Lady: Impossible (12 page)

Blair glares at me. I don’t care. It’s better than admitting I’m having a coffee with my butler so that we can thrash out our sexual-tension issues.

‘What can I get you guys?’

‘I’ll have an iced latte.’ I flutter my eyelashes at Blair. ‘What will you have,
sweetheart
?’

‘Tea for
one
. Darjeeling.’
 

Again, the waitress is oblivious to Blair’s displeasure. He changes tack, adopting the same ridiculous act as me. ‘Also, can we get a ham and cheese sandwich, a Cornish pasty and a slice of apple cake too?’ He puts a hand to his mouth and conspiratorially whispers, ‘She’s hungry all the time now. It’s the pregnancy.’

‘Oh, congratulations,’ she says to me. ‘I
thought
you were glowing.’

‘Mmm.’ I press my lips into a firm line. ‘That’s what I do now: glow.’

She collects the menus, still chuffed about my ‘pregnancy’. ‘I’ll get you a slice of cake on the house. I tell you, that’s what I ate all day when I was pregnant with my first son. Oh, he was a pain to push out. I was in labour for forty hours! But it was worth it.’

I give her the thumbs up. ‘Tops.’

All wistful, she finally heads for the kitchen, leaving me to deal with my ‘impregnator’.

‘Knocked me up already, have you?’

He’s unapologetic. ‘You started the charade.’

I tap my finger on my lips. ‘I just can’t remember when you had your way with me. It must’ve been very quick.’

‘Oh, is that why you keep looking at me like you want more?’

I guffaw, appreciating his wit. ‘You got me there.’

‘Well, I’m glad some of this is good for a laugh.’ He shakes his head. ‘Are you going to tell your mother?

‘About what?’

‘About this.’

‘What? You honestly think I’m going to have you fired because we’re taking turns at being inappropriate with each other? Nothing has actually happened.’

His eyebrows knit together. ‘It’s not as funny for me as it is for you. This is my livelihood. I need this job, this place to stay.’

 
A thought comes to mind. ‘Are you freaking out because you have a girlfriend? I simply assumed you didn’t.’

‘No, that’s not it at all. Nor would it be any of your business if I did.’

He’s right. It isn’t any of my business, but I can’t help but feel relieved that he doesn’t.

‘Look, I’m not going to have you fired. We just need to find a way to coexist, that’s all.’ I pause. ‘Do you think it’s possible?’

‘Why are you asking
me
?’

‘Stop acting like this is a one-sided problem.’

‘It’s more on your side than it is on mine. You’re so easy to read. Every time you’re thinking of doing God-knows-what with me, I can tell. Come on, I’m a guy. You’re setting me up for failure.’

‘Setting you up for failure? Are men really at the behest of their cocks?’

‘Don’t be so crude.’

‘Don’t blame me for whatever ran through your head in the two seconds you noticed me.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘It’s because I’m your boss, right? It makes me the predator, even though your thoughts may be just as dirty as mine, if not more.’

‘If anything was to happen, it wouldn’t be down to me.’

I laugh. I don’t believe him. He really is a piece of work. ‘What is that supposed to mean? That I can proposition you but you can’t proposition me? That you’ll have to take me up on any offer, lest I fire you for refusing?’

He raises his hands in surrender. ‘I shouldn’t have brought up the hypothetical.’

‘No, I think not.’

We engage in a little staring contest before breaking gazes and trying for nonchalance instead. Blair removes his jacket and takes out his shopping list and a pen. I busy myself with my phone, wishing I could ask Siri how to make Blair not hate me.

If we’d met anywhere else, at a club or pub, I would’ve gone for it, and he surely would’ve accepted. But fate works in these mysteriously cruel ways, as Alanis Morrissette tried to say in ‘Ironic’, where she lists all these instances of shit happening, claiming it’s ironic. No, Alanis. You don’t get what irony means, but thanks for pointing out that shit happens.

The waitress returns with our drinks. ‘Food’s coming soon,’ she assures me, glancing at my stomach as if she wants to pat it.
 

‘Err, thank you.’

I catch Blair writing down
Multi-vitamins for pregnant ladies
on his grocery list. This earns him a kick in the shin from me, and another ‘Aw, bless’ from the waitress.

‘Stop it,’ I scold when she’s out of earshot.

‘Like I said, you started it.’

Not wanting to engage any further on the matter, I sip my iced latte and watch him prepare his tea. I’m reminded of the mousy-blonde and her seventy-degree teapot angle. She was so weird.

‘The tea I had at the matchmaker’s wasn’t very good.’

He looks at me blankly, probably wondering why I’m bothering to tell him this. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yep.’

‘So, um, how was the appointment?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You actually want to know?’
 

He shrugs. ‘Better than arguing about sex.’

‘We’re not arguing about sex. We’re arguing about the possibility of sex. Or rather, the impossibility of sex because of our employer–employee relationship.’

‘Well then, yes, talking about your appointment is better than arguing over that impossibility. Though, really, we’re not arguing anymore, because we both agree that it’s not going to happen. Right?’

‘Right.’

I can’t tell whether the annoyed look on his face indicates his own disappointment or whether it’s a reaction to my disappointment (though I feel I’m doing a good job of not being so obvious this time).

‘Anyway, the appointment,’ I begin, moving the conversation along before either of us says something regrettable. ‘It was scary.’

‘Scary?’

‘Yes, trusting a stranger to find me a date. I’m going to go along with it, though. For now, at least, to keep my mother off my back.’

‘Couldn’t you just… I don’t know… look for yourself?’ He pauses as he speaks, as if he’s trying to pull the right words from the air around us.
 

‘I thought about that.’
 

‘And?’

‘On some level, I guess I’m lazy. But really, who goes out
looking
for a husband? Doesn’t that kind of stuff just happen?’
 

‘Stuff, huh?’ A wry smile is tugging at his lips.

I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not talking about love with you. That would be weird. Especially considering the circumstances.’

‘Yeah, I know.’
 

‘What’s
your
deal, anyway? Why aren’t you attached?’

He scowls. ‘Hmm, I don’t know. I’m a domestic servant living in an attic. A real catch.’

‘Yeah, but that explanation only applies for the last week and a half.’

I’m met with a ‘don’t ask’ look.

Here’s the difficult thing: to stop looking at him like a piece of meat, I have to start getting to know him as a person. Conflicts aside, I get the impression that he’s not going to be forthcoming with information about himself. But I have so many questions. Why did he get stuck in hotel work? Why take up my mother on her offer of employment? And what happened with his flatmates?

I give him a moment to compose himself, and then try to lighten the mood with humour. ‘Don’t diss the attic. I think it’s cosy.’

‘Cosy is a rich person’s word for small. It’s like “quaint” or “charming”.’

‘Did you at least manage to swap over the mattresses?’

‘Lady Emilia. Why would a servant’s bed be the same size as a family member’s?’

‘Oh.’

He laughs quietly, a chuckle with a hint of bitterness. ‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t even think of it like that. I suppose I am as stuck up as you think I am. I can’t believe I made the same mistake as my mother.’

‘She meant well.’

‘So did I.’

‘I know.’ He trails off, but is smiling and there’s kindness in his eyes.
 

When he softens like this, I end up feeling more embarrassed than him.
 

Thankfully – or perhaps not so thankfully – our food arrives, subjecting me to more happiness from the waitress. She compliments me on my glow once again and promises she’ll be back to check on us. This freaks me out even more – does she mean she’ll check on me when I’m another six months along? Is she planning to steal my imaginary baby?

‘Strange woman,’ I mutter, passing Blair the Cornish pasty.

‘Your mother?’

‘No, the waitress, silly. But speaking of my mother, may I ask why you decided to work for her?’
 

He points his fork at me. ‘Interesting. You’re actually requesting permission before asking. That’s new.’

I recoil and shake my head, pushing at the air with outstretched hands. ‘Please don’t fork me for asking. I’m just wondering.’

‘Oh, right.’ He sticks the fork into the pasty. ‘Serving one person is better than serving a whole bunch of strangers day in, day out. I know she’s tough on you, but she’s reasonable when it comes to my workload.’

He clams up after this, so we eat in silence, sharing the sandwich and slicing up the cake so we can each have some.
 

I know it’s not a date but, when I come to think about it, it’s the first time in a while that I’ve had coffee with a guy I hardly know. There are all these questions and get-to-know-you subjects that don’t come up when you’re having lunch with, say, a male friend from uni. Plus, despite the meal sharing, his blue eyes stay trained on the table, on the food, on his list – everywhere but me. It makes me want to reach over and yank his tie to get his attention.
 

I pay the bill, not complaining about the smorgasbord Blair ordered, and then we make our way back to the car. Again, he walks next to me. His proximity makes my heart race and my mind wander, this time because his words are replaying in my head. He acknowledged his attraction to me, something that only makes me want him more. Conscious that I can’t let this show, I do my best to mimic his neutral mask and hope he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable.
 

He unlocks the car and opens the door for me. ‘Your Ladyship.’

‘Thanks.’
 

I’m confused now, resigned to the matchmaking game but still mildly obsessed with the butler. Luckily, it’s his day off tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll be able to clear my head. But, then again, perhaps I’ll miss him and compensate for his absence with new fantasies and daydreams.

I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. Nothing is said, yet somehow I get the feeling our struggle isn’t over.
 

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 7:

I’m turning into my mother.

I’ve spent the better half of my Saturday morning lining up social events for the next two weeks – a Diamond Jubilee lunch at Jane’s on Monday, dinner with Henny and her husband on Thursday, a charity fundraiser at The Ritz next Saturday (my RSVP was pretty late, but they were happy to squeeze me in), brunch with Eliza the following Wednesday, Gillian’s birthday bash two days after that and a night at the ballet with a whole bunch of people I haven’t seen in ages. This last one depends upon Mindy being able to score me a late ticket (read: bump off her cousin Samantha, who is a total drag whenever she deigns to leave her hippy artist’s studio and join us for something).

So, what started as an attempt to catch up with friends has morphed into evidence that my mother is right – I have nothing better to do. Now I’m sitting in the library, wondering whether I should cancel today’s shopping trip with Abby. I’ve mutated into a younger version of my mother. It’s terrifying. I shouldn’t leave the house.
 

What’s even more terrifying is how well we’ve been getting along since she found out that my matchmaker appointment went swimmingly. She’s so proud of me, she says, so thrilled I’ve overcome my troubles and decided to embark on a new life with a man who will save me from ruin. She even laughed when I told her that made me sound like a born-again Christian.
 

I will be praying to Jesus for earplugs when she finds out that Father forwarded the charity luncheon invitation to me, and that I’m technically going in her place. Maybe I should just tell her now, so our usual dynamic can be restored.
 

I check my watch. There’s no time for such an argument. Blair will be here any second to tell me that Abby and her driver are outside.
 

Leaving the house is a good thing in another respect: it means that Blair and I don’t have to spend as much time interacting. We’ve been civilised since his return to duties on Thursday morning, but it’s still understandably weird between us. In fact, this morning was the first time this week that I’ve let him bring me breakfast in bed and, without even discussing it, we just knew a drop-off was all that was needed. He was in and out in twenty seconds – which, trust me, never happens in my fantasies.

Thinking I can avoid him if I just wait outside, I leave the library and go to fetch my handbag from my room. When I get there, however, I find Blair putting away my clean clothes.
 

‘Err, hi,’ I say, waving at him from the door.

Why am I waving? He’s at my wardrobe, not standing on a dock ready to board a cruise ship bound for Bermuda.
 

He flashes me a tight-lipped smile. ‘Your dry-cleaning was just delivered,’ he says, holding up the maroon dress I wore the first day we met. ‘Which is good timing because I just finished ironing your other clothes.’

He points to a neatly folded pile on my bed. The top item is clearly the infamous makeshift nightie.
 

‘Cool.’

Cool? The simultaneous delivery of my dry-cleaning and regular laundry is cool?

He ducks his head away from me as he starts to hang the dress, so I’m guessing he’s suppressing laughter. ‘Yes, m’lady. Cool indeed.’
 

‘Oh, just laugh at me. I won’t be offended.’ I step over to my bed. ‘Anyway, I was just getting my bag.’