I slept atrociously last night, thanks to London's high society and that gala dinner. Not to mention that it took me about an hour to get my make-up off before I could even get into bed. And the day ahead doesn't promise anything better.
A worried Laura and Vera observe my lost expression as I stare into my coffee.
“So, did you do your duty last night?” asks Vera, sticking a chocolate biscuit into her mouth.
“Sort of,” I confirm to her, sleepily. I'm too tired for conversation this morning.
“I have to ask – how can you resist a guy like that?” my friend asks. “Because, I'm telling you, if I got my hands on him—”
The truth is, that unexpected kiss upset me a lot. Last night I was so nervous that when we got to my front door I literally ran away from the car, barely saying goodbye. How mortifying. But after all, for a man who probably kisses who knows how many girls every month, one more shouldn't make any difference.
I lay my head on the table on desperation.
“So, do you want to tell us everything first or do we have to find out the details from the press?” asks Laura in a threatening tone, as she unfolds the morning paper.
“Open it,” I grumble, with my head still on the table. I really don't feel like talking about my evening.
Laura obeys my order and spreads it out in front of her and Vera. There's a picture of us, accompanied by another smaller one from last week, and a caption.
“The Earl of Langley was present last night at the cancer research fund raising event,” Vera reads, “looking very elegant and in the company of the same girl with whom he was photographed last week outside a well-known club in central London. The girl's identity is still unknown, but witnesses tell us that the heir of the Duke of Revington never left his partner's side and at one point even kissed her on the dance floor.”
“What???” says Laura. “He kissed you?”
I look up and see their bewildered expressions. “A pretend kiss,” I reply in a tired voice.
“A pretend kiss?! He kissed you!” replies Vera.
“So,” says Laura, getting to the point, “how was it?”
“I don't know, really—” I say, honestly, “I wasn't expecting it. And it wasn't exactly a kiss kiss—”
“And what would a kiss kiss be?” Vera asks me, sounding irritated.
“I don't know, with a bit of tongue—” I explain.
“Jennifer!” Laura reprimands me, “that doesn't sound like you! All that matters is his tongue?!”
“Of course not!” I say, but the truth is that I probably have been thinking about his tongue too much over the last ten or twelve hours, and that's no good. I have to start thinking about something else. I'm a young woman, serene, calm… and – I must admit – just a tad sexually frustrated. Which is not surprising, if you bear in mind that I was dating a philosophy professor who was way beyond such base impulses. In fact, why the hell did I wait so long to dump him? And if I think about it, the most depressing thing is that it was him who dumped me… My god.
“Ok, tongue aside, how was it?” insists Laura.
And at this moment there's no point lying – or, perhaps, I just haven't got the strength.
“He's a bloody good kisser, if you really want to know. And that's all I'm saying!” I add, feeling shaken.
“I've never said anything about it before because I didn't want to rub salt in the wound, but since you're looking so agitated I'm going to have to bring it up: you like this guy, don't you?” asks Vera unexpectedly, looking up from the newspaper.
“What? Nooooo!” I shriek in an attempt to convince her, my face a mask of horror.
“It is pretty weird, though,” reflects Laura, “you say you totally despise him but then you agree to pretend to be his girlfriend. Don't you agree there's something a bit illogical about all this?”
The discussion brings me out of my comatose state and almost gets me out of my chair. “There's nothing illogical or unreasonable about it! We made a deal, which I think is very much in my interest. I mean, I go out with him twice, and in return he'll keep out of my way at work. I honestly think that it's very, very sensible! It's exactly because I can't stand him that I agreed to it,” I say emphatically, in the vain hope of convincing someone. If I could convince myself it might be a start.
Vera looks at me almost pityingly. “If you say so…”
I go back to sipping my coffee. Maybe I'd have been wiser opting for a camomile this morning.
“So are you having lunch at your mum's today?” she asks again, generously changing the topic.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I confirm, miserably.
“What if they've seen the paper?” says Laura, nodding to the photos.
I try to imagine the scene for a moment.
“No chance. The last time a newspaper as depoliticised as that entered their house was probably during World War II. And that was probably only because they were looking for coded messages.”
*
“Are you okay, Jennifer?” my mother asks me for the tenth time.
What can I do? I've literally been in a cold sweat for about two hours. That is, since the moment I arrived and saw a copy of the most depoliticised newspaper in Britain lying on the table in my parents' dining room.
If this is a nightmare, I want to wake up! Now!
“I'm fine, Mum,” I assure her for the tenth time. And for the tenth time it doesn't work. She looks at me doubtfully, not hiding her disappointment at not yet having been able to work out what's behind this frenetic mood of mine.
A bored looking Michael looks at me from across the table, while Hannah, instead, gives me smiles of encouragement. In moments like this I'd even be willing to forget that I come from a country that is maniacally obsessed with controlling inflation, even at the expense of the economic growth of all Europe!
“Darling, are you quite sure that everything's ok between you and Charles?” asks my mum. “We haven't seen him for ages. You're not having… problems are you, by any chance?”
The tone is the one she uses for funerals or the outbreak of riots around the world.
It's the perfect occasion, and it's been handed to me on a plate.
“Actually, we're taking a little time to think about the relationship. We are both very busy with work right now.”
On hearing my words, everyone stops eating and looks at me. Long minutes of deafening silence seem to go by – it's a contradiction in terms, I know, but what can I do?
“But it's nothing serious…” I add meekly.
As usual, Stacey must immediately say her piece. “Of course it's serious! Charles is the perfect man for you! You can't let him slip through your fingers!” she says, vehemently.
If you likes him so much, I think, why don't you marry him—
I decide not to reply and continue eating the spelt salad on my plate. It's even worse than the vegetable soup, just for the record.
Michael continues to scowl at me.
“Is anything the matter?” I ask him. I can tell that he is pre-occupied by something. “No, why?” he answers, but it's obvious that there is indeed something big on his mind.
After lunch we help our parents clear the table and wash the dishes, and Hannah and I dry the glasses.
“Do you know what's up with Michael?” I ask her, worriedly.
I see immediately from her reaction that there is, in fact, something to worry about. “Oh Jenny, it's all my fault!” she cries out.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying not to sound too alarmed.
“Those pictures of you in the paper! I always read the social events pages – we Germans just love news about the royal family so much…” she explains, “because you know we don't have one.”
“And you stumbled across the photos of me,” I finish for her.
“Yes, and Michael saw them before I could turn over. You don't know how sorry I am.”
“Never mind,” I re-assure her, as I try to decide what to do. Bloody hell, I could really have done without this.
“Is it serious?” she asks, anxiously.
I look at her without really understanding the meaning of her question, but then it dawns on me.
“Of course not!” I reply. “I only went out with the most eligible bachelor in the whole bloody country. Obviously it's nothing serious.” At least that part's true.
Hannah puts a glass on the table and looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. “I know your family is not keen on the nobility and the rich, but you can tell me. If you really like him and want to talk to someone, you can tell me. Michael will never find out. I promise.”
Now I understand why my brother loves this girl so much – it almost brings tears to my eyes to see how sweet she is.
“Thank you, but really, there's nothing serious.”
She is about to add something but then freezes. “Ok, but if you change your mind, Michael and I will be in London for a few days before we set off again.”
“Thanks, Hannah,” I say.
And I decide to clear off as soon as possible. In case someone decides to accidentally open that newspaper.