Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  A few seconds pass before he responds. ‘Did your brother contact you?’

  ‘No.’

  I leave it there, unwilling to explain. Instead, I try and convince myself that I don’t want a man. I’ve always liked being a free agent anyway.

  Unfortunately, this argument doesn’t quite hold up in the wake of recent events. I never put serious thought into it before, but now I’m starting to notice (even starting to panic about) my friends finding the loves of their lives in whirlwind stories of fate and passion. Abby, Jane, Henny, Eliza – just four examples of women who didn’t have to actively look for a husband. It’s almost as if their men dropped out of the sky, parachuting in at a time convenient to all. It’s like I wasn’t listening when the instructions were doled out.

  Eventually I sit up, not wanting to crease Abby’s dress any more than I already have. When I do so, I notice how close we are to home, and the closer we get, the more I want to tell Blair to drive me around town so I don’t have to face my mother. However, I’m robbed of this choice by my own indecision. Before I know it, we’ve arrived and Blair is promptly holding the door open for me.

  I don’t want to get out.

  ‘Your Ladyship?’

  I reluctantly pick up my clutch and look up at Blair, whose brow is furrowed in what I think is concern.

  ‘There’s going to be a bit of yelling. Definitely some swearing. My mother will claim her children will be the death of her. At that point, you may want to escort her to a chair and serve her tea an hour early.’

  He nods, though the suspicion in his eyes suggests he thinks I’ve lost it.

  For a moment, I consider commenting on the note he left me this morning. Saying something after my dating humiliation is revealed might come off as an afterthought.

  I clamber out of the car. ‘I, uh, got your note this morning. Just thought I’d confirm that it hasn’t gone missing or anything like that.’

  It’s not enough to break his mask. ‘Good to know, m’lady.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ I stop myself. This isn’t something we should get into, not when he’s made it clear he can’t talk about it. ‘Right. Into the house we go.’

  I lead the way, suddenly thinking that the sooner this is over with, the sooner I can lock myself in my room and resume my wallowing routine. Bursting into the main hall, I call for my mother and wait impatiently for her to emerge.

  She is so slow. ‘Mother!’

  She appears on the staircase, throwing her hands up as she descends. ‘What have I told you about raising your voice like that, young lady? It’s uncivilised.’

  I’m momentarily distracted by her outfit: a gold brocade dress. ‘Is that new?’

  ‘What? My insistence that you show some manners?’ She stops in front of me, waving for Blair to come forward. ‘The two of us are going to have a chat outside in the garden. Bring out some lemonade. Nothing else – Abby will be here at four and we shouldn’t spoil our appetites.’

  I take a step back and address both of them. ‘Actually, there’s no need for any of that. I just had an iced beverage not long ago, paid for by Oliver, who will not be accompanying me to the opera after all.’

  My mother’s face drains of colour. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I just had an iced beverage –’

  ‘No, not that part! The important part.’

  Blair cuts in, imparting the same sense of urgency. ‘You had your date already?’ He quickly catches himself, looking sheepishly at me and then Mother. ‘I apologise for speaking out of turn.’

  ‘No, don’t apologise. You have to know these things anyway. You’re the one driving her around.’ She turns to me, flabbergasted. ‘What happened? I don’t understand. You were supposed to see him tonight.’

  ‘He’s not a fan of Al’s reputation and, by association, the family’s. In fact, Alastair owes him money. So instead of going through the charade of an actual date, he came to The Ritz to explain that this is a non-starter.’ I shrug helplessly. ‘At least he had the decency to tell me to my face. I suppose I should always give my schedule to Polly. Who knows, this may happen again.’

  My mother’s rage is palpable, her nostrils flaring as if she’s about to breathe fire. She stomps once, clenching her fists and grunting in pure frustration – a raging bull in gold.

  ‘I will kill him! If I could only find him and slap some sense into that stupid boy!’

  ‘Oh, and Lady Beresford says The Mail is planning to write an article on him next week. Of course, she may just be saying that. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘That meddling marchioness! Don’t listen to her.’ Her face is now a bruising shade of purple. ‘Millie, I don’t know what to say. This is a travesty. Are you sure he won’t give you a chance?’

  ‘He said I was exactly the type of woman he’s looking for. But the trouble is he doesn’t want his clients judging him. Dating a Pembroke is bad for business at the moment, even if Al does pay back the debt.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  Unbelievable is exactly the message Blair’s expression is conveying. He’s blinking rapidly and looking around as if this is all too surreal for him.

  I clear my throat. ‘I’ll call Abby and ask her to come over now. We’ll have tea early, if anyone still has an appetite.’

  My mother points at me. ‘I’ll open the drinks cabinet. Try not to stick your head in the oven while I’m gone.’

  ‘Plath had a husband. Let’s not sully her memory.’

  ‘Right.’

  We nod at each other and part ways, her to the cabinet and me to the garden. I’m aware this leaves Blair on his own, but right now I can’t think of him as anything but the butler. He has a job to do, namely serve tea out in the garden.

  I make a beeline for the gazebo, dumping my bag on the table and sitting down to call Abby. This is going to be the opposite of a garden party. It’ll be more like an outdoor wake. It’s a real pity the garden is so cheerful at the moment, with its purple and pink roses in bloom and their sweet scent perfuming the air. A small garden bereft of colour would be a more fitting backdrop.

  She answers on the second ring. ‘Hello! I’m so excited. I’ve got together the best accessories and everything. Is four o’clock still good?’

  ‘No, come over now.’

  I don’t think I could make my voice sound any flatter. I’ve heard automated voicemails speak with more pep.

  ‘Oh my God. What’s wrong?’

  ‘The date’s been cancelled. He showed up at The Ritz to tell me in person.’

  I relay the main points of the story, keeping things to the point. By the end of the synopsis, she’s so miserable on my behalf that I think she might be on the verge of tears.

  ‘This is terrible. It sounds like he really wanted to go out with you.’

  ‘Come over as soon as you can. We’re having drinks in the garden. There’s food for you too, if you’re interested.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a jiffy. Hold tight.’

  ‘Okay, see you soon.’

  I end the call, just in time to see my mother striding out into the garden with a crystal decanter in each hand.

  ‘Blair’s getting the glasses and the ice but, what the heck, you might as well drink from the bottle – or the crystal decanter, in our case.’

  I put on a sing-song voice. ‘That would be uncivilised.’

  ‘True.’ She places the decanters in front of me. ‘Scotch. Gin. If you want vodka or something else, you’ll have to tell Blair when he comes out.’

  ‘Abby’s on her way. Maybe I’ll have a lemonade first, then hit the hard stuff.’

  She sits down to my left. ‘You know it’s bad when I want to call your father to discuss things.’

  ‘At least I’m getting you two to communicate.’

  ‘I might as well ask about the finances while I’m at it. I’ve been slow to move on that. Andrew’s visit was so unexpected.’ She pauses to pat her hair. ‘Ugh, and Lady Beresford. I hate that woman.
The tabloids would’ve called if they were running a story. They always want a comment, and I think they know I’m on the verge of telling them exactly what I think about all this rubbish.’

  I place my hands on the comforting cool of the wrought iron table. ‘Are we wasting money on the matchmaker?’

  ‘No. It’s an investment. You’ll have better luck next time. Steer clear of anyone who’s likely to know your brother.’

  ‘I suppose Polly did make a good match. She wasn’t to know of these complications.’

  Twenty-five minutes later, things become a touch more complicated. Blair is made to hang around so we don’t have to pour our own drinks, stoically taking his post at the edge of the gazebo. He could stand at any corner of the pentagon, but he chooses to stand in a spot where he’s directly in my line of vision.

  Why is he doing this?

  Abby pats me on the arm. ‘So, what made you think there was chemistry?’

  ‘Chemistry, right. Um, well… ’ Why does Blair have to watch me right this very instant? I feel like I’m explaining why I cheated on him or something. ‘Oliver comes across as self-assured, but not in an aloof way. He carries himself well is what I’m saying. You can see why he’s successful.’

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘And he has a sense of humour. He had this adorable rapport with the waiter at the Rivoli. Plus, he’s also watched La Bohème too many times. I think we might have similar tastes. Uh, what else? We joked about that B*Witched song. I mean, it was all very quick, and he was delivering a rejection, but I think I was justified in asking for a chance. He said he wants to go out with someone who isn’t a vapid doormat – that’s me, isn’t it?’

  My mother nods. ‘I think you did well, dear. It’s not your fault your brother is a twit.’

  ‘Mills, you clearly made a positive impression,’ Abby says. ‘He might come back in a week or two. He might even need to see someone else first so he can realise his mistake. That’s what happened with Gillian and Nico – she thought he was only “okay”. Then she went out with that loser from Manchester and realised she was comparing him with Nico the entire time.’

  ‘Oliver’s not going to give me a second chance.’ I nurse my glass of whisky and try not to look at Blair.

  There’s an extended silence where nobody seems to know what to say. I think we all know that Abby’s cautious optimism isn’t enough to warrant definite hope.

  ‘You should stop spending time with the Routledges,’ says my mother before raising her glass to her lips. ‘They’re bad luck. I don’t know why you tolerate Eliza.’

  Abby pouts. ‘She always excludes me. Says I’m new money. Her definition of “new” must be 1920s.’

  ‘Abby, dear, she’s just jealous of your fortune.’

  ‘Do you really think so, Mrs P?’

  ‘I know so. Hadley has her on an allowance. It’s her mother who gives her money for clothes.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  They start cackling, forcing me to cut in. ‘Bad luck or not, I don’t think we should be laughing. Think of all the people who’d laugh at me if they knew about today.’

  Abby waves me off. ‘Oh, don’t think like that. Things will turn around for you. I just know it.’

  Blair steps forward to refill my mother’s glass, which she then raises. ‘Thank you, Blair. And thank you for making these sandwiches. Not only are they delicious, I imagine they’re soaking up the alcohol in my stomach.’

  ‘You’re welcome, m’lady.’ He scoops up some more ice for Abby’s glass. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like a slice of berry tart, Mrs Carrington? I can bring it out for you.’

  Abby’s cheeks redden. ‘I might do, yes. It’s not that I don’t like the cakes you’ve brought out. It’s just that vanilla slice isn’t my favourite. And I’m picky about friands. It’s the butter.’

  I snort. ‘That pretty much means you don’t like the cakes.’

  ‘Ha! I suppose it does.’

  Blair smiles good-naturedly. ‘Well, I made the tart myself. Be sure to tell me if it tastes horrible. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  I’m irritated when he leaves, mainly because I can’t tell if his sudden inattention towards me was a deliberate slight or not.

  ‘He didn’t top up my drink. My ice is melting too, you know.’

  The complaint draws a quick reprimand from my mother. ‘Don’t be so snotty. He only made the tart because I told him it was your favourite. He insisted. Researched the recipe and everything.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know? He specifically said he was bringing it out for Abby.’

  ‘There you go again, opening that mouth of yours without thinking. Having a bad day is not an excuse to go back to your bad habits.’

  Abby stays mum, probably holding back references to last week, when the hypothetical of me fucking Blair was all she could talk about.

  I sigh. ‘Do you two mind if I excuse myself? I think I need to be alone.’

  ‘Stay for the tart, misery-guts,’ Abby says, ‘then you can go and hide.’

  ‘All right, fine.’ I open my mouth to apologise for being such a sad sack, but she gets in before me.

  ‘No explanation needed. I know how you operate. I even told my driver I wouldn’t be more than an hour. Your mum and I will keep chatting –’

  ‘Drinking,’ is my mother’s correction.

  ‘– And then I’ll go home.’

  It really is heart-warming to have her support. ‘Thanks. I mean it.’

  She frowns and turns to my mother. ‘See, what we need is a man who understands her like we do.’

  ‘Agreed. Hopefully the second suitor is the man we’ve been looking for.’

  When Blair returns, I’m even more eager to leave. He’s brought out the entire tart, with Abby and my mother each agreeing to have a slice. I’m not hungry, but at the same time I don’t want to be rude, causing me to ‘um’ and ‘ah’ with indecision.

  He’s unruffled. ‘It’s no trouble, m’lady. I can serve it tonight with your supper.’

  If it’s an apology tart, then I definitely have to eat a bit at some stage. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I promise to scoff the lot.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you getting indigestion. Let’s take it one slice at a time.’

  My mother chuckles. ‘He’s funny, isn’t he, Abby?’

  ‘Very funny.’ I know she’s dying to look at me, but she doesn’t dare. ‘Where do I find a funny butler that bakes?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you’d better find one if you ever intend to feed members of this family. That soup Andrew brought over was arse-in-a-Tupperware-container.’

  ‘Ha! Lady Silsbury said “arse”! And “Tupperware”!’

  They’ve never got on this well. I suppose there’s no point arguing, not when I’m walking around in a cloud of conflict and scandal. The more I open my mouth, the more pitiful I seem.

  The two of them start raving about how great the dessert tastes. Meanwhile, I try to sneak a glance at Blair, who’s returned to his post on the fringes. I want him to know that I’m all twisted up inside, confused as to how to act around him. Maybe if I throw a meaningful look his way, he’ll understand that I didn’t mean to hurt him by not telling him about Oliver.

  He mouths what I think is the word ‘later’, though I can’t be a hundred per cent sure. It’s only when I’m in bed forty minutes afterwards that he sends me a text:

  I’m ready to talk, whenever you feel up to it.

  It’s not a handwritten letter, but I get the same butterflies. And it’s because of those butterflies that I don’t acknowledge receipt of the message until much, much later, after a long nap and even after he’s served me supper in bed.

  While I want to talk to him, I begin to yearn for the freedom I felt when he fucked me, the unadulterated pleasure that made me forget all my troubles. Deep down, I might even be glad Oliver rejected me.

  Knowing I’m not in the rig
ht frame of mind, I go to bed at ten and hope tomorrow will be a better day.

  ***

  Tomorrow comes along, but not in the usual way. I wake at one in the morning, probably stirred by my own deep longing for Blair. It’s a thought that prompts me to laugh quietly – and bitterly. Deep. Blair absolutely knew how to fuck me deeply.

  Frazzled, I sit up with some effort and open the top drawer of the bedside table. It’s still there: the list of questions asked by my mother and typed by Blair. If I read these, maybe I’ll remember my focus.

  What qualities do you look for in a man?

  What has been your longest relationship to date?

  Have you even been in love?

  Do you tend to value sex over companionship?

  Are men objects to you?

  Do men take you seriously?

  Do men want you for sex, not companionship?

  What flaws do you need to work on?

  Why do your friends all have partners/husbands and you don’t?

  Do you say ‘you’re not looking’ to disguise the fact nobody wants you?

  The list goes on.

  Unfortunately, the questions bring on a wave of self-pity rather than the motivation to improve myself. I take a pen from the drawer and tear off the blank part of one page, using a nearby book as a writing ledger. I won’t have time to dip the paper in tea for that olden-days look, but I suppose using a blue biro was always going to ruin the effect.

  Dear Blair,

  I’m so confused right now, and I can’t stop thinking about things I shouldn’t. However, we do need to talk. Let’s talk today after you return from driving my mother to the National Gallery.

  Yours faithfully

  I stop, pen hovering over the page. Will he take ‘yours faithfully’ the wrong way? Why did I even write that? It sounds like I’m promising I belong to him. I also don’t know how to sign off – am I Lady Emilia, Emilia or Millie?

  I shake my head at my paranoia, signing as ‘Emilia’ so he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable. I then grab my torch, jump out of bed and carefully exit the room, making sure I don’t slam the door or trip over anything.