Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘I thought it would be too forward of me to make after-dinner plans,’ he says, signing for the dinner to be charged to his account. ‘Like I said, I’m not very good at this sort of thing. We could go to the nightclub, but I think we’re a little too old to party. Plus, I’m stuffed and will probably get a stitch on the dancefloor.’

  I laugh at the visual. ‘According to the literature in the suite, the nightclub is named N’Dulge, as in N-apostrophe-Dulge. I don’t think I can bring myself to dance in a grammatically challenged arena – making up words is fine, but contracting real words in an effort to be “cool” really irks me. Breaking it down on the dancefloor is one thing. Breaking down singular words is another.’

  He pretends to contemplate this seriously, eyebrows knitting in concern. ‘I see your point.’

  ‘And I had to wake up early this morning to get to Heathrow on time as well.’

  ‘That’s right. I forgot about that.’

  I fight the urge to mutter, ‘so did I’. The car journey with Blair was gut-wrenchingly difficult, but here I am enjoying my time with Oliver. It’s rare that five minutes have gone by without a Blair-related thought swimming through my head. Perhaps I am making progress after all.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Oliver asks. ‘Light years away again?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ I quickly shake my head. ‘I was thinking about the journey. Did you know there are blogs where people upload pictures of in-flight meals? Sorted by airline and route and everything. I should’ve taken pictures and scrapbooked them.’

  ‘There’s always the flight back.’

  ‘True.’

  Oh my God. The flight back. Heathrow. Blair will be picking me up from the airport on Sunday, just like when I first met him.

  ‘You’re taking the pictures in your head now, aren’t you?’

  I jump. ‘Sorry? I mean, yes. I’m in a dark room, developing the photos. Won’t happen again. All digital from now on.’

  Thank goodness he seems to take it all in his stride, finding me entertaining instead of rude. ‘I feel sorry for Kodak sometimes.’

  ‘No such thing as a Kodak moment anymore?’

  ‘I guess not. They should’ve had you around. You would’ve told them to diversify.’

  ‘You have to be ahead of the curve. So far ahead that you’ve left the curve behind.’

  ‘Create a new curve.’

  ‘Yes, innovate.’

  We grin goofily at each other. If the fish in the lagoon could roll their eyes, they’d be doing so.

  ‘Shall I walk you back to your room?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘Can you walk directly behind me like you’re my shadow? I believe they call this “ghosting”?’

  ‘Or I could hold your hand?’

  ‘While ghosting?’

  ‘No, while walking beside you.’

  ‘All right, be adjacent. If you must.’

  And adjacent he is, holding my hand all the way back to the room. This time he kisses me on the cheek, reciprocating my earlier gesture. Again, I blush instantly, causing him to touch my cheek afterwards and ask if I’m okay. I say yes, all while gazing into his brown eyes and wondering if I should kiss him goodnight properly.

  Oliver steps back before I can make a decision, employing his gentlemanly routine and letting me retire for the night. It’s a relief actually, to have the choice taken away, because the Blair comparisons start up again. Up close, Oliver smells like Polo Blue by Ralph Lauren, crisp and earthy. It’s a different scent to whatever cologne Blair wears – it’s less spicy, less citrusy.

  As soon as I enter the suite, I experience the panic that people get when they think they’re losing hold of a memory. I slept in Blair’s arms just over a week ago. I should remember his scent with much more clarity. Yet the more I try to remember, the less I can recall.

  How terrible it must be to be left behind.

  I circle the suite, walking in and out of partitioned areas with no particular aim in mind. Every time I see one of the room’s many telephones, I think of calling home just to hear his voice. It’s not right that I feel this way, not when I’m finally getting somewhere with Oliver, and not when he can apparently look past the money issue.

  However, despite this awareness, the urge to call home is undeniable.

  With my bag still in hand, I leave the suite, closing the door softly so Oliver doesn’t hear from next door. I then power-walk to the lift, only to feel claustrophobic once I’m inside. Since arriving, I’ve taken the lift with Oliver three times, and not once did I ask him about feeling scared. He was stuck in a lift in Berlin – the incident completely escaped my memory. Maybe I would’ve remembered had he been frightened at any point, but he wasn’t.

  I don’t even know why this is contributing to my panic. All I want to do is get to a shop where I can buy a phone card. It’s only when the lift stops at the fifth floor to let on a friendly elderly couple that I realise I can buy one online, and that the suite has complimentary internet access. I hurry out of the lift, pretending it was my intended destination all along, before pressing the ‘up’ button.

  I’m losing my mind here. Even if I did call Blair, what would I even say? ‘Hi, it’s Millie. I’m not calling because I’m lonely. I’m calling because I’m freaking out about replacing you in any way, shape or form.’

  Somehow I convince myself that I’ll be able to come up with something better in the next five minutes. I hop onto my laptop once I’m back in the suite and buy access to a phone number that will let me call the UK cheaply. Copying Blair’s mobile number onto the notepad next to the landline, I ask myself again if this is really a call I should be making.

  The person I should be calling is my mother. After all, I told Oliver about our financial difficulties, something I know she’ll be uncomfortable with. The situation is a result of Father’s failings and here I am disclosing the gist of it, even if doing so is indeed the noble thing to do (no pun intended).

  I stand at the office desk, my finger hovering over the keypad. Call Mother? Call Blair? Call no one?

  Instead, I call my father, punching in his number from memory. I almost trip over my own legs as I shuffle nervously on the spot, each ring reverberating in my ears like an alarm.

  Thankfully, he picks up on the fifth ring. ‘Lord Silsbury speaking.’

  ‘Father, it’s Millie. I’m so sorry. I told Oliver that money is a bit of a problem at the moment. I had to – I felt like I was being dishonest.’ I take a deep breath, incredibly relieved to have confessed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you look bad.’

  I imagine him at a window, peering out in whatever direction he believes Dubai to be in, and signalling for George to bring him a drink. This is usually how I picture him when I call. Maybe it’s time to readjust now that both the estate and George are at risk of being let go.

  ‘Millie, calm down. You sound incredibly distressed.’

  Even his firm and steady voice fails to calm me down. It reminds me of when I was a child. He’d hold me firmly as I flailed around, wailing about Al stealing my toys or making fun of me.

  I continue babbling. ‘It’s not in Oliver’s interest to tell anyone, I promise. And I don’t think he’ll use it against Al – oh my God, what if he tells Al! No, I’m sure he won’t. Oh, I didn’t even think!’

  ‘Millie, stop for a second.’

  I follow his instruction, taking heaving breaths while I wait for him to continue. The room spins this way then that way. It’s as if I’m whirling around like a genie in a bottle, which reminds me of the Disney film Aladdin, with Robin Williams as the genie. Then one of the songs from the soundtrack, ‘A Whole New World’, starts playing in my head.

  Mental, I tell you. It’s never a good sign when you can hear Robin Williams alongside your inner monologue.

  ‘Are you all right now?’ Father asks.

  I place a hand on the desk to steady myself. ‘I think so. Maybe.’

  ‘How did he take it? The news, I mean.’
<
br />   ‘He still wants to go out with me.’

  ‘Then it sounds like you made a jolly good impression.’

  I pause. He’s right. I must’ve made a very good impression. Oliver still wants to see me. I know this, but it obviously hasn’t sunk in yet.

  ‘I – I guess you’re right.’

  The sceptic in me suspects Father of being upbeat because a happy Oliver may mean a saved estate. However, this is an entirely shallow judgement, likely prompted by the fact I now have Christina Aguilera singing in my head too.

  ‘Just relax, and I’ll inform your mother of this development.’ Father suggests. ‘Does that sound okay?’

  ‘Um, yes. I guess it’s okay.’

  Actually, it’s not okay, because this means Blair will be on the receiving end of a Caroline Pembroke tirade. Millie! She thinks she can tell anyone anything. Well, that Oliver had better not run away this time! I want to hear wedding bells. No, Blair can’t find out this way. It would be cruel.

  I add a timeframe in my answer. ‘Can you wait until tomorrow night though?’

  ‘All right then. I’ll call her tomorrow night. Other than that, everything is going swimmingly?’

  ‘Yes. He’s being a true gentleman.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, my dear. Now why don’t you make a cup of tea and then call me back if you’re still panicked? Maybe you can even tell me more about your day.’

  I nod even though he can’t see me. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a basket case. I promise to calm down and not bother you again.’

  ‘You’re anything but a bother. Just take it easy and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  When the call ends, I end up staring at the notepad, at the number I want to dial but can’t.

  Chapter 25:

  I wake up the next morning with Blair’s mobile number still running around my head. At first I’m too groggy to realise what’s going on, thinking I’ve been implanted with some sort of code or electronic access key. Emilia Pembroke, MI6 agent, on a secret mission in Dubai? It’s all very plausible.

  Well, plausible until I see the notepad on the bedside table and realise how affected I really am. My writing looks crazed, like when right-handed people write with their left hand for fun. Did I not even notice that my hand was shaking when I wrote this? And now I’m looking at the alarm clock and seeing that it’s seven here in Dubai, meaning it’s four in London – prime time for a Millie freak-out.

  I’m not in my own home, not in my own bed and all I’m doing is lying here, panicking about the fact I have to call him today. There’s no way around it: Father will ring Mother tonight, just like I instructed, and she will undoubtedly reveal too much to Blair, because who else in that house will listen to her?

  In all likelihood, he will probably end up gutted by what I have to say. Oliver being okay with my financial situation? Blair has always maintained that Oliver would run if he knew. So, while I haven’t had the guts to ask Blair about the drunken things he said to me, I’m now wondering whether I myself need liquid courage. There’s a fully stocked mini-bar in this suite and I could very well take advantage of it (before feeling guilty about wasting money and confessing to Oliver, of course).

  He said he hated me. I’ve been trying not to obsess over it, especially with the advent of this trip, but it’s been eating away at me. True, drunken admissions don’t always count. I’ve ‘admitted’ to all of sorts of nonsense. This, however, strikes right at the heart of things, because even if he only said it out of frustration, it still means that I’m having a negative impact on his life. I don’t want to be that person, and I don’t want him resenting life any more than he already does.

  I’m happy sometimes. Right now is not so bad.

  This is what he said to me two nights before that, right before he made his move. I groan in anguish, thrashing about in the thousand-count sheets and burying my face in one of the plush pillows. There’s no room for conflict here. Oliver is supposed to be my match.

  This reminder battles with the mobile number in my head, words and numbers crashing into each other as if charged by a supercollider. By the time the phone rings fifteen minutes later, I have to pause and reacquaint myself with the fact I have to interact with another human being. They’ll be throwing new words into the mix, possibly rendering my thought process incoherent. Alphabet soup for breakfast, anyone?

  Wait – that would mean I’d be eating my own brain…

  Oh, the phone is still ringing.

  I come up for air, reaching out for the phone and knocking the notepad over in the process. ‘Hello, Millie speaking?’

  Why is that a question? It’s not meant to be a question.

  ‘Millie, it’s Oliver with your seven-twenty wake-up call.’

  I don’t recall him saying anything about a wake-up call. Then I remember that it doesn’t matter whether he told me or not, because he did say he would do a better job with the planning today.

  I have to sound cheerful. He certainly sounds cheerful. He probably woke up bright and early so he could watch the financial news while drinking gallons of coffee. In fact, he’s probably wearing a suit and tie already – freshly pressed by housekeeping.

  ‘Millie?’

  ‘Yes, good morning.’ It’s a hilariously upbeat, automated response that I should probably record for future purposes.

  He laughs. Actually, it’s more of a chortle, which I believe is the technical term for when one chuckles and snorts. Or maybe it’s just a regular laugh distorted by the phone line or my own hyperactive imagination.

  ‘You sound like a telemarketer,’ he says.

  ‘Do I? Must be the start of my shift, before perfect strangers tell me off for peddling my wares. I have a two-for-one special on…’ I look around me. ‘Alarm clocks and pillows.’

  ‘What about breakfast instead? The buffet at Saffron is usually quite good.’

  ‘Buffet?’ Again, ridiculously perky.

  ‘Yes. Always plenty of choice. Though, of course, you’re free to load up your plate with only one option if you so desire. I have a colleague who ate nothing but barbecued-pork buns on a recent trip to Asia. We call him Pork Bun Paul.’

  ‘How very flattering.’

  ‘I think so too.’ He chortles again. ‘So, is eight o’clock okay, or do you need more beauty time?’

  ‘Hee, “beauty time”. That’s cute. Um… What are you wearing?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To breakfast. Are you already in a suit?’

  He chuckles. ‘I have other clothes.’

  ‘Okay, just checking. I don’t want to overdress or underdress. Let’s see, forty minutes, forty minutes…’

  I probably look hideous. I say probably because I can’t actually check – all the mirrors in the suite have smashed themselves in anticipation. No, not really. But maybe they should.

  ‘You’re very pretty. I doubt you need much beauty time.’

  ‘The pretty takes work, but I shall accept your compliment anyway. Eight o’clock sounds fine.’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll meet you in the hallway.’

  ‘Okay, bye!’

  ‘Bye.’

  I hang up and slowly swing my legs over to the edge of bed, wondering what magic can be worked in forty minutes. Sitting there, with the notepad at my feet and the phone within reach, I feel even more disoriented. Breakfast is usually when I first see Blair every day.

  Somehow I manage to snap out of this funk, jumping into motion due to the time constraints. Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bright orange and magenta shift dress, my hair in a side ponytail and my make-up applied correctly. Everything on the outside looks stellar. I’m literally ‘Posh’ – the dress is by Victoria Beckham.

  Just keep going, I tell myself.

  Keep going I do, meeting Oliver out in the hallway ten minutes later. He looks a lot more relaxed this morning, having donned a white linen shirt and sand-coloured shorts. Boat shoes
complete the look. All he needs is a yacht and a clear blue sky, and he’ll be set for a resort-wear photoshoot.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

  I place my hand on his arm as he pulls away. ‘Actually, I think I’m a tad over-dressed.’

  ‘Oh, not at all.’

  He grins reassuringly, taking my hand as we fall into step together. There’s a confidence about him this morning that is a lot more natural than his usual demeanour. This should make me panic, because it means I’m drawing him in, convincing him that he’s doing well. Don’t get me wrong, he is doing well, but…

  No, no buts. I employ a neurolinguistic technique I once learnt in a bizarre workshop Mindy took me to at uni (her cousin Samantha must’ve been involved), where I visualise a problem and repeatedly try to desensitise myself from the pain. I scrunch up that piece of notepad paper and throw it into the dustbin, over and over again until I’m bored by the visual.

  Self-help has never been something I’ve thought that highly of, but this will have to do for now.

  Saffron is a delightful restaurant, with various cooking stations all serving different regional dishes. Oliver asks for a table near the sushi station, saying he always likes watching the finesse of those chefs. While I’m not really up for sushi or sashimi this early in the day, I squeeze his hand and follow happily, the fruit station catching my eye as we’re led to our table.

  ‘Oh, do you want to sit over there?’ Oliver asks, gesturing for the waiter to halt for a second.

  ‘No, it’s not that far to walk. I’ll walk for fruit.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Very sure. It’s all part of my healthy living campaign. Just make sure I pick the yoghurt accompaniment and not the chocolate sauce.’

  ‘Sauce patrol? I shouldn’t have worn a white shirt.’

  ‘Live and learn, Paten-Pryce.’