine and simply put it on top of the pile, to wait and see what would come out of it.
Man plus woman, debts plus inheritance, equals marriage. What an idea! One wouldn’t expect an Oxford graduate to be such a mediocre solicitor. WatchingPerry Masonwould probably get him better results.
How could he even imagine that I would marry that freak.
Jemma left me literally speechless! What about her table manners? It was like having dinner with a chimpanzee, no offence to them.
Not to mention her appearance. For all my life, I’ve thought that women care a lot about their looks, but Jemma destroyed all my beliefs.
Clown make-up, poorly matched clothes – which would be too provocative even for a nightclub dancer – half pink tailbone length hair… basically, a failed Spice Girl.
The Spice Girls, aka the peak of the nineties’ trashy style.
Could you imagine any of the Spice Girls becoming a duchess?
No, you couldn’t. Since Derek has no idea what to do, I’ll have to handle this myself.
Before breakfast, I put on one of my best designer suits as I’ve decided to visit the banks where my accounts are overdrawn, discuss the situation and find a solution.
Just as I’m knotting my tie, I notice that someone is knocking insistently on the door: it’s Lance.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but your presence is required downstairs.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m sure that any excuse my mother has come up with can wait.”
“Actually, Her Grace the duchess is at the upholsterer’s atelier. But there are two visitors waiting for you at the door.”
I give a snort of irritation while buttoning my cuff. “What a pain. If they were so rude as to turn up without notice and uninvited, then they will wait for as long as I need.”
“They said they are from the Royal & Treasures Bank.” Lance’s words affect me as an air raid siren would.
I drop the cufflinks on my bed and rush out of the room, almost knocking my butler down.
When I see the two bankers at the bottom of the stairs, sporting a solemn expression and a shiny briefcase each, I’m out of breath for a moment.
“Welcome to Denby Hall, gentlemen. Are you from the Royal & Treasures Bank?”
The two men exchange a look, then the lock of one of the briefcases clicks and a document comes out of it.
“Yes, the Duke of Burlingham we presume, we represent the legal department. The bank has notified both your adviser and your solicitor several times that a timely repayment of your overdraft is required. Have you been informed?”
