I swear on my way to the shower, but I have a moment of intuition a second before I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket: I turn them inside out and scatter them all over the floor of Jemma’s room, leaving a clear trail that leads from my room to her bed.
“What the heck are you up to?” she spits, ready to start complaining.
“Where are your clothes from last night? Can you give them to me?”
“Not unless you tell me what you’re doing.”
“What do you think?” I say, pointing dramatically at the clothes on the floor.
She turns her palms up in a gesture of surrender.
“In a few minutes, the servants will be here to tidy our rooms. If we want to support the story of our marriage at first sight, we’d better give the impression that we had someCirque-du-Soleilacrobatics. Now, unless you are one of those rare women who have sex dressed like cross-country winter Olympians, would you please give me your clothes?”
“I’ll do better than that!” Jemma isn’t only scattering her clothes on the floor with mine, but she also starts undoing the bed enthusiastically, ripping off pillows and sheets. If nothing else, she understood. It was hard work, but she understood.
Wait a second. What is she doing with that sheet? Why is she tying it to the canopy post?
“Jemma, what the hell is that?”
“Never heard ofbondage?” She replies, in the most natural way.
“No! I mean I have, but stop!” I protest. “Listen Jemma, I appreciate your effort, but it’s enough that the servants think we had normal sex, it’s not necessary to provide details about our erotic tastes!”
“No bondage, then?”
“No,” I just say.
“What about these?” She asks, swinging two flashy red stilettos.
“No, no fetish either.”
“You’re so boring!” She complains, tossing them back into the wardrobe.
“Don’t worry, there are details you’ll never find out.”
“I hope not,” replies Jemma, cringing.
“The disgust is mutual.” I descend the stairs before her, and I see Lance waiting for us in front of the door to the winter garden. “Jemma,” I whisper. “Could you please put on a bright smile, as a happy and satisfied wife?”
“You really need to treat me like I’m stupid to feel like an alpha male, don’t you?”
Well, I knew this would end up in an argument.
15
Jemma’s Version
This is proving harder than I expected. It should have been nothing more than an extended stay in the privacy of a country house, at a distance from one another, but it is turning out to be a hurdle race, and we’re tied together by the ankle.
What am I talking about? Being obliged to go on with this farce and pretend to be a happy couple when our demeanour would be more appropriate for a funeral.
Back home, breakfast is the best time of the whole day: slices of bread with chocolate spread, warm milk with honey cereals, fashion magazines and mytvtuned to the gossip channel.
Not at Denby, of course. This morning, I found out that they have smoked ham, salmon, carrot juice and wishy-washy coffee. No magazines, just newspapers, and I’m sure that Ashford is using them to make a barricade against me, rather than reading them. Who would? They are so boring, all black and white and without a single picture.
Delphina is at a safe distance again, and she greets us with a cold ‘good morning’, uttered without raising her eyes from her plate. As soon as we sit down, she pushes it away and stands up to leave the table. Lance enters the dining room with his usual composure and announces: “Lord Davenport and his wife are here for a visit. May I show them into the blue parlour until you are ready to receive them?”
Delphina collapses on her chair as though her legs were melting down. “Murray and Audrey Davenport? Are you sure it’s them?”
