“Do you think I’m crazy? Of course I intend to accept it! Where do I sign?”
His expression is suddenly serious. “There is a specific provision in the will.”
“A provision?”
“Yes, a legal restriction, aconditio sine qua non,” he further explains.
“Cut the bureaucratic talk, please…”
“Your grandmother bound the inheritance to your marriage. You cannot take possession of her property until you get married.”
“What? Like, Now? Right away?”
“No, Jemma. You can take your time.”
“Thank goodness. I’ll have to persuade Alejandro. Actually, we’ve just been dating for almost a month now, but you never know. Love works miracles!” I look at the clock on the fireplace, behind Derek. “I must go, now. The artistic director is bound to be waiting at the dressing room entrance ready to yell at me.” While saying this, I stand up and quickly put on my lilac eco-leather jacket.
“Excuse me, Jemma, does this Alejandro have any title?”
“What do you mean by ‘title’?”
“Your grandmother specified that you’ll be appointed as heiress only if you marry a gentleman of noble descent with a title.”
“I’m sorry?” I exclaim, shocked.
“You’re free to choose your future husband among equals from the United Kingdom…” and then, reading from the will: “… Belgium and Denmark. France is excluded, given that it’s a republic.”
Derek must have gone nuts, or at least that’s what I believe. But for some reason, he looks incredibly serious.
“That means I’llneverbe an heiress! Why did you call me in, then? This makes no sense at all.”
“It was my duty to inform you. There was a 50 per cent chance that you would refuse, but you might also have accepted.”
“It’s utterly ridiculous! She might as well have disinherited me along with my mum. Why appoint me anyway? Mum refused an arranged marriage – why would I ever accept one?”
“Your grandmother wanted a different future for you.”
“Well, to hell with her and this obsession with the aristocracy.”
Derek tries to calm me down as he accompanies me towards the door.
“The will remains valid until you formally renounce. Take my advice on this one: think it over when your mind is fresh, tomorrow, or the day after…”
I say goodbye absent mindedly, while thinking about my grandmother. I would never have expected such a ridiculous situation.
When I finally arrive at the theatre, the actors are rather restless, as I’m over an hour late. Actually, after leaving Derek’s office, the Tube train got stuck for no apparent reason in the tunnel between Embankment and Charing Cross. London is totally unforgiving in the rush hour.
I try and sneak in the dressing rooms but Adriana is right there waiting to give me an earful. She’s the artistic director, and even though she’s from Milan, everyone calls her ‘the fake Italian’: she’s got no sense of humour, she never eats and she’s a real workaholic.
“Thank you for bothering to join us. I wish I could let you feel unfit, miserable and incompetent, but the play will start soon and you still have to do the make-up for the whole company. Speed up! And start with Angelique, before she gets a fit of tears and loses her voice.”
“I’m sorry, Adriana.” But she’s already turned her back and is going towards Oliver, the director.
Damn neurotic actors! I did the make-up of all twenty-three of them in record time, the last one just ten seconds before the curtain went up.
I grab my make-up kit and I move behind the scenes, ready for offstage touch ups. After two years in the company with eight performances a week, I’ve literally learned the musical by heart and I know exactly where and when the actors go off stage. The first year was terrific, we had lots of fun, we got on really well and worked amazingly as a team.
Oliver was still married to Medea, the soprano and leading lady of the play; Michael – a wild Scot with a dangerous penchant for alcohol – was the artistic director and Sarah, almost my best friend, was the costume designer.
