‘I’ll give him a ring and get back to you.’
This time I’m the suspicious one. ‘It’s not too short notice? For him, I mean?’
She sits back in her chair, an air of satisfaction about her. It’s already quarter to five so, in a way, it’s as if all her work is done. ‘I put him on standby. I had a feeling you’d go for him. He’s a Cambridge man, after all.’
‘Yes, well, not all Cambridge men are husband material. I will, however, give this one a chance. Oliver. I will give Oliver a chance. It is Oliver, isn’t it? He doesn’t go by Ollie, at all?’
‘No, it’s Oliver.’
‘Anti-nickname, huh? I can forgive that.’
There’s another pregnant pause, during which I expect her to begin chiding me for my glass-half-empty attitude. But she doesn’t, probably realising it might open Pandora’s box.
She beams warmly at me, her fairy godmothering done for now, before pushing back her chair and standing. ‘I’ll be in touch, Millie.’
I shake her hand without hesitation. ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help.’
To my surprise, I leave the office with a sense of quiet confidence. I suppose it’s only natural to be excited about a date, no matter how it was organised. So while I’m not exactly skipping – a sure hazard in these heels – I am feeling uplifted.
The necessary preparations come to mind as I walk along the teaming rush-hour streets of London, not letting the swarms of people pushing past me put a dampener on my spirits. Hair, clothes and general grooming: I can do my own hair, but I’ll need Abby to lend me something smashing to wear. We met yesterday after I rang her to apologise for being incommunicado. After a brief fascination with the word ‘incommunicado’, repeating it several times, each one with more Spanish flavour, she then said sorry for pushing me on the Blair issue and for sending over the ‘feet’ soup. Nothing was said about Epsom – neither regarding Andrew’s drunkenness nor anything he heard while in the box – but, other than that, it’s all back to normal.
So, to start with the pros: I have a date and Abby and I are fine. But then there are the cons: I’m nervous about Blair, silly rumours and my mother being secretive about her ‘financial investigations’. All in all, things could be a lot worse.
I’m still mulling over this pros and cons list when I return to the car (I drove myself to Mayfair, not wanting to be lazy, but rather regret this decision now, with the traffic at its daily worst). However, before I can get in, I receive a call from my mother.
At first, I’m spooked more than anything else. How could she possibly know my meeting just ended? If she’s spying on me, I’m going to be very cross. Maybe she got a two-for-one deal from a private detective: ‘bonus surveillance on your daughter with any probe into your husband’s financial situation’.
I make myself comfortable in the driver’s seat before answering, not wanting to be out in the hustle and bustle of the street. Then again, if a private detective is going to bug something, the car is an obvious target. Too bad I’m out of time to consider my options – any longer and my mother will start berating my voicemail for not answering her questions.
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘Sweetie, I need you to pick up Blair from the supermarket.’
I cover my other ear, thinking I must have misheard due to the noise outside. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I asked him to buy a few things before returning home. He’s at the Sainsbury’s closest to the house.’
‘Sainsbury’s?’
‘Yes, it’s a supermarket.’
I huff. ‘I think out of the two of us, I’m more likely to be familiar with a supermarket. Where do you think I get my food from in Fife?’
‘Oh, you think you deserve a round of applause, do you?’ I can just picture her, all alone in the roomy house, her aggravation reverberating around the hallways. ‘Put that familiarity into practice and pick him up, please. I don’t want him catching the bus.’
‘This is not a time for detours. Traffic is bedlam. Can’t he hop in a taxi, or walk?’
‘Emilia! You’re the taxi, and that’s final. While you’re there, please help him find all the ingredients for that summer soup that Martha makes back at the estate. I don’t know the right brands, but I know she taught you how to make it.’
‘That was, like, four years ago.’
I can’t deal with this. Not the soup part, the Blair part. Sainsbury’s is not the place for a reunion. He and I should have a rational, honest discussion back at the house, not a stilted meeting in the biscuit and home baking aisle amongst the icing sugar and ground nuts.
‘I’ll leave you to get on, if you want to beat the traffic. Oh, and by the way, one or two of his siblings might be with him. Be nice to them.’
‘Why are they with him?’
I don’t get a response because she hangs up on me. I’m pretty sure it’s deliberate. Blair must have given her lessons on how to use her phone more confidently.
Damn it. And to think I was under the impression that my luck had returned. While I imagine that Blair protested at this whole picking-up idea, my mother would have insisted on it. The secretive soul he is, he’ll probably send his siblings away before I arrive, which is some sort of consolation in this otherwise ridiculous situation.
Summer soup. Bah. I’d rather order pizza. I should do that one day: order pizzas for the entire street, courtesy of the Countess of Silsbury/Dominos. Mother will kill me for not only embarrassing her, but for engaging in unauthorised philanthropy. Imagine what the tabloids would say: Free food for the rich! Millie’s misguided attempt at charity.
Flustered, but determined not to make the situation worse, I start the car and head for the supermarket. I will be calm and pleasant – none of the things I daydreamed of being towards him – and will then politely request a private conversation at home.
I can do this.
Mind you, it’s difficult to remain composed when people on the road are asking to be raged at. By the time I enter the supermarket, I’m all frazzled again. Psychologically, things get a bit more nerve-wracking when I recall how I was going to accompany Blair here before our library fight put a stop to that plan. Nevertheless, I plough on with caution, picking up a shopping basket and strolling into the fruit and veg section.
I’m not going to text Blair to find out where he is. Systematically going through each section of every aisle is obviously inefficient, but it will buy me time. So, I start by building a raft of ingredients for the summer soup – cucumber, celery, peas, spinach, asparagus, mint, lemons, chives – and move on from there.
When I get to the start of the third aisle, I look in my basket and laugh because it looks like I’m carrying around a mini garden, the brash plastic of the basket positively sprouting with greenery. It’s only after a few seconds that I look up and remember I’m in public, where I assume random bursts of laughter are generally frowned upon.
In fact, that’s exactly what Blair is doing further down the aisle. He’s staring at me with a furrowed brow, probably thinking I’m laughing at him and the two people by his side. For the first time ever, I’m seeing him in casual daywear – jeans and a black polo shirt – but the expression he’s wearing is all too familiar.
My attention quickly diverts to his siblings, because at least they’re staring at me with curiosity rather than hostility. The girl looks about thirteen, judging by her height and baby-face features. There’s something about her that strikes me as sad – messy side ponytail, one trainer unlaced, grey jeans that may have started off black. If it wasn’t for her eyes, I wouldn’t have picked her as Blair’s sister.
On the other hand, Blair’s younger brother looks strikingly like him, except with darker hair. The speckling of spots across his cheeks indicates that he’s in his late teens or early twenties, but the blue shirt and grey trousers (some sort of uniform, I think) seem to age him somewhat.
Knowing I should explain myself, or at least announce my presence in a less nutty way,
I begin to stride over to them. Blair abandons his grip on the trolley and comes round to meet me, almost as if he’s trying to protect his family. It’s a move I don’t particularly care for, especially as his jaw is clenched, so I stop two feet away from him to give him enough space.
‘Are you angry at me or something?’
The question comes flying out before I can stop myself. It’s a stupid question, an automated response to his defensive body language. His brother lifts an eyebrow, and his sister’s eyes widen. I think I may be scaring them.
Blair glances at the floor before transforming into a more docile version of himself. His jaw unclenches, his gaze becomes less intense and he clasps his hands in front of him. It’s unnerving, not only because he’s in casual clothes and off duty, but also because I’ve ordered this man to fuck me. I know deference is part of the job – it’s just that the conversation I actually want to have requires us to be equals.
His voice is even when he speaks. ‘No, I just didn’t want you going out of your way to pick me up. I was going to walk my brother and sister back to the Tube station anyway.’ He nods at them. ‘He just got off work, and my sister was hanging out with friends.’
I’m not sure what to say with him standing to attention like this, though I do try to sound warmer, at least for his siblings’ benefit. ‘It’s no trouble for me. I was already out and about.’ I flash a smile at his brother and sister. ‘Should I drive you guys back to Kilburn? Probably better than the Tube.’
Blair fails to hide his displeasure, the offer too much for him to ignore. In fact, he’s aghast, his jaw dropping unattractively. In contrast, his siblings look a little excited, their eyes flashing with cautious hope.
It was another thing that came out of my mouth without my thinking first. But to Blair, it seems more than that: an intrusion, like I’m trying to find out where his family lives and what sort of people they are. I can’t exactly retract the offer without looking flighty, so I wait for him to refuse for the three of them.
However, his brother is the first to speak, grinning at me lopsidedly. ‘In the Jag?’
I shrug and return his smile. ‘It’s not the latest model or anything, but it works.’
His sister looks up at me in awe. ‘You’re really pretty. And I like your outfit.’
I chuckle, finding her adorable. Her smile brightens her features so much. I’m briefly reminded of Blair’s jolly Facebook photo, the one where I hardly recognised him.
‘Why, thank you.’
‘I bet your clothes are really expensive.’
‘A little.’ I hold up my thumb and forefinger, an inch between them. ‘But just a little.’
Definitely a white lie: my cigarette trousers are YSL and my silk blazer Alexander McQueen.
She laughs in response, still looking me up and down. I always think that it’s good when teenage girls have a sense of humour because it lessens the chance of angst overcoming them.
Blair is glaring at me so fiercely that I almost have to take a step backwards. He must think I’m out of line, even holding my gaze when he speaks to his siblings. Honestly, is he worried I’ll pull some kind of stunt when his back is turned?
‘No, you guys will take the Tube. I’ll drive Lady Emilia back to her house.’
If it was anyone else grandstanding like this, I would roll my eyes. But he isn’t just anyone else. He’s Blair. I don’t know whether this is all about my intrusion or about our sleeping together too but, either way, he is not a happy man. I should play along and back down.
‘Ah, maybe another time then.’ I wave awkwardly at the pair. ‘I’m Millie, by the way.’
Blair’s brother does the talking, gesturing when appropriate. ‘I’m Stephen, and this is Julie. And this is my brother, who’s forgetting it’s his day off so he shouldn’t be driving anyone anywhere. No offence.’
I try not to laugh, especially as Blair is shaking his head at Stephen in a clear warning not to push his luck. Julie starts saying ‘please’ over and over, to no avail. Not sure whether or not to intervene, I focus instead on the contents of their trolley. At the front are bread, milk, noodles, peanut butter and about ten cans of tinned food in various sizes. The majority is Sainsbury’s own brand, and at least four of the tins are spaghetti. At the back of the trolley are items obviously meant for my mother and me: several packets of meat, clearly from the deli counter, another tub of the ice cream I demolished on Sunday night and assorted jars of gourmet products, amongst other things. All that will probably only feed us for three days. On the other hand, I’m not sure if the goods at the front of the trolley will stretch for two days, especially for a family of their size.
Feeling uneasy about this, I interrupt Julie’s pleas to ask a question.
‘Did you see my note about the spaghetti?’
Blair crosses his arms and slowly returns his attention to me, as if he can’t believe I’m even trying to talk to him. I briefly notice the way his arm muscles flex, but now is not the time to ogle.
‘Yes, I saw it.’
‘Well then, make sure you use our money to pay for it, and not your own. You know, because I ate it. The spaghetti. Not the money.’
Julie giggles. I catch Stephen’s eye, and without me saying anything, he makes a show out of moving one tin to the back of the trolley.
‘There we go. Done,’ he says.
I salute him and wink, which I hope is not weird. I don’t want to come across as creepy, especially if he’s under eighteen. After all, I have shagged his brother.
Blair clears his throat and looks over my shoulder. Apparently, I’m not even worth glaring at anymore. ‘Lady Emilia, would it be all right if you collected the rest of the soup ingredients and waited for us near the checkout?’
‘Yes, I can do that.’ I’m clearly being sent away before I can make any more of an impression. ‘I’ll text you if I get lost.’
Julie and Stephen wave me goodbye, something Blair sees when he turns his back on me. It’s their reserved cheerfulness that sticks with me as I walk out of the aisle and head towards the dairy section, comforting me in a way I hadn’t expected. Blair rejecting me isn’t exactly a great feeling, even when I know what’s behind it.
His ire is yet another sign of how conflicted he must be. His perception of me likely changes depending on the situation, or the company. Or maybe I always elicit duelling emotions that infuriate him to no end.
With this in mind, I collect the rest of the ingredients and loiter at the far end of the checkout area, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. Fortunately, being stationary enables me to people watch, so it’s not all that boring.
Five minutes later, Blair, Stephen and Julie roll up to a checkout till. Blair beckons me over with a tilt of the head instead of coming over to meet me.
Now I’m affronted by his behaviour. His brother and sister are watching, and here I am being signalled over like I’m at his beck and call. It’s stupid and I should probably get over it but, if I had a job, I would never treat my boss that way, even when off duty.
I try not to be openly upset, smiling pleasantly at Julie and Stephen as I put my basket down and join them in loading the items onto the conveyor belt. It’s the stuff at the back that’s getting put through first – my family’s groceries.
I can’t help but think this order is deliberate. I know what will happen after this. He’ll suggest I go to the car and wait for him. Why? So I don’t see the amount of money spent on his family’s groceries.
I’m jolted out of my musings when Blair holds his hand out for the basket, snapping his fingers and pointing when I don’t quite move fast enough. I’m appalled by this but, again, I don’t want to say anything in front of his siblings. They haven’t said a word to me since I was beckoned over here, not verbally responding when I make comments about the things we’re unloading. I’m guessing Blair told them not to communicate with me.
The garden basket is emptied and its contents weighed and scanned and, when it’s tim
e to pay, Julie pulls back the trolley so I can get to where Blair is standing. She’s biting her lip like she wants to say something. Poor thing might burst if she doesn’t get to speak.
Blair roughly nudges me when it’s time to pay, probably wanting me to see that he’s paying with my mother’s money. Unfortunately, this latest instance of rudeness is all too much. Making sure I have my back to his siblings, I lean into his ear to give him a warning.
‘I understand that you’re upset and it’s your day off, but you really are pushing it.’
His cheeks redden almost instantly, and for a moment I’m afraid that he’s going to lash out. However, he merely clears his throat and accepts the change from the checkout girl, who admittedly is a little intrigued by the domestic unfolding before her. Little does she know how crucial her attention is: the more audience we have, the less our acrimony can be on show.
Blair and I stand side-by-side in stony silence as his family’s food is put through. All of it fits in three bags, with one bag being just the bread, peanut butter and two tins of spaghetti.
I turn to Julie. ‘That light one is for you, huh?’
She grins. ‘Stephen’s stronger than me, so it makes sense.’
Stephen nods in agreement, though I don’t miss the wary look he throws his brother’s way. I wonder if Blair being moody is a common thing in their eyes. They might be deferring to him now, but before they were quite happy to joke around.
The cashier tells us the total: less than twenty-five quid. Having had enough of Blair’s antics, I swat his hand away when he opens his wallet, and reach into my own purse.
‘Emilia, no.’
Oh my God. His hand is on mine. Though I know he’s only trying to stop me, it’s contact nonetheless. It’s the first time he’s touched me since we slept together.
But he won’t look at me. His blue eyes are trained on my purse.
Lady: Impossible Page 17