Stupid flowers. The whole dining table is covered with miniature purple, pink and gold bouquets, all made from French silk-blend paper. We had to eat in front of the TV because of this makeshift meadow. It’s like a preview of the Chelsea Flower Show.
I shouldn’t complain though. The activity is at least calming my nerves.
‘Thanks again for letting me help out,’ I begin, looking at Abby from across the table.
The smile she offers me is a strained one. She knows something is up, but hasn’t pushed, probably because my mother warned her about my instability. Add this worry to hours and hours of stressful origami and it’s no wonder she’s not her usual peppy self.
‘I should’ve called you earlier. It’s all Jacq’s idea, these handmade things. She saw it on the telly and thought it would be more charming than fresh flowers.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but each to their own.’
‘I’ll get her back at the next function. Make her papier-mâché a billion centrepieces. Maybe even inflict some decoupage.’
‘I’d send her a threatening note with a bottle of PVA glue. Putting the “art” into “the art of war”.’
The joke at least earns a laugh, albeit a small one. ‘Shall we sit down?’
While it is a bit weird to insist on standing, standing has been a standard part of my rehearsals. I might lose the ability to speak if I sit. ‘You can sit. I find my scissor control is better if stand. And I need space to fold properly.’
‘I’m not going to sit if you’re not sitting. That would be weird.’
‘We can be weird if we want.’
The whole night has been weird and stilted. With both of us clearly aware of this, we exchange one of those looks that friends give each other when there’s clearly an elephant in the room. In this case, the elephant is eyeing me, likely wanting permission to sit. Well, it’s not going to happen. The discomfort must be shared.
I do my best to deflect. ‘I gather not everyone would’ve been enthused about me helping out, though. I know they’re only decorations, but making them is still technically helping.’
Abby is slow to answer, taking her time tying a white ribbon around her just-finished purple blooms. ‘You’re being silly. Lady Whittingstall put in a good word for you anyway. Apparently, you’re always good to her.’
‘I’ll have to thank her by listening to her horse stories with more enthusiasm next time.’
‘Tune her out, do you?’
‘Last time I saw her was at the Ritz fundraiser, just before Oliver came to meet me.’
‘Ah, I see.’
And there it is. Oliver.
‘Has my mother told you about tomorrow?’
My voice sounds so unnaturally high that it makes me cringe. Abby, however, seems infinitely relieved that I’ve said something.
‘Oh my God, I’ve been biting my tongue for an hour and a half.’ She tosses her bouquet aside, along with her patience. ‘So you don’t want to be with him? Was Dubai awful? It was awful, wasn’t it? I knew you were fibbing when you said it was brilliant.’ She begins shuffling about on the spot, hands on cheeks and eyes flashing with panic. It’s like she doesn’t know where to run. ‘I should’ve said something. Oh, I’m such a bad friend. When have I ever taken the lead from your mother?’
‘You may want to take a breath before you pass out. Andrew will be most upset if he comes home to find you’ve fainted.’
Abby shoots a dark look at me, the kind of glare that not only silences but also makes you want to jump into a crevasse and hide. It’s such an unexpected reaction that I merely stare at her, anxiously twisting the paper in my hands until she speaks.
‘This isn’t funny. You’re a mess.’
With massive effort, I manage not to sputter. ‘I’m trying to sort myself out. I promise.’
‘You keep everything to yourself. How am I supposed to help you when you keep secrets all the time? You’re not in St Andrews anymore and I’m right here. No excuses.’
‘I like trying to solve things on my own.’ Even to me it sounds pathetic.
‘So what’s the solution then?’
Taking a deep breath, I place a hand on a nearby chair. The crushed flower in my other hand becomes a makeshift stress ball. So much for paper-art integrity. ‘I’ll tell you what’s not the solution: marrying Oliver so I can save the estate. Better to mourn Silsbury Hall than live there with a man I don’t love.’
‘But you’ve only been on one real date with him.’ The desperate way in which she’s flapping her arms about makes me think she considers Oliver to be my only chance. ‘Aren’t you being a little rash?’
‘No, I’m sure. He’s terrific but he’s not the one.’
‘Doesn’t he deserve a second chance? He gave you one.’
‘There’s no need. I just know.’
She purses her lips before sighing and shrugging in exasperation. Or is it helplessness? ‘Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you always know what you don’t want.’
Before I stop to think, an admission escapes my lips. ‘I want what you have. The happy marriage.’
I don’t miss the flicker of pity in her eyes. No wonder Blair reacts so quickly when he thinks I feel sorry for him. It’s not a welcome feeling.
‘You think I’m making a mistake,’ I add, the words coming out slowly, like I’m trying to speak in a different language. ‘Which is fair considering my track record – or lack thereof.’
‘From the sound of it, he likes you for you. He can handle you. Or can’t he?’ The look in her eyes becomes a touch more concerned. ‘Is that the problem?’
‘No. If anything, I can’t really be myself around him. I’m always watching what I say, always deferring to him because he’s the one with the money.’
‘Watching what you say isn’t a bad thing.’
‘No, but silencing myself is.’
Oddly enough, the comment silences her. We spend the next hour making decorations, the two of us eventually sitting down but powering on like we’re in some kind of dignified sweatshop. It’s only when Abby’s phone rings that the monotony is broken.
I catch bits and pieces of the conversation as I cut ribbon.
‘… Ohh, yes that would be wonderful… No, it’s not too late… Andrew is still at work, but maybe by the time you drop by he will be… Really, tell them to come by. It’s no trouble… Yes, I’ll say hi to Millie for you… Okay, bye.’
She ends the call. ‘Lady Whittingstall is unwell, so she’s sending her husband and his friend to drop off some fabric samples for the chair covers and tablecloths.’
‘That’s good of him.’
‘It is.’ She clears her throat, immediately going back into production mode. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes or so.’
I wonder if it would make things better or worse if I told her about Blair now. Other than the fact it’s not just my secret to tell, I don’t want her to try to talk me out of it. Eliza’s opinion would’ve had no bearing had I told her, but with Abby it’s different. Behind the laughs and jokes, she can also be serious about my well-being. Sometimes I forget that.
I snip another piece of ribbon. Giant novelty scissors would be nice. I can pretend it’s the official ribbon-cutting for Millie’s New Lease on Life. First step: resolve this quarrel.
‘You and I have never been good at not talking,’ I say softly, hoping she’ll be receptive.
It’s true. When we were at Cheltenham we’d still end up talking to each other, however stiltedly, during our short-lived tiffs. This feels like the old days, the only difference being our problems aren’t about nail polish and boys anymore. We’re grown up now, but I’m beginning to notice she’s streets ahead of me: married and running a household, contributing to society – all while putting up with the likes of me.
She replies cheerily, however forced. ‘We’re not not talking. We’re origami-ing.’
‘I don’t think that’s a verb,’ I say, aiming for lightness
.
‘Pretend it is.’
‘Okay, sure.’ I tell myself to move things along, to start sharing things with her. ‘So, I’ve been thinking of getting a job.’
That certainly gets her attention. She tosses her bouquet to the side quite magnificently this time. It soars over to the far end of the table before ricocheting off a chair and landing back on the table. I kind of want to clap or at least commentate in a BBC Sports style.
‘A job?’ Abby asks, disbelief colouring her speech. ‘Why? Because you don’t want Oliver anymore and you’re worried about money?’
I try to keep my response casual. ‘Well, I have to pass the time somehow.’
‘But… you’re not the working type.’
While delivered gingerly, her doubt is still striking. Normally I wouldn’t be ruffled by it, but with the stakes this high, I’m defensive.
‘I can work.’
‘Oh, I’m not saying you can’t apply yourself. It’s just that you have a problem with authority. You don’t like answering to people.’
‘I’m sure I can follow instructions, as long as they’re reasonable.’
She pauses, likely taking a moment to assess my sincerity. ‘I can’t speak from experience, but aren’t bosses sometimes unreasonable?’
‘Perhaps this is an opportunity to gain a little life experience. Isn’t that what we were told at uni? That academia isn’t everything?’
‘I don’t remember that lecture. I think you made it up, or heard it from someone with bad marks.’
I press my finger into the table as if pushing the answer button on a game show. ‘I’m positive I can work.’
‘I’m not saying you’re incapable. It’s just that it takes patience to deal with people, especially when it comes to the public. The customer is always right, remember?’
I fight back the impulse to snort.
Abby is quick to comment. ‘See. You don’t believe in that.’
‘I don’t have to work with customers. I can work with computers or paper.’
‘But for how much? Isn’t the minimum wage about six pounds an hour or something?’
‘I don’t know. Is it?’ Gosh, that’s not very much. Surely Blair makes more than that?
‘How should I know?’ She waves her hand at the tabletop. ‘I only know about this sort of “work”.’
‘I’m serious about this. I can bookkeep or something.’
‘But the only place you’ve done accounts is at the estate. Not only will people assume that there’s money trouble if you’re working, they won’t trust you with money after they find out the estate’s finances aren’t in order.’
It’s a sobering point, one I obviously haven’t thought through with any degree of perspective. Trust me to try and sign a new lease of life without checking if I have a good credit rating. ‘Maybe I’ll have to play it as a hobby thing at first.’
‘A paid hobby?’
‘Yes.’
Abby still seems unconvinced. In fact, she hesitates twice before replying. ‘Look, I think you’re rushing for no reason. You’ll probably end up being financially comfortable after the estate sells. There’s no point in getting a job only to quit when the sale goes through.’
‘I need to prove that I’m not useless.’
She raises her eyebrows, amused. ‘Who said you were useless?’
Rather than waiting for an answer, she busies herself with her latest creation, so it must’ve been a rhetorical question. But before I can think of what to say or do next, her brow suddenly furrows, and another flower is unceremoniously dropped, this time as though it’s burnt her fingers.
‘This is about the butler thinking you’re a bad role model, isn’t it?’
The situation is even more incredulous to her when I don’t offer an immediate denial.
‘Oh, Mills. What’s wrong with you? Who cares what he thinks? I told you not to worry about that comment.’
‘I care. I can’t help it.’
Baffled, she doesn’t appear to hear the doorbell when it rings seconds later.
‘I think that’s Lord Whittingstall at the door,’ I say, pushing back my chair.
She snaps out of it. ‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it. You stay here.’
I’m left at the table while she answers the door. Obviously it’s her house, so she’s perfectly entitled to be the one to receive her own guests. For my part, however, it’s yet another example of not being responsible for anything.
Abby shows the two men into the room, and Lord Whittingstall tips his bowler hat at me when he sees me. I’m not sure why he hasn’t taken it off now that he’s inside. Perhaps his bald spot has worsened.
The hat-tip isn’t enough, apparently. He comes over to my end of the table with his friend in tow.
‘Good to see you again, my dear,’ he says, extending his hand. He shakes my hand for barely half a second before slapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘How rude of me! Have you met Sir Francis Eldridge before?’
Sir Francis is not quite the carbon copy of Lord Whittingstall, but it’s a close call. Both are statesmanlike gentlemen with affable smiles, athletic builds and hair that’s going grey. Sir Francis in particular exudes an aura of calm, a state of being that I wish I could mimic.
‘No, I haven’t.’ I extend my hand and smile warmly. ‘Emilia Pembroke, but everyone calls me Millie.’
‘Then I shall call you Millie,’ he says, his voice loud and genial and his handshake firm. ‘And you shall call me Francis.’
‘Francis here is a polo coach,’ Abby says, walking over and placing the box of fabric on a chair.
‘Is that right?’
‘Henry’s polo coach, in fact.’ The mirth in Sir Francis’s voice makes the sentence sound like a song.
Lord Whittingstall blushes. ‘I hear my wife has been telling you how useless I am on a horse.’
I play dumb. ‘I don’t recall any such conversation.’
His Lordship laughs heartily. ‘Oh, you’re a darling. Isn’t she a darling, Francis?’
Even Abby seems to be finding me charming, smiling as she hangs back to rifle through the fabrics.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Sir Francis says to me. ‘By summer’s end, he’ll be able stay on a horse for more than five minutes, I assure you.’
‘I have no doubt whatsoever.’ I nod at their smart attire. ‘I see you two have been out on the town. Anywhere special?’
‘Just dinner,’ His Lordship says. ‘Lucy thinks I should stay out of the house so I don’t catch the lurgy.’
Sir Francis smirks and holds his hand up to his mouth, ready to tell me a secret. ‘She’s worried it would hamper his training regime.’
I laugh, but stop short when I lay eyes on his cufflinks.
They’re exactly the same as Blair’s – the ones with the horses etched into them that he wore the night we first got together.
It’s not exactly a memory that needs to be relived right this very instant but, for some reason, I’m ready to take this as a sign that I’m making the right choice.
When Sir Francis drops his hand, I also drop my gaze. Knowing this is rude, I rush to explain myself. ‘I have a friend with those very same cufflinks. What an uncanny coincidence.’
Wait – maybe that was the wrong thing to say. What if they’re a cheap pair? I can’t exactly tell someone their cufflinks are the same as my butler’s.
Fortunately, Sir Francis is buoyed by the comment, punching the air with delight. ‘Really? An Oxford girl, are you, Millie?’
‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘No, I went to Cambridge, like Abby here.’
‘It’s true,’ Abby chimes in, rummaging through the box until she finds a fabric in the right colour. She brandishes the swatch. ‘Light Blues all the way.’
‘Even better,’ Sir Francis says with the same gusto as before. ‘Making friends. Dark Blues and Light Blues together. That’s what I like to see. Off the field, at least. Take Abby and Andrew, for example.�
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‘Um, okay.’
It must be a habit of mine to zone out during conversations with people over fifty-five. I’ve clearly missed something, even though I feel completely alert.
Lord Whittingstall now looks as wistful as his friend. ‘Oh, the rivalry never dies, does it? Were either of you there last month?’
‘At…?’ I ask.
‘Why, the Varsity Polo Match, of course.’
Abby shakes her head. ‘We stopped attending the polo after we graduated. Sorry. We only go to the rowing now.’
‘Oh ho!’ If we were back in medieval times, Sir Francis would probably be pointing a sword into the sky. ‘That cannot be! Millie, what did your friend have to say about this blasphemy?’
‘Sorry, what friend?’
What on earth is he talking about? Maybe he’s senile and thinks he told me something when clearly he hasn’t. Trying to figure this out is like clicking on a broken website link. It’s all ‘Error 404’ and no helpful information.
Luckily, he’s patient with me. ‘Why, the very friend who was given a pair of these cufflinks for representing Oxford so well in a Varsity Match.’
Wait, what?
I’m immediately flustered. ‘Oh, they mustn’t be the same pair then. Or maybe they are and someone gave them to him.’
He’s immediately dismissive. ‘I don’t know who would give these away. They’re a gift from a benefactor of the university. Not given out every year, I must add. What’s your friend’s name?’
I’m going to faint. Of course, there isn’t a fainting room in this house. Maybe I should take a step back and faint into table so I look like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz when she falls asleep in that field of deadly poppies. After I wake, I’ll click my heels three times and be transported back home to Silsbury Hall. There’s no place like home, even if it will be up for sale in a month or two.
I look over to Abby for guidance, a completely nonsensical move. She has no idea what my problem is.
‘Well?’ she says.
Dizzy from shock, I slowly turn back to Sir Francis. ‘Oh, you probably don’t know him…’ I look like a fool hesitating like this. I just need to know for sure. ‘His name is Blair.’
Lady: Impossible Page 45