“The viscount has not arrived yet. Are you waiting for him?”
“Yes, we had an appointment. That’s quite strange. Anyway, I think I’ll go upstairs, to the billiard room. When he arrives, tell him I’m waiting for him.”
“I will, Your Grace.”
I take the steps of the spiral staircase three at a time, until I get to the long corridor with white doors. I open that of the billiard room and, when the handle clicks, I’m taken by surprise: there are people standing on the billiard table, while others are raising glasses of cognac in the bar corner; their voices are covered byJust a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobodyplaying out loud. Those standing on the table are improvising a grotesque dance.
A heavy slap on my back startles me. “Ashford Parker! You bugger! You get married and don’t say a word!”
“Harring!” I utter, amazed, as my friend gives me a strong hug.
“What’s this all about? You paid a flying visit to London without telling anyone, you found love and forty-eight hours later you’re married?”
Bloody newspapers. “Actually, Harring—”
“We should never speak to you again!”
“I know, I should have invited you to the ceremony—” I anticipate him.
Harring interrupts me. “Fuck the ceremony! I’m talking about your stag night. If we had known, we would have thrown one hell of a party. But we’re gonna make up for it tonight,” then he pulls me up on the billiard table with the others. “Furber! Champagne!” He orders, nonchalantly.
“So… what about Portia, then? Did you dump her? You know what, friend? You did well!” Then he turns towards the others: “More babes for us!” And a deafening roar bursts from the wild bunch.
Let me explain how this delicate mechanism works: in public, at social events and official evenings, the men in this room are perfect examples of composure and good manners. However, within the four walls of the gentlemen’s club, they turn into a horde of vandals who indulge in the foulest deeds, just like tonight. Yes, ‘gentlemen’s club’ is just a euphemism.
They drag me from one group to another, pour me large glasses of cognac, shove Havana cigars into my mouth and keep patting me on my back as if I were a punchbag.
“So?” Harring keeps asking, completely caught up in the excitement. “When will you show us your bride? Do you keep her hidden?”
To be honest, I do. “Um, Harring, you’ll meet her when the time comes.”
“Why are you always so mysterious? How reserved is this lad! Guys, make him drink more, so he loosens up a little! Champagne, cognac, brandy, petrol… anything!”
“Harring—” I try to stop him.
“Don’t keep your marital joys from us. If someone like you has decided to get married out of the blue, then something exceptional must have happened! An event!”
Of course, bankruptcy! I wish I could drown him in such moments. “Some things just happen, you can’t do much to avoid them.”
“Guys! Our good old Ashford is in love, did you hear that?”
The group around me lifts me and throws me in the air, accompanying the scene with vulgar jokes.
“Hey Ash, you don’t know what you missed. Private flight to Paris for a night at the Crazy Horse with wild and beautiful naked Frenchies, then off to Rio de Janeiro by Concorde and, before coming back to London, one last stop in Thailand. You little prick, if you had told us before getting married, you would have had a stag party to be remembered after your own death!”
Harring has been obsessed with Rio de Janeiro ever since we finished University. In fact, I knew that he would say the words ‘Rio De Janeiro’ within half an hour, at most. There’s just one thing in his mind all the time.
I pat my friend on his back. “What can I tell you, Harring? We’ll keep these plans for you!”
“No, man, that woman has yet to be born!”
“Do you have a picture?” Asks Samuel Coulsen.
“Of whom?” I ask.
“Of your wife, who else?” He replies, slapping me on my neck.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I admit, raising my hands.
