Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  Eventually she breaks me. I smirk, appreciating the fact she’s trying to cheer me up.

  She grins at the breakthrough. ‘There we go.’

  ‘How long do you think they’ll be?’ I ask, referring to my parents and Andrew.

  ‘Depends on whether he needs to go away and do some work on his own. Sums. Research. Scoping out the market. He’s very thorough, you know.’

  ‘He wouldn’t make any money if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She shakes her head again. ‘I’m really sorry this is happening to you. But we’ll help out, no matter what.’

  ‘Thanks, Abby.’

  She continues to play, her long manicured fingers running over the keys with skill and grace. But with every passing minute I feel further unsettled about the fact that I’m not doing anything myself. Antsy, I pace up and down in her line of vision, before deciding I want to read Oliver’s note again.

  It really is flattering that he finds himself unable to forget me. I was so sure after our meeting that he’d written me off for good. If he’s this interested, I should seize the opportunity and convince him I’m worth the trouble. I’m sick and tired of being at the behest of outside forces and unwelcome developments. I need to do something.

  I drum my fingers on the table, holding the card in the other hand. ‘Hey, what time is it in Switzerland?’

  Abby abruptly stops playing, pivoting on the stand so she can face me. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  She gasps, seemingly conflicted. Her eyes sparkle with interest, but her brow also furrows. ‘I was encouraging this idea half an hour ago...’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, maybe you should wait until you have an idea of how much money you’ll have left.’ She winces. ‘Don’t hate me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you – I know what you’re saying. I certainly don’t want to come off as unconscionable. But to be fair, whatever happens, I’ll hardly be destitute.’

  She takes a moment to consider the idea. Concentration is at times an odd look on her. However, after tapping her finger on her lips to some unknown rhythm, she points at me and nods. ‘Zurich is one hour ahead.’

  I clap my hands together, energised by her approval. ‘Great. I’ll try ringing him, and if the call doesn’t go through, I’ll see if Polly has another number, or even an email address.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave the room?’

  ‘No, no. Stay. Kick me if I say something stupid.’ I take my phone out again. ‘He’s probably working, so here’s hoping I don’t sound stupid when I leave a voicemail.’

  She stands, putting one foot in front of the other as if priming herself for a roundhouse kick. ‘I’ll kick you if you do.’

  ‘All right, calm down. I haven’t stuffed up yet.’

  ‘True.’ She relaxes her stance and waits for me to place the call.

  Needing some sort of positive force on my side today, I bring the phone to my ear and pray for a response. I hear ringing, which is a great start – at least the call has connected. After about ten rings, there’s a click, and seconds later I hear Oliver’s voice.

  ‘Millie, what a pleasant surprise. How did you know I was being bored to tears by a particularly dull investment forecast?’

  I want to do cartwheels. A man who actually wants to hear from me? He must be a dream.

  I turn on the charm, winking at Abby to indicate a positive response. ‘What can I say? I heard your telepathic cry for help. In German, French and Italian.’

  ‘Is that what I was thinking? I couldn’t understand all the mumbo jumbo going on in my head. Three official languages? How absurd. Maybe that’s why the Swiss are so neutral. Who can be bothered arguing with so much translation having to be done?’

  I giggle, hopefully in an attractive way. I love how he’s confident without being arrogant. ‘They also make very good watches.’

  ‘All the better to time how long it takes to say things in three languages.’

  ‘And they’re very big on democracy. All those referendums.’

  ‘All the better to vote on how long it should take to say things in three languages.’

  Abby bounces with impatience when I laugh again. I can tell she wants to hear both sides of the conversation.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve walked out of the boardroom, Oliver.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? I’m speaking English. No one can understand my insults.’ He chuckles. ‘No, no, I’m walking down an unknown corridor, pretending I need the loo.’

  ‘Physically pretending, or did you merely say you needed to go to the bathroom?’

  ‘You want me to walk around as if I’m busting for the toilet? My, my, you’re demanding. What do I want for lunch?’

  ‘Um, Swiss cheese… fondue?’

  ‘Fondue? By myself? Is this your roundabout way of saying I’d be having a better time if you were here with me?’

  Forget silly little texts – this is vintage flirting. I should be twirling my fingers around a telephone cord like I used to in 1995. ‘You’re asking an awful lot of questions. There’s such thing as too much democracy.’

  ‘Of course you’d say that. Your ancestors were part of the ruling class. I haven’t looked into it, but I’m probably descended from some crafty middleman, employed by your lot to collect dues from peasants. Or was it thralls rather than peasants? I’m not down with the nobleman’s lingo.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a dictionary.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll make me buy my own and then berate me for being late to the fiefdom party.’ I can tell he’s smiling. ‘So I did well with the flowers then?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Should I send more?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that give the first bouquet an inferiority complex?’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t think of that. I’m tempted to see what would happen though. Sounds like an epic rivalry in the making.’

  Abby has started what looks like her version of a victory dance. As long as she does it silently, I’ll allow it.

  ‘So when are you getting back to the UK?’

  He gasps, feigning offence. ‘You didn’t read my note. I said ten days.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. You know I read it.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re wondering if I plan on seeing you straight away or whether I really get back in nine days and just plan on lounging around in front of the telly for a good twenty-four hours first. Okay, you got me: I fly back on the Friday.’

  ‘Ah, so you will be watching telly for a good twenty-four hours before seeing me.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Besides, a season of Doctor Who only has thirteen episodes.’

  ‘Favourite doctor on three: One-two-three.’

  ‘David Tennant.’

  ‘Oh, correct.’

  ‘Correct? It’s an opinion.’

  ‘Yes, the right one.’

  ‘I’m very glad to have answered correctly then.’ He sounds a touch rushed now. I imagine he’s checking his Rolex and wondering how long he’s been absent from the meeting. ‘Listen, my loo break has been rather lengthy. I think my colleagues will be suspicious if I don’t return soon. I’ll call you this Saturday, which will be my second day in Berlin. Another finance conference – can’t get more riveting than that.’

  ‘It’s not a two-week Swiss trip?’

  ‘Nein. I will be in Zurich for another two days but, after that, it’s all Berlin: first the conference and then a week in our office there. And, before you ask, no I can’t call you when I first arrive in Berlin. I’m being whisked straight to the conference, and an extended toilet break will be frowned upon.’

  ‘I understand. I don’t want other delegates to start calling you Potty McPotterson, at least not on the first day.’

  ‘I hope that’s a made-up name and not a rival suitor.’

  ‘I assure you he’s not real. At least, that’s what my psychiatrist says.’

  He chortles loudly down the line. ‘You’re trouble, you are.
I’ll speak to you on Saturday then.’

  ‘Yes, Saturday. And, before you go, I just want to say thanks for giving me a second chance.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad it’s not too late. Bye for now, Millie.’

  ‘Bye.’

  As soon as I hang up, both Abby and I start squealing with excitement. You’d think the room had turned into a bouncy castle.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! He likes you! Does he like you? You weren’t just being flirty while he was bored out of his mind?’

  I’m tempted to kick her now. ‘Of course he likes me!’

  ‘Of course he likes you! You’re Likey McLikeable!’

  More screaming and jumping and dancing. It comes as no surprise then that my mother comes to investigate what’s going on, marching into the room as if we’re children making too much noise while the adults talk about grown-up things.

  ‘What on earth is going on? We’re trying to devise a financial plan here. I’m not exactly enjoying myself, you know.’

  I let Abby do the talking. She’s always better with hyperbole.

  ‘Mrs P! Mrs P! Millie just spoke to Oliver. He seems really keen. Maybe you won’t have to worry about losing the estate after all!’

  My mother is initially cautious in her response, eyeing me with suspicion. There’s been that much stress lately that I don’t blame her for being cagey. She’s been sitting in a room, answering Andrew’s queries and coming to terms with the reality he’s likely to be dispensing. Reacting with unqualified hope would be foolish.

  ‘He called, did he?’

  ‘I called him, actually. Thought I’d be proactive. I know we’re not sure of our financial position yet, but –’

  ‘This is brilliant.’ She looks at me in wonder, walking over to me in a dazed state and placing her hands on my cheeks. However, within seconds she’s all laser eyes and sharp tongue again. ‘But don’t take anything for granted.’

  ‘I know. It’s still early stages.’

  ‘But you’re going to meet? You’ll see him when he gets back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She drops her hands and motions to leave. ‘I’ll inform Andrew of this latest development, but we can’t put all our eggs in that basket. We need to free up money, Millie. Can’t wait forever.’

  I’m so buoyed up by the phone call that her caution isn’t enough to dampen by spirits. ‘I’ll surprise you, Mother. I will.’

  ‘Yeah, she will,’ Abby adds. ‘I won’t let her stuff it up.’

  Mother laughs as she exits the room, sounding pleased but nervously so. ‘All right. Carry on with your premature celebrations.’

  Premature or not, we do carry on. Finally, something to cheer about.

  Chapter 18:

  As expected Andrew does need more information, and part of that enquiry involves a valuation of all our assets. Friday brought a contact of his to our house, a stern man with no time for jokes or coddling. He conducted a methodical valuation, inspecting the building room by room before meeting with my parents in private to discuss his conclusions.

  Needless to say, it was unnerving to observe. To us, the house is a family home, a place filled with history and sentimentality. To a valuer, it’s merely an assignment, a property to judge and assign a figure to. You can’t help but feel that they don’t understand.

  The assessments didn’t stop there. The next assets on the agenda were our heirlooms, with an antique valuation expert coming in this morning to value just a portion of what we have here at the London house. I was at least privy to these figures, my parents comfortable enough to have me around as the lady from Sotheby’s did her best to get through everything in two hours.

  From what I gathered, there was cautious optimism about the money this property and its chattels could fetch at auction, should it come to that. However, the real test will be the valuation of the estate: the grounds, the building, the furniture and precious inherited antiques. That’s where the big money lies, and it’s these valuations that they are trying to arrange now.

  I pace outside the study, loitering when I really shouldn’t be. It’s ten past two, meaning my parents have been talking for at least an hour since we finished lunch. I’m not going to insist on being included, but I would like some sort of progress report, even if it’s nothing more than a series of cryptic one-line answers. Knowledge is power, and right now I’m low on both.

  It’s difficult to accept that the estate’s sale is the number one – and seemingly only – viable option. It’s not just a matter of family history either. There are people who work there and have done for years, some for decades. To let everyone go with a redundancy package and a heartfelt goodbye seems wholly inadequate for their years of loyal service. It would be akin to ripping apart the very fabric of their working lives.

  I know this has been wearing heavily on my father, a burden he’s been carrying around for some time now. The more I learn about the situation, the more harrowing it all gets. The best we can do now is to try to keep our spirits up as we continue with our plan.

  I stiffen when I hear footsteps coming from the around the corner. It has to be Blair. While I should make an effort to at least acknowledge him, I instead decide to flee.

  It’s futile, though. I’ve hardly taken three steps before he calls my name.

  ‘Lady Emilia?’

  I wince and keep my back turned for now. We’ve hardly spoken since Wednesday. Blair’s cheery facade cracked on Thursday when my mother mentioned I had called Oliver of my own accord the morning prior. With Oliver having already sent a message today to say he’ll call this evening, it’s probably in my best interests to keep my distance.

  But it’s impossible to escape from Blair. I should know better.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, turning back around. It’s a stupid thing to say, but it’s safe.

  Blair moves forward so that he’s adjacent to the closed door, his face more solemn than hostile. In his hands is a tray with two glasses of lemonade – a ceramic tray, not a silver one. It’s an odd look, but I suppose the latter was subjected to a valuation earlier today (literally rendering it out of service).

  He nods at the glasses. ‘These are for your parents, but I can bring you one if you’d like.’

  ‘I’m still full from lunch. Thanks.’

  I take a step back, expecting him to knock on the door and announce himself to my parents. However, he remains where he is, staring at me so intensely that I shrink away again. I feel like he’s trying to say something, but I’m not entirely sure I want to take notice.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say quickly, wanting an end to this encounter.

  ‘Wait –’

  He’s cut off by the door opening to reveal my father, still wearing the navy blazer he was sporting at lunch. To my surprise, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips, traces of a possible joke or laugh.

  ‘I thought I heard something.’ He knocks on the heavy wood of the door. ‘Exceptional hearing, you see. Supersonic, even.’

  Blair clears his throat, seemingly flustered that we might have been overheard. Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s merely embarrassed that he’s been caught dilly-dallying. ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  Father turns his attention to me. ‘Still loitering, my dear? I should probably let you in then. Blair here can bring you a lemonade too.’

  My heart skips a beat. I’m happy but nervous that he’s letting me inside. ‘Oh. Okay.’ I push the door open wider and begin to squeeze my way past him, eager to capitalise on the opportunity.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ he says as I make it into the room.

  ‘Sorry, don’t have any.’

  It’s a joke that brings about a stony silence. Even Mother, who’s standing at the bookcase on the far side of the room, seems to have heard and is judging me for it – her lips open in apparent dismay.

  ‘Right,’ Father replies, clapping his hands together and walking back to his desk. ‘Blair is here with lemonade.’

  I slowly approach the desk
, still confused as to the silence. It’s only after Blair has handed each of my parents their beverages that I suddenly understand.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to say that I don’t have horses because we’re in the red. I was, you know, just saying.’

  Mother is all over the admission, raising her glass with mock pride. ‘To Millie. Who still speaks without thinking, and who has apparently forgotten about the stable on the estate.’

  I come to a halt on the side of the desk furthest from her. ‘Yes, but we don’t use it. Only the film crews do.’

  She’s scathing. ‘And now no one will use it.’

  Father leans back in his chair, swivelling in Mother’s direction. ‘Millie has a phone call later. Let’s not get her riled.’

  ‘Marcus, she comes ready riled. You should know this.’

  He addresses me without moving his eyes from her. ‘You’ll have to excuse your mother, Millie. She’s cross because of me, and she is taking it out on you.’

  She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘rubbish’ before taking a long sip of her drink.

  I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I thought you were happy with me, Mother.’

  At least this time she softens, though only slightly. ‘Yes, yes.’ She doesn’t say more after that, rubbing her forehead with her free hand instead.

  Blair, who crossed the room during the exchange and is now standing at the door, takes the opportunity to jump in. ‘I shall return with Lady Emilia’s drink, m’lord.’

  My father nods. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Blair closes the door behind him as he leaves. Sometimes I wonder whether he purposely eavesdrops, or at least tries to. He’s admitted to watching me and listening to me when passing by, but that was before we slept together.

  I tell myself to focus. There’s something else that is stoking my curiosity. It’s the fact that my father is conducting himself in a way that is arguably unexpected. There’s been a shift in his mood. Admittedly, it’s been a slow shift, but it now seems like he’s committed to the task of repairing his mistakes, a commitment that might even be invigorating for him. I daresay my mother feels more comfortable with him taking responsibility. It’s like a ship where the captain is back in charge after a brief absence. Of course, the ship is still sinking, and we need to downgrade, but at least we’re not drowning.