Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  Shit. He’s my butler, albeit a butler in a modern context. I cannot think of him in this way. I try to snap out of it, and luckily I’m able to just before he looks over at me.

  He goes wide-eyed. ‘Err, good evening, Lady Emilia.’

  It’s the damn t-shirt. I should’ve worn shorts, or tights at the very least.

  I keep my distance, standing just inside the doorway so I’m at least ten feet away from him. But somehow the deliberateness of the space between us only makes things more awkward, like there’s a restraining order in place. Next thing I know, I’ll be whipping out a tape measure to see how much closer I can get before I’m in breach.

  ‘Um, hello.’ I tug on my t-shirt, feeling self-conscious. ‘Sorry about the get-up – luggage won’t be delivered until tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, right. Are you here for food? You must be hungry.’

  ‘That’s what I get for skipping dinner.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘And lunch.’

  It’s bizarre. Even though we’re both in pyjamas, the atmosphere is still formal. I wonder what he sounds like when he’s talking to his friends, or to anyone he doesn’t work for. I doubt he’ll ever speak to me casually, but it would be interesting to hear nonetheless.

  ‘I can reheat the pasta, or make you some toast with jam,’ he says. ‘Are you very hungry?’

  The Royal Mail van revs up in reply. Blair’s eyes move down to rest on my t-shirt and, although I’m tired, I swear his gaze lingers there longer than it should.

  I’m probably imagining things. It’s the hunger.

  ‘Very, very hungry. Maybe I’ll have a slice of buttered toast with the pasta. But I’ll do it all myself.’

  I almost forgot that I was supposed to do it on my own. Being around him is starting to induce memory loss.

  He manages to smile politely. ‘No, I’ll take care of it, m’lady.’

  I’m about to reply when he quickly glances at my bare legs.

  He’ll take care of ‘it’, will he? Interesting.

  Then again, maybe he’s only checking me out to remind me of what I was doing to him. Either that, or I really am imagining things – he could’ve been glancing at the floor. It might need mopping or something.

  Where am I, again?

  The kitchen. Right.

  I shake my head. ‘No, my mother specifically said I should do it myself. Plus, you have other things to do. Like eat supper yourself.’

  He nods at the stove. ‘Oh, I’m only making two-minute noodles. It’s almost done. I was about to go to bed but realised I needed a snack.’

  ‘Still, you’re off duty.’ I gesture to his clothing. ‘No livery.’

  There’s that seemingly forced smile again. ‘Take enough jobs away from me and I’ll be redundant.’

  I’m nervous we’re going to venture into hostile territory again, so I acquiesce. ‘Okay, you can do it, but only if you stop calling me “m’lady”. It’s too late for that kind of stiffness.’ I correct myself when he appears to be a little bemused. ‘Stiff formalities. No other kinds of stiffness.’

  Excellent. I’m sure this is really helping him to forget this morning’s incident.

  He still seems slightly bewildered as he takes the saucepan off the boil and puts a new pan on the stove. ‘Um, do you want me to set the dining table, or should I bring a tray up to your room?’

  No, I will not allow him in my room at this hour. No boys allowed. It is a boy-free-zone, the opposite of the boy band Boyzone. Although, by that logic, it would mean five men who aren’t Ronan Keating and his pals, so really I’m putting my hand up for five appealing men to enter my room. That’s not what I want either.

  Oh my God. I need to say something. Blair is looking at me funny.

  ‘Uh…’ Where should I eat? ‘You know, I could eat here at the counter, standing up. Just, you know, shove it all in my mouth.’

  Wow, dirty. So, so embarrassing.

  ‘Okay then,’ he says slowly.

  See? Even he thought it was dirty.

  ‘Would that be weird if I ate here? Am I barging in on your supper?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll eat in the hall.’

  Of course. Why would we eat together? That’s stupid. I practically sexually harassed him today. The imaginary restraining order needs to be made real.

  In the meantime, there’s nothing for me to do while he reheats the pasta, so I grab the nearby noodle packet and start reading it as if it’s a classic. Chicken Flavour Instant Noodles, the unbranded packet says. The picture on the front looks absolutely unappetising, but I’m curious as to what it tastes like. Either way, I’m hoping this isn’t something Blair has for dinner every day. My mother said he has energy, but I’m not sure this has any nutritional value. I can only hope he has fruit and protein bars in his room.

  ‘Are these noodles nice?’ I ask.

  ‘Nice enough.’

  I search for a price tag on the packet, but there isn’t one. ‘We are paying you enough, aren’t we? Is my mother not letting you eat what’s in the pantry?’

  He’s defensive again. ‘I like instant noodles.’

  ‘Okay, I was just checking,’ I say gingerly.

  It’s probably best if I wait in the corner and stare at the wall. I can’t get into trouble doing that.

  I’m actually about to take a few steps back when he turns to me and sighs heavily, his blue eyes flashing with regret.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make those calls for you. I said I would and I didn’t.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. As I’m sure you know, I don’t have a problem telling it like it is. I don’t think they’ll be losing my luggage ever again.’

  ‘Still, I should’ve taken care of it.’

  He shakes his head as if he’s chastising himself, and then turns his attention back to the pasta. It must be a duty thing. Personally, I think it’s fair to shirk some duties if your employer is being unreasonable, though that kind of reasoning probably doesn’t hold up in court, or in any other tribunal, for that matter.

  He continues, his eyes still on the pan. ‘Anyway, I’m supposed to ask for your breakfast preferences. What time do you normally eat?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Eight?’

  ‘And will you be coming down to eat, or should I bring it up to your room?’

  While this exchange still feels rather stilted, I go along with the inquisition, especially now that I know that dismissing his tasks only irritates him.

  ‘Well, I usually want to avoid my mother that early in the morning, so I suppose you’ll have to bring it up to my room.’

  Never mind that he’s not a maid and that my father would not approve of a butler in my room – a little rule-bending is sometimes necessary.

  ‘And what do you usually like to eat?’

  ‘I eat a lot in the morning. Anything is fine. Bacon. Sausages. Eggs. Toast. Muesli. Whatever. I’ll need coffee, though, and maybe orange juice as well.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I laugh awkwardly. ‘We should steal some of those cards hotels make you fill in when you need to order breakfast. I could hang it on my door.’

  ‘Hmm. And do you take a newspaper in the morning?’

  ‘No, I’ll just read the news later, online.’

  ‘And what are your plans for tomorrow?’

  Jesus, this is like playing twenty questions. ‘I have no idea. If my luggage doesn’t arrive, then I guess I’ll have to go shopping. Can’t wear this all day.’

  Only now does he look up, curious. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘The green bedroom,’ I declare in a pompous voice. ‘Also known as Alastair’s room. Or, it was his room. Did my mother tell you about him?’

  ‘She mentioned something about ‘pulling an Alastair’ being a thing. And something about a Pillington.’

  ‘Oh, that guy.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  I come closer, leaning on the counter next to the stove. ‘The Sixth Baron Pillington is an example of what happens when you th
row away your title for a little bit of fun. Never one for tradition, he decided to leave his countryside manor for a life of debauchery. Rumour has it he runs a high-end brothel.’

  As always with this story, the reaction is instant. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all a little unsavoury.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Well, as I’m usually told these stories by old women at society events, I’d rather not hear it put any other way.’

  He laughs heartily. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile properly. It gives me butterflies, but I quickly banish them before they make me giddy. Besides, only now do I realise that I just ran the risk of sexualising our interactions yet again, though I did sanitise the story a fair bit.

  I continue. ‘Anyway, the annoying thing is that his name is also Alastair, so sometimes there are comparisons. Of course, the Fifth Baron disentailed that Alastair, so he didn’t inherit anything – apart from the “Baron” title, of course. And that’s what’s going to happen to my brother when my father passes away: title, but no estate to go with it.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll tell you about my brother another time, when my stomach isn’t ready to eat itself.’

  ‘Well, this is done now.’ He turns off the stove and begins to spoon the steaming pasta into a large bowl for me.

  ‘Oh, good.’

  When he steps away to find a fork, I peer into the saucepan of instant noodles behind me. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to look this yellow. I ought to poke it to see if its contents are alive.

  He hands me a fork. ‘You can try some if you want, m’lady, but I think the pasta will be tastier.’

  I need to take charge of myself. He’s handing me cutlery, not inviting me to join him in a sauna.

  Damn steam.

  ‘Maybe another time then,’ I finally say. I don’t bother to correct the return to formality. It’s a reminder I need right now.

  Unable to wait for him to vacate the kitchen, I start eating over the counter while he makes my toast. The thing about being ravenous is that it makes anything taste twenty times better. At lunchtime this would’ve been plain old spaghetti, but now I’m tucking in eagerly, savouring each mouthful.

  It’s only when I let out an involuntary moan of satisfaction that I realise, to my embarrassment, just how much I’m outwardly enjoying the dish too. Luckily, Blair finds it amusing, chuckling as he sets down my plate of toast on the counter. Only then does he transfer his own meal into a bowl, whistling as he does so.

  ‘I’ll be in the hall if you need me,’ he says, walking past me on his way out.

  ‘Wait!’

  He turns around. ‘Yes, m’lady?’

  I want to apologise again for today, for being so direct and inappropriate… But then I remember what he said about moving on. I should leave it be, not ruin the small amount of goodwill I just gained, and focus instead on my future behaviour.

  He raises an eyebrow when I don’t say anything. ‘You needed something?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Thanks for this.’ I raise the bowl and wave my fork awkwardly.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He steps back into the kitchen almost as soon as he exits.

  ‘Your shoes are here,’ he says, mildly surprised, ‘I almost tripped over them.’

  Oh no. It’s an obvious reminder of our earlier conversation.

  I cringe. ‘Sorry, they weren’t meant to be a booby trap.’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just shocked. I’ll bring them up to your room tomorrow, if you’d like, or can store them in the hall cupboard?’

  I shrug. ‘I can probably just wear them now.’ I put the food down on the counter and bound over to the doorway. ‘I’m not taking tasks away from you. It was my own fault that they were left here.’

  ‘I see.’

  I slip them on quickly and return to my station at the counter, thinking he’ll leave for the servants’ hall without another word. But Blair lingers for a moment, and at first I have no idea why. Then the proverbial penny drops: I’m wearing a t-shirt and high heels. It doesn’t matter in the slightest what motif is on the t-shirt. Blair is mesmerised by the sight of my legs.

  It’s only a brief moment, but it’s more obvious than the previous couple of times I thought he was looking. And it’s hard not to feel a tiny sense of triumph on this occasion, especially when he comes out of his daze and averts his eyes.

  It’s unclear whether or not he knows that I noticed. The sensible thing to do would be to let it go. However, I am not sensible, and can’t help but make a quick, subtle dig.

  ‘I’m not trying to seduce you, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ I say casually as he motions to leave. ‘It just saves me carrying them.’

  He steps back into the room, his eyes briefly revealing his irritation. Still, he manages to reply evenly. ‘I wasn’t thinking along those lines, m’lady. I’ll be in the servants’ hall if you need me.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I don’t know what’s got into me. It’s like I want him to admit that he was looking. Maybe it’s an ego thing, or maybe I need to point out that his behaviour now is just as inappropriate as mine was earlier – okay, perhaps not quite that bad – but, either way, I want a confession.

  Blair, it seems, can sense this, and reacts by acting as indifferently and professionally as possible. He adjusts his expression to one of compliance and patience – one that’s hard to attack. So, even though he’s acting deferentially, the mood has once again turned combative. There’s a mind game going on, and I don’t think either party wants to lose.

  I decide to drop the issue for the sake of the working relationship. As long as he knows I know he was looking, it should be enough to make my point. In fact, it’d be better to forget all about it so I don’t start jumping around, exclaiming ‘Aha! Gotcha!’ while making gun gestures like a cowboy.

  ‘I think I’ll have sausages and hash browns tomorrow,’ I say brightly. It’s a directive with a smile. A smug one.

  He nods, unruffled. ‘Duly noted, m’lady.’

  He walks off, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I want to start giggling, but it wouldn’t exactly be mature to do so. Smiling to myself for an extended period of time is almost just as bad, if not creepier, so I try not to do that either.

  I finish eating my pasta and toast and, when I’m finished, I leave the dirty dishes by the sink for Blair to clean. I vow to treat him nicely, letting him have the tasks he wants. Everything should be nice and happy, not tense at all.

  ‘Nice’. It’s such a generic word sometimes, and arguably boring compared with ‘naughty’. It was, however, nice that the scores were evened out a little tonight. Plus, it turns out that perhaps I’m not the only one having naughty thoughts in this house.

  ***

  It’s now half past four in the morning. And I can’t sleep.

  Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with my long nap in the evening, my late-night carb-loading or the result of my glee over the Blair situation. In fact, it’s actually the opposite. I’m now focused on the negatives again, worrying about his presence for the reasons I originally identified.

  Regardless of how awkward I feel, I’m going to have to tell my father about this strange situation as part of my duty to him. This is his house, and whatever money my mother is using is also likely to be his. Why would she use her own inheritance when she blames him for the state of things?

  It’s true that he may have had some inkling that she was going to hire someone, as she didn’t bring any of the estate’s staff with her (her long-suffering lady’s maid retired two years ago). But Father wouldn’t have expected her to employ such a young guy, and he definitely wouldn’t want her entertaining people in this house – not if they’re going to see the butler and gossip accordingly.

  It’s circular, really. He doesn’t like leaving the estate, which in turn pisses her off, prompting her to act out in ways that could embarrass the family name, thereby giving him eve
n less incentive to be social. In an ideal world, they would sit down and sort out their issues, preferably before they spend their autumn years in a state of full-on hostility. At this rate, Silsbury Hall will need its very own demilitarised zone by the end of the decade (because by that stage he’ll have banned her from the London house).

  Of course, it’s not that easy, not when the issues are long-term. The two of them have always butted heads to some extent. They married too quickly, before either of them discovered how irritating the other could be. My father is headstrong and traditional and, while my mother is too, her stubbornness has an irrationality to it that is hard to handle. Eventually, he learnt not to take her demands seriously, as she would always agree with him in the end – after she tired of the spectacle and attention that came from kicking up a fuss.

  I’m no psychologist, but just want some sort of truce and an acceptance on her part that times have changed. She could have the time of her life now, if she’d just change her attitude a little. Trying to relive your heyday is one thing. Making the most of now is another. It’s too bad that I can’t psychoanalyse her to her face, for fear she’ll lash out. One day, I might snap and attempt to serve up a reality check, but until then I’ll hold my tongue.

  The money issue in our family is also a factor to consider. Father and I converse frequently about the estate’s finances. For the last seventy years, it’s run comfortably off the fortune of the Sixth Earl, a stroke of luck we appreciate to this day. My father’s father – the Seventh Earl – thought things so good that he didn’t see the point in encouraging his son to have his own career. However, times are tougher these days, so when I returned to Silsbury Hall after the spring semester, we decided to think about restructuring the way we ran the place. Frankly, it’s not ideal to have more people on our payroll, not when the property’s upkeep expenses are so high. The public access does bring in money, but it also requires us to spend it, so the profit margins are tighter than one would think. Plus, when it comes to filming requests, there are only so many commercials one can set at a manor house. The last lot filmed an ad for a type of mustard that Jane Austen would’ve apparently liked (how woefully fanciful).