I climb the stairs, cursing all the way up. There are times when I don’t feel like the owner of my own house. I just want to get on with life but it seems that every corner hides someone who wants something from me.
I find Jemma in a pink bathrobe, with her hair wrapped up in a towel; she’s lying on her bed leafing through an issue ofCosmopolitan.
She starts talking before I can say anything: “What made you come here and disturb me in this precious moment of reflection?”
“Something you will hate me for,” I can’t help admitting it.
“You’re already halfway there, for your information,” she says without even looking at me.
“My mother is in a meeting with her charity committee. They want you to join them.”
“Do you know I’m a billionaire? I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I don’t need the charity of you lot,” Jemma says in an offended tone, sitting up on her bed.
“Jemma, they don’t want to give you stuff. They want to involve you in the organisation of their evenings. According to them, as the new Duchess of Burlingham, you must be part of the society, just like every married woman or wife-to-be.”
Jemma gives me an angry look.
“In my defence, I must tell you that I was against you being involved.”
“Oh, I’m sure you put all your energy into dissuading them.”
Okay, perhaps I wasn’t that firm.
“If it’s any consolation, they involved me, as well. They inexplicably decided that my presence is necessary.”
“God exists, then.”
“Are you coming?” I ask her for the umpteenth time.
“Give me a minute. Let me get dressed.”
*
Her minute has turned into a quarter of an hour, but the result is, as usual, rather questionable.
Jemma enters the tea room in a silver chenille tracksuit; her hair, which is still wet, falls on her shoulders. The guests look at her, bewildered.
I’m about to sit on one of the farthest chairs when I hear Chelsea chirp: “There’s a lot of room next to me on this sofa! You’ll be more comfortable!”
“I’d rather act as an observer,” I say, as I sit at a safe distance. God forbid they consider me an active participant. I wouldn’t survive that.
For the next hour, these ten women keep squawking, trying to impose on each other, and all I can hear are the wordstaffeta, tableaux vivants, ice sculptures, memorabilia, without being able to combine them in a complete sentence.
From the chair on which she’s sitting with her legs crossed, Jemma looks at me, full of resentment.
I can’t really blame her, I hate myself too. If only I’d come home five minutes later!
My mother calls for attention by means of a very annoying bell. “Ladies, I’m proud to say that we succeeded in establishing a fine schedule for our fundraising events. Now we only need to decide who will organise each of them. I think that one event for each person is more than reasonable. I volunteer for the opening evening. The season is about to begin and I don’t want to put any of you under time pressure.”
Then, going in a clockwise direction, each member chooses an evening to take care of, until Jemma’s turn arrives, but her dreamy expression says she’s got no idea what they’re talking about.
“Jemma?” my mother urges her. “So?”
“What?” She says.
“Your evening for the charity calendar…”
Jemma shrugs. “I was thinking of a party.”
