Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘So, you’re just going to let Steve die because you don’t like Oliver?’

  I refrain from mentioning anything about our scandalous sex being the real reason he hates the bouquet. It’s a reason that informs all our interactions anyway.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Maybe he can breed with the first bunch of flowers so he’ll have a legacy before he keels over.’

  ‘You’re not funny.’

  ‘You can’t possibly find Steve romantic.’

  ‘What I find romantic doesn’t concern you.’

  Predictably, he bristles. I can hear his teeth grinding. I hold my ground, knowing it was the right thing to say – a necessary reminder for the both of us.

  ‘Have you at least thought about what I said?’ he says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

  I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘You frighten me.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not going to pounce on you.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I glance around, paranoid. ‘Okay, maybe “frighten” is the wrong word. You make me nervous. I can’t think around you. My date is in two days.’

  Oh look, an average of five words per sentence. That’s a twenty-five per cent increase from previous ramblings.

  ‘Steve McQueen,’ Blair says at normal volume.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The peacock is named after the Steve McQueen, whom your mother may or may not admit to having fancied back in the day. I suggested Captain Peacock, you know, from Are You Being Served?, but your mother thought it would be a bad omen to name the peacock after a department-store employee. So we named it after a famous, wealthy actor. Coincidentally, Captain Peacock’s first name was actually Stephen.’

  I stare at him blankly, incensed by his mocking tone. ‘That is the most useless story I have ever been told. Please bring out my breakfast.’

  ‘Sorry, m’lady. You’ll have to serve yourself this morning. Cereal is in the pantry.’ He gestures to his left, as if the pantry is within reach and not beneath us.

  Unable to stand his teasing, I clench my fists and try not to shove him in the chest.

  He’s clearly enjoying this. ‘Would you like me to draw you a map to the pantry? “X” marks the cornflake.’

  I open my mouth to deliver a witty retort, before realising I have one more card up my sleeve. Or rather, his sleeve. ‘You have the card from Oliver?’

  The onset of sullenness is instant. I hold out my palm and wait for him to produce the card. It’s with great reluctance that he delves into his inner jacket pocket, and he can hardly look at me as he places it in my hand.

  I immediately tuck it into my breast pocket.

  ‘You’re not going to read it?’ he asks.

  ‘In front of you?’

  The tables have turned so fast that it seems he has whiplash, or at least the unstable feeling you get from riding on a merry-go-round too much. He rocks back and forth, then left and right. The movements are slight but noticeable, especially to someone who’s watched him so intently.

  He bows his head. ‘If you’re happy to make yourself a cup of tea to tide you over, I shall bring you brunch after I drop your mother off.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  It’s impossible to ignore the twinge of hope in the question.

  ‘I, too, think Steve is a little garish.’

  ‘Be careful, m’lady.’ He cocks his head to the right. ‘You might hurt his pride.’

  I step into his path when he tries to leave, one last question left to ask. ‘Is my mother okay?’

  I know it sounds like I’m dismissing the tension between the two of us, but he and I will still have the same problem when he returns. However, my mother is off to the estate, where I can’t corner her even if I had the courage to do so.

  ‘Her Ladyship is a touch emotional at the moment. It’s not my place to elaborate any further.’

  ‘I see.’

  I let him exit, waiting until the sound of his footsteps disappears. It’s then that I read the card, breaking the golden seal that I’m relieved is there for privacy’s sake:

  Millie,

  How hilarious is this peacock? A guaranteed inferiority complex for every bouquet within a ten-mile radius!

  Looking forward to lunch. I’ll call you on Saturday morning.

  Oliver

  While it may not be the most romantic prose, it at least shows we have personal jokes. I pat Steve’s ceramic head (the only non-foam, non-plant part of him) and place the card back into my pocket, wondering how else I can prepare for this date.

  Before I can complete my musings on whether or not to bring something on Saturday – a gift, a bottle of wine or some other token – Mother returns to the room, the clack of her Ferragamo heels sounding particularly laboured.

  She seems to have calmed down though. ‘Come along then. Get dressed in a jiffy and come to see me off.’

  ‘Well, all right then,’ I say brightly, eager to cheer her up. I tug on the lapel of my pyjama top. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ She grabs my arm as I attempt to pass her, the unexpected coolness of her fashion ring on my skin making me shiver. ‘I just want to say I’m sorry for not preparing you better.’

  I gently try to shake off her hold. ‘For what? My date?’

  ‘No. For gossip and outcast status.’ There’s a lucidity to her words that is wholly unfamiliar. ‘Even with a quiet sale, there will still be talk. You might end up okay, but you should think about lying low for a bit. Don’t give Oliver cause to panic by being too social. He’s afraid of our notoriety.’

  I think of the last week, of the madness that comes with being cooped up indoors. I’ve cancelled on people, dodged questions and texts, and hung back from any type of social media. I’ve struggled to breathe in this house, choked by expectation and fear.

  ‘Lying low draws suspicion too, you know.’

  She places both hands on my shoulders. ‘I hate to say it, but don’t be surprised if your Arts Club membership suddenly gets annulled. Andrew has his reputation to think about too – he co-sponsored you. People love to talk about Alastair –’

  ‘Or see if they know anyone who can get them his contact details. His party invite list is a member’s club in itself.’

  ‘He won’t be the problem anymore. The loss of Silsbury Hall will be.’ She casts a wary eye at Steve. ‘Don’t brag too much to Oliver. Don’t talk up the estate. Be as humble as you can be. It may even pay off to mention in passing that other families have found it tough to hang on to their heritage.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it too much. It all sounds so orchestrated.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  Between her, Father, Blair and Oliver, I have enough thoughts to fill the Olympic swimming pool. How brilliant it would be to bleach my brain with chlorine and start all over, sanitised and ready for competition.

  It’s with a great sense of worry that I head upstairs and change. I even put my jeans on backwards, that’s how out of sorts I feel. It’s terrible, too, seeing the Roberto Cavalli label and not knowing if I’ll ever be able to afford these kinds of clothes anymore. And to think I’ve been relatively conservative with my spending for years, wearing pieces for seasons at a time, or trying to buy classic pieces that are timeless.

  Days ago, I was subjected to the pricing of our belongings, the idea that the objects around me really do have an approximate net worth and that people may want to buy them. Now I wonder how long it would take to earn enough money to buy those items back. Even then, how many could one person even purchase without short-changing other areas of their life, like food or rent?

  I must be having some sort of mild epiphany, made worse by the fact that I’m starving. Come to think of it, what kind of brunch does Blair intend to buy for me today anyway? The budget we’ve had on my mother’s money may need to be tightened further – her inheritance isn’t infinite.
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  Rattled, I focus all my remaining brainpower into dressing myself correctly, and then head downstairs to be bundled into the car. A car we might have to sell for a second-rate price.

  Convinced that I really am losing it, I remind myself that the estate may be able to fetch a perfectly comfortable sum. However, within a second, I remember that – as my mother has pointed out – there may be the additional price of social judgement.

  My thoughts whir away in this vein for the whole drive to Kings Cross station, conflicting ideas circling each other like weary enemies. The madness even makes me try to cost everything that I see out of the car window, price tags popping up in my head for different cars, trees, buildings, clothes and even products on billboards. I begin to wonder how much Oliver earns per hour, or whether he bills in six-minute increments like a lawyer would. He makes money for other people, cultivating accounts as if money really does grow on trees. Will he be okay with me spending his hard-earned cash? Is his cash even hard-earned, or is he an overpaid fat cat who sits around fooling people?

  It’s an anxiety that must show on my face. The hug Mother gives me when we get out of the car is uncomfortably tight, like she’s a miser trying to squeeze every last penny out of me. We don’t say much, the pair of us standing idly on the platform while Blair keeps a close eye over her Bally weekend bags. Even when it’s time for her to board, we only exchange goodbyes, her impassioned lecture saved for Blair.

  ‘You’ll have to look after her. Make sure she eats. She always fasts when she’s upset. You can call me for ideas on what to make for her – just use my account for the groceries. Whatever she wants. You’ve got Abby’s number in case of emergencies, fashion or otherwise. And no matter what, make sure she’s on time for her date, because she really cannot be late for such a thing. Understood?’

  Blair scratches the back of his neck, which is never a good move in front of my mother, especially in public. ‘Understood, m’lady.’

  She waves her finger at him. ‘Don’t be so daunted. I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  Satisfied with his renewed conviction, she gives me a final kiss on the cheek before getting on the train and finding her seat. I wave at her limply, a gesture I’m sure she rolls her eyes at (though maybe it’s the window tint playing tricks on me).

  Somehow, despite the fact that I’ve known for days that she’d be leaving, her departure feels abrupt. How many times have we parted ways? Sleepovers. Boarding school. University. Travel. I may not have the stamina to run after the train – nor the correct shoes – but I want to follow her back home.

  Frowning, I lead Blair back to the car instead. I begin the price-tag game again, assessing the people around me, and probably failing miserably when it comes to estimating the value of their clothes and hairstyles. Blair, too, isn’t immune from my sights (though he never has been). In fact, he’s probably due for a haircut himself – I could run my hands through his hair now, whereas I couldn’t have when I first met him.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asks, quickening his pace so he’s back in step with me.

  I get a shiver down my spine. ‘Ohh, déjà vu.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Aren’t I always checking you out with a hungry look in my eyes?’

  It’s something he told me when we ate at that café, the one with the strange waitress.

  He’s quick to shut me down. ‘We’re in public, m’lady. You may want to watch what you say.’

  ‘Of course. I apologise.’

  I shove my hands in my pockets and am silent again, letting the noises around me drown out my thoughts. My ears fill with the buzzing chatter of commuters – the din occasionally punctuated by a laugh, cry or automated announcement.

  It’s no wonder that Blair has to wave his hand in front of me as we approach the car. I’ve tuned out from the public frequency.

  ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he asks, opening the car door for me.

  ‘Can we go to Hyde Park? I want to drown myself in the Serpentine.’

  He snorts derisively. I stop short, refusing to get into the car. It’s awfully rude of him not to even entertain my psychosis.

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to buy you a croissant and a coffee. I’ll then drop you off at Hyde Park so you can get some fresh air and judge as many tourists as you’d like. When you’ve finished, I’ll drive you wherever you want – on the proviso that you stop pouting.’

  I squint from the white sky, my sunglasses still in my handbag. ‘I can’t figure out if you’re being mean, or nice.’

  ‘Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Whichever one is real.’

  He points to the interior of the car, signalling for me to get in. I acquiesce, the conversation continuing when he enters the vehicle from the other side.

  ‘You’ve been in hiding,’ he says, buckling his seatbelt and looking over his shoulder. ‘Why not call one of your friends?’

  ‘I can’t. They’ll ask me about my parents and what’s going on with my family. And Abby’s busy today, organising some charity function. She’s in demand for that kind of thing.’ I try not to sound so pitiful. ‘I’m not really the committee type, but she is, I suppose.’

  ‘You could go shopping.’

  ‘Window shopping, more like.’

  He shrugs, either out of ideas or simply not caring anymore. Maybe he knows I hate his indifference, whether put on or not.

  ‘So where are we going?’ I ask as we drive off.

  ‘Bakery.’

  ‘There are bakeries right here near the station.’

  ‘Really? Excuse my inefficiency.’

  The thought of going back to the house after this little outing depresses me. Probably because the house is not really home – the estate is.

  I bang my forehead on the side window, not caring if I look ridiculous from the outside. ‘Is it too early to grieve for the loss of my ancestral home?’

  ‘Is it too early to predict that your boyfriend won’t save it?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend. Yet.’

  His next utterance is almost inaudible. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying for the past week.’

  I pretend I already have a croissant shoved in my mouth. I shouldn’t say anything. No engaging in conversation with the sexy butler. He can take the long route to whatever random bakery he wants, as long as we don’t talk.

  I didn’t come to London to look for a husband. It was a task thrust on me by my mother, a mission I kind of took to after a little while. If she hadn’t found it to be such a priority, I’d be doing whatever I wanted this summer.

  That’s before our internal financial crisis hit. I should term it IFC, not to be confused with International Finance Corporation, Independent Film Channel or Imitation Fried Chicken, the latter probably a feature on Jamie Oliver’s hit-list when he demanded changes to school dinners and public health.

  He’s such a crusader. I should find a cause and do something. Maybe Abby needs help with her charity work…

  ‘M’lady, you should remove your forehead from the glass. We’re running out of window cleaner.’

  I stay exactly where I am, putting up with every bump and turn. ‘We’ll whip up a home remedy then sell it.’

  ‘How very entrepreneurial.’

  I yelp when the glass begins to wind down, the result of Blair’s finger on the electronic control. ‘Hey!’

  ‘Like I said: you need fresh air.’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s really fresh.’ I press the ‘up’ button only to be overridden by Blair’s master control. I release the button and start singing my own jingle, the blustery wind messing with my hair. ‘As fresh as fresh can be!’

  ‘Sit still and behave yourself.’

  The window goes back up, tinting the view once more. ‘You enjoy telling me what to do, don’t you?’

  ‘Depends on the situation.’

  ‘Yes. The situation being sex.’

  He smirks, his s
ense of self-satisfaction giving me flashbacks to when he had me pinned up against his bedroom door.

  I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. He obviously can’t focus on me for too long as he’s driving, but he gives me his full attention generously when we stop at the next traffic light.

  ‘Blair?’

  ‘Yes?’

  I hope I’m exuding seriousness and not silliness like before. ‘I’m not going to sleep with you just because there’s a deadline.’

  ‘Then sleep with me because you want to.’

  Damn. The man knows how to smoulder far too effectively. How does he manage to do this to me? I can’t remember what I was going to say next.

  He looks away and trains his eyes back on the road. My eyes, however, are on his hand, the one on the gearstick. It’s not hard to imagine him reaching back and touching me.

  ‘I’m confusing you,’ he says, a touch of regret colouring his voice.

  Focus, Millie. Focus. ‘Whatever happens with Oliver aside, the truth is I’m not going back to St Andrews. So it’s not like I can run away from you at the end of the summer.’

  ‘Really? Bye-bye, St Andrews?’

  ‘Yes.’ The more I think about it, the more certain I am. ‘So maybe you should think about what I’m saying, for once.’

  ‘I’m not asking for forever. Besides, you could do with a bit of fun at the moment. It might even be therapeutic.’

  My forehead goes back to the window. At this rate, I’ll be jumping into the Serpentine before nightfall, not to drown myself, but to cool off.

  Chapter 20:

  After the coffee and croissant – bought from a random, unremarkable bakery near Regent’s Park – I insisted on being dropped off at Selfridges for a marathon window-shopping session. Blair went along with it, probably because it freed him to plot his secret seduction plan, and simply told me to call when I needed to be picked up.

  Little did he know that I was serious about the ‘marathon’ aspect of the day. While it did make me miserable to look at clothes I can no longer buy, the intent of the whole expedition was to avoid him for as long as possible. When I’d finished looking at clothes, I moved on to fragrances and handbags before checking out jewellery and shoes… I even spent an inordinate amount of time making a mental wish list in the home accessories department. It was only when I ventured into the food hall that I actually bought something – a bag of chocolate coins and a jar of thyme jelly – a purchase only made because I didn’t want the security guards thinking I was a broke noble with nothing better to do than to spend hours and hours in their shop.