Lady: Impossible (40 page)

It’s an anxiety that must show on my face. The hug Mother gives me when we get out of the car is uncomfortably tight, like she’s a miser trying to squeeze every last penny out of me. We don’t say much, the pair of us standing idly on the platform while Blair keeps a close eye over her Bally weekend bags. Even when it’s time for her to board, we only exchange goodbyes, her impassioned lecture saved for Blair.

‘You’ll have to look after her. Make sure she eats. She always fasts when she’s upset. You can call me for ideas on what to make for her – just use my account for the groceries. Whatever she wants. You’ve got Abby’s number in case of emergencies, fashion or otherwise. And no matter what, make sure she’s on time for her date, because she really cannot be late for such a thing. Understood?’

Blair scratches the back of his neck, which is never a good move in front of my mother, especially in public. ‘Understood, m’lady.’

She waves her finger at him. ‘Don’t be so daunted. I won’t stand for it.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’
 

Satisfied with his renewed conviction, she gives me a final kiss on the cheek before getting on the train and finding her seat. I wave at her limply, a gesture I’m sure she rolls her eyes at (though maybe it’s the window tint playing tricks on me).

Somehow, despite the fact that I’ve known for days that she’d be leaving, her departure feels abrupt. How many times have we parted ways? Sleepovers. Boarding school. University. Travel. I may not have the stamina to run after the train – nor the correct shoes – but I want to follow her back home.

Frowning, I lead Blair back to the car instead. I begin the price-tag game again, assessing the people around me, and probably failing miserably when it comes to estimating the value of their clothes and hairstyles. Blair, too, isn’t immune from my sights (though he never has been). In fact, he’s probably due for a haircut himself – I could run my hands through his hair now, whereas I couldn’t have when I first met him.

‘Hungry?’ he asks, quickening his pace so he’s back in step with me.

I get a shiver down my spine. ‘Ohh, déjà vu.’

‘Sorry?’
 

‘Aren’t I always checking you out with a hungry look in my eyes?’

It’s something he told me when we ate at that café, the one with the strange waitress.

He’s quick to shut me down. ‘We’re in public, m’lady. You may want to watch what you say.’

‘Of course. I apologise.’
 

I shove my hands in my pockets and am silent again, letting the noises around me drown out my thoughts. My ears fill with the buzzing chatter of commuters – the din occasionally punctuated by a laugh, cry or automated announcement.
 

It’s no wonder that Blair has to wave his hand in front of me as we approach the car. I’ve tuned out from the public frequency.

‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he asks, opening the car door for me.
 

‘Can we go to Hyde Park? I want to drown myself in the Serpentine.’

He snorts derisively. I stop short, refusing to get into the car. It’s awfully rude of him not to even entertain my psychosis.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to buy you a croissant and a coffee. I’ll then drop you off at Hyde Park so you can get some fresh air and judge as many tourists as you’d like. When you’ve finished, I’ll drive you wherever you want – on the proviso that you stop pouting.’

I squint from the white sky, my sunglasses still in my handbag. ‘I can’t figure out if you’re being mean, or nice.’

‘Which would you prefer?’

‘Whichever one is real.’

He points to the interior of the car, signalling for me to get in. I acquiesce, the conversation continuing when he enters the vehicle from the other side.

‘You’ve been in hiding,’ he says, buckling his seatbelt and looking over his shoulder. ‘Why not call one of your friends?’

‘I can’t. They’ll ask me about my parents and what’s going on with my family. And Abby’s busy today, organising some charity function. She’s in demand for that kind of thing.’ I try not to sound so pitiful. ‘I’m not really the committee type, but she is, I suppose.’
 

‘You could go shopping.’

‘Window shopping, more like.’

He shrugs, either out of ideas or simply not caring anymore. Maybe he knows I hate his indifference, whether put on or not.
 

‘So where are we going?’ I ask as we drive off.

‘Bakery.’

‘There are bakeries right here near the station.’

‘Really? Excuse my inefficiency.’

The thought of going back to the house after this little outing depresses me. Probably because the house is not really home – the estate is.

I bang my forehead on the side window, not caring if I look ridiculous from the outside. ‘Is it too early to grieve for the loss of my ancestral home?’

‘Is it too early to predict that your boyfriend won’t save it?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. Yet.’

His next utterance is almost inaudible. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying for the past week.’

I pretend I already have a croissant shoved in my mouth. I shouldn’t say anything. No engaging in conversation with the sexy butler. He can take the long route to whatever random bakery he wants, as long as we don’t talk.

I didn’t come to London to look for a husband. It was a task thrust on me by my mother, a mission I kind of took to after a little while. If she hadn’t found it to be such a priority, I’d be doing whatever I wanted this summer.
 

That’s before our internal financial crisis hit. I should term it IFC, not to be confused with International Finance Corporation, Independent Film Channel or Imitation Fried Chicken, the latter probably a feature on Jamie Oliver’s hit-list when he demanded changes to school dinners and public health.

He’s such a crusader. I should find a cause and do something. Maybe Abby needs help with her charity work…

‘M’lady, you should remove your forehead from the glass. We’re running out of window cleaner.’

I stay exactly where I am, putting up with every bump and turn. ‘We’ll whip up a home remedy then sell it.’

‘How very entrepreneurial.’
 

I yelp when the glass begins to wind down, the result of Blair’s finger on the electronic control. ‘Hey!’
 

‘Like I said: you need fresh air.’

‘Oh yeah, it’s really fresh.’ I press the ‘up’ button only to be overridden by Blair’s master control. I release the button and start singing my own jingle, the blustery wind messing with my hair. ‘As fresh as fresh can be!’

‘Sit still and behave yourself.’

The window goes back up, tinting the view once more. ‘You enjoy telling me what to do, don’t you?’

‘Depends on the situation.’

‘Yes. The situation being sex.’

He smirks, his sense of self-satisfaction giving me flashbacks to when he had me pinned up against his bedroom door.

I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. He obviously can’t focus on me for too long as he’s driving, but he gives me his full attention generously when we stop at the next traffic light.
 

‘Blair?’

‘Yes?’

I hope I’m exuding seriousness and not silliness like before. ‘I’m not going to sleep with you just because there’s a deadline.’
 

‘Then sleep with me because you want to.’

Damn. The man knows how to smoulder far too effectively. How does he manage to do this to me? I can’t remember what I was going to say next.
 

He looks away and trains his eyes back on the road. My eyes, however, are on his hand, the one on the gearstick. It’s not hard to imagine him reaching back and touching me.

‘I’m confusing you,’ he says, a touch of regret colouring his voice.

Focus, Millie. Focus. ‘Whatever happens with Oliver aside, the truth is I’m not going back to St Andrews. So it’s not like I can run away from you at the end of the summer.’

‘Really? Bye-bye, St Andrews?’

‘Yes.’ The more I think about it, the more certain I am. ‘So maybe you should think about what I’m saying, for once.’

‘I’m not asking for forever. Besides, you could do with a bit of fun at the moment. It might even be therapeutic.’

My forehead goes back to the window. At this rate, I’ll be jumping into the Serpentine before nightfall, not to drown myself, but to cool off.

Chapter 20:

After the coffee and croissant – bought from a random, unremarkable bakery near Regent’s Park – I insisted on being dropped off at Selfridges for a marathon window-shopping session. Blair went along with it, probably because it freed him to plot his secret seduction plan, and simply told me to call when I needed to be picked up.

Little did he know that I was serious about the ‘marathon’ aspect of the day. While it did make me miserable to look at clothes I can no longer buy, the intent of the whole expedition was to avoid him for as long as possible. When I’d finished looking at clothes, I moved on to fragrances and handbags before checking out jewellery and shoes… I even spent an inordinate amount of time making a mental wish list in the home accessories department. It was only when I ventured into the food hall that I actually bought something – a bag of chocolate coins and a jar of thyme jelly – a purchase only made because I didn’t want the security guards thinking I was a broke noble with nothing better to do than to spend hours and hours in their shop.

Two chocolate coins later, I called Abby, thinking I might volunteer for her charity committee. But she told me it was a bad time for new sign-ups. Apparently, someone on the committee offended the Goldsmith family, and now it’s mayhem amongst the ladies. She did, however, send her driver to deliver a care package to my house to make up for not being able to hang out with me.
 

The care package got me through the rest of the day. The winning item was her iPad, a device that enabled me to window shop from the comfort of the dining room. Blair seemed thoroughly unimpressed that I was ignoring him, though maybe he was cross because the veal he’d cooked for dinner hadn’t turned out as well as he’d wanted. It tasted more than fine to me – delicious, even – but apparently my opinion didn’t come across as sincere, not in between my whingeing about shoe prices anyway.
 

It’s two in the morning now. My eyes hurt from all the iPad use, so now I’m sitting in the armchair in the piano room, staring at nothing in particular. I’m exhausted, annoyed that Oliver didn’t reply to my thank-you text, and paranoid that Blair will sneak into my room when I’m asleep.
 

I groan when there’s a knock on the door. The likelihood that it’s the ghost of an ancestor and not Blair is unfortunately very low.
 

Blair doesn’t wait for an answer before entering. As I don’t have the energy to turn my head and glare at him, I react to his insubordination by slumping further down in the armchair. I’m sure it’s a very intimidating, threatening move, one I plan to patent and charge the British Army for use of. If only I had changed into a military outfit rather than staying in these Cavalli jeans and comfy t-shirt.

He saunters over, all tousled hair, rumpled white V-neck top and navy pinstripe pyjama bottoms. This is a late-night seduction move if ever I’ve seen one. If I could play the piano as competently as Abby can, I would jump onto the bench and play some seedy, seventies porn theme. I’m not sure if such a tune would work on a piano, but I would certainly try. ‘Bom-chicka-wow-wow’ in E-minor.

The next step in the mating ritual is him standing in front of me, arms folded across his chest. My response (after appreciating his arm muscles) is to grunt in a dismissive manner. I was wrong when I said the ghosts of my ancestors were not around. It seems I am channelling Lady Silsbury-Caveman.
 

Blair, however, seems annoyed. Maybe I was supposed to be more medieval than prehistoric in my response. How am I to know which time period is our inspiration?

‘Your Ladyship, it’s three in the morning.’

‘Is it? I thought it was only two.’

He rolls his eyes, probably thinking I’m trying to be funny. Pretty sure misreading the time is not that funny, not unless you’re doing slapstick humour with a sundial.

‘No, really.’ I try to sit up, struggling to muster enough energy. ‘It isn’t two o’clock? Last time I checked the iPad it was half-one.’

Where is the iPad anyway? Looking for it would involve rotating my head, and I don’t think I can do that right now.

‘You look borderline crazy sitting here with only one lamp on. You should have a glass of port in one hand and a plan for world domination in the other.’

‘How can I take over the world if I can’t even tell the time?’

‘I’m going to get in trouble if you’re sleep-deprived by the time Saturday morning comes along. God forbid that you fall asleep on your date.’

‘I’ll tell Oliver to get the sofa bed ready. Or to, you know, save me room in his bed.’

This is definitely the wrong thing to say. I’m sitting in a dim room being glared at by a butler. Someone should paint this scene. I’d call it ‘Tension, oil on canvas’.
 

‘Isn’t it inappropriate for the date to be at his place? You hardly know him,’ he says through gritted teeth.

‘You’ve been holding that in for a while, haven’t you?’

‘So, what if I have?’

Yawning, I sit up properly now, though I’ve probably gouged out a significant portion of the arms of the chair from clawing my way up it. ‘Why are you awake at this time anyway? Roaming the house, checking up on me? Or did you come out of the attic to attack Steve in his sleep?’

‘Oh, yes, I came down here to butcher your stupid floral arrangement.’

I snort. ‘Finally, some honesty.’

I don’t bother with our customary staring contest. Instead, I shut my eyes and pretend that his comment was the last thing I needed to hear before falling asleep.

‘Are you even aware that I provided a complimentary turndown service for you tonight?’

‘Huh?’

‘I turned down your bed.’

‘Was it offended? It shouldn’t be asking you out anyway.’