Lady: Impossible (57 page)

Still, it’s not a good feeling to know you’re about to crush someone’s hopes, which is why trekking back to the house in this instance still feels like a walk of shame, albeit a chaste one. I abandon my shoes midway, exhausted from the effort, and walk the rest barefoot. My parents, both solemn, wait for me to say something after I’ve climbed the steps and re-entered the conservatory.

‘I’m sorry I wasted your money,’ I tell them. ‘Tilton & Bree, I mean. I’ll get a part-time job and pay you back.’

Speechless, neither one of them stops me when I walk past them to leave the room. I don’t mind, really. It’s not like I can explain myself with any real degree of honesty.

I head down to the kitchen, grab a can of spaghetti from the pantry, and eat in the servants’ hall, all the while watching the clock.

Chapter 28:

The countdown to tomorrow’s meeting with Oliver is proving to be frustrating.
 

I’ve spent the better part of two days rehearsing the most tactful way to tell him I’m no longer interested. Seeing as I have trouble with tactfulness and delicacy on a good day, God knows what mangled explanation will come out of my mouth when the time comes. I’ve tried many techniques, from speaking into a mirror to recording my responses on my phone and playing them back to see how I sound. Of course, this gives the impression that I am one of the following: a) completely off my rocker, b) breaking up with an invisible man every two seconds, c) in love with my own voice or d) auditioning for a minor role in
Oliver! The Musical
, the latter being a concern of my father’s when he overheard me in the library.

All this so I can – hopefully – bow out on civil terms.
 

It is a relief, though, that my parents share my sense of seriousness, my need to get this meeting right. At various moments, they’ve shared their take on my words and delivery. ‘Don’t be too emotional.’ ‘Don’t be too cold.’ ‘Don’t fidget like you need to go to the loo.’ ‘Stop touching your hair – you don’t have nits.’ It’s like being back in finishing school, except it’s not a book I’m balancing on my head, but my parents’ hopes and dreams. Say the wrong thing and I might offend Oliver to the point of retaliation and, with my family’s luck, that will mean gossip.
 

Of course, it’s easier to deal with the trials of gossip when you’ve got people in your corner and, conveniently, Abby has invited me over for the evening. It’s time to finally tell her what’s going on. I was too much of a coward to come out with it during dinner, so there’s no choice now but to raise the subject during the most intellectual of endeavours: making origami flowers for her upcoming charity function.

Stupid flowers. The whole dining table is covered with miniature purple, pink and gold bouquets, all made from French silk-blend paper. We had to eat in front of the TV because of this makeshift meadow. It’s like a preview of the Chelsea Flower Show.

I shouldn’t complain though. The activity is at least calming my nerves.

‘Thanks again for letting me help out,’ I begin, looking at Abby from across the table.

The smile she offers me is a strained one. She knows something is up, but hasn’t pushed, probably because my mother warned her about my instability. Add this worry to hours and hours of stressful origami and it’s no wonder she’s not her usual peppy self.

‘I should’ve called you earlier. It’s all Jacq’s idea, these handmade things. She saw it on the telly and thought it would be more charming than fresh flowers.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but each to their own.’

‘I’ll get her back at the next function. Make her papier-mâché a billion centrepieces. Maybe even inflict some decoupage.’

‘I’d send her a threatening note with a bottle of PVA glue. Putting the “art” into “the art of war”.’

The joke at least earns a laugh, albeit a small one. ‘Shall we sit down?’
 

While it is a bit weird to insist on standing, standing has been a standard part of my rehearsals. I might lose the ability to speak if I sit. ‘You can sit. I find my scissor control is better if stand. And I need space to fold properly.’

‘I’m not going to sit if you’re not sitting. That would be weird.’
 

‘We can be weird if we want.’

The whole night has been weird and stilted. With both of us clearly aware of this, we exchange one of those looks that friends give each other when there’s clearly an elephant in the room. In this case, the elephant is eyeing me, likely wanting permission to sit. Well, it’s not going to happen. The discomfort must be shared.
 

I do my best to deflect. ‘I gather not everyone would’ve been enthused about me helping out, though. I know they’re only decorations, but making them is still technically helping.’

Abby is slow to answer, taking her time tying a white ribbon around her just-finished purple blooms. ‘You’re being silly. Lady Whittingstall put in a good word for you anyway. Apparently, you’re always good to her.’

‘I’ll have to thank her by listening to her horse stories with more enthusiasm next time.’

‘Tune her out, do you?’

‘Last time I saw her was at the Ritz fundraiser, just before Oliver came to meet me.’

‘Ah, I see.’

And there it is. Oliver.
 

‘Has my mother told you about tomorrow?’
 

My voice sounds so unnaturally high that it makes me cringe. Abby, however, seems infinitely relieved that I’ve said something.
 

‘Oh my God, I’ve been biting my tongue for an hour and a half.’ She tosses her bouquet aside, along with her patience. ‘So you don’t want to be with him? Was Dubai awful? It was awful, wasn’t it? I knew you were fibbing when you said it was brilliant.’ She begins shuffling about on the spot, hands on cheeks and eyes flashing with panic. It’s like she doesn’t know where to run. ‘I should’ve said something. Oh, I’m such a bad friend. When have I ever taken the lead from your mother?’

‘You may want to take a breath before you pass out. Andrew will be most upset if he comes home to find you’ve fainted.’

Abby shoots a dark look at me, the kind of glare that not only silences but also makes you want to jump into a crevasse and hide. It’s such an unexpected reaction that I merely stare at her, anxiously twisting the paper in my hands until she speaks.

‘This isn’t funny. You’re a mess.’

With massive effort, I manage not to sputter. ‘I’m trying to sort myself out. I promise.’

‘You keep everything to yourself. How am I supposed to help you when you keep secrets all the time? You’re not in St Andrews anymore and I’m right here. No excuses.’

‘I like trying to solve things on my own.’ Even to me it sounds pathetic.

‘So what’s the solution then?’
 

Taking a deep breath, I place a hand on a nearby chair. The crushed flower in my other hand becomes a makeshift stress ball. So much for paper-art integrity. ‘I’ll tell you what’s not the solution: marrying Oliver so I can save the estate. Better to mourn Silsbury Hall than live there with a man I don’t love.’

‘But you’ve only been on one real date with him.’ The desperate way in which she’s flapping her arms about makes me think she considers Oliver to be my only chance. ‘Aren’t you being a little rash?’

‘No, I’m sure. He’s terrific but he’s not the one.’

‘Doesn’t he deserve a second chance? He gave you one.’

‘There’s no need. I just know.’

She purses her lips before sighing and shrugging in exasperation. Or is it helplessness? ‘Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you always know what you don’t want.’

Before I stop to think, an admission escapes my lips. ‘I want what you have. The happy marriage.’

I don’t miss the flicker of pity in her eyes. No wonder Blair reacts so quickly when he thinks I feel sorry for him. It’s not a welcome feeling.

‘You think I’m making a mistake,’ I add, the words coming out slowly, like I’m trying to speak in a different language. ‘Which is fair considering my track record – or lack thereof.’

‘From the sound of it, he likes you for you. He can handle you. Or can’t he?’ The look in her eyes becomes a touch more concerned. ‘Is that the problem?’

‘No. If anything, I can’t really be myself around him. I’m always watching what I say, always deferring to him because he’s the one with the money.’

‘Watching what you say isn’t a bad thing.’

‘No, but silencing myself is.’

Oddly enough, the comment silences her. We spend the next hour making decorations, the two of us eventually sitting down but powering on like we’re in some kind of dignified sweatshop. It’s only when Abby’s phone rings that the monotony is broken.
 

I catch bits and pieces of the conversation as I cut ribbon.
 

‘… Ohh, yes that would be wonderful… No, it’s not too late… Andrew is still at work, but maybe by the time you drop by he will be… Really, tell them to come by. It’s no trouble… Yes, I’ll say hi to Millie for you… Okay, bye.’

She ends the call. ‘Lady Whittingstall is unwell, so she’s sending her husband and his friend to drop off some fabric samples for the chair covers and tablecloths.’

‘That’s good of him.’

‘It is.’ She clears her throat, immediately going back into production mode. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes or so.’

I wonder if it would make things better or worse if I told her about Blair now. Other than the fact it’s not just my secret to tell, I don’t want her to try to talk me out of it. Eliza’s opinion would’ve had no bearing had I told her, but with Abby it’s different. Behind the laughs and jokes, she can also be serious about my well-being. Sometimes I forget that.

I snip another piece of ribbon. Giant novelty scissors would be nice. I can pretend it’s the official ribbon-cutting for Millie’s New Lease on Life. First step: resolve this quarrel.

‘You and I have never been good at not talking,’ I say softly, hoping she’ll be receptive.

It’s true. When we were at Cheltenham we’d still end up talking to each other, however stiltedly, during our short-lived tiffs. This feels like the old days, the only difference being our problems aren’t about nail polish and boys anymore. We’re grown up now, but I’m beginning to notice she’s streets ahead of me: married and running a household, contributing to society – all while putting up with the likes of me.

She replies cheerily, however forced. ‘We’re not
not
talking. We’re origami-ing.’

‘I don’t think that’s a verb,’ I say, aiming for lightness.

‘Pretend it is.’

‘Okay, sure.’ I tell myself to move things along, to start sharing things with her. ‘So, I’ve been thinking of getting a job.’

That certainly gets her attention. She tosses her bouquet to the side quite magnificently this time. It soars over to the far end of the table before ricocheting off a chair and landing back on the table. I kind of want to clap or at least commentate in a BBC Sports style.

‘A job?’ Abby asks, disbelief colouring her speech. ‘Why? Because you don’t want Oliver anymore and you’re worried about money?’

I try to keep my response casual. ‘Well, I have to pass the time somehow.’

‘But… you’re not the working type.’

While delivered gingerly, her doubt is still striking. Normally I wouldn’t be ruffled by it, but with the stakes this high, I’m defensive.

‘I can work.’

‘Oh, I’m not saying you can’t apply yourself. It’s just that you have a problem with authority. You don’t like answering to people.’

‘I’m sure I can follow instructions, as long as they’re reasonable.’

She pauses, likely taking a moment to assess my sincerity. ‘I can’t speak from experience, but aren’t bosses sometimes unreasonable?’

‘Perhaps this is an opportunity to gain a little life experience. Isn’t that what we were told at uni? That academia isn’t everything?’

‘I don’t remember that lecture. I think you made it up, or heard it from someone with bad marks.’

I press my finger into the table as if pushing the answer button on a game show. ‘I’m positive I can work.’
 

‘I’m not saying you’re incapable. It’s just that it takes patience to deal with people, especially when it comes to the public. The customer is always right, remember?’

I fight back the impulse to snort.

Abby is quick to comment. ‘See. You don’t believe in that.’

‘I don’t have to work with customers. I can work with computers or paper.’

‘But for how much? Isn’t the minimum wage about six pounds an hour or something?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’ Gosh, that’s not very much. Surely Blair makes more than that?

‘How should I know?’ She waves her hand at the tabletop. ‘I only know about this sort of “work”.’

‘I’m serious about this. I can bookkeep or something.’

‘But the only place you’ve done accounts is at the estate. Not only will people assume that there’s money trouble if you’re working, they won’t trust you with money after they find out the estate’s finances aren’t in order.’

It’s a sobering point, one I obviously haven’t thought through with any degree of perspective. Trust me to try and sign a new lease of life without checking if I have a good credit rating. ‘Maybe I’ll have to play it as a hobby thing at first.’

‘A paid hobby?’

‘Yes.’

Abby still seems unconvinced. In fact, she hesitates twice before replying. ‘Look, I think you’re rushing for no reason. You’ll probably end up being financially comfortable after the estate sells. There’s no point in getting a job only to quit when the sale goes through.’

‘I need to prove that I’m not useless.’

She raises her eyebrows, amused. ‘Who said you were useless?’
 

Rather than waiting for an answer, she busies herself with her latest creation, so it must’ve been a rhetorical question. But before I can think of what to say or do next, her brow suddenly furrows, and another flower is unceremoniously dropped, this time as though it’s burnt her fingers.

‘This is about the butler thinking you’re a bad role model, isn’t it?’

The situation is even more incredulous to her when I don’t offer an immediate denial.