“Jemma,” I say, using my most considerate tone. “Can I come in?”
Silence.
“Jemma?”
“Wait a second,” she finally answers, in a nasal voice. After several seconds, I’m already regretting being here to act as a Good Samaritan, or rather, I start regretting the loving husband act that I’m about to put on.
“Come in, Ashford.”
The room is a mess, as usual; Jemma is sitting as properly as I’ve ever seen her do so far, she’s as straight as a pillar, and she’s pretending to look out of the window, with her back almost totally to the door, in a strategic position.
“I couldn’t help noticing your absence this morning, so I came up to see if everything is all right.” Yes, it was Lance who noticed it, but it wouldn’t be nice to admit it, right?
“Yes, of course, everything is all right. Why shouldn’t it be?” She says, but her voice is broken, sounding an octave higher than her normal tone, which is quite high already.
“Sorry, but it doesn’t seem like that. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, you… wrong,” she says while she can’t help sobbing.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say, taking a box of Kleenex and giving it to her. “Nothing at all? You sure?”
Jemma gulps, but doesn’t say a word.
“Let’s face it: the whole house knows that you’re locked in here and you’re crying. There are two possibilities: it’s either something I can – and must – comfort you about, or it’s my fault. If I leave you here crying, everyone will start talking about what is wrong between us and, believe me, I’d rather keep that long list private.”
Jemma lets out a long sigh. “I called my mother because I’d like to go and visit my parents in London. I miss them and I’m feeling down these days, so I wanted to spend a few days at their place.”
“Well, if this is what you’re crying about, just know that you can do it whenever you want to. I hope you don’t think that I’m so mean as to keep you from seeing your family!”
“I can’t go anyway! Their landlord has sold the block of flats they live in to a construction company. My parents received an eviction notice yesterday. They are tearing everything down to build a shopping centre!”
I look at her, furrowing my brows. “I can’t see the problem, really. You have acquired a number of properties with your inheritance. They could settle in one of your grandmother’s houses…”
She looks at me, upset. “You don’t understand! They have no idea I inherited my grandmother’s properties, exactly as your mother doesn’t know that you were broke! They think she left everything to distant relatives. They aren’t stupid. If I told them: ‘Hey, you can move to one of grandma’s houses, you know, it’s all mine’ they would understand that there’s something strange. My grandmother disinherited my mother because she didn’t marry a nobleman, then I marry a duke and I inherit everything. They wouldn’t speak to me any more! Perhaps money means a lot to your family, but we give much more importance to feelings.” She sighs, then blows her red nose with the umpteenth Kleenex. “I would lose all their respect.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds strange to say, but I know how it feels when they’re about to take away your roof from over your head.”
“I want to help them. They’re my family and I can’t leave them out in the street.”
I have an idea. “What about buying a nice new house for them? You can tell them it’s my money, they will never know!”
Jemma raises her hands in surrender. “I have offered to buy a house for them, or pay for their rent, but they won’t accept. They are too proud to take any money from me. I’m still their child, and they feel they are the ones to come to my rescue, not the other way about.”
Jemma is desperate, she resumes sobbing and lets herself fall on the unmade bed, which is scattered withdvdsof films based on the works of Shakespeare, the Brontë sisters, and even Dickens. I’m trying to comfort her by patting on her shoulder, when something lying under her pillow draws my attention. It looks like the corner of a leather bound book. I slide it out with two fingers:Pride and Prejudice.
Jemma reads. If I have to be honest, I can’t imagine Jemma as a reader, and yet she is.
She’s studying hard, and she’s doing it to live up to a life she doesn’t even want.
Perhaps, she has more self-discipline than I was able to expect from her and now, more than ever, I feel bad about my lack of interest in her.
“Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” I say, without too much enthusiasm, while leaving the room.
As I go down the stairs, I quicken my pace and some kind of awareness takes possession of my mind. I myself went from being a naive child to becoming my mother’s carer; I let her believe that she has everything under control, but I constantly keep an eye on her and take care of her as she gets older. I married a stranger so that she could keep living her life with her long-time certainties, and I let her believe in an imaginary and very unlikely royal visit to give her a reason to wake up in the morning. Let’s face it, it’s like when, as children, they make us believe in Santa Claus: it’s just a white lie, because you have to believe in something beautiful, you have to hope for something.
“Lance, I’m going to London, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
If Jemma has overcome her limits, so will I.
