Lady: Impossible (50 page)

I imagine him at a window, peering out in whatever direction he believes Dubai to be in, and signalling for George to bring him a drink. This is usually how I picture him when I call. Maybe it’s time to readjust now that both the estate and George are at risk of being let go.

‘Millie, calm down. You sound incredibly distressed.’
 

Even his firm and steady voice fails to calm me down. It reminds me of when I was a child. He’d hold me firmly as I flailed around, wailing about Al stealing my toys or making fun of me.

I continue babbling. ‘It’s not in Oliver’s interest to tell anyone, I promise. And I don’t think he’ll use it against Al – oh my God, what if he tells Al! No, I’m sure he won’t. Oh, I didn’t even think!’

‘Millie, stop for a second.’

I follow his instruction, taking heaving breaths while I wait for him to continue. The room spins this way then that way. It’s as if I’m whirling around like a genie in a bottle, which reminds me of the Disney film
Aladdin
, with Robin Williams as the genie. Then one of the songs from the soundtrack, ‘A Whole New World’, starts playing in my head.
 

Mental, I tell you. It’s never a good sign when you can hear Robin Williams alongside your inner monologue.

‘Are you all right now?’ Father asks.

I place a hand on the desk to steady myself. ‘I think so. Maybe.’

‘How did he take it? The news, I mean.’

‘He still wants to go out with me.’
 

‘Then it sounds like you made a jolly good impression.’

I pause. He’s right. I must’ve made a very good impression. Oliver still wants to see me. I know this, but it obviously hasn’t sunk in yet.

‘I – I guess you’re right.’

The sceptic in me suspects Father of being upbeat because a happy Oliver may mean a saved estate. However, this is an entirely shallow judgement, likely prompted by the fact I now have Christina Aguilera singing in my head too.

‘Just relax, and I’ll inform your mother of this development.’ Father suggests. ‘Does that sound okay?’

‘Um, yes. I guess it’s okay.’
 

Actually, it’s not okay, because this means Blair will be on the receiving end of a Caroline Pembroke tirade.
Millie! She thinks she can tell anyone anything. Well, that Oliver had better not run away this time! I want to hear wedding bells.
No, Blair can’t find out this way. It would be cruel.
 

I add a timeframe in my answer. ‘Can you wait until tomorrow night though?’
 

‘All right then. I’ll call her tomorrow night. Other than that, everything is going swimmingly?’

‘Yes. He’s being a true gentleman.’

‘That’s good to hear, my dear. Now why don’t you make a cup of tea and then call me back if you’re still panicked? Maybe you can even tell me more about your day.’

I nod even though he can’t see me. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a basket case. I promise to calm down and not bother you again.’

‘You’re anything but a bother. Just take it easy and you’ll be fine.’

‘Okay. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

When the call ends, I end up staring at the notepad, at the number I want to dial but can’t.
 

Chapter 25:

I wake up the next morning with Blair’s mobile number still running around my head. At first I’m too groggy to realise what’s going on, thinking I’ve been implanted with some sort of code or electronic access key. Emilia Pembroke, MI6 agent, on a secret mission in Dubai? It’s all very plausible.
 

Well, plausible until I see the notepad on the bedside table and realise how affected I really am. My writing looks crazed, like when right-handed people write with their left hand for fun. Did I not even notice that my hand was shaking when I wrote this? And now I’m looking at the alarm clock and seeing that it’s seven here in Dubai, meaning it’s four in London – prime time for a Millie freak-out.
 

I’m not in my own home, not in my own bed and all I’m doing is lying here, panicking about the fact I have to call him today. There’s no way around it: Father will ring Mother tonight, just like I instructed, and she will undoubtedly reveal too much to Blair, because who else in that house will listen to her?
 

In all likelihood, he will probably end up gutted by what I have to say. Oliver being okay with my financial situation? Blair has always maintained that Oliver would run if he knew. So, while I haven’t had the guts to ask Blair about the drunken things he said to me, I’m now wondering whether I myself need liquid courage. There’s a fully stocked mini-bar in this suite and I could very well take advantage of it (before feeling guilty about wasting money and confessing to Oliver, of course).

He said he hated me. I’ve been trying not to obsess over it, especially with the advent of this trip, but it’s been eating away at me. True, drunken admissions don’t always count. I’ve ‘admitted’ to all of sorts of nonsense. This, however, strikes right at the heart of things, because even if he only said it out of frustration, it still means that I’m having a negative impact on his life. I don’t want to be that person, and I don’t want him resenting life any more than he already does.

I’m happy sometimes. Right now is not so bad.
 

This is what he said to me two nights before that, right before he made his move. I groan in anguish, thrashing about in the thousand-count sheets and burying my face in one of the plush pillows. There’s no room for conflict here. Oliver is supposed to be my match.

This reminder battles with the mobile number in my head, words and numbers crashing into each other as if charged by a supercollider. By the time the phone rings fifteen minutes later, I have to pause and reacquaint myself with the fact I have to interact with another human being. They’ll be throwing new words into the mix, possibly rendering my thought process incoherent. Alphabet soup for breakfast, anyone?

Wait – that would mean I’d be eating my own brain…

Oh, the phone is still ringing.
 

I come up for air, reaching out for the phone and knocking the notepad over in the process. ‘Hello, Millie speaking?’

Why is that a question? It’s not meant to be a question.

‘Millie, it’s Oliver with your seven-twenty wake-up call.’

 
I don’t recall him saying anything about a wake-up call. Then I remember that it doesn’t matter whether he told me or not, because he did say he would do a better job with the planning today.

I have to sound cheerful. He certainly sounds cheerful. He probably woke up bright and early so he could watch the financial news while drinking gallons of coffee. In fact, he’s probably wearing a suit and tie already – freshly pressed by housekeeping.
 

‘Millie?’

‘Yes, good morning.’ It’s a hilariously upbeat, automated response that I should probably record for future purposes.
 

He laughs. Actually, it’s more of a chortle, which I believe is the technical term for when one chuckles and snorts. Or maybe it’s just a regular laugh distorted by the phone line or my own hyperactive imagination.

‘You sound like a telemarketer,’ he says.

‘Do I? Must be the start of my shift, before perfect strangers tell me off for peddling my wares. I have a two-for-one special on…’ I look around me. ‘Alarm clocks and pillows.’

‘What about breakfast instead? The buffet at Saffron is usually quite good.’

‘Buffet?’ Again, ridiculously perky.
 

‘Yes. Always plenty of choice. Though, of course, you’re free to load up your plate with only one option if you so desire. I have a colleague who ate nothing but barbecued-pork buns on a recent trip to Asia. We call him Pork Bun Paul.’

‘How very flattering.’

‘I think so too.’ He chortles again. ‘So, is eight o’clock okay, or do you need more beauty time?’

‘Hee, “beauty time”. That’s cute. Um… What are you wearing?’

‘Sorry?’

‘To breakfast. Are you already in a suit?’

He chuckles. ‘I have other clothes.’

‘Okay, just checking. I don’t want to overdress or underdress. Let’s see, forty minutes, forty minutes…’
 

I probably look hideous. I say probably because I can’t actually check – all the mirrors in the suite have smashed themselves in anticipation. No, not really. But maybe they should.

‘You’re very pretty. I doubt you need much beauty time.’

‘The pretty takes work, but I shall accept your compliment anyway. Eight o’clock sounds fine.’

‘Fantastic. I’ll meet you in the hallway.’

‘Okay, bye!’

‘Bye.’

I hang up and slowly swing my legs over to the edge of bed, wondering what magic can be worked in forty minutes. Sitting there, with the notepad at my feet and the phone within reach, I feel even more disoriented. Breakfast is usually when I first see Blair every day.

Somehow I manage to snap out of this funk, jumping into motion due to the time constraints. Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bright orange and magenta shift dress, my hair in a side ponytail and my make-up applied correctly. Everything on the outside looks stellar. I’m literally ‘Posh’ – the dress is by Victoria Beckham.
 

Just keep going, I tell myself.
 

Keep going I do, meeting Oliver out in the hallway ten minutes later. He looks a lot more relaxed this morning, having donned a white linen shirt and sand-coloured shorts. Boat shoes complete the look. All he needs is a yacht and a clear blue sky, and he’ll be set for a resort-wear photoshoot.
 

‘You look stunning,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

I place my hand on his arm as he pulls away. ‘Actually, I think I’m a tad over-dressed.’

‘Oh, not at all.’
 

He grins reassuringly, taking my hand as we fall into step together. There’s a confidence about him this morning that is a lot more natural than his usual demeanour. This should make me panic, because it means I’m drawing him in, convincing him that he’s doing well. Don’t get me wrong, he is doing well, but…

No, no buts. I employ a neurolinguistic technique I once learnt in a bizarre workshop Mindy took me to at uni (her cousin Samantha must’ve been involved), where I visualise a problem and repeatedly try to desensitise myself from the pain. I scrunch up that piece of notepad paper and throw it into the dustbin, over and over again until I’m bored by the visual.

Self-help has never been something I’ve thought that highly of, but this will have to do for now.

Saffron is a delightful restaurant, with various cooking stations all serving different regional dishes. Oliver asks for a table near the sushi station, saying he always likes watching the finesse of those chefs. While I’m not really up for sushi or sashimi this early in the day, I squeeze his hand and follow happily, the fruit station catching my eye as we’re led to our table.

‘Oh, do you want to sit over there?’ Oliver asks, gesturing for the waiter to halt for a second.

‘No, it’s not that far to walk. I’ll walk for fruit.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Very sure. It’s all part of my healthy living campaign. Just make sure I pick the yoghurt accompaniment and not the chocolate sauce.’

‘Sauce patrol? I shouldn’t have worn a white shirt.’

‘Live and learn, Paten-Pryce.’

He smirks. ‘You sound like my supervisor.’

‘You report to someone? I can’t imagine it.’

‘Not at the top of the food chain just yet. But certainly on my way.’

‘Such a… shark? Oh no, that was terrible. Pretend I never said that.’

‘I’ve already deleted it from my memory and am about to ask about sauce patrol again.’

‘Forget the sauce. Let’s sit, shall we?’

We’re seated at a table for two near the sushi. I have to say, not having a blue lagoon looming over me is a lot less daunting. I think the only danger here will be if I stuff my face with all of this delicious fare.

‘After you?’ Oliver suggests after ordering our coffees.
 

‘Sending me out like a scout?’

‘I don’t think there are landmines here, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘Okay, I’ll protect you.’
 

I wink and leave the table, quickly grabbing a plate and piling it up with fruit and pastries (I was kidding about the healthy living). The amount of time it takes for me to do this isn’t that long, but somehow Oliver has already managed to bump into people he knows – a couple as smartly dressed as us.

I think of hanging back, not sure if Oliver would want me meeting his friends so early on. Indeed, I circle the Asian noodle bar twice and also do a lap around the soup counter, my grip on the plate becoming tighter and tighter as the seconds pass. I know he explained his problem with Al in greater depth last night, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be fully comfortable with introducing me.

There’s only so much stalling I can do. I slowly venture into the direction of the table, my tiny steps making it look like I have a bad hip. So I’m relieved – and pleasantly surprised – when Oliver waves me over and the couple grin at me as I approach.
 

‘Millie, this is Sven and Gwen. Sven works in the Swedish office.’

I fight the urge to laugh. Sven and Gwen? What an awkward name combination. ‘Hi, nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you, too,’ Sven says, extending his hand.

His firm grip is a little uncomfortable. Gwen, too, has a commanding handshake. Beautiful and statuesque, the two of them are like a Nordic god and goddess. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on their bad side.

Oliver, who’s still seated, gets a playful punch from Gwen.
 

‘You never mentioned you had an other half,’ she says, her gorgeously accented voice a perfect mix of delight and accusation.

‘Oh.’ He clears his throat, the discomfort clear on his face.
 

I swoop in and save him from an awkward moment. ‘I’m still auditioning. Not sure how I’m going, but I’m sure he’ll probably let me know by midday.’

After a moment’s pause, Sven and Gwen laugh appreciatively. Who knows what judgements they made in that one second. I’m not sure I want to know.