What’s more, in a mansion of two thousand square metres, there’s nothing more than a single wall to separate Jemma and me.
Oh, and my mother is no longer going to Bath.
This is all I can think about while we’re waiting for Jemma to join us for dinner.
I’m sitting at one end of the long table and my mother is at the other end, as usual.
Between us, there are seven empty seats.
She should sit on my right, but this is a pretty clear signal that she isn’t willing to give up a shred of her authority in this house, even though she’s nothing more than my father’s widow, now that I’m the duke.
Jemma’s place is set exactly halfway between me and my mother, with three empty chairs on each side, a balanced compromise which puts her at the same distance from us both. If nothing else, there will be no danger of conversation.
“Listen up, you people, you must give me a map, a guide, a drawing with arrows, or whatever else you like, because I can’t find my way around in this place. Thank God I have a personal bathroom, otherwise I’d have had to pee in a vase!”
Jemma is finally here. Her opening lines are always effective. I’m pretty used to it now, but my mother is rather taken aback.
“You’re late, Jemma. We sit down for dinner on the stroke of 6:30 p.m.,” she points out.
“Well, what time do you have breakfast? If I sleep under the table, I will be on time tomorrow morning. I see there’s plenty of room, at least!”
I decide to intervene and pre-empt my mother’s reply, as she’s already frothing at the mouth. “Jemma, we’ll come down for breakfast together tomorrow morning, so you won’t get lost.” Yes, I mean, we’re married, what would everyone think if we had breakfast separately after our first night in Denby?
Jemma is about to sit on the first empty chair, the one next to my mother, who stiffens against her backrest, horrified.
“Lady Jemma, we’ve prepared your place over here, if you please,” Lance invites her, pulling out her chair.
“Wow,” says Jemma. “You placed me at a safe distance! I did have a shower this morning, though!”
“I’m not interested in the details of your ablutions, provided that they are regular. As far as meals are concerned, this is the customary arrangement.” There goes my mother, trying to expand her authority like wildfire.
“With three empty seats between one person and the other? What do you do when you have guests, rent the Wembley stadium?”
“The protocol is different in such cases. Now, if you’re done with your questions, I will have the courses served. Lance, you may proceed,” my mother directs.
As I’m about to eat my aspic, I see Jemma staring at her plate from the corner of my eye.
“Doesn’t it suit your taste?” I ask, without looking at her. If I did, she might think that I’m seriously interested in her appetite.
“I don’t know, should it?”
Here we go again, she answers a question with another question, as if she were programmed to start an argument.
“The most proper answer would be ‘Yes, it does’,” I reproach her.
“It would help if I knew what’s on my plate,” she says, poking the jelly cylinder in front of her sceptically.
“It’s an aspic. It’s made with veal, eggs and artichokes in jelly.”
“If I move the plate, it trembles like my aunt Jean’s arse as she goes up the stairs,” Jemma comments, less and less attracted to the entrée.
My mother puts her fork down on the plate noisily, shocked. “My God, what kind of obscenity am I forced to hear.”
“But it’s true!” Jemma objects.
I decide to cut in and provide a diplomatic solution. “Please serve the next course to my wife. She doesn’t like the aspic.”
When they put the main course in front of her, she claps enthusiastically. “Chicken wings! Brilliant!”
