“How about this: if I ever need help, I won’t look for you.”
“Well, if you really are in love…” he says. Here we go, he wanted to test me, he wanted to hear it from me. Harring’s instinct never fails when it comes to catching me lying. If I had said that I love Jemma, he wouldn’t have believed me.
“Harring, here’s what happened: I got married. It was a spur of the moment decision, made on impulse. I wanted to do it, and I did it. I have a wife, but nothing is the way you think it is. In your head, you probably imagine a conventional marriage, a standard marital life with all the subsequent limitations. Just know that my wife isn’t a conventional woman and neither is our marriage. She is unruly and weird, and perhaps that’s what makes her the only woman I could ever have married. Anyone else would have wanted a classic wedding, but not Jemma.”
As a result of what I said, Harring raises an eyebrow, sceptically. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“She’s a nonconformist and she’s absolutely okay with open relationships. That’s what I mean when I say that nothing has changed.”
Harring’s sceptical expression becomes incredulous. “Let me get this straight: you got married, you exchanged vows, ‘until death do us part’… and after all that, you’re saying it’s an open marriage?”
I just nod so as to avoid giving my secrets away. The tiny detail I omit is that we got married for money and actually despise each other, so we don’t share anything, and certainly not a bed.
“You’re lucky starred, my friend. I don’t know how many unhappy wretches would like to be in your shoes right now.”
Damn, I must have sounded sincere!
“Yeah but, Harring, keep this between us, within these walls. There’s already too much gossip about my marriage and I don’t need such details to be disclosed.”
“Old man, I’m so excited about meeting your wife. I want to see this astounding creature with my own eyes!”
Astounding creature? I can’t help but think about Harring’s words as I collapse on my bed. Jemma is snoring like a freight train. One of the negative aspects of connecting rooms – assuming that there are also positive aspects – is that there’s nothing but a door to separate me from Jemma and her noisy sleep.
Harring is excited about meeting her. I already know what he’s picturing in his head, though: a monument to femininity who makes all men turn and stare at her. Not exactly how I’d describe Jemma. She’s as elegant and graceful as a four axle lorry. I can just hope that she will daze Harring with her patter and he will pass out after three minutes and a handshake.
A moment before sinking into sleep, a terrible thought washes over me: the servants will tidy up our rooms tomorrow. Even though we have separate rooms, they may find it unusual – if not suspicious – that the newly wed duke and duchess sleep in different beds on their first night in the same house. At least, there should be clothes scattered everywhere, sheets dragged to the room corners and more concrete signs of uncontrollable passion. Therefore, one of the two beds should remain pristine.
I can’t sleep in my bed. It’s so silly, this is my house, and I can’t even have a good sleep in my emperor size bed. This is what I think as I try to get comfortable on the small sofa.
Jemma and I will have to come to an agreement on this as I can’t spend the next few months sleeping worse than my hounds. We’ll have to take turns: one night in bed each sounds more than democratic.
At least for the first few weeks, when it’s normal for newly-weds to unleash their passion. Afterwards, an average of a couple of times a week will be totally acceptable.
At last, now I’ve hypothesised a plausible calendar for our sexual simulations, I can get to sleep.
*
They’re knocking on my door, and I can hear it as if they were knocking right on my skull. Fuck Harring and his brandy and champagne mixture, orBrandagne, as he calls it. I must remember to tell him that its taste and name are equally disgusting. I’m not deceased yet, but I know my prognosis is pretty uncertain.
“Come on in,” I groan. Nothing happens.
I drag myself towards the door with heavy steps, but there is no one outside. Is my authority so compromised that my own servants play ‘knock and run’ on me?
The knocking continues and I start thinking it’s only in my head, until I realise that it comes from behind me: from the connecting door between my room and Jemma’s.
I open it and find her in the compartment which connects the two rooms; a sort of no man’s land which is likely to become our private battle field.
“You look terrible,” she points out kindly.
“I have just woken up, I haven’t had a shower yet. What’s your excuse?” I say, noticing her heavy make-up and her overly curled hair.
“I’m ready,” she replies, without catching my sarcastic remark.
I shrug. “Exactly.”
“Well, if I remember correctly, last night you said we’d go down for breakfast together. I’d appreciate it if you kept your promise, because I don’t think I could stand another speech on punctuality, schedules, etiquette, and all the things you noble people like so much.”
“Give me five minutes.”
