“Well, I don’t know. Same environment, same connections… you have a lot in common with them, certainly more than I do.”
“Jemma, I have nothing in common with them,” she pauses, taking some sips of lemonade. “In fact, there was a moment in which I thought we were friends. We attended the same college and I spent most of my time with Sophia, Linda, Julia and, of course, Portia, their queen bee. We shared the same room and I finally felt part of a close knit group. Then, I discovered that they spoke ill about me and rummaged through my stuff while I wasn’t there. They are bitches, so don’t listen to them, because they feed on hatred. That’s quite a bad diet.”
“The reason why they criticise me is not a secret, but I don’t understand why they did it to you.”
“It’s very simple. I am the Marquise of Hungeford, and this is one of the few titles which can be inherited by a woman. My parents died – unfortunately, of course – but, due to this fact, I have a title without needing to get married. Instead, they are chasing a title through marriage. So, point one: they are envious. Furthermore, my family has been half French for three generations, and those bitches believe that the marquisate was tainted by our French blood. There’s nothing to do about it, the Loxley men have an unstoppable passion for Parisian women. Therefore, point two: they are racist.”
“Wow. Anyway, you have to know that I have nothing to do with these prejudices. I never wanted a title in my life, and the one I have is a mere consequence of my marriage. I married Ashford and I became a duchess. Like those ‘two for one’ offers at Tesco!”
Cécile bursts into hearty laughter. “Poor Burlingham! Two for one at Tesco! What a hell of a bargain!”
I shrug. “Racism is not my problem, either. In the block of flats where I lived, there are a Turkish, a Vietnamese and an Italian family, and they’re more than neighbours, they’re friends, not to say relatives.”
While I take a sip of lemonade, I find myself thinking that I’m feeling at ease for the first time since I’ve been living this double life.
“What did you do after elementary school?” I ask her.
“Middle and high school!” she replies, smiling for the joke. “And university. I graduated in Journalism and now I write for theGuardianunder a pseudonym. I have a column calledPoverty and Nobility, in which I describe the best and the worst of aristocracy, public virtues and private vices. What about you? How did you end up in this circle of hell?”
“I was a make-up artist for minor musicals. I met Ashford after a performance and it was love at first sight. I didn’t know who he was or that he had a title. Within a week, I had a ring on my finger and I made my entrance to Denby Hall to everyone’s bewilderment.”
“You’re not exactly one that goes unnoticed.”
“Astonishment is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.
“Very wise.”
“I was even forced to join my mother-in-law’s charity committee, and you know who’s on it? The Triple Six.”
“I can imagine them! Green with envy, seeing you do the honours at Denby.”
“Speaking of the Triple Six, one of them hosts another boring evening tonight. That mare… Sophia.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“What? Aren’t you coming?” I ask, disappointed.
“I wasn’t invited. There’s a polite dislike between my family and Sophia’s.”
“Shall I face the satanic trio on my own, then?”
“Of course not. Whenever they get on your nerves, just hold on to Ashford’s arm and play the bimbo. They will froth at the mouth with envy.”
*
They will froth at the mouth, said Cécile. I don’t know about that, but there’s one thing I do know: this time, I won’t wear the clothes Delphina provided. I will use mine. I have a dress I bought from a sale in Soho for only eleven pounds; it’s identical to one I once saw on Kim Kardashian, a slinky apple green criss-cross dress with a very low back. I also have a golden sequin clutch and some raspberry coloured fringe sandals which are perfect. No, I won’t let anyone say I’m wearing a garbage bag again.
“I would like to find some words to comment on your clothing, but I am petrified,” Ashford comments drily, as we go towards Crane House.
“What’s the absurd reason behind tonight’s dinner?” I ask him, shifting the conversation to something else. I already know he despises what I’m wearing, there’s no point in discussing it further.
“The Skyper-Kensitts’ anniversary party,” he replies concisely.
“What a nonsense! An anniversary is a private matter. If I had to celebratemyanniversary, I would like to do it with my husband only, not with fifty more people who don’t care if ‘we managed not to get divorced for another year’. It would rather be a romantic dinner just him and me, presents, and a night of passion…”
“Well, your husband is next to you and he doesn’t agree with that plan,” he points out.
“I’m not referring to you! I’m talking about my next husband.”
