“Don’t be ridiculous, you disappeared just after dinner! You could have joined the others and tried to make friends!”
“I’d be ridiculous? Do you even know what you say? You were at that dinner yourself, haven’t you noticed that I couldn’t talk to anyone because I had an empty chair on my left and a German baron on my right, and I don’t speak a word of bloody German?”
“Well, then learn it! It’s certainly not my fault if you do not speak it.”
“Sure, what do you care? You were a mile away, at the other end of the table, with all your snobby friends. That little bitch of Sophia put me there on purpose, just to cut me off. I’m sure!”
“You always play the victim.” Ashford blames me.
“I don’t play it, Iamthe victim! All your beloved high society people do nothing but talking about me, both in my face and behind my back, and try to put me in the most embarrassing situations.”
“If you don’t do your part to integrate yourself, nobody will ever accept you, when will you understand this? You keep staying in a corner hoping that someone has mercy on you and comes to talk to you! Flash news for you, lady: nobody gives a shit about your discomfort!”
“And a flash news for you, young man: Carter does!”
“Forget Carter!” He says disdainfully.
“You’d like it if I did, eh? Are you jealous? You envy Carter, because he doesn’t give high society the same importance you give it, but believe me, he lives much better than you in this world.”
“Look, Jemma, you knownothingof what you’re talking about.” He says sharply.
“This is your typical attitude: when you have your back against the wall in an argument, you just close it there.”
“We’re done talking for tonight.” Ashford is facing the window and so am I, so we both end up arguing with our reflections.
“Believe me, I’m more than okay with that!” I don’t want to go on fighting with this billy goat.
“Not as much as I am. Maybe you’ll shut up for once.”
“You really want to have the last word at all costs, eh?”
“I’m not the only one here.”
“Good.” I growl.
“Good.”
28
Ashford’s Version
Willoughby. Again. Fuck it.
29
Jemma’s Version
Yet another reception tonight. I still don’t get their purpose, though.
I always go reluctantly but this time the evening will be more bearable: there will be Cécile, at least I won’t be a wallflower.
And then, who knows? Maybe Carter will be among the guests. I can’t get his clever piercing eyes out of my head.
The evening will be held at Earl Warlock’s residence and, as far as I understood, there will be a performance by a Russian soprano, Olga Vishnevskaya. I wrote her name on my hand, so that I don’t make a mistakes if someone asks me.
We arrive at the residence and, for once, we’re welcomed quite warmly; I can’t help noticing that all the guests in the hall fall silent when Lord Neville – my good old friend Cedric – comes to say hello and have a chat.
“I’m not in the mood for a screaming Soviet hen, after a terrible week like this,” he mumbles.
