“It doesn’t bother me, no. It drives me crazy! It makes me sick, it disgusts me and it makes me want to smash everything.”
My friend rolls his eyes. “That’s very strange for someone who got married just for money…”
“What about my self-esteem? My pride? The woman who’s officially known as my wife goes out and flirts with my nemesis. It could be anyone else, but not him.”
“Jealousy has nothing to do with it, then?” Harring insists.
“No!”
“All right, I believe you. I’ll pretend not to have a brain and I’ll believe what you say.”
“I asked you to listen to me, not to draw conclusions.”
“Now that you’ve vented, I assume you’re able to think clearly again. Can we play another hand of Hold’em?”
“I won’t be able to think clearly until I see Jemma cross that threshold, for God’s sake!” I roar, slamming a fist on the windowsill. “I don’t care if I have to wait all night,” I mutter to myself.
Thinking of dealing with that loose cannon Willoughby again makes my blood boil.
31
Jemma’s Version
After the night of the concert, I was expecting a reaction similar to a nuclear explosion from Ashford, but nothing happened.
The following day, he simply asked me how my evening had been and asked me to be more discreet, since, even though I have the right to have my own life and relationships, I should try to keep a low profile at least.
Perhaps he’s right, but I’m dying to teach him a lesson. Whenever I’m obliged to take part in those pompous evenings, I yearn for revenge, because he’s completely at ease, in his element, and it really seems he doesn’t give a damn about my isolation and discomfort. Besides, the fact that he despises Carter makes me want to hang out with him even more.
Carter likes me, I know this. After our after concert scotch in a half deserted pub, he took me back home and he almost kissed me. We said goodbye and he kissed me under my ear – it was too precise to be accidental – and on the corner of the mouth. If I had been a little more self-confident, maybe I would have made my move.
There’s a drag hunt this morning; according to what Lance explained to me, it’s a symbolic hunt during which people on horseback and a pack of hounds chase a trail which simulates the smell of a fox, over a course of about ten miles in the woods. From what I understood, the official hunting season opens in October; however, this is a further occasion to show off, and the lovely members of the aristocratic world would never miss a single one of them, not even in summer.
Needless to say, Ashford is the designated master of hounds for this season, so this will be a top event for the Parker family.
I’m not into hunting and, as far as I’m concerned, I always root for the fox, even though it’s not there on this particular occasion.
If nothing else, I won’t make a bad impression, given that I can ride a horse well enough.
I even have a damn fine cowgirl outfit! The Texan boots and the belt are relics belonging to my father (the boots are a little loose but I’ll wear two pairs of socks and they’ll fit just fine); I bought the fringe leather vest at the Brick Lane market and the cowboy hat was on sale at a costume shop. Who knew that I would have the chance to use it!
The hunt will take place on the Danburys’ estate, at Avon House. I join the members of the hunting club after having changed my clothes and, when Ashford sees me, he almost chokes on his champagne.
“You never fail to amaze me. Negatively,” he growls with clenched teeth when I approach him.
“I’m not going to wear one of those colanders you all put on your heads. And those red jackets make you look like a legion of Santa’s little helpers.”
“Oh well, you look like a character from a Sergio Leone movie.”
Harring is there too, and he claps his hands in amusement as soon as he sees me. “I wish I had thought of it first!”
“You can’t talk. You don’t even hunt!” Ashford reproaches him.
“Indeed,” Harring says, shrugging. “I just came for the buffet.”
“Isn’t Cécile here?” I ask.
“No, she’s no longer been a welcome since she hid the foxes at the last three hunts…” says Harring, then he stops and elbows Ashford. “Shitface, eleven o’clock.”
