“Her father is…?” Audrey asks.
“Dead,” says Delphina. “A bad story, a terrible loss. But let’s not be saddened on such a happy day. Would anyone like more tea?”
16
Ashford’s Version
I wish I could go into a coma and wake up tomorrow morning. Or fall into a kind of trance. Anything that could help make me unconscious for the next four hours.
No, the Armageddon is not coming. It’s even worse. What is coming, is the official dinner to introduce Jemma and me, aka the Duke and Duchess of Burlingham, into society.
I look down at the staircase and I’m strongly tempted to attempt a triple pike dive, but I would land exactly outside the parlour, among the guests my mother is entertaining while waiting for us. Jemma’s nowhere to be found. I go and knock on her door. Nothing, no answer.
Well, this is my house, and that’s my wife’s room, aren’t they? Then I have the right to go in there, if I want to – I know, I should saywheneverI want to, but the truth is I never do!
I open the door and there’s nobody inside the room, just thetvtuned onmtvand Nicki Minaj shaking her derrière with the utmost elegance.
“Jemma?” I call.
“In here!”
Damn! The wardrobe is talking to me.
For a second, I fantasised that the floor had swallowed her up.
“Are you coming out or what? We’re so late that we could as well get ready for next year’s reception!” I say, knocking insistently.
“I’m not ready yet. Give me ten minutes!” Jemma says, with her usual irritating voice.
“There’s no need to put ten layers of make-up on your face. I didn’t marry you for your beauty.”
“I know. You married me for my money.”
“Yes, Jemma. So did you.”
‘You married me for money’ has become our daily mantra. We include it in our conversations as nonchalantly as we use punctuation. I have no idea how this started, but it’s a regular thing now. Perhaps, that’s the reality check we need to keep each other at a distance after themy darlingandmy lovewe’re forced to say to each other for stage purposes.
I could do without it, but she’s so exasperating that she brings out the worst in me and my bile levels increase day by day.
While I’m waiting for her, I look at her room: it’s in total disarray. The apotheosis of chaos. No wonder she always looks like… like… a Picasso painting! That’s it, when I see her, I immediately think of a Picasso painting: everything is dismantled, sharp cornered, warped. Picasso made art, but in Jemma’s case, I’m sure the outcome is merely accidental: unmatched clothes which are way too provocative, or unsuitable for certain occasions, extravagant hair colour and exaggerated make-up. I really don’t see why she spends hours worsening her appearance.
“Jemma, I’m getting old waiting for you!”
“That’s impossible,” her voice replies sarcastically. “How could you get any older than that.”
Ashford, take it easy. I have to take it easy. Wait, do I? “You know what? I’m going on my own!” And I head towards the door to leave the room.
“All right, I’m ready!” She says, coming out of the wardrobe. “Let’s go.”
I stop and look at her, bewildered. “Are you coming like that?”
She’s got a very high ponytail, which makes her dyed blonde hair with the fuchsia strands look even flashier than usual. A damn neon lamp. As for the rest, the atelier dress I ordered for her remains in its box, ignored, and she’s wearing a low-cut purple dress which is so short that her legs are almost totally in plain view. Not to mention the bad taste trinketry she must have found in the worst London flea markets.
“Got a problem?” She answers defiantly, shaking her head so that her ponytail and her big circle earrings swing. That’s so irritating.
I raise my eyebrow almost automatically. “What do you think?”
“I’m most definitely coming like this, yes.”
