The guests have already gathered in small groups, and are whispering to each other.
The Triple Six more than any others.
In short, I’m left all alone at the end of the convoy which is click-clacking through the hall.
I instinctively duck out. I don’t want to hole up in a corner and look at the others. I can’t wait for this evening to end.
I find a secondary corridor, then a big staircase that leads to a gallery. I have no idea where I’m going, but I don’t want to remain in that snake pit.
I nose around, then I decide to open a random door and hide for a while, on my own. Maybe I’ll take a nap; the dinner was as heavy as hell.
I enter a room that looks something between a study, a library and a living room. There’s a fireplace, armchairs, tables and display cabinets filled with books.
If I have learned one thing, it’s that all these manors are full of rooms which are very similar to each other, and their use is often undefined.
“Good evening.”
A voice coming from behind the high backrest of an armchair greets me.
It’s a baritone voice, slightly hoarse, unmistakably male.
“Oh, um… good… good evening.” Damn! I thought I would be alone.
“A beautiful funeral wake in the other room, isn’t it?”
The joke takes me by surprise. Who else could think the same as I do, among those pompous guests? “I’m sorry?”
The armchair rotates and it’s occupant looks me in the face. “The party. That’s where you came from, right?”
“Yes, it…” I’m not able to utter the whole answer. I’m impressed, as I didn’t expect to find anyone here, and certainly not anyone that young. Or that attractive.
He has got magnetic ice blue eyes, his lips are resting in a knowing expression and he’s got sharp facial features. These are framed by shoulder length ash blond hair, with a messy strand that falls over his forehead. His dress is equally original: yes, he is elegant, and his clothes are not from a flea market or some big clothing chain; however, under a tailor made jacket he has left open, he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt, and a long silk scarf is wrapped softly around his neck, instead of a formal tie. He’s not sitting straight and stiff in his armchair: his left leg is crossed over the right, his arms are abandoned on the armrests and a cigarette hangs from his right hand.
“Yes, so boring,” I confirm, trying to get my head together.
“Exactly, I’m not surprised you ran away.” The stranger gets up and comes striding towards me. “Don’t stay there at the door. Take a seat. This room is neither mine nor yours. Let’s make ourselves at home.”
He smiles and, running a hand through his blond hair, he nods towards the globe bar.
“I suppose I should do the honours, being the first one to enter the room. Scotch?”
“Um…” I can just utter. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I turning into a sort of mechanical puppet? Why can’t I utter a complete word? If not sentences, words at least.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just realised that Scotch is not a lady’s drink. A Shirley Temple would perhaps be appreciated more.”
“Scotch is fine. Double. Neat.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a strong stomach!” He says, and then he starts pouring it into the glass, with ease. “It must have been a really unbearable dinner tonight,” he comments, amused.
“Weren’t you among the guests?” I ask him, perplexed.
“Yes, but I decided to change my plans at the very last minute. I preferred my own company.” So saying, he reaches out his hand. “Carter Willoughby.”
Carter Willoughby! The guest who was supposed to sit next to me!
“Jemma.”
“Well, Jemma,” he says, raising his glass for a toast. “To unbearable receptions.”
