Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  He clears his throat, setting the iron down on the board. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Emilia.’

  I step forward, undeterred by the curtness in his voice. ‘I screwed up yesterday. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.’

  ‘With all due respect, m’lady, if it’s not related to an errand, I’d prefer it if you didn’t speak to me.’ He levels a glare at me. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  Momentarily, I’m frozen to the spot. I knew it was coming. This is where I have to change things, convince him.

  I walk up to the ironing board and stand directly opposite him. Like every other room in this house, there’s a lot of space, which is fortunate as the last thing I need is to feel trapped. Emboldened, I reach for his hand, only for him to jerk it back in disgust.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says.

  I withdraw my hand and try with words instead. ‘I called you because I was worried my mother would relay the story and give you the wrong impression.’

  ‘Yeah? And what impression would that be?’

  ‘That I didn’t care about how you felt. I do care. I care a lot.’

  He shakes his head, bending down to retrieve a garment from the clothes basket. ‘I’m not discussing this with you.’

  Finally, I snap. I come around to the side of the ironing board and kick the clothes basket out of the way, lunging toward him and taking hold of his arms, shaking him twice. He needs to listen to me. Wide-eyed, he drops the t-shirt and stands stiffly, his nostrils flaring with outrage.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ he asks.

  In a manner of speaking, I completely lose my shit, raising my voice and shaking with emotion. ‘Listen to me! I have been a wreck the entire weekend. I was so far away from you, with a man I thought would run away once he found out I had money troubles. But then I told him and he was okay, and then I wasn’t okay because all I kept thinking about was you. I know you think I’m useless and, yes, you said you hated me, but you also said you’d wait for me even if I didn’t want you to. Please. I don’t know what you want, but maybe if you tell me I can stop hurting you like this.’

  He grabs hold of me, the tightness of his grip probably a reaction of how-out-of-my-mind I must sound. It all becomes too much. I release my hold on him and start shedding hot, messy tears. And before I can say anything further, I begin to hyperventilate.

  ‘When did I say those things?’ he asks, his sternness causing me to weep more.

  ‘When you were drunk.’

  He looks at me as if I’m stupid. Maybe I am stupid. Maybe I need to get breast implants and carry on as if I have tits for brains, because I’m not sure if my actual brain works.

  ‘I don’t recall saying any of that,’ he says, enunciating each word clearly.

  ‘Aren’t you listening to me? I’m telling you I felt bad being with Oliver. I didn’t sleep with him. I couldn’t. I kissed him and felt like I was cheating on you.’

  ‘You said it was lovely in Dubai.’

  ‘It was lovely. It’s a nice city, and Oliver’s a great guy, but he’s not you.’

  Blair blinks at me, as if he can scarcely believe what I’m saying.

  ‘I’m not lying,’ I add.

  For a moment, I think he’s understood me. His expression softens, and he glances down as if considering my confessions carefully. However, seconds later, he looks up again, concern etched in his brow.

  ‘While you were gone, I had time to think.’

  ‘But you didn’t know what was going on with me.’

  ‘Let me finish.’

  Oh God. This can’t be good. I tense my shoulders, spilling more tears now that I think he’s about to reject me. Again.

  ‘I lied to you. I told you I just wanted sex, when I really wanted more. For that I’m sorry. I had some grand delusion about eventually convincing you to go out with me. So I guess the best thing for both of us is for you to go back to Oliver.’

  A lump forms in my throat. ‘You want to go out with me?’

  I must’ve known this deep down, even though I didn’t want to admit it. He wouldn’t have been so angered by the situation if all he wanted was sex.

  Blair releases his hold on me, dropping his hands to his sides. ‘Wanted. Past tense,’ he says, sounding more sad than angry. ‘I’m over it. Go and be with him.’

  It takes a few seconds for me to register that I’m furious. Blood is pounding in my ears, my entire body pulsating with a charge sparked by his refusal to fight for what he wants.

  I clench my fists. ‘What do you mean “go and be with him”? You just said you wanted to go out with me.’

  ‘Oh, and that’s an option, is it?’ He takes a deep breath, seemingly struggling against a more explosive response. ‘Are you forgetting about the embarrassment that would come from that? Not to mention the fact I’ll lose my job? Or the fact I can’t afford to take you out or do anything nice for you?’

  ‘Then why tell me at all? “I want to see you but I can’t, so forget it”?’

  ‘Yeah, basically.’ He turns and starts spraying starch on the ironing board. ‘I have ironing to do, and I have a migraine, so please, I beg of you, leave me alone.’

  This isn’t happening. It isn’t.

  I wipe my tears away, seething that he’s casting me off. ‘No, you don’t get to dismiss me.’

  He laughs bitterly. ‘Why? Because I’m your butler? You should listen to yourself sometimes.’

  ‘That’s not how I meant it and you know that! You never give me the benefit of the doubt. Never. Which is why I called you yesterday. I’m sorry I upset you. I couldn’t get the right words out. I’m getting them out now, but here you are, running away like a coward.’

  He rounds on me, so incensed that the vein in his neck starts bulging. ‘I am not a coward! I’m being realistic.’

  ‘You know what your problem is?’ I ask, pointing my finger at him. ‘You think you don’t deserve anything good in your life. I don’t know where this complex of yours came from, but it’s bullshit! I tell you I was lost without you and suddenly you don’t care. What? Is the thrill of the chase over? You’ve fucked me enough times, have you? Three strikes and I’m out?’

  Jaw clenched, he walks around me to get to the clothes basket, grabbing one of my mother’s shirts as if his duties are more important than the conversation at hand. I side-step my way into his path and shove him in the chest.

  ‘Answer me!’

  This time he snaps back. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve fucked you enough times, but I’m not going to be your whore while you’re being wooed by your fiancé.’

  ‘He’s not my fiancé!’

  I’ve screamed the declaration at him, but if I don’t break things off, Oliver could very well end up my fiancé. Blair knows it. I know it. And I would only break things off if I was sure that Oliver wasn’t the one.

  Blair and I lock eyes, this stand-off being the most intense we’ve ever had. I’m the one who breaks first, probably because I’m rattled by my own words.

  I lower my voice. ‘If you need me, which you obviously won’t, I’ll be in my room, unpacking.’

  I storm out, slamming the door behind me. Seconds later I hear what sounds like the ironing board hitting the floor, the rattle of the impact still reverberating as I round the corner and head for the stairs.

  ***

  Predictably, I also cave in first when it comes to breaking the silence. This comes after two hours of listening to music, one hour of trying to psych myself up to call both my father and Abby, ten minutes on the phone to each (I told each of them I was happy but tired, and I’m a hundred per cent sure neither of them believed me), and another two hours of milling about in my room. Yelling at Blair is never satisfying. I may think I’m one-upping him at the time, but in the end I always feel gutted.

  I’m lying on my bed now, trying to word a text to him. Logic says it’s bound to come off the wrong way, and who knows if he’ll even answer. If he doesn’t within thirty minutes, I’m going to go upstairs
to see if I can check on him. I’ll use my house keys if I have to – I wouldn’t put it past him to lock me out.

  I’m distraught and need to speak to you. And if you don’t want to speak to me, can I at least sit in the same room as you so I stop wondering how you’re doing? Please.

  I pray that he answers. It’s only nine, so if he hasn’t gone to bed because of his migraine, he should still be up.

  I get an answer within a minute:

  I don’t want to talk, but you can come up to the attic and sit with me.

  Within seconds, I’m off the bed and out the door. Only when I’m in the corridor do I remember that I’m supposed to be all stealth. Carefully, I climb the attic stairs and make my way up, shutting the main door quietly before quickly tiptoeing to his room.

  He opens the door just as I raise my hand to knock.

  True to his word, he doesn’t say anything. He stands in the doorway, clothed in his night wear, and gives me a very obvious once-over – more curious than seedy.

  I can’t help myself. I lunge forward and wrap my arms around him.

  ‘Whoa,’ he says, raising his arms.

  He’s not hugging me back, which should tell me the embrace is unwelcome. Still, I burrow my face into his chest and try to remember what it’s like to be held by him. He smells like soap and fresh linen tonight, the cotton of his t-shirt soft on my skin. I hold him like I’m trying to hold onto us – he’s solid, real in my arms.

  His heart is beating very quickly. Unfortunately, that could mean any number of things.

  ‘Millie, please. Don’t.’

  His tone is stern. Chastened, I pull away, shuffling awkwardly before him.

  I can’t bring myself to apologise, not when I already miss the contact.

  Shit. I’m going to cry again. What is wrong with me?

  He sighs and moves out of the way, gesturing for me to come in. ‘Did you really have to wear that?’

  ‘I was going to take a nap before.’ I sit down in front of his bedside table, tucking my legs to the side and resting my head on his mattress. ‘Sorry. I should’ve changed.’

  Oh, Postman Pat. I think you’re unwelcome here.

  Blair glances at the door, as if he’s wondering whether or not to shut it. Even when he does close it, he still seems unsure.

  ‘Don’t read into that,’ he says gently, cocking his head at the door.

  ‘Okay.’

  He stays where he is. I lower my gaze and see there are two plates of food on the bedspread. While both meals are covered in cling film, one only has a half-eaten croissant remaining, whereas the other has a croissant, jams and small bowl of fruit salad.

  ‘That’s for you. I was going to leave it at your door earlier, but I chickened out and brought it up with me.’

  ‘Oh.’ I lift my head and reach for the plate. ‘Thanks.’

  He continues to watch me intently. I unwrap the cling film with one hand while bringing the other one to my face so I can shield my eyes. It’s a vain attempt to stop him from seeing that I’m blinking back tears.

  ‘Postman Pat has a kid, you know. A boy.’

  I drop my hand from my face. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, in the new series. I only found out the other day when Francie commented on my ringtone for you.’ Slowly, he comes around to the foot of the bed, drumming his fingers on the brass bed knob. ‘Not the Postman Pat I remember as a kid.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What if he isn’t? Who’s the mother?’ I ask, sounding way too indignant. ‘Someone on his postal route?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why Royal Mail didn’t sponsor the remake. Not setting a good example for British family values.’

  ‘Let’s not get carried away now. I’m sure he’s married. It’s a children’s show.’

  ‘Jesus, a kid. And what happened to the black and white cat?’

  Instead of replying with the expected ‘I don’t know’, he ambles over and sits with his back against the bed, a mere foot away from me.

  He twists so he can address me directly, digging an elbow into the mattress. ‘Please don’t cry.’

  Of course, once he says this, the tears start falling. ‘Don’t tell me. They got rid of the cat?’

  Worst cover story, ever. Worse than when Al told The Sun that, no, it wasn’t him streaking down a street in Monte Carlo during the Monaco Grand Prix, as he was actually attending mass in the cathedral at the time. He’s not even Catholic.

  Blair caresses my cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. Somehow I know not to swoon. He’s still being guarded, even with this gesture.

  ‘Okay, so I can’t go out with you,’ I say. ‘Not publicly anyway. Doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together in private.’

  ‘It’s not in private. It’s in secret.’

  ‘So? I’m not ashamed of you. It’s simply a case of bad timing.’

  ‘When would it be good timing? When I’m not working here, and when the tabloids don’t care what your brother is up to? When I suddenly win the lottery? Save the estate with my winnings?’

  ‘Oliver texted me two hours ago and I had to force myself to reply.’

  He tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘Which is exactly why you shouldn’t get upset over me. Don’t split your attention.’

  The argument in the laundry was our worst ever, but this follow-up has so far been void of apologies. It reminds me of that line from Love Story. ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’ I’m sure there’s some lesser version of this statement, one that doesn’t use the ‘L’ word. It’s not like I’m in love with Blair.

  I can’t be. I don’t even know what love feels like. Plus, this isn’t happy. It’s sad.

  ‘I tried to cheer myself up,’ I say as he withdraws his hand. ‘I listened to S Club 7 for two hours.’

  He offers me a sad smile. ‘That helps does it?’

  ‘The power of “S Club Party” should not be underestimated.’

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything, sitting back and staring at the wall instead. I chew idly on the croissant, the silence lulling me into recalling things, like our time together in this bed.

  ‘I’ve never felt this attached before. To anyone. Ever.’

  The words were delivered in my voice. I was the one who spoke them. Yet I don’t think I intended to say them out loud.

  Blair scowls as he turns to face me. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You want me to lie then?’

  ‘Ever heard of “biting your tongue”?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Sounds limiting.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Yeah? So what are you not telling me?’

  Face suddenly ashen, he gets to his feet, looking down at me with pained eyes.

  ‘Your mother hired me because she pities me. She says she doesn’t, but she does. I never wanted a life in service. I wanted to be like everyone else. Finish uni, get a job, have a life. I’ve been waiting on people for years, picking up after them, running their errands. You think I’m pathetic for being down on myself, for not wanting more, for not trying to get a better job? Well, I’ll tell you what, some days it’s hard enough getting up in the morning. For every minute I’m happy with you, there’s a thousand where chasing you makes me feel like shit. So when I say, “leave it”, I mean it, Millie. Leave it.’

  Terrified of his full-blown resentment, I take my plate of food and scurry out of the room, almost tripping on the main staircase in my haste. Steadying myself, I safely get back to the second floor, only to see something out of the corner of my eye as I dart back into my room.

  My mother.

  Chapter 27:

  You know things are bad when I’d rather have tea with Eliza than be at home with Mother and Blair.

  It’s Tuesday afternoon now, and my mother still hasn’t asked me about Sunday’s incident. I know she saw me. Even on a good day, it’d be difficult to explain that kind of scene away. Twenty-
eight-year-old daughter fleeing from the top floor in a t-shirt, with tears streaming down her face and a continental breakfast in her hands? I don’t know when that would ever be a rational scene. Maybe in a television commercial for cling film in which I become emotional about food freshness… Or an instructional video on how to look like a sad, hungry aristocratic fool. One day, if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up on YouTube – and no, I’d rather not be associated with the word ‘viral’.

  What I think she’s doing is scoping out the situation, watching me, watching Blair and attempting to read any signals. Honestly, she could be thinking anything. The best-case scenario is that she reckons I was generally upset from the pressure of being matched with Oliver, a mindset that made it all too easy to pick an argument with the butler, who was in a bad mood already from feeling under the weather. The worst-case scenario? Anything that involves the suspicion of an affair going on right under her nose.

  In any case, there’s tension for her to detect. I’ve been morose for the last forty-eight hours, hiding in my room and hardly eating. Communication was minimal yesterday, with the usual brief check-ins with Father and Abby, and a quick phone call to Oliver on his lunch break, where he reiterated what a good time he had on the weekend. But surprisingly, out of the two of us, it’s Blair who is more visibly out of sorts. Not only has he been openly brooding, carrying out his duties with no amount of pep, he’s also forgetting things and misunderstanding instructions – resulting in careless mistakes such as misplacing post, forgetting serving spoons, ironing half a skirt and even getting the date wrong. All of this tells me he’s not okay with what transpired on Sunday, whether it’s the ongoing resentment of having to cede to someone else or because he doesn’t actually believe what he told me. Perhaps it’s both.