“We never see each other. That’s why it lasts,” replies Cécile.
“Your sexual life must be really intense.” Harring comments with sarcasm.
“Sex makes me sick,” Cécile just says.
“Is that because he’s got a micro penis?” He asks, even more amused.
“This conversation has gone on long enough. Jemma, shall we go and get something to drink?” Cécile asks me.
“Absolutely.”
As we walk away, we hear Harring shout: “Tell your American micro penis I said hello!”
*
“You aren’t exactly friends with Harring and Ashford, are you?” I observe.
“I’m not exactly friends with most of the people in this room. Old grudges. We started hating each other when we were children and our loathing simply grew up with us. But I prefer those who openly despise me to the fake flattery of the Triple Six. Ashford and Harring have always been a team, so I see them more as a single unit than two separate people. Ashford embodies the arrogance of those who undeservedly think they’re better than you; Harring is coarse and spoilt, an exhibitionist; together, they’re frankly unbearable, and they’re able to bring out the worst in people.”
“I see that we feel the same about my husband,” I say, letting the words slip out of my mouth.
Cécile thinks I’m joking and laughs. “You must have had at least one good reason to marry him.”
“Yes. His title.” If my previous answer made her smile, this one makes her burst out laughing.
“I know the social climber type quite well and, believe me, you don’t look like one.”
Given that I risk talking too much, I change the subject. “Who cares, let’s talk about important stuff! I had no idea you had a relationship with Sean Page! Isn’t he that Californian mega-millionaire computer genius who lives as a recluse? How the hell did you two meet?”
Cécile shrugs and replies: “I saw a picture in a newspaper. I liked him.”
“And how did you meet him?”
“I sued him,” she replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I look at her and realise that, given that she’s quite a peculiar person, this way of doing things fits her perfectly.
While the barman makes cocktails for the guests, I scan the chairs and see the heads of those who are listening to the high notes of the soprano.
I stop on two ice blue eyes that are looking directly into mine.
It’s Carter!
He raises an eyebrow and invites me to sit next to him with an imperceptible nod of the head.
“Lady Burlingham,” he greets me in a whisper as soon as I sit down.
“Please! You made that sound like an insult.”
“Perhaps I would have taken it better if you had told me right away,” he replies.
“If you had asked me: ‘Are you married to Ashford Parker?’ I would have said I am. You didn’t ask me, so I thought that announcing it was not necessary… you didn’t seem particularly interested in titles.”
“Neither did you.”
“I’m sorry you had that impression, but it’s not like that.”
“You owe me a scotch. Double, neat,” he replies.
