Free Love to Hate You by Anna Premoli Page A

she's wearing: a skin tight leopard print dress which doesn’t cover much of her well toned, bronzed legs. She’s half naked and is wearing an impressive pair of high heeled sandals, despite the fact that it’s not summer.
    Not exactly the ideal outfit for this bloody Scottish mausoleum: the temperature in here must be about eighteen degrees, and outside it’s maybe five degrees, tops. For the record, I’m wearing trousers, a blouse and a large, warm black pullover.
    Ian goes white immediately. Serves him right.
    â€œElizabeth, darling, let me introduce you to our guests. This is Count Langley,” says her father, and finally I understand who calls the shots in this family. The beloved daughter, of course – who else?
    Elizabeth walks over to Ian, who gets up from the sofa, and shakes his hand like a proper diva. Pretty limp handshake, I think spitefully, as I observe the scene.
    â€œIt’s an honour, Lord Langley. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says with fake shyness. What, you actually think someone who dresses like that is
shy
? Come off it.
    â€œYes, he's right there in all the gossip magazines,” I comment, as I hold out my hand. “Jennifer Percy,” I say assuredly, as I shake her hand perhaps a little too firmly.
    â€œI'm sorry?” she asks, looking aghast, I’m not sure if she’s referring to what I said or to my handshake.
    From beside me, Ian sighs in irritation. “Jenny likes her little jokes,” he says through gritted teeth, then glances at me. Is it my fault that he gets photographed with those freaks?
    â€œIt must be nice to have such a friendly, frank relationship with your colleagues,” she says.
    â€œYes, Jenny's a
very
frank person,” Ian confirms, with a hint of sarcasm.
    â€œAs is Ian,” I say.
    â€œOh, you don’t even use his title!” says Elizabeth in amazement, thinking out loud.
    â€œNo,” I confirm. Does she actually think I should call him 'Milord’ and curtsey every time he walks past?
    â€œI never use my title,” Ian re-assures her. And the way he says it makes it sound like it's his concession, rather than my decision.
    â€œYes, but I wouldn't even if you did,” I point out.
    â€œJenny is… how can I put it—” says our little Lord Fauntleroy, unable to finish his sentence.
    â€œIs—?” I ask, archly.
    â€œA little irreverent,” he concludes, giving his audience a fake smile.
    â€œThat, and much, much more,” I add, while Elizabeth looks at us with suspicion.
    Beverly doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “Shall we move to the table?” he suggests.
    â€œOf course,” I answer quickly. Finally there'll be something as well as alcohol.
    Beverly offers me his arm, and Ian offers his to Elizabeth, and in this regal way we make our way to the dining room, where we sit down at a table loaded with silverware and antique plates shining in the light of a majestic chandelier. I hope Beverly had the roof re-inforced before hanging up a thing like that, it must weigh over a ton. I don't want to be squashed by all that opulence, not yet – there are still so many things I want to do.
    â€œSo, Ian, how’s your grandfather?” asks Beverly.
    â€œQuite well, thanks. He's getting on, so all the usual aches and pains, but he’s still as intimidating as ever.”
    â€œWell of course he is – he’s a duke,” Elizabeth points out with a snigger.
    I don’t really see what's so funny.
    â€œExactly,” I reply, “he’s a duke – not a pharaoh.”
    For a moment, everyone looks at me in astonishment. Good.
    â€œNo, grandfather certainly wouldn’t appreciate being called a mummy,” Ian confirms, laughing at my words, and his reaction makes the others relax visibly.
    During the meal, we are served many courses, one after the other, and I try, not without difficulty, to find