Lady: Impossible (48 page)

I sit on my Louis Vuitton suitcase and hold my orange tulips, giddy that I was brave enough to kiss Oliver on the cheek, but also wondering about a certain man back in Kensington with beautiful blue eyes and just twenty-two pounds to his name.
 

Chapter 24:

Abby was right. There is something a little unnerving about eating dinner when surrounded by the glass walls of an aquarium. It’s like being on the precipice of a glowing blue portal. If the glass was to break, the deluge of water into this restaurant would be tremendous, not to mention all the fish that would crash into us. I keep thinking of the fish tanks at my local Chinese restaurant back in Fife, where the chefs keep the lobsters that have been reserved for the main course. I don’t think the chefs here go fishing in this lagoon, but it’s all I keep thinking about as I’m eating – am I in the middle of a harvest farm?

I wanted to order the Wagyu beef. I really did. It’s just that Oliver is paying for everything, so I went along with whatever menu choices he felt were best.
 

In fact, most of my decisions have been made for me so far. The plane journey, the transfer, the hotel suite, the timing, the table, the menu, the drinks – even my outfit was chosen by someone else. Abby packed a bright red Hervé Léger bandage dress for this occasion, an outfit that came with a post-it attached:
wear with fuck-me heels
. Clearly she wrote this note with certain items in mind, namely the cock ring, which I suppose would’ve been an option had I not stood my ground on the sex issue.
 

Well, at least I made one decision today. And a significant one at that.

Oliver does look dashing, I have to say, having changed into another suit. This one is impossibly well tailored, as if it was hand-stitched and moulded to fit him perfectly. I’m beginning to think he lives in business wear. He must have a gazillion ties and shirts too.
 

He’s grinning widely at me now, possibly because I’m staring.

‘Are you all right, Millie? You seem several light years away all of a sudden.’

The amusement on his face makes me blush. Zoning out on a date is a terrible thing to do, and I’ve committed this sin within the first thirty minutes. True, I can play it off as a
good
zone-out – he’s certainly pitched it this way – on the other hand, I’m wary that under that smile there’s a graphics calculator, graphing my interest levels and plugging those figures into a risk assessment.
 

I need to do a better job here.

I offer him an apologetic smile, fingering the tablecloth in my anxiety. ‘Sorry. It’s just that the blue glow is making me feel like I’m on a different planet.’

‘Ah.’ He nods, apparently thinking this is a fair point. ‘We can move if you’d like.’

‘No, no. I’m good. Just needed a moment to get over it.’ I wave my hands in a dismissive gesture, only to almost knock over my wine glass. At five hundred United Arab Emirates dirhams per bottle, it would certainly be a costly accident. Unless I could miraculously turn the three million gallons of aquarium water into high quality wine, in which case I would be the toast of the restaurant. Until all the fish die in everyone’s wine glasses, of course.
 

Oliver chuckles, hopefully thinking the near miss is a cute attempt at physical humour. ‘All right. But just tell me if you feel uncomfortable.’

‘Oh, I will.’ At least I hope I will. I’m not supposed to be a doormat – he specifically said that’s what he liked about me. If I overthink this, I’ll ruin everything. ‘It’s funny that you mentioned light years, though. It’s like you knew about the planet thing.’

‘Well, I was probably boring you with all my shop talk.’ He shrugs, a little sheepish at his enthusiasm. ‘It’s just exciting that you understand what I’m talking about. I can talk to you freely without trying to get you to invest. It’s different.’

I laugh nervously, a futile attempt to block out the pain of my father’s bungled investments. ‘I’m sure I would give you my piggy bank if you were trying. You must be exceptional at what you do. You’re young to be where you are in the company.’

‘I don’t feel young, though. I’ve logged a lot of hours. I log and log and log. I have enough logs to build cabin after cabin. I should buy a plot of land in the Swiss Alps and build a resort.’

‘Ohh, ski chalets! You can be the tree-cutting man and I can be the chalet girl.’

I’m too psyched about this. The waiter who’s just cleared our plates probably thinks I’m a ditz.

Oliver plays along, rubbing his chin in contemplation. ‘Tree-cutting man? Is that the noble term for lumberjack?’

‘Ah, that’s the word. I couldn’t find it.’

‘Should’ve asked the word-finder-er.’

‘Nah. She’s shacked up with one of the ski instructors, busy making little ski finders and word instructors.’

‘Productive. Reproductive, even.’ He pauses, brow furrowing. ‘I’m not sure this was the point of all my logging.’

‘You’ve got to diversify, Oliver. Don’t act like you don’t know this. Next you’ll be logging wood for more than cabins. Think cots, building blocks, rocking horses, highchairs and more – the sky’s the limit. Mainly because trees can’t grow past the sky, but you get my drift.’

‘Your mind is certainly active. Tell me, what are you going to do after you finish studying? Any business plans of your own?’

‘Uh…’ We’re not joking around anymore. I have to answer a real question – and it’s making my stomach churn. ‘Actually, I’m dropping out.’

There’s no point lying about it. It’s happening.

Oliver raises his eyebrows, probably more pleasantly surprised than shocked. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ I say, tapping my finger on the table to emphasise my point. ‘I would’ve returned to Cambridge had I been truly serious about business school. I suppose on some level I did want skills that would help me with the estate. Things are tough with manor houses these days. It’s not like before, when the land was enough.’

The words come out naturally, but I still wonder about being manipulative. Releasing piecemeal information is a far cry from full-blown honesty.
 

Luckily, Oliver keeps the tone light-hearted. ‘De-stratification can be difficult. I know this because I made up that word.’

I lean forward, as if about to share a conspiracy theory. ‘It’s people like us who are responsible for thingamajigs and whatchamicallits. We’re the worst nightmare of children competing in spelling contests. Ask for the etymology of a word, and they’ll get us. Not Latin or French or Ancient Greek. Just Oliver and Millie. No hint whatsoever as to the origin of any parts of any word, ever.’

His eyes light up with mirth. ‘Fascinating. Which is a word I’m only using because I’m too lazy to come up with a new one.’

‘Right. Understandable. You’re a very busy man, and you don’t have time for word creation, what with all the logging you’re doing.’

‘I’m not going to lie – I’m concerned about the reproductive ski chalet. I think we’re going to have to shut that down.’

How he said that with a straight face, I have no idea.
 

‘I will put it on my to-do list.’ I pretend to scribble something on the tablecloth. ‘Feel better now?’

‘Yes. Quite. Saves me from building a log hospital, log schools and log playgrounds.’

‘You could always outsource the labour.’ I lean back in my chair like a scheming capitalist who has no regard for ergonomics, or for proper posture.

‘Outsource? I’d rather declare a feudal kingdom and have the peasants work for free.’

‘Peasants don’t work for free. They work for protection, justice and the right to farm land that belongs to their feudal lord.’

‘In your kingdom, perhaps.’ He points to himself. ‘I’m a progressive ruler. There will be cake days and casual Fridays.’

‘Casual Fridays? What are the peasants wearing on the other four days? Suits?’

There’s a long silence. I think he’s actually trying to come up with a clothing plan, or at least an equitable uniform option. ‘Wow. I really haven’t thought this through.’

‘I daresay you haven’t. We’ll return to it after the lobster.’

Not exactly peasant food, but not exactly a royal feast either.
 

In fact, the lobster, as it turns out, isn’t even a lobster. Which is not to say it’s an impostor, another type of shellfish pretending to be a lobster. Rather, the dish is Atlantic lobster barigoule, which is a lobster ravioli with artichoke puree, sauce and baked ricotta. It’s not something I would normally order.

But, of course, I didn’t order. Oliver did.

I’ve barely finished one mouthful before he starts quizzing me on my plans again. This is his right, considering it’s a date. It’s a two-way exchange and, while I might’ve been granted a temporary reprieve, I can’t expect a free pass.

‘So, seriously, what are you going to do with your time now?’

Somehow, trawling Net-A-Porter doesn’t seem like the best response. Nor does shoving more ravioli in my mouth and pretending I didn’t hear him.

I lower my fork and try to remain casual. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

He raises an eyebrow, a sharper look in his eye. ‘Return to the estate?’

‘I’m thinking of hanging around in London.’ My heart is racing in an I’ve-drunk-three-Red-Bulls kind of way. I’m not sure I’m ready for this type of scrutiny. ‘There are some cool people there, or so I hear, anyway.’ Cue hair toss.
 

‘Yeah? Anyone I know?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe.’

‘I’d like it if you stayed in London.’
 

He employs his dazzling smile and, like a loser, I blush instead of saying something witty or even thankful. Clearly flattered, he maintains the smile and starts eating his food, occasionally looking over at me in a cute, self-conscious way.
 

I wonder how many dates he’s been on recently. It would be interesting to know.
 

Can I even ask him that, or is it something I should learn via Polly?

No, I shouldn’t make things uncomfortable. I’ll sit here eating until my cheeks aren’t so red.

‘Of course, I work a lot,’ he continues, spearing a ravioli with his fork. ‘So I suppose you’ll be hanging out with the other cool kids while I’m stuck in the office.’

‘I might investigate taking up a hobby.’

‘Oh? Charity? Volunteering?’

‘I was thinking stamp collecting.’
 

His expression tightens a fraction, just enough for me to know that I can’t deflect with humour a second time.

‘Um, I guess I’m at a little bit of a crossroads.’

I guess. I suppose. I think. I’m not sure of a lot of things and, frankly, I would be nervous if I were him.
 

‘Crossroads, eh? It’s an increasingly common to place to be. In my line of work, people tend to have a quarter-life crisis backed up by at least four mid-life crises.’

‘Yeah? How was your quarter-life crisis?’

He purses his lips, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. ‘Let’s just say I’m happy it’s over. It’s actually how I met your brother.’

‘Oh.’

I must look perturbed, because he moves his hand across the table, towards me. The motion reminds me of an academic at a lectern – a preacher even – an assured person commanding someone else to listen.

‘He’s good at entertaining, I’ll give him that. I’m not saying I was a saint at his parties, but I certainly wasn’t unrestrained by any means. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a wet blanket. Who needs Al’s secret society when I can run my own wet blanket club?’

Al has his own secret society? Or was that merely a turn of phrase, a way of describing his exclusive clientele list?
 

‘I don’t think you’re a wet blanket.’ I suddenly become conscious of the lagoon again. I mean, really, we’re sitting a few feet away from the glass. Romantic ambience or just an underground lair? ‘Though, if you’re a regular blanket and this place floods, then the situation might be a bit different.’

The mood takes on a dimension of regret and insecurity. Oliver is absent for a little while, withdrawing his hand and eating without directly looking at me. I eat too, but don’t take my eyes off him.
 

I don’t normally employ this much patience with people. Hesitation has always struck me as weak, which is probably why I find dating to be so frightening. Getting to know someone isn’t always a forthright process. I want surety, but the force by which the ‘push and pull’ works is hardly predictable.

‘I’m not the best with this sort of thing,’ he says, finally putting his fork down. ‘I can broker deals better than anyone, but this is hardly the kind of transaction I’m used to.’

‘You’re doing fine.’

‘You’re not just saying that?’ The sharp look in his eye returns.

‘No. This isn’t exactly easy and, in light of that fact, I think we’re both doing okay.’ I decide to share more of my own experiences rather than leaving him to think about his quarter-life crisis. ‘Here’s my crisis point: I’ve travelled the world and seen loads of places, met men along the way. But then I’ve always come home, you know? To be truly honest, I guess I faffed about for too long. With everything. Life purpose. Men. The simple fact is… I need to ground myself.’

‘Me too,’ he says, both his voice and expression softening. ‘I need to ground myself. Home should mean something.’

‘Exactly. It would be nice to come home to someone. Home shouldn’t just be a building or a dwelling.’

‘Yeah, I like that.’
 

Oh. We’re doing that thing now, where the two people on a date gaze at each other in amazement, a common understanding providing just the right spark.
 

Oliver clears his throat. I think I’m making him nervous, which in turn makes me more nervous.

‘Speaking of home,’ he continues, ‘you’re in line to inherit the estate, aren’t you? Al was disowned.’

My heart sinks. Really, there’s a tugging in my chest, a downward momentum that’s making me feel like I’m falling at terminal velocity.

It really does seem counterproductive to chip away at the trust we’re building by not hinting at the possibility of problems. At the same time, I’m visualising all sorts of reminders: my mother’s worried face, Andrew tapping his nose, my father’s frown. Secrecy is important.