by Anna Premoli
“Oh my God!” says the lady, in shock. In my heart, I genuinely hope that she's worried about her son and not about the hunt. “Then you must come!” she says, her eyes pleading.
“Me? To the hunt?” I ask, with a shiver of horror. “But I'm completely against hunting!”
By the look of it, Ian's mother is almost on the verge of tears. “Oh, his grandfather will get in such a terrible huff about it,” she begs.
Apparently, if there's one thing this family is good at, it's getting me to participate in things that I've always considered impossible for me.
“His grandfather can't be offended by Ian being ill!” I say, in a vain attempt to save myself.
“Oh, of course he can! He's capable of anything!” she says, amazed that something so seemingly trivial might not be self-evident to me.
I'll admit one thing, though – it's self-evident that the Duke of Revington needs someone to open his eyes, and it looks as though that someone is me.
“All right, Lady St John,” I say resignedly, “we'll do it your way. I'll come.”
Why does it always happen to me?
Meanwhile a greenish-grey Ian appears at the bathroom door. He's obviously feeling so sick that he doesn't even seem embarrassed to be almost naked in front of me and his mother. He staggers to the bed and throws himself in.
“Ian, what the hell happened to you?” asks his distraught mother.
“Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to,” he mutters, covering his head with a sheet. “I'm going to die,” he adds, in an agonised voice.
“Of course you are. If only it were that easy to get rid of you.” I go over to bed and pull the sheet off his face so I can assess the situation. Against that sickly pallor, his eyes look incredibly blue.
His mother looks at us with some embarrassment. “Jennifer, you should get ready. If we don't appear in a couple of minutes, it will be a catastrophe.”
I get up, walk over to the wardrobe and take out a pair of jeans and a brown jacket.
“I don't have any boots with me,” I tell Ian's mother.
“I'll lend you some,” she offers immediately. “Just tell me your size and I'll fetch them.” And so, after discovering that I'm a size six, she rushes out of the room, leaving me alone with the moribund form in the bed.
Before going to the bathroom to get changed, I stare with all the hatred of which I'm capable of at the man who has caused this mess.
“Let me be clear: it may well be the last thing I do, but I'll make you pay for this. And dearly. Good job for you that you're rich.”
And so saying, I slam the bathroom door loudly behind me.
Chapter 16
The Duke of Revington sits majestically on his black horse. He's a beauty, no doubt about it, and is almost as intimidating as his owner. They look like a perfect couple.
He observes me with a hint of concern mixed with substantial disapproval as I try to climb onto the horse they have very kindly assigned to me: it's a pretty little mare called Moon, and I'm hoping she's going to be a bit more hospitable to humans than the satellite whose name she shares. She does have a very sweet-looking face, but who knows.
Getting on is more complicated than expected: the last time I rode a horse I was about ten years old. Hopefully it'll be like riding a bicycle: once you have learned, you never forget. Provided that I can actually claim to have learned.
“Come on, Miss Percy, we are all waiting for you,” the Duke tells me threateningly, just to make me feel even more conspicuous. Everyone is indeed looking at me, I notice, with a hint of anger, and I curse Ian for the thousandth time. If he hasn't already died of alcohol poisoning in the meantime, I'll kill him myself when I get back from this absurd expedition.
On the fifth attempt I manage to get into the saddle and glare back at the Duke, who is clearly displeased that I've succeeded in the undertaking.
“I see that you are a seasoned horsewoman,” he teases, provoking general laughter.
Hold your horses, yourself – we'll see who's laughing at the end of all this.
“Yes, it's not one of my favourite hobbies,” I confirm, taking a firm hold on the reins. Moon seems to understand that she's dealing with a beginner and behaves herself. Thank god for solidarity between women
“Stay close to me,” says Ian's grandfather. “Since that idler isn't here to do it, I'll take care of you myself.”
“And there I was thinking I was responsible for myself,” I say seriously. “Thinking we were in the twenty-first century, only to find out that we're still in the eighteenth.”
My phrase is accompanied by such a sincere smile that anyone would buy it. Anyone except Ian's grandfather. I doubt anybody has ever dared be sarcastic in his presence. Too bad.
“I continue to be amazed at my grandson’s choice,” he admits, as we move off. The two of us are at the head of the party, the others following at distance. “You're not Ian's type.”
“Which is?” I ask, wanting to get to the bottom of his statement.
“My grandson usually surrounds himself with people who worship and never question him.”
How right he is, I think to myself—
“While you seem incapable of veneration,” adds the Duke, watching me to see the effect of his words.
“In my family, we only worship Gandhi,” I answer, not at all put out.
The Duke laughs loudly. “You don't seem the non-violent type,” he says.
“Yes, well, that's my personal shortcoming. My family have really done their best, but I'm pretty red-blooded. And, as you can imagine, for a family of vegetarians… that is something of a problem.”
I've opted for being cordial – let's hope it's a winning strategy.
“You are a vegetarian? Really?” he asks me, as though I came from Mars.
“Absolutely,” I confirm, without losing my composure.
“And you're taking part in a hunt?” he asks next.
“I hope you appreciate the gesture. What people wouldn't do for your company.”
“Ah, a vegetarian with the gift of irony! And I foolishly thought that a diet consisting only of broccoli made that an impossibility,” he says with amusement.
“In any case, I'm a vegetarian, not a vegan – I didn't give up everything,” I explain.
“Interesting as your eating habits may be, I would like to move on to a much more interesting topic, if you have no objection.” His tone becomes serious, and I start to feel slightly worried.
“Please do.”
“Why Ian?” he asks, looking at me intently. “I mean, he's a handsome man, a blue blood and everything, but I suspect that those are not really things which matter much to you.”
Who would have thought it, the man is capable of insight. His sentence almost puts me at ease. Finally, someone has got it.
“I don't think Ian has grasped that himself,” I say, shaking my head.
“Too focused upon himself,” reveals the Duke.
“Does it run in the family?” I venture saying.
The old man bursts out laughing again. “I'll end up changing my mind about you before the end of the day. Who would have thought it. Few people surprise me, Miss Percy.”
“Please, don't. I have a reputation to uphold,” I plead.
“Anyway, you don't want to marry him?” he asks, suddenly in earnest.
I don't really know how we got to such a question.
“Ian, married? Are we talking about the same person?” I ask him with wide eyes.
“Ian is unpredictable, believe me,” he warns me. “Such folly would be in his style.”
“I have absolutely no intention of marrying him,” I confirm. I don't know why he wants to be re-assured on this topic so much, but it makes no sense to lie to him.
“Please don't misunderstand me, you are a charming, vibrant young woman, but Ian remains a future duke and one day he will need a wife who is accustomed to a certain kind of life. I don't know if I make myself understood�
��”
It was clear that sooner or later we would get to the nub of the problem.
“Perfectly,” I confirm. He'd probably be amazed to know that I share his opinion.
“So you're not offended?” he asks in relief.
“Not at all,” I re-assure him.
“Well, then, you should think of a way to split up with my grandson,” he suggests.
“Why?” I ask him in amazement. Ian's grandfather frowns at me suddenly. It's obvious that he is accustomed to an obedience which brooks no discussion.
“Because he likes you a lot and it would be wise not to take things too far”.
Ian likes me? He must be crazy. I'm about to tell him so myself when I'm reminded of the photographs and the pretend romance – our agreement.
“Ian always grows tired of the women he goes out with,” I say, “and I am absolutely sure that very soon it will be my turn.”
The Duke gives me a worried look as we ride. “I would have thought you were a better observer, Miss Percy. But I imagine it is hard to be objective when it comes to oneself. Take my word for it, it would be better to nip it in the bud.” His tone is serious and imperious, and invites no reply.
“I'll think about it,” is all I answer. To be honest, I'm starting to get a bit fed up with this conversation.
My words seem to be enough for the time being, because he nods, and then begins to scan the horizon. Suddenly, he notices something.
“A pheasant,” he whispers enthusiastically, pointing at something ahead of us. His tone of voice is low in order not to scare away the prey. Oh no!
“Come on, Henry, hand me my rifle,” he snaps at a boy who appears behind us and carries out his order instantly.
Stealthily, we all approach the prey, and the Duke dismounts to take aim. I see his finger tense to pull the trigger and in a second have decided what I have to do. Before Ian's grandfather manages to fire, I force myself to sneeze with all my strength. The frightened pheasant flaps away without being hit and Moon, surprised by the unexpectedly loud noise, takes fright and rears up on her hind legs, hurling me from her back and throwing me ungracefully to the ground.
Everyone freezes in terror, not knowing whether to help me up or leave me where I am, given the gravity of what I've done. Before anyone moves, though, I decide to get up on my own.
The Duke looks at me askance once more. And after all the effort I've made to make him like me. All down the drain with one loud sneeze.
“Sorry,” I say in a pained voice, “this hay fever is killing me.”
And I smile, like the most innocent creature in the world.
Chapter 17
When I walk through the front door of my flat that evening, I feel so tired that all I can do is collapse on the sofa. Too bad that, thanks to my sore bottom, I have to limp over to it first – an unwelcome side effect of the long ride and my stuntman style fall.
“You okay?” asks Laura, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Not really, but thanks for asking,” I answer with a smile. Fortunately I can still smile.
“Vera's out,” she informs me, “but there's no way I can wait for her to get back. Come on, then – tell me everything. Everything!”
“I haven't got the energy, honestly,” I say, sprawling out on the sofa.
She throws a pillow at my face. “Oh, please! I need to know what happened! There's nothing in the paper,” she moans.
“Thank God!” I retort. Really, all I need is photos of my humiliation… “Alright then, what do you want to know?” I ask, giving in to her curiosity.
“Everything! Everything!” she says, jumping up and down.
“Keep still, for God's sake – my bum is killing me,” I say.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I fell off a horse,” I admit, dispiritedly.
“And what were you doing on a horse?” she laughs. To be honest, I don't really look like an Amazon.
“I was trying to save a pheasant,” I reply seriously. Vera looks more and more incredulous.
“And did you save it?”
I nod proudly. “Of course. It cost me my backside but it was worth it.”
“Sounds like an interesting weekend,” she says. I pull myself up to see her better. “You have no idea.”
“Aren't you going to give me any more juicy details, then?”
“What, me falling off a horse not interesting enough for you?” I ask. Laura gives me a sceptical look. “Alright, alright! I'll give you a brief summary,” I surrender. “Let's see… The castle is huge, unbelievable, and full of servants who all worship Ian. Ah, his family aren't very happy about the fact that he doesn't work in one of their companies, and to top it off, they put us in the same room.”
Here Laura's face becomes a mask of amazement and enthusiasm.
“Sit! Bad dog!” I stop her immediately, “Nothing happened. Oh God, maybe not absolutely nothing, but still nothing.”
Hmmm. Maybe I should have left this part out.
“Jenny!” shrieks Laura, “I want to know.”
“We just kissed,” I say hastily, “and it was an emergency.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that – all you seem to do is kiss him!” says my friend, sounding annoyed. I sit up with a serious face and cross my arms. “Can I go on?” I ask. She nods.
“So, where was I? Ah, yes… there were a few kisses, and then Ian had a massive row with his grandfather, started drinking, and got so out of if that he spent all the next day in bed. So I had to attend the hunt in his place and save those poor animals.”
“Good thing you were there,” whispers Laura.
“There's something that I haven't told you,” I confess, “there's a Porsche parked outside our flat.”
“What?” she shouts in astonishment.
“The idiot was still in such a state when I got back from the wars that I had to drive his car to London.”
“And he let you?”
I chuckle with satisfaction. “It's not like he had much of a choice, he could barely stand up. He was far too sick to cause any problems. He has some sort of weird posh person insurance too, so that wasn't a problem. And the trip was almost pleasant – well, it was very, very quiet at least. Apart from the groans of pain.”
“Poor Ian—” says Laura compassionately.
“Poor Ian? That idiot? Getting himself into the state he did… I hope he feels awful!” I say angrily, my voice getting louder. Really, Ian will have to perform a miracle to make amends for this terrible weekend.
“Anyway, tell me, what were the kisses like?” she asks dreamily, returning to the only point she really cares about.
“Laura Durrell! Stop asking questions like that right now!” I snap – perhaps I'm going a bit over the top, but I can't let my friends get weird ideas about things that don't exist.
“Stop asking questions like what?” asks Vera, arriving at that moment.
“She won't tell me anything about the kisses!” pouts Laura, adorably.
“What, are we already at plurals?” says Vera, with a sly smile. “Darling, you know what the rules are! Tell all about the kisses.”
We're in the habit of analysing each of our first kisses. We're all convinced that you can already tell how a relationship will go from them. In fact, I should never have gone out with Charles after the first one: it was horrible – far too slobbery and with too much tongue.
“But I'm not going out with Ian!” I say, trying to convince them. “They're just pretend kisses, they don't count!”
“Doesn't matter, they're still kisses,” says Vera seriously.
“You two are a pair of pains!” I moan, but I give in. “Anyway, let's just say that despite not being real they were actually pretty good kisses,” I admit, blushing.
Laura bursts out laughing. “Not bad?! Sweetheart, you've gone bright red just at the thought of them.”
“And how long did they go on for?” asks Vera, sounding like a policewoman.
&
nbsp; “Altogether? A quarter of an hour, maybe…” And at this they both open their mouths in shock. Maybe I shouldn't have admitted that. Ok, I definitely shouldn't have admitted that.
“We got a little carried away,” I say through clenched teeth as I hug the cushion to my chest.
“He must be a pretty decent kisser, though… I mean, for you to be going along with it all that time…” says Vera, sarcastically.
“Do I really have to answer?” I ask. They look at me like a couple of vultures. “Ok – he's a very, very, very good kisser! Satisfied now?” It was obvious that he was a good kisser, they didn't need me to confirm that for them: he must have kissed half of London, so he's definitely not lacking training.
“Someone had to make you admit it,” points out Laura. “The truth above all.”
“If you two have finished analysing me, I'd like to go and have a shower,” I mutter, getting up from the sofa with difficulty. My bottom is getting sorer by the minute and so my departure from the lounge isn't a particularly dignified one.
“Why is she limping?” Vera asks Laura.
“She fell off a horse trying to save a pheasant,” I hear Laura reply.
And they both burst into raucous laughter. If I weren't in such a state, I'd hobble back in and kill the pair of them.
Chapter 18
I’m starting to hate Monday mornings. Almost as much as the weekends before them, given my recent experiences. Anyway, this is by far the worst Monday I’ve had lately: after sleeping the whole night like a log, happy to have my privacy back and not to have to share my room with anybody, I woke up so stiff and aching that it took me half an hour to get out of bed. My muscles are aching after yesterday’s ride, and my bottom is totally violet where I fell off the horse. I couldn't feel or look worse than this. Every step I take, a new part of my body starts throbbing, and trying to sit down on the tube was a huge mistake too: my bum just can't deal with chairs at the moment.
For all these reasons, I’m about forty minutes late when I finally get to the office.
“Good morning!” Colin greets me cheerfully as soon as I’m out of the elevator. Today's not a good day to be cheerful with me.
