I go back in just to say: “If you like Portia so much, why don’t you marry her yourself?”
41
Jemma’s Version
Busy day. Boxes of clothes donated by the aristocratic matrons are filling Denby Hall in view of the charity fashion show; since the organisation of the event is up to me, I must also sort and select them.
My mother and I are incredulous as we sink into a heap of fabrics. “I feel as if I have fallen into your grandmother Catriona’s wardrobe,” she says, spreading out some of the clothes.
“What the hell is this? A sofa cover?” I ask in horror, unrolling a long brocade fabric.
“I reckon it’s a cloak.”
“What is it for?” I can hardly imagine it as anything other than a sofa cover.
“Your grandmother had something similar, she used it as a cape.”
I lift a heavy fabric covered with beads. “Hey, look, Mum! A curtain for your van!”
“That’s an extraordinaryhaute couturegarment which was worn by Chantal Croydon for Prince Charles’s baptism!” Delphina interrupts us in a cold voice, sneaking up on us from behind. “You’ll have to choose the best items for the fashion show from among these.”
“My mother was just helping…”
Delphina raises a hand as if to stop me. “Allow me to say that I’m afraid she’s not the most suitable person,” then she turns towards my mother. “No offence, Carly.”
“I don’t think it takes a degree to do it,” I object.
“But it takes a modicum of good taste. Moreover, you’ll need a plan, because your models will be the owners of the clothes, and you must know what fits them best.”
My mother and I collapse against the back of the sofa, surrendering before of Delphina’s annoying attitude.
“Lady Mallory has a particular complexion, therefore the shades of green are to be avoided. Lady Sybill is very tall, so she shouldn’t wear heels. Antonia has gained a few pounds over the last months, so I would leave her clothes out, and Marjorie has a slight tic, so you have to be careful with the music and send her out with the right rhythm, otherwise she will be poorly coordinated all the way through. Perhaps I still have some pictures from past fashion shows in my study, you should see them!”
“No thanks, I think I’ll do fine without them,” I say, shaking my head.
“I was not asking.” She snaps her fingers. “Come on, follow me!”
I raise my hands in surrender, look at my mother in exasperation and follow Delphina.
She walks in front of me through the corridors, rambling about the past shows, but my ears are no longer listening and my brain has sent a desperatesos: run for your life!
In fact, as soon as I’m near a door, I open it with a quick movement and nip through.
42
Ashford’s Version
Jemma bursts into the relaxation room, but she looks shocked when she sees me.
“I have the feeling that you did not expect to find me here,” I observe.
“I was looking for an escape route. I have to organise the charity fashion show and your mother is driving me crazy! Is this a house or a madhouse?”
“Tell me about it! Jemma, I can’t stand my mother either, but I think we’ve been through this quite often, now. I came to terms with this situation long ago, after years of therapy.”
Jemma looks at me wide eyed, in disbelief. “Therapy? You have a shrink, like lunatics?”
“In this environment, having a psychotherapist is pretty normal. And a rite of passage to adulthood: you get a driving license, the right to vote and you arrange your first psychotherapy session,” I say, ironically.
