Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  I’m not completely stupid. In some way, I do get it. If I hadn’t come down for the summer, his working life would be a whole lot easier and his personal life would be a lot less complicated. Wanting to sleep with me conflicts with his priorities – his values, even.

  ‘Well, I don’t hate you,’ I whisper.

  He snorts but doesn’t acknowledge me further. The night ends here.

  If we were twenty, this summer would just be one big carefree affair. But we’re not twenty.

  I pad around the bed, switch off the lamp and walk backwards out of the room, all while biting my lip so hard that I almost draw blood.

  ***

  Usually, the only mail on Sunday is, well, the Mail on Sunday (not that I ever deign to read that particular ‘newspaper’). Today, however, there is something in the letterbox, though I’m assuming it was delivered yesterday. For all that time spent in the front garden, I didn’t even check the post.

  That’s the power of a Blair problem – anything rudimentary gets forgotten. As far as I know, he’s still asleep in the purple bedroom and probably still hating me for whatever reason too. Admittedly, I did think about taking some paracetamol and water up to him, but after what he said last night, I decided it’s best not to force my presence on him.

  I don’t even know if he’ll remember anything from last night. Alcohol-induced amnesia can be quite debilitating. I know this because I called my mother this morning to see how she is, only to have to listen to her admit that she’s too hungover to properly account for how she feels about the estate, the valuation or the fact that she misses me.

  Alcohol, it seems, is the prevailing theme of the weekend. The postcard that arrived yesterday even carries the theme – ‘Greetings from cider country’, emblazoned over the photo. Interestingly, the postmark is Somerset. I know Al has friends who own a cider distillery in that region, so that’s my best guess as to why he’s there. If I had nothing better to do, I suppose I’d treat myself to some quality cider, too.

  Indeed, after deciphering the code in the sitting room, it seems I still know a thing or two about my brother.

  Dearest Millie,

  [Sorrok!] Looks like my visit to London is going to be delayed. So many friends to see, so much fine cider to test.

  See you in a few weeks.

  Cheers, Al

  He was likely more than a little tipsy when he wrote this, as his handwriting is awfully sloppy and the message even more brief than usual. How he managed to successfully write in code in this instance is a mystery.

  Either way, the postcard makes me angry all over again. He’s living it up, enjoying top-notch farmhouse cider, while I spend yet another day at home, wondering what to do about the men in my life. Yes, I know my problem is hardly cataclysmic, but it’s still very trying. As I’ve said all along, the least he could do is call, especially if he doesn’t actually intend to visit.

  Stupid, absent Alastair. Doesn’t he in any way miss me? He may have sent me a couple of postcards, but the control is still in his hands. I only get to see him when he wants to be seen, which is completely unfair. Has it never occurred to him that I’m willing to meet him without the parents present? I should storm down to Somerset, just so I can throw a glass of his friend’s cider in his face. Better yet, I’ll pummel him with the very apples the cider is made from.

  I lie down on the settee, an awfully uncomfortable position indeed. These chairs weren’t made for fainting women. Nevertheless, I stay horizontal, placing the postcard over my eyes like a paper eye mask.

  To the list of things I can’t text Oliver about, I hereby add the postcard from my brother, my butler’s killer hangover and the fact that I miss my family.

  Chapter 23:

  Early morning in the London house is actually rather peaceful. It’s all quiet outside – still dark, still calm. It reminds me of waking up on Christmas morning. Given, I’ve only spent one Christmas here, when Granny Pembroke insisted that London was the only place to be for the festive season, but the memories are clear enough: everyone gathered in the candle-lit conservatory with tea, crumpets and a few presents to share.

  However, it’s not Christmas time – it’s the Friday of the first week of July – and there’s no father here. He’s absent, still at Silsbury Hall after the promising valuation and council visit. The next step is to work out what to do with the business side of the estate, details of which have been sent to Andrew, who coincidentally happens to be here this morning.

  So while not a purely family affair, it’s still a good crowd – Andrew, Abby, my mother and me – lounging around in a room we hardly use. Abby wanted to stargaze and possibly see the sunrise. My mother went along with it, probably because she didn’t want to look like a spoilsport in front of Andrew, who has been helping us so generously. I don’t mind either, really. I’m dressed, packed and eager for a cup of tea. It’s the person bringing my tea that I might have reason to be concerned about.

  A bleary-eyed Blair has insisted on working at this time of the morning despite my mother telling him yesterday that she could take care of the refreshments and order a taxi to take me to the airport. He feels bad, he says, for taking so much time off when I was left alone last week. What she doesn’t know, amongst other things, is that he’s not about to let me leave for Dubai without giving me a final reminder that he’s still around.

  At least, that’s what I think he’s doing. He’s been contrite since the drunken episode, leading me to believe two things: firstly, that he doesn’t actually hate me but was just frustrated with the situation, and secondly, he knows now that he can’t browbeat me into dropping Oliver. In any case, I still feel awful and need to remind myself hourly that our night in bed together was meant to be a goodbye, from my side of things. Only with hindsight and a clear mind can I see that succumbing to him sustained our attraction rather than quelling it. Here I am trying to move on with another man while he literally sees me off.

  I can actually date Oliver. I can’t be tormented by Blair all summer and beyond, and if he won’t believe it, then I have to.

  I tune back in to the conversation when I hear my name.

  ‘… I do hope that I’ve lent Millie enough clothes.’

  Andrew chuckles, patting Abby’s knee. ‘You’ve lent her more than enough, dear.’

  Abby remains unconvinced, fingering her David Yurman necklace. ‘But it’s hard to predict what kind of outfits she’ll need. I’m not sure what restaurants he’ll take her to.’

  ‘Good ones, I hope,’ I say, finally chiming in. I look across at Mother, who’s seated in the armchair on the other side of Abby and Andrew. Surprisingly, she stays mum, nodding only once before sipping her tea. Maybe she can’t breathe in the Mulberry dress she’s wearing – it was bought when she was younger and skinnier.

  I really thought she’d be more excited this morning. She was relatively upbeat when I told her about my trip last week, and was arguably even more pleased when she returned on Monday. Being this subdued suggests the paranoia has taken hold again – she’s worrying that Oliver will bolt at the first sniff of ruin. Andrew says he’s not going to move for a sale until the viability of the business is assessed. Perhaps Mother feels more desperate.

  It’s also possible that the marchioness has spooked Mother by poking her nose into our affairs. I have afternoon tea lined up with Eliza on Tuesday, but maybe the two of them got impatient and asked around about our familial problems anyway.

  No, I can’t think like this. I need to ground myself in the present. Restaurants, we’re talking about restaurants.

  ‘You’re staying at Atlantis The Palm, did you say?’ Andrew asks.

  ‘Yes. Oliver usually stays there when he’s in transit. Speaking of restaurants, you’ve dined at the one with the aquarium, haven’t you? Where you sit by the glass?’

  ‘Oh, Ossiano? Yes, we have.’

  Abby jumps in, suddenly more animated. ‘Eating fish while being surrounding by fish was really weird!’
>
  Andrew is taken aback. ‘I thought you said it was romantic, that it reminded you of a film.’

  I nod, knowing what Abby would’ve referred to. ‘Romeo + Juliet. The fish-tank scene.’

  Abby pokes him in the chest. ‘It was romantic, but only before they served the food. I was nervous after that. I felt like a cannibal. You didn’t even notice because you were too busy wolfing down your starter.’

  ‘How could you feel like a cannibal?’ he asks with a snort. ‘You’re not a fish.’

  ‘But I am quite the catch.’ She’s quick to nudge him in the ribs. ‘Huh, huh?’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible. Was that a set up?’ He pulls a face, like he’s just eaten something unpalatable. ‘Ugh. I’m going to pretend that Millie never asked.’

  He continues to play it up, shuddering from the cheesiness and clutching his stomach due to apparent nausea. He even tries to fend her off when she pats him on the back, his antics making Abby giggle harder. It’s so sweet. I want what they have. I want that lovey-dovey repartee.

  Of course, the first thing I see when I take my eyes off the two of them is Blair, plodding back into the room with honey for the crumpets.

  In the flickering candlelight, I feel like we’ve been transported back in time by two centuries. The family, their guests and the help. Some traditions may have died, but banging the butler is still scandalous. I look away, only to find that, once again, Andrew is staring suspiciously at Blair.

  Andrew was like this earlier too, eyeing Blair’s every move when he poured our tea. It must be the age thing – exactly why I didn’t want my mother having guests over: he’s too young and too attractive. Blair doesn’t seem ruffled by it, though I know better than to take his emotions at face value.

  Blair comes to a stop, addressing all four of us. ‘I’ve loaded Lady Emilia’s luggage into the car, all bar her carry-on. Mrs Carrington mentioned there were some last-minute items?’

  ‘Uh, yes.’ Flustered, Abby grabs her handbag and stands. ‘Come along, Mills.’

  I stand, locking eyes with Blair when he comes over to place the honey jar on the coffee table. It’s a stupid slip, a snatch of a second that hopefully comes across as indifferent to everyone else in the room.

  ‘Save some for me,’ I say brightly, nodding at the jar before moving off.

  Oh no. I probably made something out of nothing by even commenting. The honey was part of a gift basket that Andrew brought over to celebrate the valuation figure of the estate. As if anyone would be so keen to eat a whole jar of Devonshire honey and not save any for anyone else.

  I rush off with Abby, who takes me by the hand and drags me upstairs to my room. After shutting the door behind us with a giggle, she switches on the light, hurries over to my bed and dumps everything out of her Anya Hindmarch tote.

  It’s easy to spot what the last-minute items are. Once I discount everything I know to be her essentials, I’m left with the following items: condoms, lube, a pocket-size Kama Sutra, more condoms (possibly glow-in-the-dark) and what I think is a vibrating cock ring.

  When I think about sex, I think about Blair, and sex with Blair on this very bed. ‘Oh my God.’

  Blair with a cock ring? That would be too much for me.

  Abby is beaming with pride. ‘Voilá! Everything you need for a romantic weekend.’

  ‘You mean a dirty weekend.’ I step away from the bed, worried I’ll break out in a rash if I stand next to this much latex for too long. ‘I want to be marriage material, not mistress material.’

  She grabs the cock-ring box and starts shaking it like a maraca. ‘Your butler is too efficient. I thought we’d still have time to pack this into your luggage, not your carry-on.’

  ‘Abby, I’m not bringing any of that. This is our first official date. I’m not going to sleep with him so soon.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I hold up my hand. ‘Stop using the cock ring as a percussion instrument.’

  Crestfallen, she drops her hand and pouts at me. ‘You’re serious. You’re really not going to sleep with him?’

  The sheer scale of her disappointment – reined in a bit for exaggeration – makes me stop and think.

  ‘He and I discussed this, albeit briefly. No pressure, he said. Separate bedrooms. You don’t really think he’s expecting sex so soon?’

  She tilts her head to the side, making me feel like I’m naive. ‘He is taking you out of the country.’

  ‘So? Is that a new tariff at the airport?’ Keep calm, keep calm. ‘No, no, no, no, no. He said separate bedrooms, no pressure.’

  I start fanning my face. This isn’t good. I’m not ready to sleep with Oliver. I want romance first. The important stuff. Otherwise I’ll compare the sex to sex with Blair, which is quite possibly the worst way to measure suitability for marriage.

  ‘Okay, calm down. I didn’t mean to panic you,’ Abby says, panicking over my panicking. She starts stashing everything back into her tote, like she’s a thief who can hear police sirens.

  There’s a knock on the door. Oh my God. Blair? Mother? Andrew?

  ‘M’lady? Mrs Carrington? Her Ladyship is wondering if you require any assistance.’

  I frantically race to the door and lean against it. ‘It’s fine, Blair. I’ll take the carry-on to the car.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  Walk away. Walk away. Walk away.

  I don’t hear the sound of receding footsteps, though I suppose all I can really hear is the sound of blood rushing to my head.

  It’s over with Blair. I’m attracted to him but we can’t be together. Last Thursday night was a mistake. Two nights later, I tried to look after him, only to hear conflicting admissions from him. I can’t continue this game – it’s doing my head in.

  Abby finishes packing the items away. Meanwhile, I slide down the door and wonder if I really am clueless about dating. Oliver seems like a real gentleman. Surely he won’t expect too much, too soon?

  I’m staring at my own bed now. Part of me is screaming to tell Abby so I can confide in someone. My loyalty to Blair, however, keeps that urge in check. This is a shared secret. I wouldn’t want him telling anyone, so I have to keep this to myself.

  ‘Forget this ever happened.’

  I look up at Abby. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Um.’ I shake my head and accept her hand when she steps over to pull me up. ‘Right. Nothing happened.’

  ‘Take a deep breath. Nothing happened.’

  It’s difficult, though, to act like nothing happened. I’m flustered when we return downstairs, accidentally leaving the carry-on in the conservatory when it’s time for me to go. I wish I could take a taxi or even have Abby’s driver take me but, alas, Blair is already at the front door and Andrew actually has to get to work at some stage.

  Adrenalin really does make me move much quicker, and much more stealthily too. I end up hearing the tail end of the hushed conversation Andrew and my mother are having in the corner of the foyer.

  ‘You may want to consider getting rid of him.’

  ‘Who? Blair?’

  ‘The butler, yes. You can’t afford to have him around.’

  ‘I can’t get rid of him.’

  ‘You’ve been very open to my advice, Caroline. You should trust me on this point as well.’

  Thank God that Mother is loyal to Blair. It would be terrible if we kicked him out. It would amplify every ounce of guilt I feel by a thousand. I know Andrew means well, but practicality can’t always win.

  A small voice in my head tells me that Blair not being here would make things easier. It would eliminate a temptation…

  Then another voice tells me I’d miss him beyond belief, that I’d pine for him and worry about him until I made myself ill.

  I stride out, coughing to announce myself. There will be no more talk about firing Blair. Abby comes up behind me seconds later, puffing from the effort of trying to keep up with me in heels.

  ‘I’m ready to go.’ />
  Andrew smiles warmly. You’d never know he just suggested firing someone. He really is a smiling assassin in a suit. ‘I hope you have an excellent time, Millie.’ He taps his nose. ‘Careful with the money talk – let’s not scare off Paten-Pryce.’

  ‘I’ll be very careful.’

  ‘Drop hints so it won’t look like you’ve kept it from him when it comes out, but nothing dire.’

  ‘I agree. And no talk of Alastair.’

  He nods, satisfied that I understand. I think he knows more about Oliver than he lets on – he has to, considering his extensive network of contacts. However, there’s no point scaring me off with hearsay. I’m nervous enough as it is.

  ‘Have a splendid trip, dear,’ Mother says, kissing me on both cheeks.

  ‘Wait. You’re not coming to the airport?’

  She scoffs. ‘You don’t need to be seen off. You’re not a child.’ She turns to Abby for back up. ‘She’s not a child, is she?’

  Abby nods with enthusiasm. ‘She is adult. An adult. Noun. Not adult as in, you know, the salacious adjective we all know and love.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Great way to use your linguistic learnings.’

  She purses her lips and makes a zipping motion with her fingers. Andrew looks bewildered. Mother appears bored.

  ‘Okay, then, you’d better hit the road,’ Andrew says, moving things along.

  Abby goes in for the hug, causing me to drop the bag by accident. Thanks to my foresight, there is nothing incriminating in there should anything tumble out.

  Blair must see this from his vantage point at the door, because seconds later he has the bag in hand and is ready to walk me to the car.

  It’s all too fast. I still don’t know whether I’m ready for this trip.

  ‘After you, m’lady.’

  ‘Right.’

  My nerves are definitely shot now. I do my best to keep calm – if I focus on the fact we’ll be in the car alone, I might cry for worrying about upsetting him further. I wave, blow kisses, do the royal wave, blow more kisses and then do the Mexican wave (the latter of which earns me a stern glare from Mother for being unladylike).