I laugh nervously, a futile attempt to block out the pain of my father’s bungled investments. ‘I’m sure I would give you my piggy bank if you were trying. You must be exceptional at what you do. You’re young to be where you are in the company.’
‘I don’t feel young, though. I’ve logged a lot of hours. I log and log and log. I have enough logs to build cabin after cabin. I should buy a plot of land in the Swiss Alps and build a resort.’
‘Ohh, ski chalets! You can be the tree-cutting man and I can be the chalet girl.’
I’m too psyched about this. The waiter who’s just cleared our plates probably thinks I’m a ditz.
Oliver plays along, rubbing his chin in contemplation. ‘Tree-cutting man? Is that the noble term for lumberjack?’
‘Ah, that’s the word. I couldn’t find it.’
‘Should’ve asked the word-finder-er.’
‘Nah. She’s shacked up with one of the ski instructors, busy making little ski finders and word instructors.’
‘Productive. Reproductive, even.’ He pauses, brow furrowing. ‘I’m not sure this was the point of all my logging.’
‘You’ve got to diversify, Oliver. Don’t act like you don’t know this. Next you’ll be logging wood for more than cabins. Think cots, building blocks, rocking horses, highchairs and more – the sky’s the limit. Mainly because trees can’t grow past the sky, but you get my drift.’
‘Your mind is certainly active. Tell me, what are you going to do after you finish studying? Any business plans of your own?’
‘Uh…’ We’re not joking around anymore. I have to answer a real question – and it’s making my stomach churn. ‘Actually, I’m dropping out.’
There’s no point lying about it. It’s happening.
Oliver raises his eyebrows, probably more pleasantly surprised than shocked. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I say, tapping my finger on the table to emphasise my point. ‘I would’ve returned to Cambridge had I been truly serious about business school. I suppose on some level I did want skills that would help me with the estate. Things are tough with manor houses these days. It’s not like before, when the land was enough.’
The words come out naturally, but I still wonder about being manipulative. Releasing piecemeal information is a far cry from full-blown honesty.
Luckily, Oliver keeps the tone light-hearted. ‘De-stratification can be difficult. I know this because I made up that word.’
I lean forward, as if about to share a conspiracy theory. ‘It’s people like us who are responsible for thingamajigs and whatchamicallits. We’re the worst nightmare of children competing in spelling contests. Ask for the etymology of a word, and they’ll get us. Not Latin or French or Ancient Greek. Just Oliver and Millie. No hint whatsoever as to the origin of any parts of any word, ever.’
His eyes light up with mirth. ‘Fascinating. Which is a word I’m only using because I’m too lazy to come up with a new one.’
‘Right. Understandable. You’re a very busy man, and you don’t have time for word creation, what with all the logging you’re doing.’
‘I’m not going to lie – I’m concerned about the reproductive ski chalet. I think we’re going to have to shut that down.’
How he said that with a straight face, I have no idea.
‘I will put it on my to-do list.’ I pretend to scribble something on the tablecloth. ‘Feel better now?’
‘Yes. Quite. Saves me from building a log hospital, log schools and log playgrounds.’
‘You could always outsource the labour.’ I lean back in my chair like a scheming capitalist who has no regard for ergonomics, or for proper posture.
‘Outsource? I’d rather declare a feudal kingdom and have the peasants work for free.’
‘Peasants don’t work for free. They work for protection, justice and the right to farm land that belongs to their feudal lord.’
‘In your kingdom, perhaps.’ He points to himself. ‘I’m a progressive ruler. There will be cake days and casual Fridays.’
‘Casual Fridays? What are the peasants wearing on the other four days? Suits?’
There’s a long silence. I think he’s actually trying to come up with a clothing plan, or at least an equitable uniform option. ‘Wow. I really haven’t thought this through.’
‘I daresay you haven’t. We’ll return to it after the lobster.’
Not exactly peasant food, but not exactly a royal feast either.
In fact, the lobster, as it turns out, isn’t even a lobster. Which is not to say it’s an impostor, another type of shellfish pretending to be a lobster. Rather, the dish is Atlantic lobster barigoule, which is a lobster ravioli with artichoke puree, sauce and baked ricotta. It’s not something I would normally order.
But, of course, I didn’t order. Oliver did.
I’ve barely finished one mouthful before he starts quizzing me on my plans again. This is his right, considering it’s a date. It’s a two-way exchange and, while I might’ve been granted a temporary reprieve, I can’t expect a free pass.
‘So, seriously, what are you going to do with your time now?’
Somehow, trawling Net-A-Porter doesn’t seem like the best response. Nor does shoving more ravioli in my mouth and pretending I didn’t hear him.
I lower my fork and try to remain casual. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’
He raises an eyebrow, a sharper look in his eye. ‘Return to the estate?’
‘I’m thinking of hanging around in London.’ My heart is racing in an I’ve-drunk-three-Red-Bulls kind of way. I’m not sure I’m ready for this type of scrutiny. ‘There are some cool people there, or so I hear, anyway.’ Cue hair toss.
‘Yeah? Anyone I know?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’d like it if you stayed in London.’
He employs his dazzling smile and, like a loser, I blush instead of saying something witty or even thankful. Clearly flattered, he maintains the smile and starts eating his food, occasionally looking over at me in a cute, self-conscious way.
I wonder how many dates he’s been on recently. It would be interesting to know.
Can I even ask him that, or is it something I should learn via Polly?
No, I shouldn’t make things uncomfortable. I’ll sit here eating until my cheeks aren’t so red.
‘Of course, I work a lot,’ he continues, spearing a ravioli with his fork. ‘So I suppose you’ll be hanging out with the other cool kids while I’m stuck in the office.’
‘I might investigate taking up a hobby.’
‘Oh? Charity? Volunteering?’
‘I was thinking stamp collecting.’
His expression tightens a fraction, just enough for me to know that I can’t deflect with humour a second time.
‘Um, I guess I’m at a little bit of a crossroads.’
I guess. I suppose. I think. I’m not sure of a lot of things and, frankly, I would be nervous if I were him.
‘Crossroads, eh? It’s an increasingly common to place to be. In my line of work, people tend to have a quarter-life crisis backed up by at least four mid-life crises.’
‘Yeah? How was your quarter-life crisis?’
He purses his lips, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. ‘Let’s just say I’m happy it’s over. It’s actually how I met your brother.’
‘Oh.’
I must look perturbed, because he moves his hand across the table, towards me. The motion reminds me of an academic at a lectern – a preacher even – an assured person commanding someone else to listen.
‘He’s good at entertaining, I’ll give him that. I’m not saying I was a saint at his parties, but I certainly wasn’t unrestrained by any means. I suppose I’ve always been a bit of a wet blanket. Who needs Al’s secret society when I can run my own wet blanket club?’
Al has his own secret society? Or was that merely a turn of phrase, a way of describing his exclusive clientele list?
‘I don’
t think you’re a wet blanket.’ I suddenly become conscious of the lagoon again. I mean, really, we’re sitting a few feet away from the glass. Romantic ambience or just an underground lair? ‘Though, if you’re a regular blanket and this place floods, then the situation might be a bit different.’
The mood takes on a dimension of regret and insecurity. Oliver is absent for a little while, withdrawing his hand and eating without directly looking at me. I eat too, but don’t take my eyes off him.
I don’t normally employ this much patience with people. Hesitation has always struck me as weak, which is probably why I find dating to be so frightening. Getting to know someone isn’t always a forthright process. I want surety, but the force by which the ‘push and pull’ works is hardly predictable.
‘I’m not the best with this sort of thing,’ he says, finally putting his fork down. ‘I can broker deals better than anyone, but this is hardly the kind of transaction I’m used to.’
‘You’re doing fine.’
‘You’re not just saying that?’ The sharp look in his eye returns.
‘No. This isn’t exactly easy and, in light of that fact, I think we’re both doing okay.’ I decide to share more of my own experiences rather than leaving him to think about his quarter-life crisis. ‘Here’s my crisis point: I’ve travelled the world and seen loads of places, met men along the way. But then I’ve always come home, you know? To be truly honest, I guess I faffed about for too long. With everything. Life purpose. Men. The simple fact is… I need to ground myself.’
‘Me too,’ he says, both his voice and expression softening. ‘I need to ground myself. Home should mean something.’
‘Exactly. It would be nice to come home to someone. Home shouldn’t just be a building or a dwelling.’
‘Yeah, I like that.’
Oh. We’re doing that thing now, where the two people on a date gaze at each other in amazement, a common understanding providing just the right spark.
Oliver clears his throat. I think I’m making him nervous, which in turn makes me more nervous.
‘Speaking of home,’ he continues, ‘you’re in line to inherit the estate, aren’t you? Al was disowned.’
My heart sinks. Really, there’s a tugging in my chest, a downward momentum that’s making me feel like I’m falling at terminal velocity.
It really does seem counterproductive to chip away at the trust we’re building by not hinting at the possibility of problems. At the same time, I’m visualising all sorts of reminders: my mother’s worried face, Andrew tapping his nose, my father’s frown. Secrecy is important.
So is honesty.
He’s putting himself out there, being bold when he normally wouldn’t. I owe him honesty, not because he’s pouring money into this trip, but because it’s the right thing to do. Tricking him seems infinitely callous now that we’re here opening up to each other.
I struggle to get the words out. ‘The upkeep of the place… The tour and studio work… Um.’ I wince at my poor elocution. ‘I’m trying to be realistic.’
He drums his fingers on the table, a coolness descending over his features. ‘Ah.’
Of course, I immediately start questioning my thought process. The cogs must be turning in his brain. Numbers are being crunched, timing is being assessed and, of course, motives are being examined. His eyes dart left, right and down, while mine stare fixedly to the left as I imagine being thrown into the lagoon. Drowning is a fitting metaphor, as I am certainly in over my head here.
I just admitted – albeit only partially and cryptically – that I am not as wealthy as I seem. And if I’m not as wealthy as I seem, then the question ‘Why not?’ naturally presents itself. The answer to that question, whichever way it is phrased or parcelled, is that my family is experiencing financial troubles.
I bow my head and try to calculate my share of the dinner so far. I’m pretty sure I can cover it, but if he refuses to pay for my suite, then I might have to take up a job in the kitchen washing dishes.
‘Millie?’ His voice is stern, though I think he may be shaken.
‘Please don’t blame Polly,’ I say in a small voice, afraid to look up at him.
‘Millie, look at me.’
I acquiesce, meeting his gaze even though I’m petrified of the tongue-lashing that will surely come next. However, the look he’s giving me is a curious one. It’s not one I’m used to seeing.
I think it’s gratitude, or at least a muted version of it.
‘A true gold-digger would be shameless in this situation. You seem awfully cut up about possibly misleading me.’
He’s impressed by my honesty? Oliver Paten-Pryce, who wouldn’t even take me to the opera for fear of being seen out with me, is impressed that I’m ashamed?
I touch my hair self-consciously. ‘I have to admit I only attended half my gold-digging classes. Not only do I always think I’m better than everyone, but I couldn’t afford the rest of the tuition, not when there are shoes to be bought and caviar to eat.’
‘So money is tight at the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve only been dining for an hour. What if I’d been too angry and left without paying the bill?’
‘I’ve already thought about that.’ I hook my thumb over my shoulder. ‘I’m sure they need an extra dish-washer in the kitchen. That’s what always happens in films when someone can’t pay the bill. It might be a visa violation and, in all honesty, I’m not sure whether dish-washers wash dishes by hand anymore or just rinse them for the industrial dishwasher but I’d still do it.’
He offers me a small smile, again surprising me with his level of calm. ‘I suppose I’ve frightened you in some regard, what with the cancellation last time. I must admit my problem with Al isn’t all about the debt and the shameless partying.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No, not completely.’ He pauses, pensive for a brief moment. ‘Do you miss him?’
The question strikes me as deeply personal for some reason. Everyone knows he’s not around. It’s just that most people care more about the fact that he’s a pariah rather than the fact it hurts that he’s not present in my life.
‘Yes, I do miss him.’
Oliver is suddenly animated, leaning forward and gesturing with his hand. ‘I hate that he has no sense of obligation, no loyalty. Forgive me, my words are strong and probably out of line, but I have to say it. He lives in this vacuum… It’s preposterous to think he is the next Earl of Silsbury. Yes, titles may not mean as much anymore, but if there’s ever a title befitting of him it’s “coward”. A real man wouldn’t abandon his duties for flights of fancy. I don’t want to be associated with people like that and, when it came to our original first date, Millie, I got spooked by association. I’m so sorry I ever thought you might be like him in any way.’
It’s such a strong statement, so passionate, that all I can do is sit and blink at him.
He leans back, shoulders slumped, and sighs with regret. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve kept that to myself.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ I think of Al’s latest postcard: of the cider, apples and the setting sun. My brother is on a perpetual holiday – perhaps he is too cowardly to face up to real life.
‘So, you’re not cross with me?’
‘Actually, it’s good to hear, in a way. I’ve been so petrified of telling you about any financial issues on my side, thinking you’d bolt because of our notoriety. This is a new dimension to it all.’
He fidgets with his wine glass, fingers on the stem, pushing here and there. ‘The notoriety is still a bit of an issue,’ he says gingerly. ‘But it’s Al’s character that really gets to me. I’d presumed it was his upbringing – traits the family might have.’
I laugh bitterly. ‘My mother doesn’t have the most credible reputation either, not in London, anyway. Everyone has their flaws.’
‘Me included.’
‘Oh, me too.’ I try to squash any thought of my own personal scandal: Blair. ‘Som
etimes it’s a question of whether people are aware of their issues and, if so, whether they’re able to tackle them.’
He leans forward again, elbow on the table. ‘You’re one of a kind, you know that? The one and only Emilia Pembroke.’
‘I hope that’s a compliment. Faulty goods can also be one of a kind.’
‘It’s definitely a compliment.’ The mood suddenly becomes heavy again, perhaps with the weight of expectation. ‘Listen, I may not get out much, but I’ve had my fair share of money-hungry women come after me. If you like my money, that’s okay. I like my money too. But you have to like me. You do like me, don’t you?’
I nod vigorously, finding his insecurity endearing. ‘I like you.’
‘Okay.’ He takes a deep breath and exhales, rubbing his forehead. ‘Is this all a bit too serious for a first date?’
‘Nothing you and I can’t handle.’
‘Well, how about we keep it light for the rest of the evening?’
‘Sure.’ I raise my glass. ‘To first dates and keeping them light.’
‘Cheers.’
We clink our glasses, sip our wine and by the time the next course comes around, the undercurrent of tension has eased considerably. We discuss our travels, our uni days and our favourite films, and then somehow return to travel. When dessert comes around, we’re back to laughing about ski chalets, comparing the resorts of the Swiss Alps with those of Aspen and elsewhere.
He’s seen what I’ve seen, experienced what I have. We can talk about the food at Noma, judge the best hotels in New York, dissect recent art exhibitions at the Louvre and, rather topically, lambast every woeful production of La Bohème staged in recent history. I can imagine myself on his arm and not whining about what we’re doing or where we’re going. The catch at the moment is that we have to keep a low profile, but this limitation can’t last forever. I just have to wait a while.
Oliver checks his watch after we finish dessert. It’s almost eleven.
I’m not sure what we can do now. The aquarium is closed for the night, as is the spa and all the sports facilities (yes, because I’m dying to play sports on a full stomach). I ask Oliver what time he normally goes to bed and he says it varies depending on how early he’s expected in the office the next morning, and how exhausted he is from staying back late in the first place. He then apologises for the lack of forward planning, saying he’ll do better tomorrow.
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