Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  Come to think of it, I have no idea how Zen gardens are supposed to work.

  ‘How would you describe yourself, Millie?’

  ‘Uh. Direct.’

  ‘Ah, there has to be more than that.’

  I try to stop myself from fidgeting and start to focus. ‘Sharp in a good way? I’m not an idiot, and I don’t like being treated like one.’

  More nodding. ‘You’d want a man who respects you?’

  ‘Yes. But he can’t be a pushover, either. Weak men won’t do. Not interested.’

  ‘How are you on compromising? I see you’re annoyed that your new butler refuses to call you Millie.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  ‘Are you trying to say things always have to be my way? That I’m a control freak? I can’t really be a control freak when I have to defer to my parents on certain matters. They are my source of income, after all.’

  ‘Do you resent that? How will you be with a man who commands a sizeable income but wishes to retain full control over that income?’

  I take a moment to think about this. ‘Oh my God. I’m a gold-digger.’

  ‘Gold-digger isn’t the right word. You’re looking for someone who wants to share their income and enjoy their wealth with you.’

  ‘That’s the gloss again, isn’t it?’

  She chuckles. ‘I think you and I are going to work well together.’

  ‘But I’m still –’ I stop, unsure how to say that I’m unprepared for this kind of humiliation, ‘not sure about this whole thing.’

  Polly lets me take a sip of tea and, thankfully, doesn’t stare at me, waiting until I’m ready to talk again. Instead, she leans back in her chair and swivels slightly to her right. There’s such an air of confidence about her, it’s like she’s posing for a portrait.

  ‘Are you going to be taking my picture today?’ I ask.

  She swivels back into position, a seamless transition. ‘The way we match people isn’t akin to internet dating, those sorts of profiles. If left to their own devices, sometimes people miss out on what’s actually right for them.’

  ‘I see. So you’re the arbiter of who’s right for me?’

  ‘I’m very good at what I do,’ she says, gesturing with her hand. ‘If you choose to trust me, you will be rewarded. You’re a fine candidate, the type of person for whom I want to find a match. You’re not flighty. You’re not outright demanding a billionaire. That tells me something.’

  I mull over her sales pitch, drinking more tea while I’m at it. ‘I think I want you to be my counsellor,’ I finally say. ‘Seriously.’

  She obviously reads people for a living. Plus, she’s got that whole bullshitting thing down, which essentially means she’s armed with a wealth of motivating statements and isn’t afraid to use them.

  ‘Millie, you don’t need a counsellor. This process will help you define what it is you’re looking for and, in turn, will help you to better understand yourself.’

  ‘Wow. And to think I used to scoff at your ads whenever I saw them in Tatler.’

  ‘Good magazine, good magazine.’

  We spend twenty more minutes talking about my life, my history, and slowly I become more comfortable with the whole thing. I mean, it’s still embarrassing, but the overall goal becomes a degree more acceptable. On some level, I really have to understand that it’s a means to an end. It may not be the ideal way to meet my future husband, but if I do end up meeting him, it’ll be the ultimate payoff.

  Not payoff as in money only. Obviously, I wouldn’t be at this particular matchmaking service if prestige and standing weren’t factors, but money cannot be the deciding factor, something that can tip an average man into the ‘suitable’ category. I want to want my husband. I have no idea how those supermodels can forgive an eighty-year-old’s libido and age spots, all for a slab of cash and more jewellery than they can wear in a lifetime. That, to me, is madness. Or, you know, prostitution.

  In the end, I agree to meet with Polly again next week to work out more specifics, and then hopefully after that she can officially start the search. She claims to have a few men in mind already – it helps tremendously that I’m pretty, apparently. Rich, attractive men can afford to be particular about that.

  Speaking of attractive men, as I walk from the plush offices towards the car, I can’t help but contemplate whether dating will solve my Blair problem. Surely it will force me to pay attention to someone who wants the attention or, more specifically, someone willing to admit that they want the attention. On the way here, each of us kept trying to look at the other in the rearview mirror, without letting on. Farcical really – I’m still not sure what his goal was – did he want to look at me, or did he want to catch me looking at him?

  For my part, I was trying to gauge his reaction to my presence. The back and forth wasn’t easy, though. My eyes haven’t been so tired since the time I played Tetris for three hours straight when I was a child. All those parts continually in need of being joined with other parts…

  Yes, I can even make arcade games dirty. I should tell Polly about this talent of mine.

  I approach the car with caution, slowing my walking pace while not trying to look outwardly shifty. However, this probably makes me look like some sort of well-dressed car thief, so I dispense with the caution and stride over as I would normally. There’s something to be said about the wartime slogan ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.

  I have no time to figure out what to say, because Blair gets out of the vehicle and quickly meets me on the footpath. There’s something about him that now screams ‘terrified’ – he’s gone as white as anything and he seems reluctant to meet my gaze, though he does offer me a perfunctory nod before opening the door. His entire demeanour rankles me. This is just an ongoing stupid tiff, yet he’s acting as if I’m about to fire him.

  Oh. Maybe he does think that. He’s been keeping it together for the past several days, and now maybe it’s too much for him.

  I stand on the other side of the open door and look at him face-to-face. ‘Right, let’s have a sit-down chat. You’re scaring me with this whole petrified vibe of yours.’

  He sighs, and it must be frustration that makes him rake his long fingers through his hair. ‘I wish I could tell you how sorry I am about the other night.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m suggesting this chat.’ I step out of the way so he can close the door. ‘Come on, lock the car and follow me. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.’

  He quirks his lips, then nods. ‘All right.’ The correction quickly follows. ‘I mean, yes, m’lady.’

  I’m irked by his switch to deferential. ‘Oh my God, I hate weak men.’

  ‘I’m not weak,’ he snaps, slamming the door. ‘I’m your employee.’

  ‘Welcome back, Blair. I knew you were in there somewhere.’

  He locks the car and then raises an eyebrow. ‘Fine, lead the way, Emilia.’

  He’s hot when he’s angry. This is not the point I’m supposed to be taking away from the moment, I know, but I can’t help it. It makes me wish he’d slam me against the car and go for it.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  I’m not sure whether it’s a conscious decision on his part, but he walks next to me rather than behind me. I guess it would look odd otherwise – a man in a sharp suit following a lady down the street. It would be no less creepy than my car thief impression.

  In a rare instance of synchronicity, we arrive at the coffee shop side by side. On peering through the door before opening it, I realise the place is busier than I would’ve liked. It’s medium-sized, not exactly one of those hole-in-the-wall joints where everyone is packed in tightly and, guessing by the string of Union Jacks up in the window, it could be a bit of a tourist haunt too, though the flags may just be a sign of pre-Olympic patriotism. Still, it’ll have to do, and certainly beats having a domestic on the street.

  Blair and I don’t say a word to each other as th
e waitress seats us at our table – for two, in the far corner – which is as private as I could’ve hoped for. As soon as the waitress walks away to get us some water, Blair leans forward and puts his hands on the table as if he’s at a lectern. There’s an eagerness about him now, like he wants this dreaded conversation to be over and done with.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to seduce you the other night,’ he says, voice lowered a fraction so no one overhears.

  ‘Right, you came to offer an olive branch and got distracted. I understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you do. I wasn’t trying to be a hypocrite.’

  ‘Well, as long as you weren’t trying.’

  He’s not impressed. ‘It’s not the same. You’re constantly staring at me with this hungry look in your eyes. I only slipped up for a second or two.’

  ‘Oh, so outside those two seconds you have no sexual interest in me whatsoever?’

  ‘You sound awfully offended.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  The waitress returns with the water. She looks about Polly’s age, although she is nowhere near as thin or equipped with same level of insight when it comes to people. She completely fails to pick up the tension between Blair and me, her saccharine smile making me want to whack her over the head with one of the laminated menus.

  ‘I just want to say, you two are a gorgeous couple,’ she gushes, her hand over her heart. ‘Aw, bless.’

  I laugh airily. ‘Why, thank you.’

  Blair glares at me. I don’t care. It’s better than admitting I’m having a coffee with my butler so that we can thrash out our sexual-tension issues.

  ‘What can I get you guys?’

  ‘I’ll have an iced latte.’ I flutter my eyelashes at Blair. ‘What will you have, sweetheart?’

  ‘Tea for one. Darjeeling.’

  Again, the waitress is oblivious to Blair’s displeasure. He changes tack, adopting the same ridiculous act as me. ‘Also, can we get a ham and cheese sandwich, a Cornish pasty and a slice of apple cake too?’ He puts a hand to his mouth and conspiratorially whispers, ‘She’s hungry all the time now. It’s the pregnancy.’

  ‘Oh, congratulations,’ she says to me. ‘I thought you were glowing.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I press my lips into a firm line. ‘That’s what I do now: glow.’

  She collects the menus, still chuffed about my ‘pregnancy’. ‘I’ll get you a slice of cake on the house. I tell you, that’s what I ate all day when I was pregnant with my first son. Oh, he was a pain to push out. I was in labour for forty hours! But it was worth it.’

  I give her the thumbs up. ‘Tops.’

  All wistful, she finally heads for the kitchen, leaving me to deal with my ‘impregnator’.

  ‘Knocked me up already, have you?’

  He’s unapologetic. ‘You started the charade.’

  I tap my finger on my lips. ‘I just can’t remember when you had your way with me. It must’ve been very quick.’

  ‘Oh, is that why you keep looking at me like you want more?’

  I guffaw, appreciating his wit. ‘You got me there.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad some of this is good for a laugh.’ He shakes his head. ‘Are you going to tell your mother?

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About this.’

  ‘What? You honestly think I’m going to have you fired because we’re taking turns at being inappropriate with each other? Nothing has actually happened.’

  His eyebrows knit together. ‘It’s not as funny for me as it is for you. This is my livelihood. I need this job, this place to stay.’

  A thought comes to mind. ‘Are you freaking out because you have a girlfriend? I simply assumed you didn’t.’

  ‘No, that’s not it at all. Nor would it be any of your business if I did.’

  He’s right. It isn’t any of my business, but I can’t help but feel relieved that he doesn’t.

  ‘Look, I’m not going to have you fired. We just need to find a way to coexist, that’s all.’ I pause. ‘Do you think it’s possible?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘Stop acting like this is a one-sided problem.’

  ‘It’s more on your side than it is on mine. You’re so easy to read. Every time you’re thinking of doing God-knows-what with me, I can tell. Come on, I’m a guy. You’re setting me up for failure.’

  ‘Setting you up for failure? Are men really at the behest of their cocks?’

  ‘Don’t be so crude.’

  ‘Don’t blame me for whatever ran through your head in the two seconds you noticed me.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘It’s because I’m your boss, right? It makes me the predator, even though your thoughts may be just as dirty as mine, if not more.’

  ‘If anything was to happen, it wouldn’t be down to me.’

  I laugh. I don’t believe him. He really is a piece of work. ‘What is that supposed to mean? That I can proposition you but you can’t proposition me? That you’ll have to take me up on any offer, lest I fire you for refusing?’

  He raises his hands in surrender. ‘I shouldn’t have brought up the hypothetical.’

  ‘No, I think not.’

  We engage in a little staring contest before breaking gazes and trying for nonchalance instead. Blair removes his jacket and takes out his shopping list and a pen. I busy myself with my phone, wishing I could ask Siri how to make Blair not hate me.

  If we’d met anywhere else, at a club or pub, I would’ve gone for it, and he surely would’ve accepted. But fate works in these mysteriously cruel ways, as Alanis Morrissette tried to say in ‘Ironic’, where she lists all these instances of shit happening, claiming it’s ironic. No, Alanis. You don’t get what irony means, but thanks for pointing out that shit happens.

  The waitress returns with our drinks. ‘Food’s coming soon,’ she assures me, glancing at my stomach as if she wants to pat it.

  ‘Err, thank you.’

  I catch Blair writing down Multi-vitamins for pregnant ladies on his grocery list. This earns him a kick in the shin from me, and another ‘Aw, bless’ from the waitress.

  ‘Stop it,’ I scold when she’s out of earshot.

  ‘Like I said, you started it.’

  Not wanting to engage any further on the matter, I sip my iced latte and watch him prepare his tea. I’m reminded of the mousy-blonde and her seventy-degree teapot angle. She was so weird.

  ‘The tea I had at the matchmaker’s wasn’t very good.’

  He looks at me blankly, probably wondering why I’m bothering to tell him this. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So, um, how was the appointment?’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘You actually want to know?’

  He shrugs. ‘Better than arguing about sex.’

  ‘We’re not arguing about sex. We’re arguing about the possibility of sex. Or rather, the impossibility of sex because of our employer–employee relationship.’

  ‘Well then, yes, talking about your appointment is better than arguing over that impossibility. Though, really, we’re not arguing anymore, because we both agree that it’s not going to happen. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  I can’t tell whether the annoyed look on his face indicates his own disappointment or whether it’s a reaction to my disappointment (though I feel I’m doing a good job of not being so obvious this time).

  ‘Anyway, the appointment,’ I begin, moving the conversation along before either of us says something regrettable. ‘It was scary.’

  ‘Scary?’

  ‘Yes, trusting a stranger to find me a date. I’m going to go along with it, though. For now, at least, to keep my mother off my back.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just… I don’t know… look for yourself?’ He pauses as he speaks, as if he’s trying to pull the right words from the air around us.

  ‘I thought about that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘
On some level, I guess I’m lazy. But really, who goes out looking for a husband? Doesn’t that kind of stuff just happen?’

  ‘Stuff, huh?’ A wry smile is tugging at his lips.

  I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not talking about love with you. That would be weird. Especially considering the circumstances.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘What’s your deal, anyway? Why aren’t you attached?’

  He scowls. ‘Hmm, I don’t know. I’m a domestic servant living in an attic. A real catch.’

  ‘Yeah, but that explanation only applies for the last week and a half.’

  I’m met with a ‘don’t ask’ look.

  Here’s the difficult thing: to stop looking at him like a piece of meat, I have to start getting to know him as a person. Conflicts aside, I get the impression that he’s not going to be forthcoming with information about himself. But I have so many questions. Why did he get stuck in hotel work? Why take up my mother on her offer of employment? And what happened with his flatmates?

  I give him a moment to compose himself, and then try to lighten the mood with humour. ‘Don’t diss the attic. I think it’s cosy.’

  ‘Cosy is a rich person’s word for small. It’s like “quaint” or “charming”.’

  ‘Did you at least manage to swap over the mattresses?’

  ‘Lady Emilia. Why would a servant’s bed be the same size as a family member’s?’

  ‘Oh.’

  He laughs quietly, a chuckle with a hint of bitterness. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t even think of it like that. I suppose I am as stuck up as you think I am. I can’t believe I made the same mistake as my mother.’

  ‘She meant well.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I know.’ He trails off, but is smiling and there’s kindness in his eyes.

  When he softens like this, I end up feeling more embarrassed than him.

  Thankfully – or perhaps not so thankfully – our food arrives, subjecting me to more happiness from the waitress. She compliments me on my glow once again and promises she’ll be back to check on us. This freaks me out even more – does she mean she’ll check on me when I’m another six months along? Is she planning to steal my imaginary baby?