Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘Okay, you wait here and I’ll be back soon.’

  Why am I so nervous now?

  ‘Wait right here?’

  ‘Or somewhere else in the house. Just be careful not to trip this time.’ I put the torch in his hand. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Ohh, light.’

  There are several things I haven’t done since my uni days, including eating a kebab at two in the morning, driving somewhere in flip-flops and wondering if a guy I’ve slept with wants more. Just now I’m about to do all three.

  Chapter 22:

  Knowing my favourite kebab shop in South Kensington is already closed, I make the executive decision to drive to a takeaway joint that I know to be pretty decent in Earl’s Court. If memory serves me correctly, there was an epic moment years ago when Henny almost had an orgasm after biting into one of their doner kebabs. I’d thought she was just recreating that scene from When Harry Met Sally, where Meg Ryan ‘fakes it’ in the diner, but she was apparently serious about the kebab being the best she’d ever tasted. I’d settled for chips and curry sauce, not wanting to be all ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, and was pretty satisfied in the end so, overall, it must be a safe bet (if drunken memories are in any way reliable, that is.)

  On the way there, I have to stop myself from laughing. The situation is completely mad. Here I am, wearing yesterday’s jeans and an old oversized t-shirt, driving the Jag to get my butler the greasy food he needs to help him sober up. I checked on him just before I left, and he was still lying on the floor in the first-floor corridor, the only difference being that he was now waving the torch around like a one-man disco. He was also whistling to what sounded like an Oasis song.

  He mentioned something two nights ago about drinking too much previously, that he reined it in because he didn’t want to set a bad example for his siblings. While he does deserve to let off a bit of steam, I hope I’m not triggering some sort of epic relapse. I may be getting ahead of myself with the damage talk, but I worry about him and what impact this is having on his mental state.

  Sighing, I switch off the radio’s irritating late-night music. It’s not the only thing to get on my nerves: every traffic light does too. Once I’m onto the right stretch of Earl’s Court Road I start looking out for places to park, and luckily find a spot relatively close to the kebab place. It’s like the parking gods have granted me a special favour, just for this emergency. On second thought, maybe it’s not them at all. Maybe it’s the kebab gods thinking that Blair deserves this because he works so hard. Even better, it could be a merger of the relevant deities, all for a man who tripped over a table leg and survived to whistle ‘Wonderwall’ on loop.

  Jesus, it’s late. I’ve really gone bonkers this time. Keep this up and I’ll be inventing my own brand of Scientology, based on late-night takeaways (free kebabs for all aliens, including Tom Cruise!).

  I get out of the car, telling myself it’s not that late and that no one dodgy is going to jump out from an alleyway to assault me. Flip-flops weren’t the best option, safety-wise, but they at least make me look casual. I join the queue, order without too much trouble (Surely he’d want doner and not chicken?) and wait eagerly near the counter, my mouth watering from the aroma of meats and spices.

  Of course, I’m not the only one waiting keenly for their food. There’s a bunch of young guys standing to my left – clearly inebriated but cheerful nonetheless. I may feel like I’m slumming it in this outfit, but I’m apparently doing enough to get their attention. One of them, a lanky lad with a buzz cut, sidles up to me and starts talking.

  ‘You’re out late tonight, darlin’.’

  I’m a bit perturbed by the attention. To make things even more awkward, when he tries to wink, it comes off as more of a lazy eye situation. His three mates break into raucous laughter, slapping him on the head and immediately giving him shit (the technical term for these situations, of course).

  ‘Smooth, Nathan, so smooth.’

  ‘Isn’t she a bit old? Thirty? Probably a mum.’

  ‘A yummy mummy.’

  ‘A MILT.’

  ‘It’s MILF, dickhead. What the fuck is a MILT?’

  ‘A Mum I’d Like to… to…’

  ‘To… no, nothing.’

  ‘To… Tap?’

  ‘Tap what?’

  ‘Tap whatever she’ll let you.’

  ‘Ahahaha. Yeah. That’ll do.’

  Lanky Nathan shoves them off, telling them to shut up in no uncertain terms. I have the impulse to laugh because it is funny, in a pathetic, juvenile way, but it’s difficult not to feel mortified. Do I look old to them? Should I have put on make-up?

  Then again, why would I put on make-up to impress a bunch of drunken uni students anyway? I’m not here for them. And why am I asking myself so many questions?

  I force a smile, thinking they’ll leave me alone if I show that I have a sense of humour. They do leave me alone, but only because their order is ready. The four of them walk out onto the street, still giving each other shit, before disappearing into the night and possibly harassing other MILTs.

  Ah, to be young and a moron.

  I’m left wistful by the encounter, and start thinking of my younger years once I’m back in the car. I’m probably old and boring now if I’m reminiscing like this, even if I have spent the last year as a student. Blair likely knows a story or two, thanks to my mother’s babbling on about my antics to him that day (which I’m sure wasn’t the first). Everyone is the same in some way – we all want to have a good time. It’s just that when you get older, the price you pay the next day becomes dearer.

  These memories of yesterday play through my head as I drive home at about the same pace a grandma would. Then, after two shocking attempts at parallel parking (it’s the smell of chips – makes it hard to concentrate), I get out of the car and immediately wonder whether Mrs Skene is up and about at this hour, spying on the street. If she is, she’ll have seen me almost trip on the curb before struggling with the front gate – the same gate Eliza had no idea how to open yesterday – and finally letting myself into the house.

  Continuing the non-stealth theme, I clumsily bound up the stairs with the plastic bag of food, forgetting that running in flip-flops is usually reserved for excited nine-year-olds at the public pool.

  Come on, Millie. Get it together.

  I hear a groan from Blair. ‘Millie, is that you?’

  I make it up to the first-floor landing. Blair is still lying in exactly the same spot, like he’s an extra in a production of Hamlet where the ‘dead’ aren’t moved until the entire play is over. As far as I know, no such production exists, but maybe it should. It would be entertaining to watch the surviving actors try to navigate their way around the bodies on stage.

  Again, I’m being weird. I think I need sleep just as badly as he does.

  ‘You stopped whistling,’ I say, kicking off my flip-flops.

  He scratches his nose and tries to keep his eyes open. So drunkenly adorable. ‘Yeah. Tired.’

  ‘Uh-uh. Open those eyes. I have meaty goodness here.’

  A split second later, I realise this is something a guy would say. It was possibly going to be Lanky Nathan’s next pick-up line before he was rudely cut off by his mates.

  Blair blinks at me, apparently not understanding. I suddenly panic again on remembering he said that line about waiting for me even if I don’t want him to.

  I move the conversation along. ‘Do you want to eat here? Or get into bed and then eat? I’ve got some water for you too – let’s flush out the alcohol, shall we?’

  He frowns, directing the torch at the table and switching it on and off. ‘Huh?’

  ‘That’s not a bed, Blair. It’s a table.’

  ‘Oh.’ He groans again, head lolling to the side. ‘Bed is far away.’

  Oh no. If I have to help him up to his room, I’m going to go insane from the flashbacks of being fucked against his door.

  There has to be another option.


  ‘Oh!’ I’ve got the perfect solution. ‘There are guest rooms on this floor. Let’s get you to the purple one. It’s haunted, but don’t worry – the ghosts won’t eat your food.’

  ‘Where’s my backpack?’ he asks, smiling goofily.

  I’m not sure he even heard me, though at least he’s not slurring as much now. I kneel down and set the food aside. ‘Okay, I’m going to help you up and we’ll walk to the purple bedroom –’

  ‘Purple?’

  ‘Yes, purple.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Really, really purple?’

  ‘Yes, extremely. If Barney the Dinosaur and Tinky-Winky had a baby, this bedroom would be it.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I shouldn’t tell jokes. It’s only going to lead to more problems. ‘Never mind. I forgot they’re both guys, or at least asexual.’

  ‘Are they gay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m very selective in the company I keep.’

  ‘You have a company?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s in the purple bedroom. Let’s go there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Helping him up is not an easy feat, not when he seems to think I can lift him off the floor unaided. I’ve got my forearm under his shoulder in a vain attempt to get him to shift. It’s not until ten seconds later that he begins to move of his own accord, using his elbows to prop himself up before somehow managing to stand upright. I place my hand on his back and lead him over to the correct room, where he then collapses onto the bed.

  He groans and rolls over onto his back. ‘Dark.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I place my hand on his forearm so he knows I’m still close by. ‘Will your eyes hurt if I turn the lamp on?’

  ‘Dark.’

  I’ve forgotten how incoherent people get when they’re in this state. Knowing the torch isn’t going to do the trick, I walk around to the other side of the bed and switch on the lamp there, not wanting to sting his eyes by turning on the closest one.

  He hums contentedly. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Stay here. I’ll be right back.’

  I rush out to the corridor, almost tripping over the suit of armour in my haste. I collect the plastic bag and am more careful on my way back, impressed that Blair has managed to sit up against the headboard in the time it takes me to re-enter the room.

  ‘From darkness to promote me,’ he says, swaying slightly but managing to bring one knee up to his chest. Why he’s quoting fragments from Frankenstein, I’m not quite sure.

  I climb up onto the bed and settle next to him. ‘Do you always quote Shelley when you’re drunk?’

  ‘Food?’ He clumsily reaches into the plastic bag, eyes lighting up at the sight of the kebab. Guessing that he’s going to struggle with opening up the box, I help him. It probably shouldn’t be cute, but it is anyway – there’s a look of intense concentration on his face when he chomps down, eyes fixated on the food, his unkempt hair making him appear a little crazed.

  I bring out the chip container. ‘Don’t forget these.’

  He grunts in approval, alternating between bites of kebab and chips. I worry that bringing the final dish into the mix will turn him into an unstoppable eating machine, but experience tells me that some people get cross when you deny them curry sauce with their chips (given, those people were northern.) So I open that plastic container too, and hold it steady for him as I patiently wait for him to finish.

  It’s the least I can do after upsetting him so badly. I just hope he doesn’t get indigestion.

  After polishing off the bottle of water, he holds out the kebab – there’s about a quarter remaining – the meat, lettuce and sauce now a mangled mess. ‘Yours.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s for you.’

  It’s an answer he won’t accept. He waves it around in front of me, eventually holding it up to my mouth when I won’t free up a hand to accept it. I take a bite and chew and swallow in what I hope is a ladylike manner, only to have him try to feed me again.

  I relent, taking another bite and then eating some chips, all while he watches. He then takes the curry sauce from me after finishing the kebab. Again, he wants to share, dipping a couple of chips into the sauce container for me and gently putting them into my mouth. I eat a little and then shake my head at eating more, happy that he seems a little more settled.

  That should be it for the night. He’s fed and ready for bed – dental care permitting. As I won’t be brushing his teeth for him, I clear the rubbish from the bed and chuck it in the bin. It’s then that I stand back and realise this will just make the room smell greasy, much like what happened to the car.

  I fish out the offending rubbish and head for the door. ‘Just going to chuck this out. I’ll be back.’

  He perks up. ‘Backpack?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll fetch it for you in a second.’

  It’s odd, taking care of him like this. I don’t think anyone takes care of Blair. I find myself wondering when he last had a girlfriend, and whether she tended to him after a big night out. I doubt he’d tell me if I asked, so I try to cast the thought aside, much like the rubbish I throw into the kitchen bin.

  However, as with all things Blair-related, barely a minute passes before I become fixated on the issue again. My head is spinning when I reach the attic, where I left his rucksack earlier. On some level I must be traumatised, because I end up hugging this bag like it’s a lost friend or memory and carry on nursing it as I head back to the first floor. Originally, my thirst for knowledge was driven by both curiosity and frustration. Now I really do want to know more about Blair, beyond the fact that he likes to be in bed with me. Maybe then I can accurately judge whether he’s okay or not.

  But this isn’t the time to feel so sentimental. I steel myself for our next set of interactions and carry his belongings with a lighter grip.

  ‘Sleepy?’ I ask as I re-enter the room.

  He’s curled up on the bed now, head resting on one of the frilly lavender pillows. ‘Yeah.’

  I bring the rucksack over to him, allowing him to unpack its contents like he’s got Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpet bag. Clothes. Earphones. His shaving bag. A Steinbeck novel. Two Oyster cards. Several sheets of folded A4 paper, one of which falls off the bed onto the floor. An apple. And, most surprising of all, a can of beans.

  I stand by, wondering what he’s looking for exactly. ‘Have you lost something? Toothbrush?’

  He lifts his head and peers into the now mostly empty bag, an action that quickly exhausts him. ‘Wallet. Upstairs. Jeans.’

  I have the urge to reach over and put my hand on his shoulder when he buries his face into the pillow. I know what this is about now – money and pride.

  ‘You don’t have to pay me back.’

  Predictably, he insists, turning his head and looking directly at me. ‘I have money.’

  The last thing I want is to come across as patronising. I kneel down bedside the bed and place my hand on his cheek, gently rubbing my thumb over his two-day stubble. ‘Don’t worry about it. Really, it’s my treat.’

  He swats my hand away, anger flashing in his eyes. I know he’s drunk and moody, but the rejection of the gesture still hurts.

  ‘I don’t want your pity,’ he says.

  I wring my hands, anxious to resolve this calmly. ‘It’s not pity. I owe you, anyway.’

  ‘For what? Sex?’

  I let the sentence hang in the air, hoping he’ll realise how insulting it is. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  Instead of replying, he shuts his eyes tightly, as if he’s silently praying for an intruder to leave. Upset, I stand and step over to the foot of the four-poster, grabbing the covers and hauling them upward. It’s a haphazard attempt at tucking him in, mainly because I didn’t tidy his belongings first. I shove most of the items into the rucksack and dump it on the ground before pulling the covers again.

  I’m
about to leave when I accidentally step on the piece of paper that fell to the floor earlier. With Blair seemingly asleep, I bend down and pick it up, now noticing that it looks like some sort of grid highlighted in all sorts of fluorescent colours. Rather than being a new ‘fluoro tartan’, I realise it’s a timetable, a schedule he’s drawn up to keep track of his sibling’s activities. Who’s at work and when, who needs to complete certain chores and errands and who needs to buy groceries and with what money. It must be his way of micromanaging from afar. I don’t even have Al’s mobile number, and here’s Blair making sure his siblings are looked after even though he lives elsewhere.

  ‘Busy reading?’

  Startled, I drop the timetable and place my hand on my chest instead. ‘Jesus. Busy faking sleep?’

  He looks at me sullenly, like I’m the sole cause of his exhaustion. ‘I wish you didn’t live here.’

  Ouch again. I’m struck by a prickly sensation right in my chest. ‘Look, I –’

  ‘I’m tired of looking. That’s all I can do, isn’t it? Look from a respectable distance.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you want from me.’ It’s true – I am questioning what’s going on here. However, it’s a stupid thing to say to a drunken man. Heck, it’s a stupid thing to say to a sober man. It either provokes a response that no one wants to hear, or results in a lie designed to protect one’s pride.

  He sighs angrily. ‘I wish I had money.’

  I rein in my urge to ask why, because it sounds like he wishes he could compete for me properly. That would make his goal the same as Oliver’s, even though Oliver is clearly looking for a wife.

  ‘I wish I could look after you,’ Blair adds.

  ‘You already look after me. Every day.’ I step back, worried he’ll see that my cheeks are flushed. ‘Just get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  Yes, because hangovers are a fantastic state of being, right up there with nirvana.

  He regards me coolly before shutting his eyes and sighing once again. ‘I hate you.’

  I’m stunned by the comment, I really am. His being drunk doesn’t lessen the impact. In fact it heightens it, because this is how he must really feel, what he wishes he could say but can’t because he’s an employee.