Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  I really should stay indoors where no one can see me. It’s worrying that Gillian saw me yesterday looking aimless and sad. I must’ve walked straight past her, or seemed to ignore her if she’d waved from afar. I didn’t see her at all.

  Sometimes you don’t really see what’s going on around you. Glaucoma may be a bit of a stretch, but I’m easily more myopic than most. I don’t think about the future until it’s upon me or potentially in jeopardy. If someone were to ask me where I wanted to be in five years, I’d probably say: at the estate with a husband and two kids. Shock, horror! Turns out it’s up to me to get there.

  Which is why I break into a cold sweat when my phone rings. It’s Oliver. I may want Blair more than I’ve ever wanted anybody, but I want a husband and the estate. They’re mutually exclusive goals – pursuing both will result in disaster.

  I answer the call before it goes to voicemail and tell myself that I’m making the right choice. The sensible, realistic choice.

  ‘Hi, Oliver. How are you?’

  ‘Millie, thank God you answered.’ He sounds terribly flustered – perhaps he’s missed out on a lucrative stock option. ‘I tried to call this morning, but you must’ve been asleep. I hope you got my text about the trip. How are you?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say a little shakily, placing a hand on the table. ‘You must be very busy with this disaster that you referred to. I was a touch concerned when you didn’t text me back yesterday.’

  He sighs heavily. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I had the most ridiculous working day in the history of working days yesterday. Total disaster. I got so frustrated with the calls I was getting from Zurich that I went for a long, long walk to calm down, only to end up throwing my phone into the Neptune Fountain. I know, I know, completely stupid. It’s not even a nice fountain to look at: Neptune being pranced around by four river women. Anyway, I have a new phone, a new SIM card with the same number, and I’m going to make it up to you by taking you away.’

  ‘Yes, all the way to Dubai?’

  ‘Well, it’s the least I can do for postponing. We can meet there for a two-night stay. I’m drowning in air miles. Drowning, Millie. I could set up my own fountain.’

  He sounds so desperate to make amends that he’s talking at a rate of knots. I’m getting a little light-headed from the fact that he really wants to see me.

  ‘Not with four women prancing around you, I hope,’ I say, laughing quietly.

  ‘No women, no prancing. No pressure, either. I’ll book separate suites, and you can hang about on your own, if you want, and only see me once a day. Please, Millie, I’d really like to treat you.’

  ‘Oliver, slow down. You need to breathe.’

  ‘No time for breathing. I have to get a “yes” from you.’

  This is awfully sweet, completely different to the way he deemed me unsuitable on our first meeting. ‘Dubai sounds lovely. It’s a “yes”.’

  ‘Excellent, I’m so glad.’

  ‘And you mean it, about there being no pressure? You know, when it comes to…’ How can I say this without being so explicit about it? ‘I’m a little old-fashioned in some regards.’

  I can’t sleep with him so soon. I’m not even close to being able to. I’m not over Blair yet.

  Oh, Blair. He’s not my boyfriend, but I know he feels betrayed that I do want to go on this trip.

  ‘Polly will have my head if I’m anything less than a complete gentleman,’ Oliver says, sounding completely sincere.

  ‘Okay then. That’s good to hear.’ I try not to sound too relieved, lest he take it the wrong way. ‘So, when are you planning this for?’

  ‘A week today! Friday. I’ll book it all now if you’re up for it.’

  I’m picturing him in front of his laptop with a goofy smile on his face – his mouse hovering over the confirm button. He really is eager about this new date idea.

  ‘Yes, lock it in before King Neptune hunts you down for sullying his fountain with Apple technology.’

  ‘I know, I know. He’s a Microsoft man. It’s blasphemy. I’ll buy Zune players for his four river women.’

  I laugh. I’m allowed to laugh, after all. I know I slept with Blair again, but Oliver now seems more interested than ever. ‘If you’re talking about the MP3 Player, I’m pretty sure Microsoft discontinued those last year.’

  ‘Xbox 360, then?’

  ‘Water damage?’

  ‘Is that a new game? Should I include it in the pack?’

  ‘Oh, you’re funny.’

  ‘I try to be. Sometimes you really have to have a sense of humour, especially on the continent. They should make a game called Euro Crisis. It would be so much fun.’

  ‘Only if there’s an option to play as Chancellor Merkel.’

  ‘And only if there’s an option to dress François Hollande in a dress.’

  Again I laugh. Slowly, I’m getting more comfortable in the conversation. ‘Ah, nothing says “fashion” like a French socialist.’

  ‘You mean everything says “fashion” like a French socialist. I think the whole point is to make sure everyone gets their fair share.’

  ‘Well, they can’t come with us to Dubai.’ Oh my God. I’m really going on a trip with him. And I’m confirming it in the servants’ hall. Suddenly, I’m nervous again. I don’t have time to be nervous. I need to be agreeable. ‘Should I give you my email address so you can send through the details?’

  ‘I have your Cambridge email,’ he says proudly. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, that’ll do. I check it more often than my brother checks his.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ There’s an awkward silence. I should know better than to bring up Alastair. Fortunately, Oliver moves the conversation along before the topic sours everything. ‘Yes, I’ll email you today. No excuses, no waterlogged devices.’

  I’m twirling my hair like last time. ‘This is all very exciting.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Do you think we should send Polly an Xbox?’

  ‘I think we could do better, especially in Dubai. But you call the shots. If you think Polly needs an Xbox, we’ll get her an Xbox.’

  ‘All right, we’ll see. Keep in touch with texts this week. Tell me everything you’re doing, no matter how banal. I don’t get to see you for another seven days now – my fault, I know – but I’ll be dying to know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Well, prepare for boredom.’ Because my intent now is to do nothing interesting, nothing even close to remarkable, until I get to Heathrow on Friday. ‘If you want banal, I can give you banal.’

  ‘Consider me prepped. Anyway, I have to go – talking to you makes me go slightly off-kilter. I’ve just put two different shoes on.’

  ‘Two different shoes?’ He must be back at the hotel, ready to go out, perhaps? ‘Vous êtes très à la mode!’

  ‘Oui, oui. Je suis à la hauteur de la mode. No, really, I’d better focus now – otherwise I’ll be booking you a ticket to Timbuktu. Au revoir, Millie. It’s a shame I have to schmooze all week with people who aren’t nearly as interesting as you. Hope to hear from you soon.’

  ‘You definitely will. Bye, Oliver.’

  ‘Wait, one more thing!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I just want to say sorry again, for delaying the date. Work is always crazy for me.’

  ‘It’s okay. I understand. So does Steve – the peacock bouquet with the superiority complex.’

  ‘You named him?’

  ‘My mother is a Steve McQueen fan.’

  He chuckles heartily. ‘You really are entertaining.’

  ‘I try to be. Sometimes you really have to have a sense of humour, especially on this continent. Eurovision is over for another year. Who will entertain if not me?’

  ‘And that’s why I’m taking you out of Europe, so there’s no pressure to entertain. Leave the microphone and sequinned costume behind.’

  ‘I will dispose of them as soon as this phone call ends.’

  ‘Good. Bye for now, Millie.’ />
  ‘Bye.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the call is over. I’m not sure if the pressure is internal, external or an uneasy balance of both, but I feel it. I have to continually impress him or risk him getting bored and skipping to the next woman on Polly’s shortlist. With no entertainment of the sexual kind on this trip, I’ll have to be as charming as humanly possible.

  I think he means it when he says there’s no pressure in that respect. After all, it’s our first official date. He said he was booking separate rooms, and I’ll hold him to that. Really, I will. I’m not ready to sleep with him.

  I send Blair another text asking if he’s all right. Of course, he doesn’t respond, but it leaves me thinking: am I going to be all right, leaving him behind like this?

  I stop myself from answering, and instead go back upstairs to fetch Abby’s iPad. I’ll research Dubai, have a shower and then go to bed early – hopefully getting to sleep without obsessing over the man I woke up with this morning.

  ***

  Blair is a mess when he returns on Saturday night. Actually, it’s technically already Sunday when he rings the doorbell at around three in the morning, pressing it repeatedly until I come downstairs to open the door. As soon as I set eyes on him, I know that he’s drunk: dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, shirt half-tucked and jeans that appear to be beer-stained. Oh, and that smell – all sour and heady like he’s been showering under a lager tap.

  This is not what I want for him. Having a night out is good, but if I had to bet on it, I’d say he was drinking to forget, not to celebrate.

  I did this to him. The damage has my name written all over it.

  He sways back and forth on the step, rucksack in one hand and a bizarre smile on his face. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lady Emilia.’ He laughs, repeating my name again, this time in an exaggerated manner. ‘Lay-dee Em-eee-lee-ah.’

  I step out of the way and try to coax him into the house. ‘Oh my God. Are you all right?’

  He remains on the doorstep, pointing to himself with his free hand. ‘I’m fine. Sooo very fine. As fine as fine can be.’

  ‘Where are your keys then?’

  ‘Somewhere in my bag. And no, I’m not going to use the servants’ entrance, because today I’m not serving you.’

  I don’t want to argue with him. I want him out of public view so he doesn’t make a fool out of himself. If he wants to have it out with me then fine, but he needs to do so indoors.

  ‘Get inside before the neighbours hear you,’ I say, trying not to sound too impatient.

  At first, I think he’s going to protest. However, he stumbles past me, swinging his rucksack into the air and slurring something about Ascot. He then proceeds to kick the rucksack around like a football when it falls with a thud at the foot of the staircase, dribbling it along before losing his balance and grabbing onto the bannister for support. If we were younger this would be hilarious, but in context it’s just sad.

  I shut the door behind me. ‘Drink all day, did you?’

  He shrugs. ‘I got the double. Black Caviar and Moonlight Cloud.’ He points to the ceiling and waves happily. ‘Cloud.’

  ‘And you pissed away your winnings?’

  ‘Didn’t win that much. Not enough to impress you, anyway.’

  Ouch. ‘Nice.’

  Finally, he’s able to focus his gaze, staring at me with the same full-blown resentment he showed yesterday morning. ‘I don’t want your pity.’

  The ache in my chest flares up again, grabbing hold like hooks. ‘I’m not pitying you.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Grumbling, he begins to stumble up the staircase, leaving his rucksack behind. He’s had two sick days already, but he’ll need another one tomorrow judging by the state he’s in.

  ‘My mother isn’t coming back until Monday now,’ I call after him.

  He stops and looks down at me from the next flight. ‘I know that, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I’m just checking that you know.’

  They must’ve spoken today, because yesterday she was under the impression that he only needed a day off. With my date with Oliver moved to next week, perhaps she didn’t really mind. If that’s the case, then I’m assuming she wouldn’t have answered the marchioness’s calls because, if she had, she might be a little more concerned about how I’m doing.

  She knows better than to take other people’s words as gospel. Natural scepticism of gossip must be a Pembroke thing.

  Sighing, I pick up his rucksack and slowly ascend the stairs, not wanting to catch up with him lest he accuses me of not leaving him alone. It feels lumpy, probably having been hastily packed. I can only hope he spent last night with his family and not somewhere more unsavoury.

  I hear the slamming of doors the higher I get, and by the time I reach the attic door, I’m not surprised that it’s fully locked. I could very easily dig into his bag and find his keys, but I refrain, knowing it’ll only make him angrier. So I leave the rucksack at the door and try to come to terms with the fact that he’s finally home.

  At least he’s back, I tell myself. I can stop wondering how he is. I know how he is – shattered, worse for wear and bound for a killer hangover in the morning.

  A hungover butler is certainly not a detail Oliver has to know about. Today I texted him about breakfast cereal, how Katie Holmes filing for divorce is long overdue and the fact that bird fountains aren’t exactly the most useful of ornamental garden features. With every text, however, I got increasingly nervous about how he’d react to meeting Blair, whenever that may happen. If both men are here to stay, then they’re going to meet at some point – Blair does live here, after all. Even if Oliver isn’t threatened by the presence of a handsome male in my house, Blair certainly has a problem with him. Who knows if he’ll be able to keep it together?

  I’m getting ahead of myself. Oliver may not even want to be seen coming in and out of this house. He has his reputation to think of.

  Knowing yet again that there’s nothing I can do to appease Blair right now, I wearily head back down the stairs and decide on tomorrow’s peace offering. I’ll go out and buy something greasy for his breakfast and make him lots of coffee or one of those weird, gross-tasting concoctions that some people swear by. Either way, I reset my alarm and go back to sleep, still haunted by the memories of Thursday night.

  However, I barely get twenty minutes’ rest before being roused by a ruckus somewhere in the house. Concerned that Blair has fallen down the stairs or tripped over an antique on one of the landings, I drag myself out of bed – again – grab my torch and go exploring for the source of the sound.

  I stand on the stairs and hear groaning coming from the floor below me. Further investigation reveals that Blair has tripped over a hallway table that was moved during last week’s valuation. Picture frames are now strewn over the ground (at least two of them cracked) and the crystal paperweight has rolled away, coming to a stop next to the suit of armour further down the hall.

  I look down and shine the light onto Blair’s face, attention he does not appreciate in the slightest.

  He squints up at me. ‘Ack.’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Forgot to tidy the library yesterday. Table needs polishing.’

  I swing the beam away from his face, noticing he’s changed his clothes and no longer smells like a uni party. ‘Well, at least you had the sense to shower first.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure you are, doing chores at this time of night.’ I step over him and crouch down, picking up one of the frames and tapping the cracked plastic. ‘Lucky for you, these were bought by Al. Nobody cares about them.’

  ‘Do you even like this Oliver guy, or do you just want his money?’

  The question is asked with surprising clarity considering how drunk he is.

  My heart is racing now. Say the wrong thing and he’ll hate me even more. Feed him a white lie and the same effect will be had. ‘I like him. He makes me laugh and I find
the way he carries himself appealing.’

  Even though the still-present hooks in my chest are burning, I think I’m telling the truth.

  He groans again, a pained wail I’m not even sure he knows he’s emitting. I keep the light away from him, not wanting to highlight his embarrassment.

  With some effort he sits up. ‘I could do with a kebab. Or a curry. With chips.’

  I pause before answering, wondering if the brief exchange about Oliver really happened. He went from the subject of rival to fast food in under ten seconds. Maybe he doesn’t even realise he asked the question.

  ‘I’ll go out and get you all of that,’ I tell him, patting his arm.

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re drunk.’

  ‘But I showered and everything.’ He takes a deep breath, perhaps trying not to slur so much. ‘Millie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you really think you’ve seen me before?’

  ‘You said I was mistaken, Blair.’

  ‘You are mistaken. In so many ways. You’re wrong.’

  Frowning, I poke him in the chest to see how responsive he is. He merely groans again.

  ‘If I get you the food, will you feel better? I could be back in half an hour, depending on how quickly I can move.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’ He sighs tiredly. ‘I’ll keep waiting, even if you don’t want me to.’

  I’m rendered speechless. I feel like he’s talking about something else. It’s the kind of thing someone says when he or she is waiting for the love of their lives to come to their senses, which of course doesn’t apply to us. We haven’t known each other for that long. While it’s true that I’ve never been so strongly attracted or challenged by anyone before – not to mention the amazing sex – I know we’re a fling of the past. The very, very recent past – but still the past.