Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  My guilty thoughts are, however, abruptly interrupted by Lady Whittingstall: ‘Any opinion on black caviar, Millie?’

  At least she’s moved on from horses. ‘Uh, great but overrated?’

  She nods enthusiastically, pointing her teaspoon at Eliza. ‘I tend to agree. Yes, twenty-one wins, I understand that’s brilliant. But to peg her as the best sprinter of all time…’

  Sprinting? What does caviar have to do with athletics?

  ‘… I mean, she hasn’t even raced outside Australia. We’ll see, we’ll see. Maybe I’m just talking her down because my mare hasn’t been nearly as successful, far from it actually.’

  Oh. Black Caviar is a horse.

  I have to get out of this room.

  Thankfully, the function winds up and, after another standing ovation for the event organisers and major donors, the crowd starts to disperse.

  I kiss Eliza on the cheek. ‘Thank you again, El, for taking care of me.’

  She raises an eyebrow, apparently unwilling to let me off scot-free. ‘Well, you looked very peaky on Monday. You should’ve said you were annoyed with your brother.’

  I shudder. ‘Ugh, let’s not talk about him.’

  ‘Right, of course. See you at brunch on Wednesday.’

  ‘Bye.’

  As Eliza dashes off to find her mother, I turn and shake Lady Whittingstall’s hand, wish her horses luck and tell her I hope to see her again soon.

  She practically beams with pride, though maybe it’s the slightly fluorescent shade of pink she’s wearing. ‘Always a pleasure talking to you. Look after yourself, dear.’

  ‘I’ll try to.’

  Finally, finally, finally I’m able to leave the room. Rather than traipse, I engage in an elegant power-walk, if such a thing is even possible. I’m not exactly cut out for rushing in this way, as I never need to be anywhere with urgently. In light of this, I think I deserve a pat on the back, or at least one of those ‘I ran in a race’ stickers they give out at primary school sports days.

  At first, I don’t see any men hanging around outside the Palm Court. There is a passing waiter, who seems intent on ignoring everyone, quickly followed by an older man who appears to be a function manager. No such luck. No such Oliver.

  Then, from behind a planted palm tree, a smartly dressed man steps out, his eyes not yet meeting mine. I step forward, closing the distance to about five feet. As I approach him, he brushes the lapel of his grey suit jacket in what’s probably an attempt to appear nonchalant. You know, as if the tree shed lint onto him, or if he’s brushing his shoulders off a la Jay-Z. It’s kind of ridiculous to think someone can step out from behind a potted plant with dignity – especially one with a pink ribbon around it – but when he does look up, the confidence in his eyes tells me that, yes, he does think this is possible.

  Only a slight flicker of recognition registers with me, the kind you get when you see or hear something from your childhood. Certainly nothing that suggests we’ve met before. I try to place him, scanning my memory for men with dark hair, brown eyes and a simply dazzling smile. He’s also a tad shorter than other men I’ve been with, just enough to ensure he’s only an inch taller than me while I’m wearing heels.

  He extends his hand. ‘Millie, I presume.’

  ‘You presume correctly.’

  His handshake is firm, but his expression friendly. Oliver seems very approachable, like a guy you’d stop on the street to ask for directions. Or a guy you’d trust with your money.

  It’s true that he’s not a knockout like Blair. I’m not sure that anyone is as gorgeous as Blair, though. The spring in Oliver’s step when he moves, however, tells me he is self-assured, and it’s a different confidence to any kind I’ve seen from Blair. But that might just stem from a stronger sense of self-worth.

  Oliver is also sizing me up. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking, given he might be prone to smiling like this all the time.

  I touch my hair self-consciously, wishing I’d done more with it than just wearing it down. ‘This is a bit of surprise.’

  ‘I know, I apologise.’ He purses his lips and tilts his head in the way people do when something is great but comes with a caveat. ‘I would’ve called you, but I thought you at least deserved an explanation in person.’

  ‘Explanation?’ I hate the way my voice sounds, all desperate and hopeful at the same time.

  More invisible-lint removal, and a slight faltering of his grin: ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem. I thought sending a message via Polly would be harsh, if not completely detestable. Shall we go to the bar for a drink?’

  My stomach is already churning. Whatever the problem is, it may very well be some sort of deal-breaker. ‘Sure.’

  Part of me resents him for smiling so much. It’s not an evil grin, which I suppose is a good sign. Then again, I’ve encountered enough people to know that this could be one of those situations where someone lets you down while smiling angelically. Oliver, the Angel of Impending Disappointment.

  The ensuing walk to the Rivoli Bar is thus nerve-wracking. I should be angrier that the date might be in jeopardy – after all, it’s my personality to get all worked up. I’m distracted, however, by the fact I’m walking with a man in public, a man who isn’t a family member or an employee. While he’s not holding my hand, or engaging in small talk, it’s pleasant.

  Taking pleasure in disappointment? It’s like Schadenfreude, but in relation to myself.

  Oliver takes the lead once we step into the bar, striding a step in front and turning towards me. ‘Shall we sit in the corner?’

  Of course we’re going to sit in the corner. He’s dumping me before we’ve even had one date, leaving me to sit here with a dunce cap on my head. If I had any gumption, I would walk out now. It’s embarrassment that holds me back, the matchmaking aspect of this situation giving it a completely new dimension. Polly would be mortified if I ran out without hearing what Oliver has to say.

  This had better not have anything to do with Alastair.

  I resign myself to sitting at the table for two that, incidentally, sits under a strange painting of a swan sitting on a naked man’s lap. Putting a gold frame around a painting and shoving it in a glorious art deco room doesn’t excuse the fact that a swan is sitting on a naked man’s lap. I worry it’s foreshadowing how awkward this conversation will be. Well, it can’t exactly be a good omen, can it?

  I should stop reading so much into the artwork.

  As soon as Oliver sits down – in fact, maybe even before – a waiter glides over and asks him if he’ll have the usual. Oliver confirms that he’ll have the usual, whatever that is, and then brightly asks me what I’d like. The two men look expectantly at me, the waiter reminding me a little of George, my father’s right-hand man.

  I laugh nervously. ‘I want to say scotch on the rocks, but I think a bitter lemon is the more sensible option. It is only two in the afternoon.’

  The waiter humours me. Or maybe he’s trying not to laugh at the painting. ‘Excellent choice, miss.’

  Oliver raises his hand. ‘Frederick, I think you’ll find it’s ‘Excellent choice, m’lady’.’

  ‘Ah, is that so?’ He studies me for a second. ‘You must be Lord Silsbury’s daughter. Uncanny resemblance. Which is not to say you look like a man.’

  I’m taken aback. ‘Can you really tell by just looking?’

  Oliver laughs heartily. ‘Oh, get the lady her drink before you embarrass yourself, old man.’

  Frederick winks at me. ‘He slipped me twenty quid to play along.’

  ‘I most certainly did not.’ Wow, these two get on very well. ‘Don’t believe him, Millie. His trick is that he remembers everyone of note. Your father must’ve tipped him very well back in the day.’

  I manage to smile. ‘Must’ve been a while ago. He doesn’t get out much these days.’

  Frederick clutches his heart. ‘Did you hear that, Oliver? She called me old.’

  ‘G
et our drinks before I report you to management.’

  ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness, Prince of… where do you work again?’

  ‘JP Morgan.’

  I jump in, not to be outdone before being dumped. ‘JP Morgan has its own monarchy? Impressive. But how did you get appointed over your superiors? Or is that why you’re a prince and not a king?’

  Oliver shakes his head, amused. ‘I should abandon the pair of you.’

  While Frederick is free to chortle and leave for the bar, I’m left facing actual abandonment. It’s not nearly as funny as it should be.

  I clasp my hands in my lap and try to project an air of dignity. ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’

  He drums his fingers on the table in what comes across as excitement, before leaning forward and grimacing. ‘When Polly told me you’re an Emilia from a well-bred family – a Cambridge girl now studying at St Andrews – nothing really rang a bell. Until she said you went by “Millie”. I met a Millie very briefly several years ago at an acquaintance’s birthday bash. That person still speaks of his sister every now and again…’

  I’m dumbstruck by my luck, so much so I’m tempted to slap him in place of my brother. ‘You’re friends with Alastair?’

  Sheepish but still smiling, he sits back in his seat and explains. ‘“Friends” is a strong term. In fact, there’s a bit of acrimony at the moment, and I’m afraid he’ll take my seeing his sister as an offence.’

  ‘Acrimony? You’ve spoken to him recently, then? Or you speak with him regularly enough for him to possibly take offence?’

  ‘From the sound of it –’ He stops abruptly, taking a moment. ‘Do you not speak with him often?’

  I don’t know how much to give away. Is it embarrassing for me to admit that my brother barely keeps in touch? Or does it put me in a better light, emphasising the fact that I don’t condone his actions?

  Apparently, my face gives me away. Stupid Al.

  ‘Ah, I had an inkling that was the case. But going out with you really would come across as an act of retaliation.’

  I employ what I hope is a stern expression, unclasping my hands and folding my arms across my chest. ‘Retaliation? You seem like a gentleman. But you run in the same circles? Is this a Cambridge old boys thing? You weren’t even in the same class.’

  I’m imagining a pirate ship with strippers and gambling, my brother laughing his head off as Oliver lurks behind palm trees, all while the ship sails to some unknown island where naked men rest comfortably on the sandy beaches, not caring that birds are sitting on their genitals.

  This is how they must know one another.

  Oliver is rueful about the situation. ‘We have mutual friends – his Eton classmates, who are now my colleagues. And no, I don’t party with him anymore. I only ever did a few times, you know, to escape reality. He does, however, owe me a sum of money, the amount of which he disputes. It’s not a huge debt, but enough for me not to let it go.’

  ‘Right. And seeing me would seem like you’re simply coming to collect.’ I’m infuriated yet bound from doing anything more than grumbling. If I throw Oliver’s honesty in his face, he could certainly get back at me by simply revealing the sorry fact that I’ve engaged a matchmaking service.

  One day. I would like just one day without talk of scandal or money.

  ‘May I ask why you even need Polly? It’s not laziness, is it?’

  My response is curt, even though my motivation is a bit cloudy. My initial reaction to the matchmaking suggestion hasn’t exactly stuck. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just that you’re stunningly beautiful. Surely you don’t need assistance? If it’s your disposition you’re worried about, I wouldn’t be too concerned. I’ve heard things, but you seem nicer in person.’

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps I’m not always this agreeable. With all due respect, Oliver, I’m in no position to bite your head off. I am in a position, however, to go home and feel sorry for myself. At least I know now that I’m nicer in person. Thanks for that, I suppose.’

  Frederick, who’s been hovering nearby, swoops in and delivers our drinks with finesse. He really does remind me of a butler, anticipating the right moment to appear, and knowing when not to joke around.

  Oliver waits until he leaves before speaking again. ‘I’m genuinely sorry, Millie. I’m looking for someone who isn’t a vapid doormat, and you seem right on the money – for lack of a better expression.’

  ‘Then why not give me a chance?’ The words take me by surprise. Really, I should cut my losses and spare him from spending money on another Pembroke. Nevertheless, I stand by my claim as a semblance of pride kicks in. ‘It’s rare, isn’t it, for two people to click? I’m not saying there’s instant clicking or major clicking going on, but there’s potential for clicking here. I haven’t run away screaming or thrown a drink in your face. Given, the drink only just arrived… You know what I mean.’

  He sighs, now seeming a little crestfallen. ‘I’ll be frank with you. Your family isn’t exactly an ideal match for me as things stand. I’m no social butterfly, but I have clients who may judge me. It’s one of the reasons I started to stay clear of Alastair, at least, in person.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Yes, I have many colleagues who still associate themselves with Al, but let’s just say the people I need to impress at the moment are not the type of people who would approve.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Of course. Clients are important.’

  ‘Would you like the opera tickets as a consolation prize?’ He pulls them out of his inside pocket.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve seen La Bohème too many times.’

  ‘Really? Me too.’ He’s quick to rein in his eagerness, sitting back in his chair like he’s been yanked by his collar. ‘We could’ve spent quality time whingeing about it.’

  The usual for him, it turns out, is a gin and tonic. The usual for me is, again, bitterness with a twist of sour.

  A voice in my head commends me for not thinking about Blair for a record two minutes. Other than appeasing my mother, forgetting about him was part of the reason I went along with the Tilton & Bree game. Now it seems the game doesn’t want me, or is at least off to a terrible start.

  Blair doesn’t really want me either though. He’s terribly ashamed of what we did.

  ‘Oh, well.’ I uncross my arms. ‘C’est la vie.’

  Oliver frowns, wistful. ‘My sister used to play that song over and over. The one with the girls trying to be upbeat about some boy, I don’t know, not sharing his tree house or something. Was that an All Saints song?’

  ‘B*witched, actually.’

  He downs a significant portion of his drink in one go. ‘We shouldn’t find points of common interest. Best to leave it here, huh?’

  This is it. Prospective Husband Number One is ending things before they’ve begun. I was a fool to think that success depended on me liking him. It’s not the case at all.

  ‘Yes.’ I raise my glass. ‘To horribly shameful family members who owe money when they shouldn’t.’

  ‘And to terrible nineties pop songs.’ He clinks my glass. ‘Cheers.’

  I take a sip of my drink and regret not ordering something much, much stronger.

  Chapter 13:

  My devastation increases tenfold when Blair comes to collect me. He’s more proactive in his duties this time around, exiting the car and insisting on opening the back door for me, all the while asking about the fundraiser. I offer him standard answers, bumbling my way through a couple of brief responses before the ache in my chest renders me silent.

  All I want to do is throw myself into the comfort of his arms. I want to confide in him and tell him how Oliver shunned me as politely as he could, going out of his way to make sure I heard his reasons in person. My brother is a pariah who owes Oliver money, and a man of such standing cannot bear the social cost of being involved with a Pembroke.

  I probably pre-empted all this by joking about turning into my mother. Today’s experiences have helped
me understand what she has to deal with when she goes out. People staring, people gossiping, people hiding behind trees and insisting on having drinks in corners. It’s not very nice, and certainly not deserved, though maybe one could argue that a mother does carry some responsibility for how her offspring turn out. The thing is, I’m Al’s little sister, not his minder or mentor – what could I have possibly done to stop him from acting this way?

  The briefness of the encounter aside, I think Oliver and I had a decent enough connection, one that really wasn’t given a chance. Without a legitimate prospect, at least not until Prospective Husbands Two and Three return to the UK, I’m left to my own devices. Left to wait around on the proverbial shelf while people make up rumours about bankruptcy and far-flung criminal behaviour. If only staying at home and making shit up was a career. Perhaps I should become a blogger.

  If I could take away some positives from today, I did receive some good feedback about my personality. If I didn’t turn Oliver off straight away, maybe I’ve made some progress towards not being so brutally blunt. There have to be other men out there who don’t want a ‘vapid doormat’ – as Oliver put it – for a wife so, surely, someone somewhere will take me off the shelf for a decent look, if nothing more.

  Then again, I suppose I was in shock, not to mention that it would be unwise to make a scene whilst on a matchmaker date.

  I sigh and fish my sunglasses out of my clutch, but not before catching Blair’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Did something happen, m’lady?’

  Instead of answering in words, I groan and flop over onto my side, a bit of a difficult task when one has a seatbelt on. It’s a very unladylike way of curling up into the foetal position. I press my cheek into the leather of the seat and sigh again, intent on taking up this same position when we get home.

  Crying also seems like a real possibility at the moment. So does pummelling a punching bag, if only we owned one. Maybe I should send Blair to fetch one.

  ‘I hate my brother, or I at least hate what he’s done. I bet you never feel that way about your brother. He seems to like you.’