Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  Don’t talk to me like that. I’m just trying to make things right.

  I wait for two minutes, but there’s no answer, and there’s still no reply by the time Eliza comes back from the bathroom.

  Miserable, I look at her glumly and tell her I need to go back home for family reasons. I tell myself this white lie is justified, because in a roundabout way it isn’t a lie. My mother sent the man I care about home.

  ‘Of course,’ Eliza says, helping me get to my feet before giving me a hug. ‘Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  I desperately hope so, to the point where I have to stop myself from screaming at Eliza’s driver. He’s following the highway code to the letter, even driving below the speed limit, which is exactly the kind of rule-abiding that I don’t need right now. I need drastic action. Above and beyond. Whatever it takes.

  Unfortunately, when we finally pull up outside my house, it’s Eliza who insists on going the extra mile, stepping out of the car so she can walk me to the door. Earlier she had no chance of getting anywhere near the house, as I made a point of waiting outside the gate. Now it’s a different story – not only does she easily figure out the gate mechanism, but the front door opens before we reach it, with my mother emerging to greet us.

  My first thought is that at least it’s not Blair, because I wouldn’t want Eliza seeing him just as he’s been banished. This thought, however, makes me want to cry because I’m not sure how she’d react, how anyone would react, if I were to throw myself in his path to stop him from leaving.

  The judgement and shock would be incredible. He’s the butler.

  Perhaps ‘he’s the butler’ is what my mother is thinking right now – that is, if she’s prescribing to the worst-case scenario. It’s hard to tell just what kind of mood she’s in, though. She doesn’t like the Routledge family, so the sour expression she’s wearing as she strides down the path could really just be a result of that.

  Eliza stops midway, likely out of fear. It’s a mistake, really, because all it does is force my mother to come to us and not the other way around. To make things worse, Eliza and I are still arm in arm and to pull away now would be very obvious.

  ‘Lady Silsbury. Nice to see you.’

  My mother comes to halt in front of us, clearly encroaching upon the boundaries of what is considered personal space. ‘No need to be so formal, Eliza.’ She breaks into a smile but her eyes flash with warning. ‘You don’t hear me calling you Lady Eliza.’

  Jesus, I could be in serious trouble here. This is no ordinary Mother mood swing.

  I’m not sure whether it’s a Routledge thing, a rank thing or her pride, but Eliza suddenly takes on the challenge, laughing airily. ‘Oh, but your butler called me that on the phone. Delightful. Where is he? I didn’t expect you to answer the door.’

  ‘Yes, where is he?’ I ask, not caring about the stupid power struggle.

  My mother flinches. ‘I gave him the afternoon off.’

  A figure appears in the doorway behind her. Assuming it’s Blair, my heart stops, causing me to hold onto Eliza tighter. Mother flinches again, a movement that distracts me for a second. When I look up after that, I see that it’s not Blair at all, but Father.

  I’m done for. This must be an intervention. She thinks I’m sleeping with the butler, so she called him down here to sort me out. That might mean admitting that she shouldn’t have hired Blair in the first place, but maybe she’s so desperate that she’s willing to accept the blame.

  My father continues towards us, his surprisingly cheerful demeanour a sharp contrast to the mood outside. Eliza appears just as surprised as me, though she of course has no idea why I’m holding onto her so tightly.

  She nods respectfully as he approaches, while my mother takes a step back when he stops at a more respectful distance.

  ‘Lord Silsbury! It’s been a while.’

  He chuckles. ‘Don’t be so formal. Hadley calls me “Marc with a C”. Says he spends a fortune buying you clothes from some Jacobean fellow.’

  ‘That would be Marc Jacobs. From this era, actually.’

  ‘Really? Fascinating.’

  Never mind finding that fascinating. I’m still in shock as I shake off Eliza to embrace my father, my mind wondering if he’s some sort of hologram from the future. Then again, I don’t think waistcoats will be all the rage in 2080, so this must be him.

  He hugs me warmly, not like someone who’s about to rip into me for my life choices. I scramble to think of another explanation as to why he’d show up now, unannounced. A particularly inspiring session of the House of Lords? A shopping trip to get Viscount Weller’s present? A spot of gardening?

  Oh God. Maybe we’re selling this house. Maybe there’s not enough money even with the prospect of Silsbury Hall being sold. The estate! How I wish I was back there, hiding in my childhood bedroom and immune from entanglements, gossip and ruin.

  Somehow, he knows an explanation is pending, especially in front of company.

  ‘Anyway, I thought I’d come down to help choose the viscount’s gift. Last minute, last minute.’ He shakes his head, smiling as if it’s the most pleasant trouble. ‘I’d invite you in, Eliza, but our butler is away and I’m afraid I can’t do better than biscuits and cold tea. Another time?’

  ‘No problem.’ She turns and kisses me goodbye, likely aware that I don’t want her to invite herself in. ‘Bye for now. I’ll see all three of you on Saturday night!’

  My father nods. ‘Goodbye. Send my regards to Hadley.’

  ‘I will.’

  Suddenly, I don’t want her to leave. If she leaves, I’m left alone with whatever mystery is unfolding here.

  Blair must be gone. Permanently? I don’t know. He didn’t say he’d been fired. Are my parents lying? Is Blair still in the house?

  They’re both staring at me, Mother with her piercing gaze, and Father with a less threatening look of concern. No one says anything until Eliza has been whisked away in the Mercedes, the sound of the departing car giving way to pointed words.

  ‘Sorry for the lack of warning,’ Father says, the need for a cheerful facade having passed. ‘You worried me on the phone yesterday, so I decided to visit.’

  ‘I’m really happy that you’re here.’ Shit. I sound like an automaton, a robot programmed to give standard responses.

  He knows I’m generally unhappy, so hopefully he isn’t offended by how frightened I must seem right now. It’s just that I’m not sure whether he’s lying. Is that all this is? A visit because he’s worried?

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ Mother suggests, before turning on her heel and stalking up the path.

  My father and I fall into step behind her. He places a hand on my back and leans over to speak quietly in my ear, even though we both know she can probably hear.

  ‘My dear girl, you must admit you’re not all right. I’ve never heard of anyone making you cry with a cross word or two. You’d usually eat them for breakfast.’

  I stop, refusing to enter the house. If he doesn’t know I was involved with Blair, and if he really is here out of concern for my well-being only, then maybe I can ask about Blair’s whereabouts without drumming up suspicion. ‘Where is he? Blair? I didn’t mean to get him in trouble. I really didn’t. I was fragile and he felt unwell and I was being a nuisance.’

  Even in a hushed voice, my anguish is clear. I’m going to cry. The tears are welling up and I can’t breathe again.

  ‘Calm down. He’ll be back on Friday. Your mother just wanted to make a point. We can’t have employees upsetting you in these trying times.’

  He’s gone. He’s already left the house.

  On the one hand, the relief is staggering. He hasn’t been fired, and we haven’t been outed. On the other, the uncertainty about ‘us’ is still intense enough to override the true comfort of these assurances.

  I swallow hard and try to keep it together. ‘A warning would’ve sufficed.’

  ‘Perhaps.�
��

  Despondent, I follow him into the house and to the sitting room, where Mother has seated herself on the settee, talking to someone on the phone. My best guess is that she’s going to have me committed.

  She waves us over as her conversation continues. ‘Yes. That’s a very convenient time. We’ll see you then.’

  Father refuses to sit, instead pacing back and forth in front of the Second Earl. Standing ten feet away from him in the middle of the room, I keep my eyes trained on this scene, worried that I won’t be able to keep the tears away if I don’t focus on something concrete.

  Blair’s gone. He won’t be back until Friday. Two and a half days, if not three, when he won’t be here. I can’t go that long without seeing him.

  My mother wraps up her phone call. ‘… Thank you so much for your patience… Yes, yes… All right, then… Too-da-loo. Bye.’

  Father turns to me, a mischievous smirk lighting up his face. ‘You’re not going to make fun of your mother for using such an antiquated farewell?’

  She answers before I can. ‘It isn’t antiquated. It’s merely colloquial.’

  ‘I haven’t heard anyone say “too-da-loo” for at least two decades.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’m sure you have.’

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I would recall the follow-up conversation about how no one employs that term anymore.’

  These two people are arguing like they’re married. Because they are married. They haven’t divorced yet, and they at least have enough solidarity to come together to confront me, so not all is lost. It’s me who’s potentially lost someone.

  ‘Your mother used to say “too-da-loo”,’ Mother says.

  ‘Yes, but how long ago? When Major was prime minister, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that far back. Was it?’

  ‘It was, Caroline.’

  ‘Don’t say my name like that.’

  ‘Caro. Line.’

  I interrupt the quibble, convinced they’ll go on for another ten minutes if I don’t. ‘Actually, “too-da-loo” is still in current usage.’

  My mother does a countess version of a fist pump: a slight upturn of her nose, followed by a shrug so quick it’s more of a twitch. ‘There you have it.’

  ‘And your proof, Millie?’ Father asks me.

  ‘The film The Hangover: when the Chinese mafia dude says “Too-da-loo, Motherfuckerrrrrrrr” and then rolls up the car window and drives away.’

  Both parents look at me like I’m insane. While this is completely expected, somehow the pointlessness of the conversation compels me to lose my composure.

  ‘You didn’t have to send Blair away,’ I say to my mother. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘Did you just stamp your foot?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to get him into trouble!’

  I’ve yelled the statement with such volume and conviction that I’m pretty sure even the Second Earl is offended by my level of disrespect. It’s an outburst so uncalled for that the disapproval reaches back over two centuries. I can probably expect a letter of complaint, written in ink and stamped with the family seal.

  ‘Don’t talk to your mother like that.’

  I know it’s my father who says this, but for some reason I’m looking at the portrait on the wall.

  ‘Millie, you’re obviously on edge at the moment,’ my mother says slowly.

  ‘I am not a damsel in distress.’

  ‘Nobody said you were.’

  A stony silence descends over the room. This is all ridiculous. I’m a lost woman whose parents have come together to stage some sort of intervention, and they don’t even know the full extent of the problem or, if either of them does, they’re not letting it on.

  Surely my mother suspects something. She is not stupid. Just because I carried on with Blair in this house doesn’t mean I think she’s stupid.

  ‘So, let’s discuss Dubai,’ Father begins. ‘Because I want to know if you really like this Oliver fellow.’

  I can’t deal with this. The next thirty seconds pass in a rushed blur, like when you’re on a swing and hurtling back down in an arc. I run out, towards the back garden, almost slamming into the back door on the way because I don’t take the time to properly slow down before opening it and tottering down the garden steps. Struggling to stay upright – the perils of stilettos in grass – I somehow manage to grab my phone out of my bag, dialling Oliver’s number as I come to a halt in the far corner of the lawn.

  Of course, he doesn’t pick up. He’s at work.

  I try again, even though my parents are standing at the conservatory windows like two soldiers in charge of monitoring a hostile situation. Two confused, unequipped soldiers at a loss as to what best strategy to employ.

  After being put through to Oliver’s voicemail again, I hang up and try one more time.

  This time he answers.

  ‘Millie? What a lovely surprise.’

  He sounds so happy to hear from me, just like yesterday. But what I have to say isn’t happy at all.

  I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing. All I know is that if I don’t act in some way, I will pay the price for my hesitation, and so will he.

  ‘Hi, Oliver. Sorry to bother you.’ He should be able to tell from my shaking voice that something is wrong.

  ‘Is everything okay? You sound upset.’

  I put a hand on my waist and stare at the ground. ‘Oh, um, I was just wondering if I could meet you in person at some point this week. I know we weren’t going to see one another until you knew if you were working this weekend, but I need to tell you something in person and I don’t want to sit on it. Remember the time you were nice enough to come to The Ritz? It’s kind of like that. Not a phone conversation.’

  There’s a long pause. ‘Did I do something to upset you?’

  Looking at the ground is giving me vertigo. I look up at the sky instead.

  ‘No, no, no. It’s not you at all.’ I stop myself from saying ‘it’s me’, knowing that kind of line is cheesy and not comforting at all, even though it may very well be true.

  ‘Whatever it is, maybe you should take some time to think. Because I jumped the gun and made a mistake last time.’

  Oh no, I’m breaking his heart too. He sounds so sad and worried. I really am terrible at this. Terrible at dating and love and everything related to dating and love. I had a fun time with him in Dubai. I also kissed him on Saturday, made him feel like he was the only one I was interested in. But while he’s a great guy, I can’t choose him over Blair. I can’t.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘I’ll give you some space, and what if you come to my office on Friday?’

  ‘Come to the office? But people will see me if I do that. Clients. Colleagues.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Though he’s probably being genuine, it feels like a stunt to impress me. Or maybe my nerves are making me cynical. ‘Can we meet at reception and grab a coffee?’

  ‘Just tell me when. I can rearrange things for you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He rushes to reply. ‘Millie. Please don’t give up on me. I had an inkling on Saturday that you felt pressured or unsettled. We can work through this.’

  Neck hurting, I go back to staring at the grass beneath me. My heels have sunk into the dirt – I’ve literally dug my heels in. ‘I’ll see you on Friday.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Surely I’m not making a mistake. I’m letting him down now instead of leading him on and disappointing him later. It’s for the best. If I can’t give him my full attention, then I should let him move on to someone who will.

  Still, it’s not a good feeling to know you’re about to crush someone’s hopes, which is why trekking back to the house in this instance still feels like a walk of shame, albeit a chaste one. I abandon my shoes midway, exhausted from the effort, and walk the rest barefoot. My
parents, both solemn, wait for me to say something after I’ve climbed the steps and re-entered the conservatory.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasted your money,’ I tell them. ‘Tilton & Bree, I mean. I’ll get a part-time job and pay you back.’

  Speechless, neither one of them stops me when I walk past them to leave the room. I don’t mind, really. It’s not like I can explain myself with any real degree of honesty.

  I head down to the kitchen, grab a can of spaghetti from the pantry, and eat in the servants’ hall, all the while watching the clock.

  Chapter 28:

  The countdown to tomorrow’s meeting with Oliver is proving to be frustrating.

  I’ve spent the better part of two days rehearsing the most tactful way to tell him I’m no longer interested. Seeing as I have trouble with tactfulness and delicacy on a good day, God knows what mangled explanation will come out of my mouth when the time comes. I’ve tried many techniques, from speaking into a mirror to recording my responses on my phone and playing them back to see how I sound. Of course, this gives the impression that I am one of the following: a) completely off my rocker, b) breaking up with an invisible man every two seconds, c) in love with my own voice or d) auditioning for a minor role in Oliver! The Musical, the latter being a concern of my father’s when he overheard me in the library.

  All this so I can – hopefully – bow out on civil terms.

  It is a relief, though, that my parents share my sense of seriousness, my need to get this meeting right. At various moments, they’ve shared their take on my words and delivery. ‘Don’t be too emotional.’ ‘Don’t be too cold.’ ‘Don’t fidget like you need to go to the loo.’ ‘Stop touching your hair – you don’t have nits.’ It’s like being back in finishing school, except it’s not a book I’m balancing on my head, but my parents’ hopes and dreams. Say the wrong thing and I might offend Oliver to the point of retaliation and, with my family’s luck, that will mean gossip.

  Of course, it’s easier to deal with the trials of gossip when you’ve got people in your corner and, conveniently, Abby has invited me over for the evening. It’s time to finally tell her what’s going on. I was too much of a coward to come out with it during dinner, so there’s no choice now but to raise the subject during the most intellectual of endeavours: making origami flowers for her upcoming charity function.