Anyway, the fact is that talking about Dubai sends me into a tailspin, so why not hang out with Eliza instead? As painful as other subjects are, they’re not as traumatic as my current crisis. It’s like I’m the body in that board game ‘Operation’, but every part of me is buzzing because nothing can be extracted without incredible pain. And to make things worse, Oliver has been texting today with happy replies to my boring texts.
I am a fraud. But at least I know it.
So in my desperation, I now find myself at Song’s Teahouse in Notting Hill (Eliza’s idea of being ‘exotic’ and ‘unexpected’). Chinese tea rather than traditional English tea. Really, it’s not unexpected at all – Lady Eliza and Lady Emilia having tea. That’s all I do anyway. I’m a moping lady who lunches.
‘Who are you texting?’ Eliza asks from across the small table, her saccharine smile a sure sign of an impending interrogation.
‘Oh, nobody.’ I put my phone away so she won’t be able to spy on my screen when Oliver undoubtedly responds. In some way, it’s completely surreal that Dubai was only days ago. All this panic over Blair has once again distorted time. ‘Thanks again for picking me up and taking me here. Our butler is feeling a touch unwell today.’
She waves me off, her golden bangles jingling as she does so. ‘Not to worry. I’ve been meaning to ask about your butler, though.’
‘Oh, really?’ I’m trying to sound thoroughly bored, but unfortunately I’ve tensed, like I’m waiting for a cricket ball to the face. There’s a brightness about her that always worries me in these situations, making even basic questions seem suspicious. If she was to find out about me and Blair, for example, she would be entertained first, concerned second.
Eliza flicks her hair over her shoulders, her attempt at nonchalance laughably transparent, but no worse than my own. ‘I called the house when you were away on the weekend and was surprised when he answered – I initially thought he was Al. How old is he?’
‘A year older than us.’
Oh look, I managed to answer naturally. Kudos to me.
Unfortunately, the answer is also naturally intriguing.
‘Really? How odd.’
I ball my hand into a fist under the table, an admittedly more measured move than breaking a clay teapot in protest. It’s ridiculous, though, being secretly defensive about a man who has yet again rejected me. If he’s prepared to cut his losses, then you’d think I would consider doing the same for myself.
‘Butlers aren’t born at fifty-five,’ I say lightly, fighting the urge to clutch my stomach in pain. ‘Hard to imagine, but it’s true.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Things are different these days.’
She sighs dramatically, flicking the other side of her hair. I make a mental note to buy her some hairspray. The other items on my shopping list are a paper bag, that He’s Just Not That Into You book and a bottle of gin. I doubt the bag will fit over my head, but I would like to at least attempt to hide from the world. If it doesn’t fit I’ll just consume as much gin as possible and pass out – that’ll solve the problem…
If only I put this much thought into the things I say to Blair.
Eliza taps her finger to her rosy lips before continuing. ‘You know, the last time I was at the St Regis in New York, every “butler” who served me was a woman. I think I’ll go back to The Plaza next time.’
‘Isn’t that sexist? They still get the job done, don’t they?’
How different these last two months would’ve been had my mother poached a female butler.
Millie! Stop thinking about Blair. You’re having tea with someone.
Eliza pulls a face, though not necessarily at me. ‘You know it’s not the same.’
‘The butler service on the rooftop garden at The Surrey isn’t too bad.’
‘Ugh. But the way they pronounce Surrey like Suri. Makes me want to die.’
I snort. ‘Okay, no trips to New York with you.’
‘Now you sound just like Hadley,’ she replies with a laugh. ‘Anyway, how are you – really?’
She asked me this in the car earlier, but predictably I was evasive. Maybe she thinks a tea ceremony will lull me into a false sense of calm.
‘Oh, you know how it goes. Plodding along.’
Somebody please enrol us in an acting course.
Predictably, she rolls her eyes, exasperated. ‘Millie. Come on, you can tell me. I know your father has been and gone, which is the first time he’s visited during one of your mother’s flights of fancy. Excuse the honesty, but today I’m taking a page out of your book.’
‘You might want to put it back,’ I reply, not without humour.
‘Do tell me what’s going on. Are you okay? I’m worried.’
I sit up and try to formulate some sort of plausible explanation, one that doesn’t involve lying outright. ‘I can’t really explain anything without breaking confidence, El. It’s not that I’m dismissing your concern. Really. In fact, I wish I could tell you. It would make things a whole lot easier.’
Talking about things would actually help. Not that I would ever go to Eliza with such information. She’s an old friend, but not the best with personal stuff. If I was to confide in anyone, it would have to be Abby, who already knows a great deal more than others.
Eliza places a hand on her heart and looks sadly into her empty teacup, which is incidentally the only thing she can look into, as we only just got here and the tea hasn’t brewed yet. Maybe when the nibbles arrive we can both look sadly at a red-bean cake. You know things are serious when you’re frowning at cake – even a red-bean one.
The needling persists. ‘I haven’t seen you like this in a very long time.’
‘Just going through a rough patch in… life in general.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means shit happens.’
This small confirmation of trouble seems to satisfy her momentarily, buying me enough time to attempt a change in subject.
‘Awfully quiet today, isn’t it?’
Again, not a lie: it’s two o’clock and we’re the only ones in the teahouse. It may not be the largest space (a converted residential house), but I’m feeling awfully exposed like this. There’s nothing to distract her from the subject of me and my issues.
‘Oh, this place doesn’t open on Tuesdays,’ Eliza says, waving her hand so that her bangles jingle like a mystical spell. ‘I had them open up for me. It’s not like I was going to wait until this weekend.’
‘Right.’ Because that’s normal and everything. ‘Private function for two.’
‘Yes! Protects us from eavesdroppers.’ She drops her hand. ‘Anyway, where were you on the weekend? Obviously somewhere where you had no reception. The butler said you were visiting friends?’
‘I was out of town, yes.’
‘Rumour has it you were spotted at Heathrow…’
Shit. I knew I should’ve stolen the passenger list beforehand to see if it bore the names of anyone likely to engage in useless gossip. Poor form on my part.
‘Rumours about the Pembrokes,’ I say dryly. ‘That’s new.’
‘Well, I don’t mean to pry, but if you went to see Al overseas, then that’s a good thing. Opening the lines of communication.’ She extends her hands to the side like she can open communication with a single gesture. ‘Building bridges?’
I’m stuck. This is why hiding in my room is generally safer. Being evasive only makes people more curious. If things were to work out with Oliver, I would be able to explain this white lie to Eliza later on, seeking retrospective forgiveness on the grounds of necessary privacy. On the other hand, if I let her believe I went to see Al overseas when I didn’t… well, that’s just dishonest self-preservation.
I wonder if she’s bluffing. The problem is that Terminal 3 does serve international routes. Or maybe she’s testing to see if I’ll say anything about Al being in Somerset.
‘I can neither confirm nor deny.’
She clucks like my mo
ther’s mother used to – simultaneous delight and disdain for scandal. ‘I’m just glad the money laundering rumour has died. I suppose it was an easy way to explain how well off he is?’
‘Money laundering takes a mastermind. Al throws parties and charges for it. Not exactly the stuff of genius.’
‘Still…’ She trails off, but just when I think I’m off the hook, she pulls the sad card. ‘You look so sad, Millie. So very sad.’
‘I’m not sad. It’s more like ennui.’
She crosses her arms as if she’s hugging herself over my pain, the tinkle of her expensive jewellery well and truly irritating me now. I imagine her wearing a set of bracelets from H&M, which would make her look decidedly unlike herself. This all begs the question on how people would see me if I’m forced to cut costs further.
And how would I see myself?
‘Ennui is more like boredom, yes? Lack of motivation? You look sad.’
I fiddle with the corner of the placemat, pressing the bamboo with my fingers. ‘Well, everyone has sad times.’
‘Yes, but –’
The Gods of Fortunate Timing finally cut me some slack. A waiter arrives with our dim sum, and also deems the tea to be suitably brewed. I don’t know what kind of crazy fee Eliza paid for us to be here, but I’m hoping she’s paying for the food too. I’m ravenous and pretty sure that each plate of snacks costs around three quid each.
While the break is welcome, I eventually stop stuffing my face. I’m worried my silence is becoming rude.
‘Can I ask you a random question?’
Eliza puts her cup down, looking pleased she doesn’t have to prod something out of me this time. ‘Absolutely.’
It’s not exactly admirable to make it sound like I’m asking about my parents when I’m asking for myself. But I’d really like an opinion. I’m past losing it. I’ve lost it. I’m in a bizarre bubble of worry and fear, and I’m tired of it. A perverse part of me wants my mother to know the truth about Blair and me, because then maybe I can be honest about how I feel, rather than her thinking that I see Blair as a nuisance.
I look Eliza in the eye, grip the underside of my chair with both hands, and push myself to ask the question. ‘With Hadley, how did you know he was the right one for you? I’ve just been wondering about marriage and certainty and all that.’
She answers without hesitation, a genuine seriousness to her now. No hair flicking, no jokes. ‘You just know.’
I pull a face. ‘Yeah, everyone says that, but what does it actually mean? How do you know for sure? When do you know?’
‘It’s not the same for everybody.’ She pauses, and when she speaks again her tone is softer. Surprisingly, I don’t find this patronising. She should be gentle with me. I’m fragile right now. ‘Think of it this way. Some people say they know but are mistaken. And some people realise it too late. For me, I think I knew almost straight away. It felt different. I don’t even think it’s about feeling sure. It’s more like you feel unsure.’
I take a moment to consider her words, turning them over in my head like objects under inspection. ‘But how can feeling unsure equate to knowing? That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Because you’re unsure as to how you’d fare if you didn’t choose that person or if that person didn’t choose you. It’s like a fear that grips you.’ Eyes bright, she raises her hand when I start to open my mouth. ‘I know, it sounds like complete and utter bullshit, but really, it’s a good test.’
‘So…’ I’m still sceptical – afraid, even. I release my grip on the chair in an attempt to relax. ‘So it’s not about how long you’ve known somebody. It’s about how frightened you are of not having that person in your life?’
She shrugs, a degree of flippancy creeping back into her body language. Maybe this is too serious a topic. ‘That’s just my opinion.’
Yet again, I pause to think. What would life be like without Blair? He wasn’t in my life before so, really, how difficult would it be to move on?
The very fact that I’m applying this test to him and not to Oliver is saying something in itself.
No, it’s screaming something.
‘I have another question. Feel free not to answer.’
‘Okay, shoot.’
She must think that Christmas has come early with all these revealing questions.
‘Well, money makes some men more attractive, or can do anyway. So what a woman should really do is take money out of the equation for a moment and ask herself if she loves the man for the person he is?’ I shake my head, embarrassed. ‘I think that what I’m trying to confirm is that you marry for love, not money.’
I add a nervous laugh, which probably doesn’t help my cause. In fact, Eliza does begin to eye me carefully, as if she’s onto the fact I’m asking for me.
‘I think it would be uncomfortable not to marry for love,’ she says. ‘But it’s not bad to want to marry a rich man. We’re wealthy, Mills. Who else are we going to be comfortable with? No one else understands. Others just think we’re being snobs.’
I sigh wearily. ‘It’s like a club, I suppose. We’re used to being with our own.’
‘I don’t believe in being ashamed about that.’
Feeling another rush of emotion, I merely nod and eat another rice parcel. This is as much soul-mate talk as I can handle. At least I asked, though – it’s better than trying to get answers from myself.
Eliza moves the conversation along. Apparently watching me eat is boring. ‘Speaking of clubs, 5 Hertford Street is divine. The nightclub there – Loulou’s – is to die for. Membership is obviously capped, but I think you’ll be a shoo-in.’
My stomach churns, and not from the food. ‘Don’t be silly. Al has made us infamous.’
She points at me. ‘That’s the thing. How many people of note have secretly gone to one of his overseas parties? Someone will totally vouch for you, for fear you’ll threaten to divulge all their secrets.’
‘Blackmail goes both ways, El. Besides, I don’t actually know who Al frequents with.’
‘I’m going to get you in. It’ll make you feel better.’
I highly doubt that membership of 5 Hertford Street will make me feel any better. Boosting my social profile isn’t a priority anymore. Besides, public revocation of membership due to suddenly becoming ‘regular rich’ instead of ‘filthy rich’ is a trial I’d rather not go through in the future.
Blair would hate it if I tried to join. He’d accuse me of caring about money and status only. Or maybe he wouldn’t accuse me, instead claiming not to care what I did with my life.
It’s this prospect of indifference that continues to preoccupy me for the rest of our stay, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with the tea we’re sipping. Even when Eliza gives me a reprieve by talking over my internal monologue, there I sit, imagining what it would be like to lose his interest. It’s then that I realise I’m deathly afraid of him not caring anymore. All this time I’ve known, whether consciously or subconsciously, that he’s interested in me. The odd behaviour of the last two days has only reinforced this certainty. But in one month’s time, or two months’ time, or even by the year’s end he may no longer feel this way. Even if he did, it might only be from afar, banished from my life for whatever reason – resignation or termination.
I don’t think I could bear such a prospect.
‘Oh, that’s your phone, I think,’ Eliza says, stopping mid-gossip at my message tone.
It’s probably a text from Oliver. ‘I’ll answer it later. Do go on.’
‘No, no. You can answer it now. I’m just going pop into the loo – I think I’ve got a sesame seed stuck between my back teeth.’
She trots away to the bathroom, her bangles punctuating each step with a metallic crash. It’s reminiscent of a tambourine, but conjures the image of gold coins being periodically tossed into a vault full of gold. Crash, crash, crash. More, more, more. No wonder I can’t stand the sound.
I shake my head, wa
nting to forget the concept. Digging into my handbag, I check my phone to see what Oliver has to say.
It’s not Oliver. It’s a text from Blair.
You could’ve told me that your mother saw you upset the other night.
Oh fuck. She’s questioned him alone.
I knew this was a possibility. I knew it but I didn’t tell him. I don’t know what’s wrong with me – maybe I thought telling him would make the problem worse? That it would emphasise the risk involved in taking a chance on me, highlighting what he has to lose?
Another text comes through before I can reply:
I panicked and told her that you came up to ask for food when I didn’t reply to your texts. Official story is I handed you food I brought up for myself, before telling you to go away.
Fuck. Of course he would take the blame.
Frantic, I reply so quickly that autocorrect becomes my new best friend, saving me from sending a round of absolute gibberish.
I’ll fix this. I don’t want you to get into trouble.
He replies immediately:
Too late. I’ve been put on leave.
With my heart racing dangerously, I immediately try to call him, trembling with trepidation when he doesn’t pick up. Not only does my chest feel like it’s burning, but I’m also gripping the phone so tightly it might just break. I highly doubt that Apple covers heartbreak-induced breakages under warranty.
I end the call attempt only to receive another missive:
I can’t talk to you. Don’t want to be overheard. Haven’t left yet.
He hasn’t left yet. A small mercy if ever there was one. Don’t leave until I get back. I’ll tell her I was my usual difficult self. Please, please don’t leave.
Don’t make it worse. If you care about me at all, you’ll stick to the story and just leave it.
I can’t accept his reasoning. He keeps telling me to leave it, but that’s the opposite of what I want to do.
I can’t let you take the fall. I’ll fix it.
For fuck’s sake, Millie. Leave it alone.
Lady: Impossible Page 43