Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  I drum my fingers on the table. ‘Are you still cross with me? If I say I want foie gras, will you get McDonald’s instead?’

  ‘Cross with you, m’lady?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb. You know I stalked you. We spoke about it earlier.’

  ‘I’m not playing dumb. I’m merely brushing it aside.’

  ‘Brushing it aside?’

  ‘Yes, the act of brushing something to the side.’

  ‘Thank you for your remedial English lesson, but my point is that you can’t possibly have brushed that aside already.’

  ‘I’m not sure how to respond to that.’

  He’s annoyed that I’m making this an issue, and I’m annoyed that he’s not.

  ‘When you brush things aside, they tend to accumulate, you know.’

  ‘Lady Emilia – please,’ he says, his voice gruff and barely controlled.

  ‘Please spare you from this conversation?’

  He ignores the question, returning to the purpose of the call. ‘So, what did you want for dinner?’

  ‘I don’t know. What are you having for dinner?’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘Beside the point, having been brushed aside to make way for another point?’

  ‘Did I hear you say you wanted McDonald’s?’

  ‘Ooh, cheeky.’ I really shouldn’t goad him like this. ‘No. I’ll have fish and chips, with peas and gravy too. I haven’t had fish and chips in ages.’

  ‘As you wish. I’ll swing by the fish and chip shop and be home after that. Was there anything else you needed?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll see you when I get home.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you will.’

  This is where one of us should hang up. The conversation is clearly over. But when I check my screen, I see the call is still is progress.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. I should hang up, shouldn’t I? It’s not like you can really hang up on me. You are the butler, after all.’

  ‘That I am.’

  ‘Right. See you later then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Ugh. I’m all flustered when I hang up, worried he thinks my hesitance to end the conversation was a sign of clinginess. It wasn’t one of those ‘you hang up… no, you hang up’ situations. I was supposed to hang up, not give the impression that I’m sitting here twirling my hair and pining for the sound of his voice.

  I wish Abby hadn’t ditched me. I have half a mind to call Andrew and explain the situation in full so that he’ll take pity on me and convince Abby to bring me along tonight. Unfortunately, I know this is not going to happen, because I wouldn’t dare embarrass myself by discussing this with Andrew. So I’m pretty sure this is going to be a night of tiptoeing around the boundaries of attraction and not being able to relax.

  With nothing better to do while I wait for Blair, I head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. It’s a relief to be able to do something without being accused of usurping someone else’s role. Tea bag, teacup – it’s not that difficult. I make my way down the service stairs, the tiles cool under my bare feet, and then skip through the kitchen doorway.

  It’s only after I’m past the threshold that I suddenly feel like I’m trespassing, an odd feeling considering that this is the family home. To think of the basement as Blair’s domain arguably means that I accept his presence here, at least, for the time being. I’m even nervous about moving things around or making a mess, lest he think it inappropriate that I’ve been down here alone.

  It’s bizarre to feel this way. It helps to remind myself that Blair’s presence is temporary, no matter what his opinion on the matter is, because there’s no way that my mother will remain in London for longer than a few months. She may be enjoying her social life now, but in a few weeks she’ll phone Silsbury Hall ‘just to see how things are going’. After that, it’ll only be a matter of time before she concedes that, yes, she should go back to her husband because ‘apparently he needs me’. Where this will leave Blair, I don’t know. The very fact that I might care makes me nervous.

  Perturbed by these thoughts, I quickly prepare the tea and drink it while standing at the counter. I don’t trust myself to bring it upstairs without spilling it, nor do I dare sit in the servants’ hall. After a quick tidy up, I head back upstairs and return to my wait at the dining room table, sitting there as if I’m glued to the two-hundred-year-old chair. This is how Blair finds me: stoic and quiet, hands clasped in my lap. A passer-by might mistake me for a wax figurine in a museum-like room – my modern dress and iPhone the only anachronisms in the scene.

  He appears reluctant to come too close, sidling his way up the table until he reaches halfway and stays put. His left hand bears a bag containing a paper-wrapped package. The delicious greasy smell wafting from them is making my mouth water in anticipation of something other than Blair himself.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. It took a while.’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem.’ I nod at the bag. ‘Although I must say that’s a rather small package.’

  That’s definitely something every man wants to hear.

  He raises an eyebrow in what looks to be genuine surprise. ‘Is it? I didn’t realise you were so ravenous.’

  ‘Surely that’s not going to be enough for the two of us?’

  ‘The two of us, m’lady?’

  I know he’s referring to ‘the two of us’ in the context of food, but hearing him repeat the phrase makes me squirm in my seat.

  ‘Ah, you didn’t order any food for yourself.’

  ‘I have my own food.’

  ‘You mean eleven-pence noodles?’

  He cocks his head and furrows his brow. I would say that confusion sits well on him, but I’ve yet to see an emotion that doesn’t. ‘Eleven pence?’

  Brilliant. I might as well write him a memorandum explaining that I search Google for his supper choices before bedtime.

  ‘Eleven is just a good number.’

  ‘Okay, sure.’ He glances at the doorway, probably keen to escape. ‘I’ll go and plate this up for you.’

  I bite my lip, anxious for not having cleaned up perfectly after my tea-making exercise.

  Blair is yet to leave. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Nothing that can’t be brushed aside.’

  He has the audacity to look irritated. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  I catch him rolling his eyes before he turns away, but there’s no point in bringing him up on it. I mean, if I wanted to, I could. In fact, once he’s gone, it dawns on me that being rude could actually be a viable strategy. He indicated earlier that he would prefer coexistence to avoidance and so if I act like a colossal bitch he’s only going to conclude that I really am insufferable. Such a conclusion will probably deter him from being around me. The problem with avoidance, as he keeps pointing out, is that it prevents him from doing his job properly while we have to live under the same roof.

  I imagine that being continually bitchy could be tiring, though. God knows my bloodline isn’t cut out for that kind of work.

  The tension unfortunately takes a turn for the worse when he returns with my dinner tray. Not only is he uncommunicative, he also appears to be having trouble hiding his irritation. All his actions become heavy-handed and, as I think it best not to say anything, all I end up hearing is his anger. There’s the thud of my plate being almost dropped before me, the clatter of the cutlery on the table and the slopping fizz of sparkling water being clumsily poured into a glass. I try to focus on other things, pleasing things – my food, his cufflinks, the twinkling chandelier above us – but, as he continues setting up, his irritation reverberates around the room.

  ‘You spilt some tartare sauce,’ I say, pointing at the sauce tray to my right.

  He lays a cloth napkin over my lap. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Really? Doesn’t sound like you’re sorry.’

  I should be primed
for the staring contest that follows, but I’m simply too frightened to find out what happens if I focus on those blue eyes for more than five seconds. I look down at my food instead and try to keep my own temper in check.

  ‘I will make sure the tablecloth is properly laundered,’ he says, through gritted teeth.

  ‘You could save yourself the trouble if you were simply more careful.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No, I should think not.’

  I pick up my knife and fork and begin to eat. For some reason, Blair retreats to the corner instead of leaving the room, making me feel incredibly self-conscious.

  I finish my mouthful and address him without turning around. ‘Why are you loitering? It’s sad enough that I’m home alone on a Saturday night, eating dinner by myself. I don’t need you watching me.’

  He walks out of the room without another word, but not before lingering for a moment or two. I don’t bother to glance at him in that time, thinking I’ll only see outright hatred or extreme annoyance on his face.

  What I’ve done is test my rudeness strategy without consciously intending to do so. The more I reflect on it, the more I think I should apologise. The trouble is that he’s tired of my apologies. He tired of them on the second day. What I really need to do is to sit down and write lines like I’m in detention – maybe that way a lesson will actually stick. I will not fancy the butler. I will not provoke the butler. I will not yearn for the butler.

  The stodgy food churns in my stomach, exacerbating my sense of unease. I manage to eat half the meal before ringing the bell for Blair to come and take it away. I then leave for my room, thinking it’s best to lock myself in there.

  My timing, however, is flawed – Blair isn’t even in the servants’ hall. I begin to ascend the stairs just as he starts descending from the next floor.

  In a situation like this, where you bump into someone you see all the time, you’d probably exchange a smile at the very least. The tension quashes any possibility of this yet, true to his professionalism, Blair is respectful, nodding just as he’s about to pass me.

  Impulsively, I turn and grab his arm to stop him in his tracks. He pulls away with a sharp intake of breath, causing me to jerk back as if my hand had touched a flame.

  ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you by touching you. I just wanted to say something.’

  He remains a step below me so we’re almost the same height. It’s a little intimidating, but being eye-to-eye with him gives me a chance to see his apprehension – the flicker of terror in his eyes, the clench in his jaw, and the way he’s leaning slightly backward as if he expects me to move forward any second now and kiss him.

  Oh, my. What would it be like to have his lips on mine?

  ‘Yes, m’lady?’

  ‘Um.’ Why does he have to look so frightened? It makes me feel so predatory. ‘It’s not helping, is it? The bitchiness, I mean.’

  ‘Bitchiness?’

  I inject a bit of gentleness into my voice, hoping I don’t sound condescending. ‘Come on now. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  He opens his mouth to say something but then decides against it.

  ‘Blair, seriously. I’m trying to admit I’m being a bitch.’

  Finally, a concession: he shakes his head just slightly, swallowing hard. ‘No, it’s not helping.’

  ‘Okay, so being snippy isn’t a good idea, and honesty is apparently too awkward.’

  ‘With honesty I suppose it depends on what you plan to confess.’

  ‘Well, I thought it would help! Imagine how weird it would’ve been had you logged in to Facebook and seen the friend request there without knowing anything about it.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t log in that often anyway.’ He tilts his head to the side as if it’s the only way to straighten out whatever skewed view he has of me. ‘But, yeah, I am annoyed that you looked me up. It suggests that you’re continuing a futile interest. I thought we sorted this out on Tuesday.’

  There he goes again, making it sound like our attraction is a one-sided thing. ‘Me looking you up on Facebook is not akin to me telling you I want to fuck you,’ I say, jabbing a finger at him. ‘It’s not even remotely on the same level.’

  He raises his chin. ‘Isn’t it? Why even look me up then?’

  And just like that, the conversation becomes an argument.

  ‘I was curious, if you must know.’

  ‘Curious about what?’

  ‘I was trying to work out where I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘You haven’t seen me before.’

  ‘I can’t be sure of that. And the fact is you’re not very forthcoming with details about yourself. It’s not really fair, is it? You get to hear everything that’s going on with me, including all this bleeding matchmaker nonsense, but I hardly know anything about you! I’m supposed to trust you because you’re the butler, but I don’t know you, Blair. Who are you exactly?’

  My question is met with a scowl. ‘You’re not supposed to know me. I’m the butler, not your friend.’

  ‘You’re not listening to what I’m saying. I’m not trying to be your friend. It’s more that I have a right to understand your presence here.’

  ‘A right?’ It’s the angriest I’ve heard him yet. The two words are more snarl than question, which is fine. Two can play at that game.

  ‘Yeah, a right. My father told me yesterday that The Savoy gave you a glowing reference over the phone, even talking about how they were sad to see you leave. According to you, you left because working for one household is apparently better than tending to a revolving door of guests. Yet you seem terribly bitter that you’re living in your employer’s attic instead of your own place. I’m not sure what it all adds up to. What happened with your flatmates? Why do you need this job?’

  I welcome the ire in his eyes. It means he might be pissed off enough to explain himself.

  ‘You got your father to call The Savoy?’

  ‘Did you expect him not to check the references of an employee living in his house?’ I lean forward a little, hoping to project an air of command. ‘He also gave me the authority to inspect the attic, by the way.’

  My attempt at intimidation doesn’t have the desired effect. Blair merely crosses his arms and glares right back at me. ‘With all due respect, Lady Emilia, Her Ladyship is paying me out of her own pocket.’

  ‘It’s still his house.’ I narrow my eyes, practically spitting back at him. ‘And she wouldn’t be “Her Ladyship” without him.’

  His response is swift – a scowl twisting his fine features into a mask of rage. ‘Fine. Inspect the attic. I have nothing to hide. I don’t understand, though, how such an inspection can build the trust you’re seeking.’

  ‘How am I to attain it then? Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ He promptly turns away from me. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have dishes to wash.’

  As he storms off, descending the stairs two at a time, I race after him. ‘I didn’t excuse you!’

  He whips around when he reaches the end of the staircase. I almost run into him, barely stopping my momentum in time. Gasping, I almost fall backward, and he makes no attempt to reach out and steady me.

  Instead, he glowers at me, his voice positively acerbic. ‘I thought you had an inspection to carry out. Don’t tell me you need me to be present?’

  It takes me another second or two to fully regain my footing, his failure to help making me irrationally angrier. ‘You don’t want to be there? Fine. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.’

  ‘Yes, you do that.’

  Grunting in frustration, I turn on my heel and stomp up the stairs. I’m hell bent on finding out something about this enigma of a man. I even mentioned having seen him before, and he still offered no insight into the matter.

  I shouldn’t have even bothered talking to him. He’s as impossible as… well, as I am.

>   The servants’ quarters are accessible from a different staircase, so I have to stride down to the end of the second-floor corridor and make my way up. It’s pure aggravation driving me to do what I had previously refused to do on principle. Blair has invaded my life, so why shouldn’t I find out why he’s here? I’m tired of the endless questions. I want answers.

  There are two doors on the landing, one for the men’s dormitory and one for the women’s. I take the left door and rush into that corridor, switching on the light so I can see where I’m going.

  It turns out that not much has changed since the last time I saw this place. All the doors to the small rooms are open, four on each side of the corridor, and it’s not until I reach the end of the creaky passageway that I find the room that is clearly Blair’s.

  At the threshold I pause before entering, only now caring that for all intents and purposes I really am stepping into his personal space. I could leave and vent my anger in another way – do the sensible thing – but I’m spurred on by the curiosity of what might be here.

  The light illuminates the small room in a soft yellow glow, revealing very little at all. Boxes of different sizes are stacked haphazardly at the foot of the bed. A pair of jeans is draped over one, and a rucksack pokes out of another. While there’s a chest of drawers in the room, it doesn’t look like Blair has fully unpacked yet. It’s evident that his priority is work, though. Several suit jackets hang on the row of hooks on the wall, in much the same way they would have done years ago.

  The bed itself is extremely neat, having been made to a high standard, though its blue paisley linen seems out of place, emasculating even, in Blair’s quarters. I take another step forward and this time notice the floorboards are devoid of any clutter or dust. All the mess really does seem confined to the boxes.

  It’s true that my father had no qualms about me inspecting this place, but I wonder if he’d actually praise me for how rashly I went about initiating this intrusion. The thing is, now that I’m here, I know there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do. I will not rifle through Blair’s belongings. There are no clues in plain sight – no photographs, no bills, no personal effects at all – and that’s something I’m going to have to accept.