Lady: Impossible (47 page)

‘After you, m’lady.’

‘Right.’
 

My nerves are definitely shot now. I do my best to keep calm – if I focus on the fact we’ll be in the car alone, I might cry for worrying about upsetting him further. I wave, blow kisses, do the royal wave, blow more kisses and then do the Mexican wave (the latter of which earns me a stern glare from Mother for being unladylike).

All sorts of things are yelled at me as I leave the house.
 

‘Don’t drink too much on the plane!’

‘Remember to text me by accident!’

‘Behave yourself and don’t in any way emulate your brother!’

Yet in my head, other warnings are also being blared on loudspeaker, warnings from my overworked mind.

‘Oliver! Marriage!’

‘Dress appropriately so as to follow local custom.’

‘No Blair, no cock ring. As in no Blair and no cock ring. Not even Blair without the cock ring. And not no cock ring without Blair, as if the cock ring is contingent on Blair’s presence.’

Clearly, the third message is taking a page out of Abby’s verbal-diarrhoea book.
 

I get into the car, only to remember that Blair hates it when I don’t let him open the door for me. It’s too late. I turn towards the window so I don’t have to look at him, and soon we’re on our way.

Quickly I discover that I don’t like leaving the house, not when it’s been my refuge during this crisis. Leaving for days is frightening when you’re in a financial mess. I could come back and see a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front of the gate, or at least find out a quiet sale is going on.

This isn’t helping me stave off the panic. I try to take deep breaths, but then worry about panting, thinking heavy breathing may remind Blair of sex. Minutes of over-thinking my oxygen intake result in an actual effect on my oxygen intake – I detect the onset of a headache.

I let out a sigh. It’s a traitor breath, air that needs to be tried for treason.
 

‘Are you all right?’

I lock eyes with Blair in the rearview mirror to check that he’s actually spoken to me. He’s looking at me expectantly and with some degree of concern, so odds are I didn’t imagine his voice.

‘Abby made me panic.’
 

His eyes go back to the road. ‘Okay.’

The exchange ends there. What I initially take to be a reprieve slowly turns into an opportunity I can’t ignore. This is the last chance to talk to him before Dubai. We haven’t had a personal conversation since the wee hours of Sunday morning, when he first mentioned something cryptic about waiting for me even if I didn’t want him to, before then saying he hated me. The delay has resulted a week of unsaid thoughts and speculation, accumulated and ready to react like potentially volatile chemicals in a beaker.
 

I wait another five minutes before saying something.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I know I look tired, but I’m fine.’

‘No, I mean,
are you all right
.’

He shrugs, not bothering to give me a verbal answer.

‘Speak now or forever hold your peace,’ I say softly.

He clears his throat. ‘Interesting choice of phrase. I distinctly remember a conversation we had where I had to take a knife off you because being set up for marriage was your idea of hell.’

‘Priorities can change.’

‘So can bank balances.’

A barb is still a barb, even when delivered with care. ‘I know you’re still cross with me.’

‘I behaved like a drunken lout on the weekend. Maybe when I get over the embarrassment, we can argue as per usual. Right now, I just want to get you to Heathrow in one piece.’

‘You’re not going to accidentally drive me to Gatwick instead?’

‘No, m’lady. Not unless you order me to.’

A long silence follows. We both know I want to go to Dubai.

‘Call me if you get lonely,’ he adds. Though said lightly, it comes across as a taunt.
 

I don’t answer him. I can no longer afford to have my phone on international roaming anyway. So even if I did want to call him, I wouldn’t be able to, not with Oliver paying for the suite’s phone bill.
 

We spend the rest of the journey in silence, both of us probably wondering about all the things that have been left unsaid.

***

When I land in Dubai, I’m more than fully rested. I’m calm and not at all jittery, probably because I was positively pampered in first class. First class on this flight means you get a private suite to yourself – it’s like being in your own little hotel room on a plane. Indeed, the compartment has a sliding door, a mini bar, a sizeable television and a seat that fully reclines. Part of me wishes the flight was longer than six hours. Lunch was divine, a multi-course meal served on pristine bone-china plates and, while I knew not to drink too much, it was still nice to have champagne with the glazed duck main course. Hors d’oeuvres and more drinks were also available at the on-board lounge, but I was quite happy to sit back and watch
The Great British Bake Off
in peace before afternoon tea was served later. I’m not here to socialise. I’m here to meet Oliver again, at last.

It’s almost seven in the evening, local time, when I wave my little compartment goodbye and disembark the plane, ready to go through customs and pick up my luggage from the carousel. Twenty minutes later, the complimentary car service whisks me off to my destination. My driver is a lovely man who happily chats to me for almost the whole journey.

I’m too busy marvelling at the scale of the city to chat back all that much. The grandeur, the sheer daringness of the metropolis – skyscrapers reaching up into the orange sky – it’s certainly making a statement: something along the lines of ‘look at what we can do’. If it wasn’t for the stifling heat, I might be open to visiting here more often.

The driver, Shaheen, must see people in awe all the time, because he merely smiles contently while I stare out the window. I don’t say anything of value until the hotel comes into view, and even then it’s a lot of ‘ooh’-ing and ‘aah’-ing. I can scarcely believe how grandiose it is in real life. It’s like a far-reaching, modern castle, with turrets at various points and a spectacular Arabian arch in the centre. Resort grounds flank it on one side while the Persian Gulf lies glistening on the other. It’s beautiful. Shaheen even tells me that me the island we’re driving onto is actually artificially built. Talk about excess.

‘You are very lucky to stay here,’ he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. ‘You will have so much fun. I guarantee it.’

‘I hope so.’ I adjust the broach on my peach cardigan. ‘Do I look okay, Shaheen? You’d tell me if I didn’t look okay, right?’

‘You look more than okay, Miss Pembroke. Colour in your cheeks. Pretty dress.’

‘You’d better not be lying,’ I say good-naturedly.

‘No lying. Mr Paten-Pryce wouldn’t like lying.’

I jump in my seat, wondering if I heard correctly. ‘You know Oliver?’

He nods happily. ‘Yes, yes. He told my boss to pick you up in the nicest car in our fleet. Nice, eh? Newest Mercedes we have.’

‘Oh, wow. He did that?
 

‘He insisted.’

Well, then. It’s special treatment all round – it simply wouldn’t do to go from first class to a regular Mercedes, apparently. I run my hand over the seat’s sumptuous leather and wonder how many people Oliver knows in each city he travels to, and what kind of favours he freely asks of them.

As we approach the drop-off area, the gold and glittering lobby in my sights, I am more and more eager to see him. Everything has been so much fun so far. I can’t wait to thank him.

Shaheen pulls up to the curb. ‘We have arrived!’

‘Thank you for driving me.’

‘Any time, Miss Pembroke.’
 

He exits the car, but it’s a different man who opens my door. At first, I think it’s a porter or a valet. However, an employee wouldn’t be wearing a sharply cut grey business suit with a blue tie and Cambridge cufflinks. Nor would he be holding a bouquet of orange tulips.

‘Oliver!’

He grins, holding out his hand for me. ‘I told Shaheen to speed, but he’s quite the law-abiding citizen.’

Shaheen laughs, walking around Oliver to help the porters with the luggage. ‘I like having my licence.’

‘Yeah, yeah. You drive like my Nan.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

Laughing at their banter, I take Oliver’s hand and step out of the car, the dry heat not agreeing with me, even though we’re not taking the full brunt of it here.

‘Ooh, hot.’

‘Me or the weather?’

‘Um, both.’

He winks. ‘Liar.’

I giggle and accept the flowers, stepping out of the way so he can shut the door and tip all the people helping us. He then gently puts a hand on my back, steering me toward the entrance.

‘I thought you were going to wait for me in the lobby.’

‘Is this not the lobby?’ He looks around, feigning confusion. ‘I was thinking it was a little warm.’

I give him a sidelong look. ‘I know what you’re up to. You want me to start my own florist.’

‘Actually, they’re condolence flowers.’

My heart sinks. ‘Condolence flowers? Don’t tell me you’re postponing again.’

‘No, no. I’m assuming Steve has died by now. I thought we should pay our respects.’

Thank goodness he’s just joking around. ‘Pay our respects by living it up in Dubai?’

‘It’s what he would’ve wanted.’

We laugh and walk through the door that’s just been opened for us. I try not to gape openly at the opulence of the place, focusing instead on the delightful feeling of walking side-by-side with a man who seems to really want me.

‘I’m surprised you only have one suitcase,’ he says. ‘I always hear whingeing about women bringing everything but the kitchen sink with them when they go on a mini-break.’

‘I’m a bit backwards. I brought the kitchen sink and nothing else.’

‘How very rogue of you. I’m sure it’ll make a great installation in your suite.’
 

‘I do hope so.’ I look over my shoulder as we approach the lifts. ‘Do they know where to take my bags?’

‘Don’t worry. I took care of it.’ He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to me as we wait for the lift. ‘What we’ll do is get you settled in your suite so you can freshen up, and then I’ll take you to dinner at half past eight. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds lovely.’ I smell the bouquet and think of Steve at home, wilted yet still the feature piece on the dining table. ‘What should I wear? Formal dining or casual?’

‘Something nice. I’m taking you to the restaurant that happens to be submerged in a three-million-gallon lagoon.’

‘Bikini and kaftan then? Sunhat?’

I can tell he’s trying to downplay his smirk as we step into the lift. ‘Now, now. Don’t be a tease.’

I blush, remembering the extra items Abby wanted me to bring. And, of course, remembering Blair, even though thinking about him stings me a little. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. I should apologise. With more notice, I would’ve been able to secure a better suite. Alas, we’ll just have to do with a regal suite each.’

‘Don’t you dare apologise. I’ll throw the kitchen sink at you.’

‘Hmm, you’re quite the violent one. I’ll make a note of that.’

I hide my own smirk by holding the bouquet up to my nose. Oliver takes the opportunity to grab my free hand.
 

My heart skips a beat. He literally has a hold on me now. We get off at our floor and walk hand-in-hand down the hallway until we reach my suite.
 

He squeezes my hand. ‘This is where I’ll leave you for an hour. I’m almost regretting my plan now. It’s just that I never like sitting on a plane and going straight to dinner. I assumed you’d be the same.’

I face him, still holding his hand. ‘Women always need a beauty break. You did the right thing.’

‘All right.’ He releases me, but not without flashing me his version of puppy dog eyes. I say ‘his version’ because there’s still something rather steely and determined about the look. ‘Well, I’m right next-door if you need a hand with anything. I’ll knock on your door at half past eight.’

‘Okay.’

Although it’s not the end of the night, there’s a certain electricity that comes with a situation like this – parting ways at a door, that is. He’s organised all of this just for me, and with it being our first meeting after weeks and weeks of not seeing each other, a smile and a wave doesn’t seem like enough.

Blushing again, I lean forward and give him an innocent peck on the cheek. ‘I’d better go before I turn back into Medusa.’

He raises his eyebrows in apparent surprise, breaking out into an adorable grin when I pull away. ‘Yes, take your beauty break. I’ll see you in a bit.’

Too flustered and embarrassed to try and operate my room key with him looking, I wait for him to walk into his suite first. He actually walks backward, apparently not wanting to let me out of his sight.
 

‘If you call room service, they’ll probably have a vase for the flowers,’ he says, coming to a stop at his door.
 

‘I’ll do that.’

With a wave, he’s gone, leaving me to fumble with my own key card. I manage to insert it correctly, allowing me to enter the suite, dump my handbag on the ground and take in the sight of the humongous space.

Regal indeed. The suite is decked out in a sumptuous mix of soft cream, nutmeg and deep-orange hues, a warm scheme with Arabian accents. I do a quick walkthrough, as quickly as I can in the circumstances, and see a lounge area, a dining area, an office, a bedroom, a bathroom, a bar area and a balcony. It’s entirely too much space for one person – and to think he wanted to apologise for apparently short-changing us.

I kick off my flats and wriggle my toes in the plush rug, standing in the lounge area off the bedroom. It’s not normal that I find this standard of living normal. I can at least admit that.
 

In fact, it’s an expectation I’m still thinking about minutes later when I’m reunited with my luggage. I try to tip the porter, scrambling for the local currency in my purse, but he lets me know that Oliver has already taken care of it. Judging by the jovial way he’s carrying on, I’m thinking the tip was more than enough. As the porter leaves, I’m reminded of Blair and his hotel job, a worker serving many masters on any given day.