Lady: Impossible (63 page)

Of course, true anonymity would mean being out of reach of any family member, what with the issues set to define us for the foreseeable future. I know that Father is holed up in his study at the moment, council paperwork and development plans scattered over his desk. His unease over the estate is now likely magnified by the fact I’ve asked to see Mother and not him. Hopefully he’ll understand that this isn’t a deliberate slight – I honestly really want my mother. It’s an occurrence so foreign, so rare, that even I couldn’t hide my sense of surprise when I called her.

Even in the expanse of the square, it doesn’t take long to spot her when she does arrive, her speed and gait unmistakably determined. It’s like watching a raindrop dart across a windowpane, cutting across stationary drops and leaving them in its wake. The only difference is that she’s not coming into contact with anything as she blitzes through: not the couples holding hands by the fountain or the families milling about with prams, and certainly not the young folk lounging around on benches. I wave at her as she approaches, but the gesture I get in return is more of a swatting action, like an impatient, ‘of course
I know
you’re there.’ So much for a simple case of looking towards the gallery and scanning for me – maybe it's maternal instinct at work again.

Soon enough she’s at my feet, staring at me with obvious concern. Her sunglasses are pushed up and her hands already on her hips.
 

‘What’s going on? I thought you said the meeting went well.’

I shrug, hoping for a more casual start to these proceedings. It certainly doesn’t help that ‘combative’ is our default setting. Oddly enough, I get a sudden rush of delayed emotion now that she’s finally here – struck by the sense of nostalgia that comes with a parent being able to find you and that sense of safety you have when they’re around. Somewhere along the line, probably in my school days, I lost that trust in my mother. Maybe she wanted me to fend for myself, or maybe it was just a part of growing up, but I stopped asking for her comfort. In fact, I tended to blame her for not giving it to me unasked.
 

I clear my throat to give her a verbal answer. ‘It did go well. As well as could be expected, at least.’

Now both her eyebrows are raised. She’s never been one for intrigue, but here I am trying to ease into things like a fool.
 

‘Care to tell me why I’m here then? Don’t tell me we’re actually going to discuss all things verboten.’

‘Maybe I just want to spend some time with you,’ I say, a bit flippantly.

‘That’s ridiculous and you know it.’

I actually take offence. Call it sensitivity or overreacting, I fold my arms across my chest before responding.
 

‘Is it so wrong to want one’s own mother?’
 

‘Maybe if you’re D.H. Lawrence, yes.’

I hold her gaze for a few seconds before appreciating the joke. ‘Blair would’ve liked that. He’s well read, you know.’

‘It might do him good to think on what the censors did back then – banning any readings of
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
. You two have crossed a line.’

I sigh before nodding at the space next to me. ‘Sit, will you? I think this conversation requires a seat.’

‘What this conversation requires is privacy, and somewhere with more dignified seating.’

I make a point of looking around us. The square itself is busier than where we are. The steps are sparsely populated in comparison, and there isn’t anyone close enough to overhear with any true clarity.
 

‘No one’s paying attention.’

‘Regardless,’ she replies, her voice charm-school smooth, ‘one does not sit on the ground in Prada.’

I give her pastel-blue suit the once-over. ‘Pretend it’s from the high street.’

A long silence ensues, during which I think she’s going to tell me that she’s never heard of a shop called The High Street. That, or she’s going to berate me for even joking about it.

‘Not funny.’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’

After another awkward silence – this one lasting for as long as it would take her to calculate this week’s dry-cleaning bill – she deigns to sit down on the step, keeping a foot of space between us.

‘All right,’ she says, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in her new seat, even after she’s mirrored me and tucked her legs to the side. ‘Let’s get to it then. How did it really go?’
 

I recall Oliver’s conflicted yet resigned reaction, a guilt-inducing memory that prompts me to uncross my arms in an attempt to relax. ‘It’s not like I lied to you on the phone. He really did take it on the chin in the end.’

‘You know that’s not really what I’m asking,’ she replies. ‘Stop wasting my time and tell me.’

‘Okay, fine.’ I pause, steeling myself for the confession. ‘Yes, I told him there was someone else.’

She throws her hands up in the air, sighing angrily. ‘Oh, of
course
you did. Why, oh, why didn’t I stop you?’

‘Because you know it’s up to me, and I wasn’t comfortable feeding him some weak excuse.’

Massaging her temples, she casts me a withering look. ‘Do you not think it foolish? To lead him into mystery? Other than the fact he’s now going to tell Polly – who is really owed an explanation, by the way – you’re also putting Blair at risk. If he wants you, he’ll find out who his competition is and unmask him, so to speak.’

I huff. ‘Please. There is no competition.’

‘Oh, one minute you can’t read between the lines and the next you’re taking things literally. Where
did
you learn to communicate?’

‘Clearly the same place you did.’

We glare at each other momentarily, breaking eye contact in mutual self-consciousness. Another check of our surroundings reveals no obvious eavesdroppers or people with supersonic ear devices, so we continue, albeit in more tempered voices.

‘How worked up did he get? Was it mere frustration, or disappointment? Did it seem like he wanted revenge?’
 

‘
Revenge
?’ I balk at the idea. ‘He’s still interested. He has no reason to put me offside.’

‘You mustn’t underestimate pride in these situations,’ she says with a shake of the head. ‘He may not have reason to spread word of our troubles now, but once he finds out who you actually chose – assuming that even works out – he may very well want retribution for all his time wasted, not to mention the humiliation he’ll feel.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Won’t that be excellent? Financial woes made public, a daughter who covets her butler, and a son disowned and disgraced.’

‘And parents divorcing?’

‘That’s neither here nor there.’

‘No, it’s bloody everywhere if you ask me. It’s relevant.’

‘Pay attention to what I’m saying. Oliver might come back to haunt you. Though I suppose the more pressing issue is the man you actually seem to have chosen.’

My mind is struggling to keep up, still reeling from the deft way that she deflected the divorce comment. The truth is that I was serious about the relevance factor. Now I have to come at it from a different angle.
 

Thankfully she allows me some thinking time, which is generous under the circumstances. I find my angle in going back to the beginning, so to speak.
 

‘Did you not think there’d be a chance I’d be interested when you hired him?’
 

She shuffles a bit closer, laughing in incredulity as she turns towards me. ‘He doesn’t have any money. I never thought you’d want that, what with your distaste for scandal.’

‘But you like him. Saved him, even.’

I’m met with a sidelong look. ‘Blair doesn’t need saving.’
 

‘Okay, not saving per se. But he did say you hired him out of pity.’

‘He tends to read compassion as pity. Call it a by-product of his situation.’ She gazes up at the overcast sky, looking wistful. ‘Do you know his story?’

‘Some of it. I only found out yesterday.’

‘Define “some”.’

‘His father leaving. Harrow. Oxford. Polo.’

Wistful turns to pensive, but still she doesn’t look back at me, choosing instead to stare straight ahead.
 

‘I don’t doubt he’s a good man, Millie. But his responsibilities are real. He can’t look after you. I’m sure he’s acutely aware of that.’

‘I can’t stand that type of talk.’ I slap the stairs with my hand, vexed by the way she echoes his doubts. ‘You
know
he’s capable of more.’

She whips round, fire in her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you lecture him on having aspirations.’

How I wish I had something to strangle. ‘It’s not right that he’s a servant.’

‘You honestly picture yourself with him?’

‘I’d do anything to be with him. Can’t you tell I’m being serious?’

This time she’s the one who needs a breather, though I could probably do with whatever panacea instantly removes built-up tension and the urge to cry.
 

‘I suppose you are well-matched intellectually,’ she says slowly before her face turns a violent shade of red. ‘As for the physical, I do not want to know what has gone on behind my back. If your father finds out the man I hired went ahead and did God knows what with you, he will have my head.’

Desperation kicks in. ‘So, we’re not telling Father yet then? You’re going to help me to work out a way for Blair to stay?’

‘Oh, Millie, what good can come of this pursuit? I’m sure
his
view isn’t very optimistic.’

Does she know something I don’t, or is she merely speculating? ‘What do you mean?’

It takes a lot of strength not to snap at her when she rolls her eyes. I have to keep my hands on the cool cement, lest I grab her by the shoulders and scream. It’s like she thinks I don’t know him well enough to make a sound decision.

‘We’re going around in circles here. You’ve surely noticed he’s not a man who expects things to work out nicely for him. Optimism and delusion end up being one in the same. And your expectations? You carry on as if this is it – your lifelong search is over.’

‘It is.’

She has the audacity to laugh. ‘Even if I could engineer some magical arrangement, are you sure he feels the same way?’

I clench my fists and hold them to my chest. ‘I know he does. He’s just too frightened to admit it. He doesn’t want to lose his job.’

‘Yes, the ever-present security question. It’s a concern for all of us.’

‘If you could just give him a guarantee –’

‘A guarantee? In our circumstances? I said I’d sell my jewellery as severance, not facilitate more lies and scandal.’

‘But –’

‘And, speaking of financial loss, how will he fare with reliving the experience? Even if we can keep him on, we’ll still be downsizing and adjusting. Just because he’s been through it before doesn’t mean he’ll want to comfort you. His priority is supporting his family.’

She’s right. While our concerns are real, our discussion is ultimately circular because there’s no way of predicting the future.

It’s hard not to sound bitter. ‘So you think I’m completely unsuitable for him? Is there nothing redeeming about me at all?’
 

‘Don’t be so melodramatic. I don’t mean to offend you – I’m just trying to be realistic because I don’t want you getting hurt.’
 

I take her hand in mine, knowing it’s time to get to the crux of the conversation. ‘I’m asking you to help me. Please.’

Her expression shifts like a kaleidoscope. Bemusement, consternation and what I think is sympathy, all inconstant yet nonetheless real.

‘Is this helping or
aiding and abetting
?’
 

‘Mother, please. I’m begging you.’ I squeeze her hand as she continues to wrangle with her thoughts. ‘He’s still coming back today, isn’t he? You haven’t banished him permanently?’

My insides twist uncomfortably when she doesn’t answer.

‘Mother?’

‘This is impossible.’
 

That declaration is enough to wound me, and so I say the only thing that seems to make sense to me lately, hoping she will understand how serious I am. ‘But, I love him.’

The resultant pause is a lengthy one but at least she’s not laughing at me.
 

She sighs once again, resignation now creeping into her voice. ‘You honestly, truly feel that way?’

‘Yes. Now, if he just felt secure enough –’

‘Ssh.’ She raises a hand. ‘Let me think.’

It takes a minute but, when she does deliver her verdict, it’s seriously the most frightening and uplifting decision ever made in my favour.
 

‘I’ll talk to him and assure him that he should do what his heart desires. But mark my words, Millie: this is no joke. Your happiness had better be guaranteed by this, because it’s going to cause a litany of problems – whether or not you’re successful.’

‘Oh my God, thank you.’
 

I lunge towards her, enveloping her in an awkward hug, which prompts her to gingerly pat me on the back. The public display of affection must embarrass her because she immediately gets to her feet once I release her, taking a step down and checking her outfit for dirt. It’s when she turns to face me again that I see some kind of certainty about the decision. The image before me is reminiscent of a propaganda poster designed to inspire and evoke loyalty: searching eyes and a strong pose against the background of an overcast sky – she’s a one-woman campaign, with today’s causes being love and damage control.

‘The things I do for my children. The remaining one, at least.’

She’s just come through for me. I want to cry but, not wishing to embarrass her further, I offer her my best smile instead, infinitely relieved that I at least have the chance to chase Blair without fear of retribution.

I jump up, likely alarming her with my enthusiasm. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘Calm down. You don’t even know if he’ll agree.’

‘I’ll convince him.’

‘By hitting him over the head with it? Leave him be until I’ve spoken to him and, even then, you’ll need to give him space. I’ve been trying to get you married off – remember that. This is the same as proposing courtship.’