Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘You know, even his name sounds familiar,’ Abby muses, peering over my shoulder. ‘No, I must be making that up.’

  I lift the screen to enable her to see more clearly. ‘Private profile. Too bad. You can’t glean anything from this other than that he likes beer. Like every other European male.’

  She snatches the phone from me so she can take a better look. ‘Ooh, interesting.’

  ‘Hey! Give that back!’

  My exclamation earns me a dirty look from the nearby shop assistant, who’s busy tidying the wedges on the wall and apparently needs silence. Or maybe she’s looking down on me because my dress is last season’s. Either way, I’m making a scene. I try again, using a more controlled voice.

  ‘Abby, hand it back please.’

  The devilish grin has resurfaced, which cannot mean good news. She taps the screen once and then hands over the stolen property. ‘There you go.’

  I have a good idea of what she’s done, but it isn’t until I look at the screen that it’s confirmed: Friend Request Sent.

  ‘Oh my God.’ I feel ill. ‘How could you do that?!’

  Oh, shit. He’s going to kill me. Even if I tell him it was Abby who physically pressed the button, he’s going to know I cyber-stalked him in the first place. I’m going to have to own up to the entire embarrassing thing.

  I could cry right now. ‘I don’t want to be his friend.’

  ‘No, you want to be his friend with benefits,’ she says, looking mightily pleased with herself. ‘But there’s no button for that.’

  ‘I have to fix this. I have to fix this now.’

  ‘Okay, you do that. I’ll be here trying on shoes.’

  She dismisses a pair of suede ballet flats, claiming they’re ‘too sensible’, and totters over to the evening shoes instead. With a flash of her megawatt smile, she gets the assistant’s attention and soon it’s ‘Yes, Mrs Carrington, I believe we do have that in a size six,’ and ‘Yes, Mrs Carrington, that stiletto does come in a matte finish.’ Never mind that I’m having a social media crisis over here by the wedges – Abby must have her non-sensible shoes.

  I remind myself that this is a good thing, as it keeps her away from my phone. I leave her to it, exiting the shoe section and braving the area behind the mannequin army, a nook that puts enough distance between me and any passers-by. The mannequins don’t scare me as much now that something more alarming has happened, so I loiter at the back of the formation like a straggler, all the while trying to figure out my plan of action.

  If I text Blair, I won’t know for certain that he’s received it until he replies, even though I’m sure he always has his phone on him in case my mother or I need him. If I call him, it’s a guaranteed awkward conversation – another one – and I hate having awkward phone calls in public.

  The phone-call option wins, only because it seems less cowardly. Unfortunately, he doesn’t pick up. My mother does.

  ‘Oh, hello, Millie!’

  Are my fingers so fat that they bumbled all the way from ‘Blair’ to ‘Mother’ on the screen?

  ‘What are you doing with Blair’s phone?’

  ‘He’s driving me to Epsom Downs, dear. I was asking questions about the…’

  I hear Blair’s voice in the background. ‘Hands-free kit.’

  ‘Hands-free kit and we must’ve unplugged something. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m not on speakerphone, am I?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Are you holding the phone to your ear now? Or are you holding it up in the air so Blair can hear too?’

  ‘Why would I hold the phone in the air? Does that do something special?’

  Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. ‘Listen, can you tell Blair to call me back after he’s dropped you off?’

  ‘Okay, darling, not a problem. It’s not more urgent?’

  ‘No.’ Oh my God, it so is. ‘Um…’

  ‘Yes?’

  I think quickly, desperate to gain any brownie points from Blair. ‘Also, I hope you didn’t trip over the tray table I left in the hall this morning. You know, I have no idea what I was thinking. I was supposed to ring the bell, but I had so much on my mind, what with meeting Polly again on Thursday… No fault of Blair’s whatsoever.’

  ‘Don’t worry at all. You just focus on what you have to.’

  ‘So many things to think about,’ I say, desperate to lead her away from the real reason I’m flustered.

  ‘Yes, so many. You really have to tell Polly your preferences. This is the time to be direct.’ She laughs, sounding positively amused. ‘We all know you’re good at speaking your mind.’

  I mimic her rather-too-loud laugh. ‘Okay, I’m going to go now.’

  ‘Wait. Are you quite sure you don’t want to come down to the races? It’s surprising Abby isn’t going. I thought she would’ve dragged you along.’

  ‘You know I get bored watching horses. And Abby was at Epsom yesterday for the Oaks.’

  ‘All right then. Have fun shopping. Don’t spend too much money.’

  Obviously I won’t, because it’s Father’s money and it isn’t going to last forever. It’s why he’s going along with the matchmaker idea.

  ‘Ha ha. Of course not. Get Blair to call me back, will you?’

  ‘Of course, sweetie. Ta-ta.’

  ‘Yes, bye.’

  Ugh. This is torturous. I need to speak with Blair ASAP.

  Eager for a distraction, I practically sprint back to the clothes rails and select a dress I have no intention of buying, all so I can have the privacy of a fitting room. Minutes tick by and there’s still no call, so I pace around the spacious changing room in circles, obsessing and freaking out more with each lap. I’m probably working harder than a racehorse.

  I try on the dress – an embellished tunic I know to be in excess of three thousand pounds. I am definitely not buying it. It’s too flashy to be worn frequently. It does, however, fit perfectly, which is a small win on an otherwise no-win day.

  More minutes tick by. I ask to be brought two more dresses to try on. It’s when I’m getting changed into the second one that my phone beeps, telling me I have a text. It’s Mindy, not Blair:

  Totes kicked Sam out of ballet party. Hippy can go stick it.

  I reply quickly, as if her sending me a message is blocking incoming calls. Thanks, Mindy. Can’t wait.

  Somehow, probably through all the assistants that know her by name, Abby tracks me down without even needing to call me.

  ‘Are you hiding in there, Millie?’ she calls from outside.

  I race to the door and open it, having just done up the third dress. ‘Your fault.’

  She claps, seemingly delighted with either the dress or my latest outburst. ‘I like this on you.’

  ‘No, I mean the Facebook thing is your fault.’

  ‘Oh, that. That’s so twenty minutes ago. I’ve come up with an even better idea.’

  ‘Please do not share it.’

  ‘You’re not coming out with Andrew and me tonight. I’m disinviting you.’

  ‘What?’

  She points at me. ‘Tonight, you’re staying at home. And you’re going to relieve all this tension that’s been building up.’

  ‘You realise that sounds like you’re ordering me to masturbate.’

  ‘Oh no. None of that. Not when you’ve got someone ready to serve you.’

  I reach out and lower her arm. ‘You are not disinviting me so I can stay at home. Nor should you replace your oxymorons with bad service puns.’

  ‘If you dare show up tonight, I will tell the club to revoke your membership.’

  I pause, surveying her body language. Her hands are on her hips now, and her gaze is unflinching.

  ‘You really are disinviting me, aren’t you?’

  She crosses her arms. ‘Disinvited. Past tense.’

  ‘You… really…’ It’s unbelievable, but not, because this is exactly something she would do.

  ‘I’m helping you.
Seriously.’

  I pout, disappointed that her warped logic has taken over again. ‘I was really looking forward to tonight.’

  She winks. ‘You are really looking forward to tonight. Present tense.’

  I decide to switch tactics in an attempt to appeal to her real sense of logic, something she’s open to every once in a while. I know I sound wheedling and childish, but I’m past caring.

  ‘But we discussed this. You said if I got my picture taken, it would increase my date-ability. Now the world won’t know I’m awesome enough to get into an exclusive nightclub.’

  ‘Chillax. We’ll pop your Arts Club cherry another time. Besides, if you don’t fix this problem of yours before you start dating, you’re never going to be able to give any other man even a modicum of thought.’

  She can use ‘modicum’ in a sentence, but can’t see that sleeping with the butler is a terrible idea, one that could start an addiction.

  ‘Don’t do this to me. I need to go out tonight.’

  ‘Then go out. Take the Tube and go… where the Tube goes.’

  I groan like five walruses dying a slow death in the Sahara.

  ‘You need to stop making that noise, Millie. It’s very unattractive.’

  ‘Don’t leave me at home with him. Things will happen.’

  ‘Exactly. You can do this. I believe in you.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘Be the woman you want to be. In his bed.’

  My phone starts ringing, so I rush back into the dressing room and close the door on Abby, something that only makes her giggle.

  It is Blair calling.

  All this could’ve been avoided had I dropped the where-have-I-seen-him-before issue. It’s not worth it. I don’t care if he appeared in orange juice ads as a teenager, or was the poster boy for an NHS anti-STI campaign. I just don’t want him thinking I’m a stalker.

  I make sure to hide in the far corner before answering. Yes, the rooms are enormous, but I don’t want anyone other than Abby listening in. In fact, I don’t even want her listening in. This is me – huddling in the corner of a white cell – trying not to go mad.

  ‘Hi, Blair.’

  ‘Lady Emilia. What can I do for you?’

  Worst question ever. Honestly.

  ‘I need you to forgive me for letting something stupid happen.’

  ‘Is this something I shouldn’t hear while driving?’

  ‘That depends. I’m assuming you’re fully covered by insurance, should you crash.’

  Yes, because discussing insurance is a great way to ease someone’s mind.

  ‘Now you’re frightening me.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, really. It’s more that I want to come clean now, so you don’t think ill of me later.’

  ‘You’d rather that I think ill of you now?’

  ‘Or not at all. You have a sense of humour, don’t you?’

  ‘That depends on whether the matter is actually funny or not.’

  I decide to get on with it. ‘If you log in to Facebook, you will see a friend request from me. It’s not me stalking you. I was playing around with my phone and an accident happened. Please just ignore the request.’

  Abby is pissing herself laughing. Years of gossiping have apparently given her a very sharp sense of hearing. I kind of really, actually hate her right now.

  There is a long silence from Blair. ‘So, my page magically showed up on your phone?’ he finally asks.

  ‘It all happened very quickly.’

  ‘Permission to speak frankly with you?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Emilia, you obviously looked me up in the hope that my profile wasn’t private,’ he says sternly, but with a trace of amusement.

  No, maybe it’s not amusement. Maybe it’s just disbelief. Either way, I have to woman-up and take responsibility.

  ‘Okay, fine. I looked you up with exactly that intent. But the main thing is, I don’t want you thinking I want to be your friend.’

  He snorts. ‘Well, you folded rather quickly.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes I do fold quickly. I will even bend over backwards to fix this.’ I pause. ‘That sounded dirty, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I think Abby has left the dressing room area, because the giggling sounds far away. Either that or she’s laughing so much that she can’t get enough oxygen to support its former volume.

  ‘For the millionth time this fortnight, I’m sorry.’

  ‘At least you’re being open with me… Oh God, even that sounds dirty. I shouldn’t talk to you when I’m driving.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’

  ‘Look, I’ll just see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Actually –’ I feel terrible enough, but I need him to know that he has to organise dinner tonight.

  ‘Let me guess. You’ll need me to pick you up from the Arts Club in the wee hours of the morning.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been disinvited. Abby and her husband are going out alone. I’ll be home before dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’ He doesn’t sound like a happy butler. ‘Your mother is going to that absurdist play and then to drinks until midnight.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘But you’ll be home.’ All the humour has bled from his voice. There’s a mixture of horror and anticipation in it, to which I can relate. ‘When she’s not.’

  The two us sound like teenagers trying to work out when one of us can sneak over to the other’s house. ‘We should stop talking.’

  ‘Yeah. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  For crying out loud. Forget coexistence – I was right to think it too difficult. Avoidance is the only way to get by.

  Flustered, it takes me longer than it should to get out of the dress and to hang all three in a semi-decent way. I apologise to the sales lady on my way out, but she seems pleased that I even made the effort. Really, it was the least I could do after using the changing room as a private phone box.

  ‘Your Ladyship, this blue one looked really fabulous on you,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you won’t be taking it?’

  ‘To be honest with you, I’m having a very confusing day.’ Like, how does she know I’m Lady anything? Abby again, I’m sure. ‘But thank you for all your help. Maybe I’ll come back when I know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Of course, m’lady.’

  ‘Where did my friend go?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Carrington? She’s downstairs looking at the handbags again. She said, I quote: “Tell Her Ladyship I can’t shop while laughing this hard.”’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  I traipse downstairs (because apparently that’s what I do, traipse), and find her sizing up two completely different handbags to the ones she was considering before. It’s no use staring daggers at her, because she simply doesn’t care. Right now it’s all about choosing between the quilted yellow and the bright pink.

  ‘I’m doomed,’ I tell her, barely suppressing a walrus moan.

  ‘Sweetie, you’re anything but doomed.’

  ‘You shouldn’t touch other people’s phones. This is all your fault.’

  ‘No, it’s yours, actually. You’re gorgeous, and he wants you: a hundred per cent your fault. Just remember to text me and not Andrew when you’re ready to share the results of your predatory night in.’

  ‘I am not a predator.’

  ‘Of course you aren’t. I was joking.’ She holds up both bags, one in each hand. ‘But you should choose one just in case you’re caught. I think the pink will really “pop” on the pages of a tabloid. Even Al knows you should look good for the paparazzi. What do you think?’

  If we weren’t in such an expensive store, and if the sales assistants weren’t hovering nearby, I would put her in a headlock. The cost of its release? POA: Price on Application.

  Chapter 8:

  This is the saddest Saturday night ever.

  Dinner is probably an hour away, but I’m already sitting at the dining room table, waiting for Blair to return fro
m dropping off my mother at her pre-theatre dinner. The very fact that she has somewhere to go when I don’t is particularly embarrassing, though hilariously, she doesn’t see it that way. She told me before she left that it was better if I stayed at home, because this way I wouldn’t be tempted to do something crazy, like slobbering over some unsavoury character in a dimly lit alleyway. She’s paranoid I’ll thwart her and dash the reputation I need for Polly to find me an eligible man.

  Irritated by her attitude, I contended that I would never do such a thing in the first place, let alone get caught. Not only do I not ‘slobber’, but also dimly lit alleyways have never really been my thing. Brightly lit alleyways are not even my thing. She countered by recalling specific instances when I’ve been stupidly drunk, going on to regale these stories to Blair once it became clear that I wasn’t interested in listening.

  Now Blair is probably armed with a dozen humiliating tales, to which he might be entitled after today’s Facebook stalking incident. If I’m lucky, he might even return in a chipper mood. He wasn’t really enthused when I came home, probably cross over my stalker tendencies, and the fact that had Abby not ditched me, he could have had the majority of the night off.

  I can only hope that from next week onwards, I will be spending my Saturday nights on dates with my future husband, because sitting alone at a table for ten – at the head of the table, no less – is just asking for sympathy. Not to mention that my friend changed our plans on the basis that I’m going to seduce my butler instead. It is of paramount importance that I do not let myself become any more of a joke.

  Of course, as I’m thinking this, my phone rings, causing me to jump in my chair.

  It’s He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Seduced.

  ‘Yes, Blair?’

  ‘I was wondering whether you’ve given any thought to what you’d like for dinner, Your Ladyship.’

  He doesn’t exactly sound cheerful, though I probably shouldn’t expect him to exude happiness over every errand he carries out. Nor should I analyse his every word and action. I’m not writing a thesis on him, after all.

  Still, I’m left wondering about the true impact of the Facebook issue. I did try to tackle it head-on at Louis Vuitton, but there’s been no more mention of it since my return. While bringing it up again may prove to be unwise, I really want to know where I stand with him. Not that I should be standing, or lying, anywhere near him.