“Are you afraid of losing?” Willoughby challenges me.
That’s the question which no man can back down when faced with.
I approach the green table in silence, pull out a chair which scrapes along the floor, and sit down. “I’ll deal.”
Carter gives a knowing look to his fellow dickheads, then he says, nonchalantly: “So… you’re a happy husband now.”
“I think I’m not wrong if I say it’s none of your business.” He looks at his cards with total composure and keeps bugging me. “Yeah, technically, it wouldn’t be my business, but it seems that Jemma has a different idea.”
“I suggest that you stay away from her,” I growl.
“What will you do to me if I don’t, Parker?” He asks, then he leans forward and hisses: “Nothing, just like every other time.” So saying, he sits back, satisfied.
It’s true, I’ve let it go so far, because I’ve always considered myself superior to him and I don’t feel the need for revenge.
“You’re not worth the effort, Willoughby.”
He keeps showing off. “Take out some money instead of words. Do you want to bet or not?”
“I’m in,” I say, pushing a stack of chips on the table. “Three thousand.”
Wandsworth and Branagh have understood they’d better step back, since this is between me and Carter, so they fold and leave the game.
Chief dickhead pushes his chips into the centre of the table. “I call your three thousand and raise three more.”
I couldn’t expect anything else from him. “Ten.”
I don’t like making wild bets, but I have a nice set of cards and I hope that luck isn’t on his side this time.
“You know what? Raising three by three bores me to death, it could go on forever. Let’s put something more juicy on the table,” he challenges me.
“You’re really broke, aren’t you, Willoughby?”
“I need something stimulating. Bet something you care about, you identify with. Something you would never jeopardise.” Willoughby’s tone of voice is very annoying.
“I have a nice long list, but you… you just care about yourself, and I would never want to win you, not even if you were made of gold.”
“Did you come in your Jaguar?” He says, nodding towards the window.
“Yup.”
“That’s nice. A 1956 Roadster with 213 hp. It spectacular, it’s got a nice engine, it’s a competition version. For connoisseurs only,” he observes, enigmatically.
“Not for you, then,” I comment in response to his innuendoes.
“Not necessarily,” he says, then he looks me straight in the eyes. “Are you in?”
It’s all between the lines, you just have to know how to read it: do I have the guts to risk losing something I care about, something unique? Yes, we’re talking about my Jaguar, but his insinuation is subtle: he’s also referring to Jemma.
If I had married her for love, I would not hesitate for a second. Do I really want to do this? And what will everyone think of me if I back out? It’s as if I let Willoughby make a fool of me in public.
If I accept, I’ll show him that I’m not afraid to take a risk for what I care about, but the risk here is losing my Jaguar and seeing Willoughby drive it could give me a fulminating heart attack.
He spits more venom. “It wouldn’t be anything new, if you backed out.”
If Willoughby has asked for the Jaguar, he must bet its value, at least: he either has great cards, or he’s bluffing.
He seems to be sure that I will fold; if I do, he will win the pot (now twenty-five thousand pounds) and the Jaguar. Not to mention my humiliation. I know how much he likes taking what is mine.
