Lady: Impossible (52 page)

‘That would be counterproductive, because I’d ask you to take it off.’

‘I will take note of that strategy for the future.’

‘For when you’re ready.’

‘Yes. For when I’m ready.’

I’m grateful after that, my gratitude for his patience increasing by the minute. Even though my hand is clammy, he doesn’t let go and soon we’re up in the air for the tour. Both the view and the companionship are exhilarating – the warm colours in the sky coalescing beautifully and the buildings lighting up like beacons while we continue to hold hands. I lean into Oliver, laughing at the awkwardness of our earmuffs. It’s difficult to be romantic wearing these dastardly devices. Somehow he manages to plant a kiss on my forehead. It’s all very sweet.

We return half an hour later, the landing smooth and the sky darkening further outside. Oliver helps me take my earmuffs off, and I laugh as I help him with his.

I try to fix his hair, which is sticking up every which way. ‘Almost as embarrassing as helmet hair.’

‘Well, as long as it’s only almost as embarrassing.’

‘Hmm.’

The way he’s looking at me is intense. It’s calmer than the way Blair looks at me – less desperate – probably because Oliver knows he can have me.
 

Suddenly I’m able to block out everything else: forgetting the pilot, the sound of the propellers slowing, the heat and the close quarters. Oliver leans in and plants his lips on mine, the contact instantly making me giddy. There’s a sureness to the way he deepens the kiss, a restrained hunger that surprisingly makes me yearn for more, and soon I’m the one to push forward, prompting him to run his hands through my hair and groan into my mouth as I massage his tongue with mine.

I could sleep with Oliver. He’s not Blair, but I could sleep with him. Maybe that’s what I need to do to get over Blair – assign myself to Oliver’s bed, so it’s clear whose wife I want to be.

But if I were really okay with such an idea, I wouldn’t be feeling this swell of emotion that is almost causing me to burst into tears.
 

I pull away, ashamed at my duplicity. Oliver is wide-eyed, likely reading my expression as a different brand of guilt.

‘Well,’ he says breathlessly. ‘That was… wow.’

‘Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.’

‘No, don’t apologise.’

Blushing furiously, I pat down my hair and accept the helping hand of the pilot to get out of the helicopter. He doesn’t seem fazed by the delay, probably having seen loads of couples get swept up in the moment. As long as he can’t see me blinking back tears, I’m fine.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ I say to the pilot.

‘Anytime, Miss.’

Oliver tips the pilot on stepping out of the helicopter, and then returns to my side, placing his hand on my lower back.
 

‘Shall I give you some alone time before dinner?’ he says as we walk back in the direction of the hotel.

‘Yes, that’s probably wise.’

Little does he know that leaving me alone might be foolish. Indeed, once I’m back in my suite, I have to fight the urge to escape. There are five phones in this suite alone, and I know the number I have to dial by heart. Wherever I walk in this suite, reality is staring me in the face.

In the end, I sit down on the bed and dial the international number, my finger hovering over the keypad when it’s time to enter Blair’s digits. I go ahead and punch in the numbers, my heart pounding so hard that my ribcage hurts.
 

It keeps ringing, the delay making me well up in desperation. I prepare to leave a message when suddenly there’s a voice.

‘Hello, Blair’s phone. This is Francie speaking.’

Jesus Christ. Had she not identified herself, I probably would’ve hung up and started crying uncontrollably.

I try to keep my voice steady and professional. ‘Hi, Francie. It’s Lady Emilia Pembroke calling from Dubai. Is Blair not available at the moment?’

‘Oh, he’s just in the garden. I’ll get him right now! It must be very expensive calling from where you are.’

Well, at least one of us is cheerful.

‘Thank you, Francie.’

‘I’m his sister, by the way. I’m not sure if you know. Sometimes girls call Stephen and get shitty when I answer his phone. Stephen reckons it’s funny, but they don’t.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Just wait a sec.’ Seconds later, I hear her yelling for her brother. ‘Blair! It’s your boss. Hurry up.’

Am I ready for this? I rock to and fro, hugging myself with one arm.

After a muffled exchange, I finally hear Blair’s voice.

‘Lady Silsbury?’

Shit. He thinks it’s my mother calling.

‘Hi, Blair. It’s Millie.’

‘Oh.’ There’s a long pause. He sounds pleasantly surprised, probably recalling what he told me in the car on the way to Heathrow.
Call me if you get lonely
. ‘Hi.’

‘I… um… is this a bad time? I didn’t realise you’d be at home today.’

‘It’s Sylvie’s birthday.’

‘Right. Good. That’s nice.’
 

My voice is catching already. I miss him so much. I didn’t want to admit that before, but I really, really miss him.
 

‘Hold on a moment. I’m just going to walk to another room so we’ll have some privacy.’

‘Okay.’

Another long pause. ‘So how’s Dubai?’

‘It’s… really lovely here.’
 

It’s an answer given in panic, and it doesn’t go down well.

‘You called to tell me that you’re having a good time?’

‘No, that’s not why I’m calling.’ I wipe an errant tear and try to understand his frustration. ‘Um, I told Oliver about the money thing and he’s okay with it. I wanted to tell you before you found out from my parents.’

‘So you’re calling to rub that in my face?’

‘I – I called because I wanted you to find out from me.’
 

His reply his swift and sour. ‘Look, it’s Sylvie’s eighteenth today. I want to be happy for her, and somehow I think talking to you is only going to put me in a bad mood.’

‘Blair –’

‘Is he better in bed too, or is that going to be a separate phone call?’

‘I haven’t –’

‘I don’t want to know. Have a nice night, m’lady. I’ll see you when I see you.’

The line goes dead. Devastated, I curse myself for being so selfish. If there was ever a time to work on my bluntness, this would be it. I didn’t even ask how he was. I just went ahead and kicked him in the guts.

It doesn’t take long for me to realise that the searing pain in my chest and head is no ordinary ailment. I’ve hurt somebody I care about deeply. Lord knows I shouldn’t be attached to him, but I am.
 

For the first time in twenty-four hours, his number disappears from my head, replaced by a countdown instead.
 

I’ll see him tomorrow, and I’ll tell him how much I don’t want to hurt him. Because, as irrational as it is, when he hurts, I hurt too.

Chapter 26:

This time when I step into the arrivals lounge, I know exactly who I’m looking for.

It’s bedlam in the terminal, as usual. In a way, I’m oddly prepared for this chaos – the dodging and weaving, the hectic pace, the frayed nerves of travellers who just want to get home. This is nothing different to how I feel internally. All I want to do is to get to Blair. Never mind that I don’t know the right thing to say, or even the right questions to ask. I’m hoping those things will come to me once I’m reunited with him, when we’ll acknowledge our hurt and confusion in person.

I check my watch: it’s half past three. I don’t know the exact distance between here and Dubai but it felt like half the world last night. After the disastrous phone call, it was an absolute struggle to pull myself together in time for dinner at Nobu. I had a smile on my face on the outside, but inside it was as if I’d patched myself up with sticky tape and staples. The integrity of the repair job was put into further jeopardy when Oliver continued to be a perfect gentleman, his patience and charm twisting my convictions.
 

The fact of the matter is that I’m running on sheer will right now. Somewhere on the same Emirates flight path, Oliver is flying back into London as well, our flights having been staggered as a contingency in case we didn’t quite click on the trip. This here and now is my window, the precious few hours before the courting resumes.
 

I frantically scan the waiting crowd for Blair, with my phone already in hand in case we can’t find each other. It’s this focus that blinds me from the fact that someone else is waving at me.

My mother is here. And Blair is nowhere in sight.

With my chest seized by panic and my mind recalling Andrew’s words about firing Blair, I push my way through to my mother, my luggage tottering behind me as I move too quickly for the suitcase’s wheels. Mother meeting me in person is atypical – something must be wrong.

Indeed, I’m met not with a hug, but a reserved expression when I skid to halt in front of her. She doesn’t look well and she’s made no real attempt at hiding it. Limited make-up, bags under her eyes and a caramel coloured dress that doesn’t flatter her body. A tired look for a usually sharp woman – she’s like the ‘before’ picture on a makeover show.

I don’t bother trying to smile. She’d skewer me for acting. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘Neither do you.’
 

The accusation is clear. I can judge her for her appearance, but she’s free to read into mine. It doesn’t matter if I’ve done up my face and worn another of Abby’s summer dresses. My spirits are lower than Greece’s credit rating.

‘I’m overwhelmed.’ It’s the only answer I can give without lying. ‘As fantastic as the trip was, I have a lot to think about.’

Her eyes flash with ire. I’m taken aback by the hostility, though after a few seconds I begin to wonder whether she’s staring daggers at me personally or just angry at the situation in general.

‘Something doesn’t feel right, and I’m not going to look the other way this time. I’m beginning to think that Tilton & Bree was a mistake.’

I want to ask what she means, but I’m not sure I want the answer. Instead, I evade the comment by asking the most pertinent question in my mind.

‘Where’s Blair?’

‘Battling a migraine.’ She sighs wearily, glancing at my luggage. ‘We should go. This is not the place to talk.’

At least Blair hasn’t been fired. He’ll be at home then, recuperating. I don’t doubt he has a headache. It’s whether I, as the likely source, can alleviate his pain on arriving home.

The taxi journey is tense. Mother remains silent, fiddling around in her handbag as if she’s looking for physical assurances. Meanwhile, I slump against the door and reminisce about my first journey with Blair. I was so forward with him, explicitly saying that I doubted he’d be working for us in the long term. My mother is flighty and selfish, I said. I even told him I hoped The Savoy would take him back.
 

Almost two months later, it’s not my mother who’s the problem. It’s me.
 

‘That phone call you placed to your father… He said you were beside yourself.’

I meet her gaze. ‘I was in a panic. I wasn’t supposed to reveal the problem like that. At least he’s okay with it.’

‘This entire thing makes me nervous. Are you sure you really like this man? Would you like him even if he didn’t have money?’

Her line of enquiry is spookily similar to Blair’s. I can only assume this is coming from a long-suppressed insecurity about motherhood and whether she’s looking out for my best interests.
 

‘I don’t think he would be Oliver without his money. Does that make sense? Doesn’t money define people in some way? It informs how they walk, how they talk, how they carry themselves generally. He’s successful. His success is part of him. I can’t imagine a not-wealthy Oliver, so I can’t judge whether I’d like him if that was the case.’

‘That is not a promising answer. Circumstances are different to when I first engaged Tilton & Bree’s services for you. I’m worried we’re digging a bigger hole for ourselves here.’

I think about how frank I can be with her in front of the taxi driver. I already feel sorry for him: two miserable rich-but-not-rich ladies sitting in the back seat, engaging in an argument about matchmaking. I doubt he’d repeat our story to anyone. Then again, how am I to know the habits of strangers?

I try to be nondescript when I ask my next question. ‘If Father hadn’t had money and status, would you still have been interested?’

Her rebuke is sharper than expected. ‘This is precisely why I’m concerned. That question does not need to be asked of me. It needs to be asked of you. I asked it and you gave me a spin doctor’s answer.’

‘So you did marry for love then?’

‘This isn’t about me. It’s about you.’

I take her evasiveness as a reluctant acknowledgement that Father is, or at least was, the love of her life. It’s not a new concept – far from it, considering that she’s always returned to him – but this time it makes me emotional. She might have stood up for him and tolerated his presence, but she still hasn’t given me any indication that she’s changed her mind about leaving him. True, I’m not privy to their discussions, yet it’s worrying nonetheless.

I try to play devil’s advocate. ‘Let’s pretend that it doesn’t feel a hundred per cent right. Can you and I really survive without any money? And by that I mean a modest amount of money, because a modest amount to people like us feels like nothing.’

Distressed, Mother rubs her forehead. ‘It sounds nice as a concept: “marrying up”. Then, when it actually becomes a possibility… The thought of using my daughter as an investment so we can all live comfortably doesn’t sit well with me at all.’

‘The Al thing for Oliver wasn’t just about reputation. It was about character. Al runs from obligations –’

‘Alastair has no obligations.’ There’s a long pause, probably because we’re now talking about Al in front of someone else. ‘And on that note, it shouldn’t be your obligation to save the estate.’

‘I want to.’ It’s a sad admission. Ever since Father broke the news, I’ve done my best to sever my emotional ties from the estate. However, it’s not a link that can be suppressed in the long run. There’s history, as well as the future that I know I took for granted. ‘I’m just unsure about the price.’