Lady: Impossible (7 page)

Ugh. Why am I being so morbid?
 

I’m positively incensed at the early morning belittling. I may not be perfect, but she doesn’t have to attack me before she’s even dressed for the day. What’s particularly amazing this time is that she’s also taking action, being proactive in how she wants to fix the ‘problem’. It then dawns on me that I’m the project of the summer.
This
– finding me a husband – is what is going to keep her occupied for three months.

A matchmaker. Honestly, it’s humiliating. I’d rather try internet dating. I can see my profile now:
Millie, 28. Would rather receive spam than hear from you.

I know Alastair met a lot of his dodgy ‘friends’ on the internet. Come to think of it, the boredom theory I apply to my mother also applies to Alastair and his transgressions. He worked for the City of London after graduating, but proceeded to get very, very bored. So bored, he decided to liven things up with small pranks, like gatecrashing events while completely off his face. By the time he was my age, he had moved on to bigger enterprises, like holding stripper parties in international waters. Apparently, women gyrating on this side of the nautical boundary aren’t nearly as fun.
 

The point is I’m the good one here. I should be getting the benefit of the doubt. At least my father understands.
 

I hear footsteps coming from the corridor. Assuming it’s my mother, back to reiterate her case, I’m surprised to see Blair, already up and dressed in full livery.

Able to see that I’m wide-awake, he stops in his tracks and nods his head in greeting. The formality of it all almost has me wondering whether last night in the kitchen really happened. However, I know it to be real. I wouldn’t have this urge to smirk if it had been a dream.
 

He totally checked me out last night and he knows I
saw
.
 

I make sure not to smirk outwardly, thinking instead what a pity it is that he’s not in his pyjamas.

‘Good morning, Lady Emilia. You’re up early.’

‘Not by choice, Blair. Not by choice.’

He gives me a sympathetic look as he stands in the doorway. ‘Ah.’

‘So she’s told you all about it, has she?’
 

‘I don’t know every detail, but I’ve been told to, err, kidnap you next week. Tuesday, I believe.’

I gesture for him to enter the room. ‘I need to talk to you about that.’

He takes two steps before looking at the floor, where my discarded dress and high heels lie at his feet. My mother probably didn’t even notice the mess, being more concerned with what she had to tell me. I think the lecture would’ve been worse had she tripped over my shoes first, as it would have given her an excuse to call me irresponsible. Then again, tripping her would’ve ended the lecture before it even began.

Blair’s gaze travels to his left. That’s when I spot the item closest to the bed.

It’s my bra. I took it off before returning to bed, for comfort’s sake. Great. Now he probably thinks I’m leaving some sort of trail for him to follow.
 

‘Sorry,’ I say. At least it’s a standard white bra and not something lacier. ‘Um…’

‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ He picks up both discarded garments without further hesitation. ‘I’ll put this in the drawer here, and I’ll take your dress downstairs for pressing.’

‘Err, thanks.’ I look down at my t-shirt to check I’m not having any indecency issues, and then watch as Blair strides over to the chest of drawers. He really is composed this morning. Perhaps our first day was so confrontational that this is nothing in comparison. Or maybe he knows that he needs to be as professional as possible. ‘I guess you’ve seen hotel rooms messier than this.’

‘You don’t have anything to make a mess with. I’ll call the airport in a few hours. I saw the notes you left by the phone in the hall.’

‘You mean my hit-list and accompanying manifesto on how to get revenge on every unhelpful person I spoke to?’

He manages to crack a smile, closing the drawer and draping my dress over his arm. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to dispose of the manifesto. Your colourful language might get you in trouble with Scotland Yard.’

I pout in what I hope is a cute way. ‘I was angry.’

‘Yes, m’lady. I could tell.’ He walks over to my bedside, though he affords me more personal space than my mother did. It really should be the other way around.
 

Then again, the proximity is still dangerous. I swallow before inquiring casually, ‘Are you not overheating in that jacket?’
 

‘No, not really.’ He shrugs. ‘I can always take it off later.’

‘I didn’t mean that to sound like I’m trying to undress you, by the way.’ I sigh. ‘You’ll get used to me speaking with disclaimers attached.’

He nods. ‘Yes, m’lady.’

I clear my throat. ‘Anyway, so hopefully I’ll have my things back soon, because if not, you’ll have to drive me to the shops. Will you be busy tending to my mother today?’

‘She has a luncheon at Claridge’s. Also possibly shopping in the afternoon.’

I pull a face. ‘Oh no. She might want to join me so she can offer fashion advice.’

‘Shall I call the airport first?’

‘Please.’
 

‘And do you want to have breakfast soon?’

‘Yes, bring it up when you can.’

‘I’ll do that, m’lady.’

He turns to leave, but I remember something else I have to tell him. ‘Oh, you’ll need to iron that dress very carefully. Inside-out.’ I pause. ‘You don’t look annoyed, but I apologise for my nagging anyway.’

‘Really, it’s completely fine.’

He’s now a little more upbeat. Maybe it’s because he got to touch my bra.

He starts to walk away but then turns back to face me. ‘Actually, before I forget, I’d better give you my mobile number in case I’m not in the servants’ hall when you ring the bell. It’s a big house.’

For some reason, I’m stupidly excited about this development. It’s not even unforeseen or unprecedented – I should have had his number from the beginning. He’s the butler and I’ll need him for all sorts. And yet my heart rate is up and, if I’m not careful, I might just grin.
 

I will not grin. I will instead silently enjoy the moment and wish I could set his phone wallpaper to a photo of my legs.

‘Mobile number. That does make sense.’ I manage to keep my voice even and controlled as I reach over to the bedside table and hand my phone to him. ‘Here, type it in. I would do it but I don’t trust myself to do it properly. I have fat fingers when I’m tired. Many an embarrassing autocorrected text has been sent this way.’

‘That happens to me too.’ He takes the phone from my outstretched hand and adds himself to my contact list. ‘There we go.’

‘You should set a special ringtone for my number.’ Why the hell am I saying this? ‘That way you’ll know it’s me.’

Aha – a smirk. He places the phone back on the bedside table. ‘I might just do that.’
 

I’m not a hundred per cent sure why he’s smirking, or whether I’m supposed to return the smile. Logic says this isn’t flirting, so the most reasonable explanation is that he’s amused by my quirky suggestion.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can do for you? Should I draw the curtains?’

‘Definitely not. It’s too early for this daylight business.’ I put a hand to my forehead and pretend to act distressed, quoting a play by Ibsen. ‘The sun, the sun.’

Blair raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, Ibsen. Strange man. Strange play, too.’

I’m taken aback. ‘You’ve studied
Ghosts
?’

He seems taken aback that I’m taken aback, his brow furrowing with concern.
 

I need to take back the taken aback. ‘That sounded completely elitist. I’m so sorry.’

‘Not at all.’
 

‘I shouldn’t have quoted that, anyway. Especially as the character in question has syphilis.’
 

Yes, because everyone wants to talk about syphilis before breakfast, Millie.
 

‘Um, I’d better go and see to your sausages,’ he says, gesturing towards the door.

‘That’s probably best.’

He’s gone in a blur, leaving me to ruminate on how I get myself into these situations. Perhaps my mother really does have a point. Yesterday, it was an inappropriate sexual remark. Today, it’s an insinuation that only Oxbridge candidates are qualified to quote and understand literature.

I sigh and lie back down, sinking under the covers in embarrassment until it becomes difficult to breathe this way. I pull the duvet down to my shoulders and then reach for my phone. I need to tell Abby about these latest developments – she’ll know exactly what to say.

With a bit of autocorrect trouble, I manage to send the message:
Inadvertently showed off legs last night. He touched my bra this morning. But then I dissed his intelligence.

It’s very fragmented and mysterious, but it’s the best I can do right now. It’ll be enough to pique her interest into ringing me. However, a split second later I realise she’s probably still asleep, or was before I woke her up.
 

Sure enough, there’s no reply text or call in the next half an hour, meaning she is either asleep or simply too cranky to point out that I woke her. Whichever way, without a reply to occupy me I contemplate going back to sleep. Before I can fully commit to this idea, Blair returns with my breakfast on a tray table, and the last thing I want to do is make his job harder for him.

‘I’m awake, honest,’ I say, slowly sitting up.

‘Are you sure, m’lady?’ he asks, refraining from setting the tray table down. ‘I can always come back later.’

‘I’m okay.’ I accept the tray from him, unable to resist the scrumptious scent of sausages and hash browns he’s whipped up for me. ‘This certainly looks good.’

He bites his lip before replying. ‘I hope it tastes all right. Be sure to tell me if it doesn’t.’

‘No doubt I will,’ I say, trying to sound good-natured.

It’s a delicious spread. In addition to the cooked meal there’s toast with jams and marmalade, orange juice and coffee – a far cry from the cornflakes I have every morning in Fife.
 

‘I also have good news about your luggage.’

‘Oh?’

I can see the pride in his eyes, which suggests he’s the one responsible for this news.

‘I took a different approach to the one in your manifesto and managed to get some results.’
 

‘A different approach? You didn’t kill them with kindness, did you? I hate it when people do that. It’s so creepy.’

‘Actually, no. I simply said that Lord Silsbury himself was on the verge of calling the airline’s CEO to complain about the ridiculousness of the situation.’

I’m baffled. ‘My father doesn’t know any airline CEOs. He barely leaves the house.’

Blair shrugs. ‘They don’t know that.’

‘You can’t just drop names and get people to do things. Who cares if Lord so-and-so is cross? It’s not the nineteenth century.’

‘Oh, but Lord so-and-so is cross
and
he has connections.’

‘Fake connections.’

‘But real results.’ He’s emphatic, as if he’s in an advert.
 

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’re funny.’

‘Funny butler has confirmed your luggage should be here by midday.’

‘Well, then. That means no shopping trip.’

He nods, pretending to be gravely upset. ‘How unfortunate. I was looking forward to driving you to Harrods.’

‘Harrods? No way, Knightsbridge isn’t anywhere near far enough. To escape my mother I would’ve asked you to at least put the Thames between us.’

‘I look forward to when you next expect me to put a river between the two of you.’

I sigh happily. ‘I like it when things work out.’

‘So do I.’

There’s an extended moment where we bask in the mutual joy of defeating a passenger airline. It’s refreshing to feel at ease with him, to see his smile. Unfortunately, my iPhone cuts the moment short with a message alert.

‘You have a text.’ He takes the cloth napkin from the tray table so he can place it in my lap.
 

‘It must be Abby.’

The wise thing to do would be to check the text later, in private. But I’m too curious about what she has to say, so I simply take care to shield my screen from Blair.

I gasp when I realise who the text is from. ‘Oh, shit.’

Fat fingers, indeed. I didn’t even send the text to Abby. I sent it to the next ‘A’ name in my phone: her husband, Andrew.
 

Fuck. I was concentrating so hard on typing that I’d failed to notice his name at the top of the screen, nor did I glance at the previous messages in the thread. Talk about tunnel vision. I can use five-syllable words but I can’t correctly select the recipient.
 

‘Is everything okay?’ Blair asks.

‘Um…’

Andrew has expressed his amusement in six words:
Millie. How London has missed you.
 

He’s probably laughing his head off. Abby will be livid that he got the butler gossip before she did, not that he knows to whom I’m even referring. Andrew and I get on well, but we’re not close or anything, so I can’t help but blush from my mistake.

I shake my head. ‘I’m an idiot.’

If Blair’s intrigued, he’s doing an excellent job of not showing it. ‘Should I give you some privacy?’

My eyes are glued to the screen. ‘No, I think what I need most right now is a distraction.’

‘A distraction?’

I switch off the display and look up. ‘Tell me what you know about next week’s appointment.’

‘Well –’

He’s interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing. Andrew is calling.
 

‘Shitty McShitterson,’ I declare.

‘McShitterson? Friend from Scotland, m’lady?’

I give him a sidelong look. ‘Jokes now? You’ll be smiling permanently soon.’

The smirk returns, if only for two seconds. ‘I apologise.’

‘No need.’ I hold up my finger. ‘Give me a minute. I’ll deal with this quickly.’

And as vaguely as possible.

‘Andrew, I’m deeply sorry,’ I say straight away, holding the phone up to my cheek.