Lady: Impossible (60 page)

Conflicted, I run a finger over the names listed below the main image, stopping at Blair’s before then tracing the outline of the school crest. Embossed in gold, it shines beautifully on the navy background, as if someone has used gold marker to draw outlines on the night sky.
 

‘
Donorum Dei Dispensatio Fidelis
,’ I say, reading the second motto, the one that runs across the bottom of the crest.
 

‘How’s your Latin?’

‘Rusty.’
 

I’ve been rash again. Torturing him like this, reminding him of what he once had, is cruel. Trust me not to think first.

‘Have a guess?’

I look up from the photo, surprised by the lack of hostility in his voice. I forget that he thinks I’m incredibly easy to read. Maybe he sees how affected I am and is giving me some leeway.

‘The Faithful Dispensation of the Gifts of God.’ I pause. ‘I’m not entirely sure how I know that. Maybe it’s a memory. I have friends who went to Harrow. I hardly ever see them, though.’

‘Yes, that’s what your mother said.’

‘Yeah, and what about the Oxford thing? I could’ve brought someone home who would have recognised you.’

He shrugs, though I can tell we’re now re-entering strained territory. ‘It wasn’t a concern when I took the job.’

‘But it became one when we…’ I trail off, not knowing the correct way to phrase our situation.

‘Don’t finish that sentence.’

‘I’m not going to.’

Silence ensues. Both of us seem frozen where we are, as if movement counts as some sort of weakness. We lock eyes a few times, only to quickly avert our gazes. There is no surreptitious glance when you’re each other’s focal point.

He breaks the quiet after a while, swinging his arms back and forth as he stands. ‘D’you know what
Stet Dortuna Domus
means?’

I look down at the image as if the letters of the first motto are going to rearrange themselves into a translation. ‘Yes, I have an idea.’

‘Want to share that idea?’

The frame now feels like lead in my hand. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Let the Fortune of the House Stand,’ he says, spitting out the words as if they’re poison. ‘So why don’t you put that back where you found it?’

Reluctant, but seeing the need to do as I’m told, I follow his instruction and stand on my tiptoes to return the photo frame. After I’ve replaced it, my focus seems to broaden in the most surreal way, the contents of the room converging on me in my mind, like they’re attacking me for the intrusion.

‘Are you all right?’

His voice sounds far away.

‘Do you even care?’ It’s a stupid response, one you might expect from a woman this sullen and immature in her approach to a difficult situation and an even more difficult man. I still need lessons on how to deal with men.
 

‘Come over here and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

The invitation is a shift from his curt remark about keeping my shoes on, which indicated I’d be kicked out within minutes. A cup of tea buys me time.
 

I manage to walk over to the doorway without tripping on any of his family’s belongings. Blair, having already turned away, busies himself with the task of making us tea while I sit down at a rickety table. Proximity is guaranteed in this kitchen – I could extend my arm and touch his back, no problem. The table takes up the vast majority of the space, the six mismatched chairs packed in tightly around it, like furniture bought for the wrong size of dollhouse. The wallpaper is the dull yellow of aged newspaper and the cupboards and counter are a dark brown. It’s a time warp. I can’t even see outside because the faded curtains are all drawn shut. Some air really would be nice now – it smells like burnt toast in here.
 

Blair rummages through a box on the counter. ‘We’ve only got Earl Grey.’

‘That’s fine.’

It’s not ideal, him serving me like he does at my house. It’s the power balance I’d rather not emphasise. Anxious, I don’t even realise I’m picking at the peeling cushioning on the chair until he glares at me.

I immediately clasp my hands in my lap. ‘Sorry.’

I hate it when he’s furious because I’m an idiot. I hate being an idiot.
 

He rubs his forehead again. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m overreacting.’
 

After he sighs, all I can hear is the tumult of the boiling water and then the whistle of the kettle. Blair chooses two mugs from the cupboard and soon enough I have a Mr Bean mug in front of me.

‘Looks like we’re out of milk,’ he says as I stare into the steaming brown – and rather unappetising-looking – contents of the mug.

‘That’s okay.’

‘No, it’s not okay.’

I can’t help losing my cool this time. ‘I know it’s not okay, but what do you want me to say?’

The scrape of his chair as he pulls it out makes me cringe. He’s now seated to my left, at the head of the table, his knees knocking mine. I idly draw a circle with my finger on the speckled tabletop, its grey pattern reminding me of concrete. I’ve always wondered about that – the likelihood of coming across wet cement or concrete soon enough to etch your own mark and have it set. People don’t usually draw geometric shapes like circles though, except for hearts:
I heart so-and-so
.
 

I haven’t tried it, but I wonder idly what it would be like to sign as ‘Emilia Baxter’.
 

Yes, my mind went there. It’s school logic applied to adult feelings, but it’s a hard habit to shake.

‘I don’t want you to say anything.’ His simple answer, when finally delivered, affects me greatly.

Tears pool in my eyes because I wish things were easier and the stakes not so high. To hide my distress as I blink back the tears, I hold my left hand to my forehead and take a sip of the tea. Except the tea is too hot and I end up reflexively dropping it back onto the table, sloshing tea over the sides onto my hand and splashing my blouse with it too.

I don’t even care about my hand being near-scalded. I care about coming across as foolish.
 

Blair at least has the decency to appear concerned, reaching back for a tea towel to mop up the mess. ‘Is your hand okay?’

He’s cleaning up after me in his own home. Something akin to shame twists through my gut, adding to the ache that has already lodged there.

‘Everything hurts.’

He stops, mid-mop. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘So I’m just meant to sit here?’

‘Preferably.’

‘You aren’t even going to explain?’

He sits back in his chair, defeated, leaving the soiled tea towel next to my mug. His exhaustion is so pronounced I’m reminded of how animals look at the zoo when they realise they’re stuck behind glass. ‘My father is an arsehole who had a secret family in another country. One day he woke up and decided he wanted to leave us for them, so he took his money and ran. Later we found out he was in trouble with the law. All his remaining assets in the UK were seized.’ He pauses to take a sip of tea. When he speaks again, he’s not looking at me – or at anything else in particular. ‘He’s in prison, overseas.’

I open my mouth to respond but he cuts me off.
 

‘No need to be sorry.’

‘But –’

‘The moral of the story is: don’t take things for granted, and never depend on other people.’

‘You’ve done well to support your family.’ Despite the fact that I made the comment in earnest, it draws a roll of the eyes from Blair. ‘What? I’m not being patronising.’

‘You don’t get it, and I shouldn’t expect you to.’ He takes another sip of tea. ‘All this little visit is going to prove to you is that, ten years later, I’m still trying to adjust. So how on earth would you fare with no money? Not well at all. It’s not an insult. It’s the truth.’

Planning on the basis of hypotheticals is never easy. There are usually too many variables to come up with a watertight plan. I think about entreating him with platitudes about changing my world view and being more humble. Since I know it would be just talk and no action, however, I scrap that idea and consider telling him outright that I’m ditching Oliver for him.
 

He won’t like it. He’ll try to stop me if I tell him now. Odds are: he’ll say something completely harsh, and possibly false, just to drive me away. I’m not going to let him drive me away.
 

I’ll tell him after the fact. Although this time the delay isn’t due to indecision or fear. It’s because I’m confident that I’m right, and because I’m not going to put up with any bullshit excuses about incompatibility.

‘Being with you here is better than not being with you at all,’ I say, as it’s the truth, and I’m conscious that I do, in fact, have to say something. Either that or I always feel like I need to have the last word.

He employs a tactic he’s used in the past – pretending the attraction is one-way. ‘I wasn’t aware that rose-tinted glasses were back in fashion.’

‘Certainly more comfortable than wilful blindness.’

He snorts. ‘Wilful blindness? You think I’m turning a blind eye?’ He leans over, tapping his finger on the tabletop to emphasise his words. ‘I’m the butler and, all week, I’ve been shit-scared of losing my job and my room in your house.’

I lean away from him, not liking that he’s raised his voice. ‘My mother would never fire you. She’s just making a point with this leave of absence thing.’

‘I shagged her daughter.’

For a split-second I think he’s saying that he told my mother about us. After that momentary panic subsides, I lean towards him again and speak a little more softly.

‘You know it’s more than that.’
 

I expect a staring contest, but he quits before we even begin and instead puts on his mask of indifference. How I would love to rip that mask off his face and banish it.

‘We’re done here,’ he says. He could be telling me the time or tomorrow’s weather with a voice like this. ‘It was a mistake asking you to stay. I want you to leave.’

‘Fine.’ I’m not going to overstay my welcome. I have tomorrow to look forward to, anyway.
 

I push my chair back and stand, grabbing the tea towel to dry my hand. To my surprise, Blair looks on with mild horror, his jaw dropping as if he’s about to protest.
 

‘What?’ I ask. ‘You’re not working. You don’t need to fetch me a silk handkerchief or lemon-scented hot towel. I’m not the bloody queen.’

Stupid inferiority complex. I ought to conduct an exorcism.

He clears his throat and looks away, cheeks pink as if I’ve slapped him, which in this moment I almost long to do. Love and hate keep close quarters after all. ‘I’m sure you can see yourself out.’

‘Yes, I’m awfully independent like that, aren’t I? I’ll see you tomorrow.’
 

I drop the tea towel back onto the table and walk away, hop-scotching my way through the living room. As I do so, I keep an ear out for sounds coming from upstairs, lest his sisters be eavesdropping. In the end, I don’t hear anything other than the sound of my own footsteps. However, I know better than to take silence at face value.

Driving away isn’t sad in itself. It’s more the fact that I would’ve been content sitting at that kitchen table with Blair, talking late into the night about anything and everything. I would follow him anywhere: into the woods, into the ocean, into the depths of fiery Mordor – which is probably where he’d like to banish his father.
 

Ten years. A whole decade has passed since Blair’s life was turned upside down, twisted sideways and dumped unceremoniously into another reality. He was abandoned. Any resentment I’ve felt at my own father for his mismanagement, or at my brother for his transgressions, pales in comparison to the pain and heartache Blair’s father must’ve caused. I may not know the full story, and might never, but if Blair is still struggling to come to terms with how things turned out, then the damage is as long lasting as one would expect.

The house I just visited clearly wasn’t the most comfortable. I remember something Blair said about his mother getting ‘even more useless’ a few years ago. Obviously, things have worsened. What I do know is that everyone else in that household contributes, whether by earning money or doing chores. I can’t imagine how hard the rest of Blair’s siblings would have to work if he wasn’t able to earn what he does to cover rent and food.

It’s not that I’m more important than his family and their well-being. I just wish he could see that supporting his family and having me aren’t two mutually exclusive things.
 

Is it too naive to think Blair can keep his job and be with me? He doesn’t have to serve me. Surely my mother won’t cast him out, not when I’ll vouch for him. It’s not like our relations were one-sided. It wasn’t predatory on his part at all.
 

Logic points out that this is merely a short-term assessment. If things really go wrong – the estate not selling, the entire estate bankrupted – then I’m going to be thrust into a world of serious austerity. And, while Blair’s judgement sits uneasily with me, the truth is I’ve had ten more years of fortune than him, meaning he could very well be right about me not being able to cope with the loss of money and security.

As if a mother–daughter psychic connection exists between us, she calls me just as I turn into our street. I ignore the call, knowing I’ll be home any second. It’s only when I pull up outside the house that I realise that maybe the connection is even stronger than first thought. She’s outside, waiting for me on the footpath. Roadside conversation is apparently de rigueur for tonight. Had I known earlier, I would’ve issued tickets and pretended to be a hop-on hop-off tour bus.

I open my door only for her to come forward and shut it. Not understanding what the hell she’s up to, I wait for her next move, which is to rush over to the passenger side and slide in.

This is not what I need right now. Hilariously, it doesn’t seem to be what she needs either, because we’re both regarding the other with contempt.

‘So where are we off to, m’lady?’ I ask.

She doesn’t respond – just sits up straight in her seat and looks dead ahead with a stricken expression on her face. She may be dressed in a smart linen trouser suit, but she has no bag with her so doesn’t really intend to be driven anywhere.