Lady: Impossible (66 page)

‘No, one is fine.’
 

I hold out my hand and try not to shake with irrational anger, barely containing the emotion as he steps forward. He must sense this, because the spoon is dropped into my hand rather gingerly, as if he’s worried it’ll be the catalyst for a more violent reaction.
 

The last time I gripped a spoon this tightly, I was in year four and competing in an egg-and-spoon race for sports day. This makes me think of eggs, which then leads to me imagining egg on my face.

I am not one to be embarrassed. If I am being rejected then I need to hear it and then wear it.

My eyes feel like they’re burning, stinging from the focus. I’m so worked up that if I don’t say something now, I will likely be found huddled in a ditch, my vocal chords damaged from screaming my lungs out.
 

‘Please do me the courtesy of rejecting me to my face rather than making me read into your confusing and erratic behaviour.’

Fuck. Four days is the apparent limit to my patience. I tried so hard to bite my tongue, and now this.
 

I look at the floor before facing a now seething Blair.
 

His features are gnarled by his fury, like someone has etched lines of rage into his face. ‘Do you think this is what I wanted? For you to go running to Mummy and then force a decision upon me?’

‘I did what I had to do. I’m trying to make you happy.’

‘And you’re responsible for my happiness, are you?’

‘Somebody has to be, and that person is obviously me, because I love you even though you keep claiming that I am the worst thing that has ever happened to you!’

I should’ve known that I’d end up saying those three little words in an argument. Damn Blair – the stupid, impossible love of my life who always has to make things difficult.
 

Moments ago I was wondering about his defences and, as it turns out, for some situations he appears to have none. He’s nearly in tears. I can see how overly bright his eyes are and the drawn way he’s holding his mouth, as if to stave off his own breakdown. He steps back, clearly ashamed, one hand on his hip and the other partially covering his face.
 

I don’t even know what all of this emotion is about, and it’s this exact need to know that draws me to lean towards him involuntarily, although my feet remain rooted in place. A stabbing pain registers – I’m digging my nails into my palms to fight off the aching urge to embrace him – the spoon in my right hand now held so tightly that I’m afraid it’ll leave a permanent indentation.

Somehow, I’m able to shift away so I’m upright again and motionless. It’s difficult, but I know that he’s unlikely to appreciate my hanging on to him right now. Besides, I shouldn’t confuse him by appearing so needy. He has to tell me what he’s thinking.
 

He drops his hand. For a moment he simply stares at me, first blankly and then with a severity I can’t quite read. It’s an intensity that drives me to the brink of panic, where I’m held back only by my own confusion. Surely he can see the desperation on my face… unless he’s sick of watching me pine for him and no longer wants to admit what he sees. As if confirming my fears, he closes his eyes, taking the time to compose himself and only reopening them when his breathing has steadied a fraction.
 

‘Can I at least have until tomorrow to say those words back to you?’ he asks, his voice catching. He shakes his head, adamant. ‘I don’t want to do it in this uniform.’

The relief I feel is so profound it almost knocks me sideways. He loves me. He just can’t say it while on the job. Finally, it dawns on me just how much of this has to do with pride. The livery isn’t merely clothing, it’s everything to do with why he doesn’t think himself worthy – and of me, of all people. He doesn’t seem to see how inadequate I am when measured against him, or perhaps he does but doesn’t think it outweighs his circumstances.

‘Yes, that’s fine. Tomorrow’s fine.’

He doesn’t even need to say it now. I know he loves me and that’s enough.
 

Unsure as to whether it’s okay to approach him, I wait a few seconds before coming up to him and gently touching his flushed cheeks with the backs of my fingers. When he doesn’t flinch, I move my hand to his upper arm, just wanting to hold onto him as confirmation that he’s real.
 

He shakes his head, still mortified. ‘So embarrassing.’

‘Don’t even worry about it.’ I drop my hand to his chest, running my fingers over the fabric of his waistcoat. Being able to touch him again gives me butterflies. ‘At least you weren’t the one asking for a utensil you didn’t actually need.’
 

He manages a small laugh. ‘I suppose.’

I think it’s his laughter that sets it off, because suddenly the gravity of the moment seems to hit us both. For me, at least, it’s like a blunt blow to the stomach, essentially the same as being winded. Feeling that I’m about to double over or fall backwards, I instinctively latch on to the lower part of Blair’s lapel, making him both the impact and the anchor. How odd it is, to be falling and grounded at the same time.

Blair gawks at me while I have this reaction, a shock I initially put down to the sound of his own mirth.
 

I steady myself. ‘Can I kiss you or does that have to wait too?’

It really should be his decision, as I’m aiming for whatever he’s comfortable with, but I find myself pleading with my eyes. I love him so much and was so scared of losing him that I honestly can’t help myself.
 

‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,’ he says, voice low and raw, proving I didn’t really have to convince him at all.
 

I throw my arms around his neck as he leans down towards me and tilts my head to receive the kiss, certain that nothing in my life has felt as right as this. He’s gentle at first, his lips hesitant and slow against mine. Then, as if realising that I really do belong to him, he kisses me with more vigour, threading his fingers through my hair before grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me even closer. It’s so intense that I forget where I am, even stumbling from how giddy I feel. A sudden crash eventually prompts us to pull away from each other – I’ve overturned the sugar pot. Blair releases his hold on me and laughs as I study my sugar-covered hand in amazement. I must’ve put it down on the table to steady myself.
 

Is my other hand also doing things without me knowing?

Oh. That hand is holding a spoon. How baffling it is to not be aware of one’s limbs. I suspect the left hand is relieved that the right hand has a utensil that can be used to shovel all the sugar back into the pot – very lucky, indeed.

‘Are you all right?’ Blair asks, smiling. ‘I got a little carried away there. Overwhelmed you, it seems.’

Breathless, I do little more than raise an eyebrow at him while I shake off the remainder of the sugar. I suppose that’s the benefit of his supposed indifference – when he does show passion, I’m bowled over by the contrast.

‘Speechless, are we?’ He chuckles, confidence creeping back into his demeanour. ‘Interesting.’

I huff, dramatically so. ‘Don’t get used to it.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

We smile at each other, or should I say ‘smirk’ at one other, in what I’d call mutual smugness. It’s a satisfaction I could definitely get used to, but even with our newfound confidence, it soon becomes clear that he’s conscious of the fact we’re not alone in the house and that I still have company outside. His eyes cast upwards, not at God, it seems, but the omniscient Mother on the first floor.

Hopefully there will be a time when we won’t have to worry about what others think or whether one of us is on duty. I want us to be free to be, well, just us. One step at a time, though. Rome wasn’t built in a day – though, come to think of it, maybe they all had hands like mine: knocking over things with one and then having to rebuild them with the other.
 

‘Anyway,’ Blair begins, rubbing my lip gloss from his mouth and chin. ‘I’d better pull myself together.’

I wrap my arms around him for a final embrace before leaving, pure happiness overwhelming me when he holds me and kisses the top of my head. I’m so giddy I feel like we could lift off the ground and fly away.
 

‘I’m more frightened of you than you are of me,’ he says.
 

I look up. ‘So I should consider you a wild bear or something?’
 

‘I don’t know about that. You’re the one with the claws.’

I realise I’m probably hugging him in the style of a wild bear. Trying to act nonchalant, I break the embrace and take a step back. ‘Sorry.’ Then I shrug, basking in the fact that he’s happy. ‘No, not sorry. Just pretending to be.’

He smiles before nodding at my hand and mocking me. ‘You’re still holding that, you know.’

Further inspection reveals that the melon spoon is still in my hand. I was so caught up in everything, I forgot again. ‘Oh, right.’ I swing my arms by my sides and attempt to act unperturbed. ‘I, uh, don’t suppose you’ll appreciate being told to put this away?’

Incredulous, he snorts and jovially mouths the words ‘fuck off’.

I maintain my deadpan expression, which isn’t difficult considering I’m not actually trying to be funny. ‘No, I’m serious. I don’t know where it goes.’

He turns back to the table, tending to the ice bucket. ‘Uh huh.’

‘No, I’m really not joking.’ I laugh boisterously and hold the spoon up, realising how stupid I must sound. ‘I don’t know which drawer it is.’

‘Take your ice bucket and go, Lady Emilia.’ He hands me the bucket, now free to enjoy the household repartee. ‘Drinking at teatime. Ridiculous.’

‘You stressed me out.’
 

He points at the door, snapping his fingers for good measure. ‘Key word in that sentence being “out”.’

‘Fine, I shall take my leave,’ I say, borrowing a phrase from my mother. I use the spoon as a drumstick as I walk out, banging the side of the bucket and occasionally tapping the bottle for variation. It’s my own victory anthem, even though the victory is shared.
 

He calls after me as I walk out. ‘I can hear you damaging the silverware.’

I whip around in the doorway, giving him a wink. ‘In some cultures this kind of drumming is considered a mating call.’

Not to be outdone, he arches an eyebrow. ‘Well, this is Great Britain, so I suggest you stop drumming and wait patiently for tomorrow, when your so-called suitor will be free to fully accept your advances.’

Knowing we’re going to be okay, I grin and then skip over to the stairs, forgoing my drumming in favour of giggling. I can only hope it sounds a tad more musical to his ears.
 

It’s an amazing thing, being happy. We all really ought to try it more often.
 

Chapter 32:

When I wake the next morning, I ask myself whether I feel like a different person. After all, it’s the first time in years that I’m waking up as someone’s significant other, and this is hands down the most serious I’ve been about anyone. While my body may feel the same, a hitherto undisturbed part of my consciousness has switched on. No longer dormant, it’s telling me I need to take the other person into account when it comes to every thing I do. Never mind that I technically still awoke alone – Blair would be here if he could, and I’m fully aware of that.
 

Of course, the next question I ask myself is what time is it exactly? As it turns out, my excitement over my newfound status has prompted me to wake up at quarter past five. Considering that Blair is most likely asleep and therefore not in a position to spend time with me, this is far too early. If I got up, I would probably just make tea and watch the early morning news, which, with only ten days to go to the opening ceremony, is all pre-Olympics coverage at the moment. The patriotic bones in my body tell me this is a good thing, an inspiration for all other pursuits, but the weaker bones say that it will just make me feel unfit and unaccomplished in comparison.
 

In the end, I decide to get out of bed anyway, because surely it’ll only be another hour or so until Blair wakes up. The countdown spurs me on, telling me that, no, I am not groggy or disoriented. However, this resolve is immediately tested when I reach the hallway, where I spy the open door of the green bedroom. On first glance my father is nowhere in sight, though his suitcase sits closed and locked on the suitcase stand. On second glance he still doesn’t appear, but the suitcase is now a bit blurry. On third glance, I’m able to confirm that he’s definitely not present, so I hurry downstairs, not recalling being told that he was leaving early.

It takes doing a full circuit of the ground floor before I eventually find him in the conservatory, a place that’s far too bright with morning light for me. It takes another triple-check for me to believe what I’m seeing, but he really is fully dressed and sitting on the settee, a fresh copy of
The Daily Telegraph
already in hand.
 

‘What are you doing down here?’ I ask, walking over to him.

He lowers the newspaper and greets me with a warm smile, probably finding my palm tree pyjamas amusing. ‘Millie. I didn’t wake you earlier, did I? I tried not to make too much noise.’

I plop down next to him, bringing my legs up so I can sit cross-legged. ‘No, I just got up early for some reason. Father–daughter psychic connection, perhaps.’
 

It’s a bit of a white lie, but I can hardly offer him an answer involving Blair. Besides, if Mother and I can have such a connection, then surely Father and I can.

He laughs quietly. ‘Quite possibly.’

‘So why are you up so early? I thought your train wasn’t until ten.’

His face falls as if someone has physically pulled down his expression, his laughter lines now just looking haggard. ‘I’m sorry, dear. I was going to tell you after the fact. Saw no point in waking you late last night with the change of plan.’

I’m instantly nervous. What is it about apologies from parents that inspire such attacks of nerves? ‘Change of plan?’