I don’t dare look at Abby in this moment.
‘Ah, Baxter,’ Sir Francis says, shaking his head with clear sadness in his eyes. ‘It was sad when he dropped out. Give him my regards. Tell him he’s still the best player to ever come out of Harrow. They were trounced this year by Eton. Terrible.’
Oh. My. God.
This cannot be real.
But it is real. Suddenly a whole heap of things make sense and, while I may not be able to compute every little thing this instant, I know enough to know the revelation is real.
Somehow, I manage an even reply. ‘I will pass on your regards when I can.’
Sir Francis nods, seemingly lost in a memory. ‘Please do.’
Lord Whittingstall checks his pocket watch, opening and closing it with a perfunctory snap. ‘Sorry to cut this short, but we must be off. My chauffeur has had a long day.’
Abby steps forward and does her hostess thing. I’m not even sure if she’s reading my shock correctly. This is more than plain surprise to me.
‘Thank you both for coming over to drop off the samples. I’ll see you to the door.’
Both men nod at me and say their goodbyes. I smile and wave, words escaping me. I find myself still waving limply when they’re gone. It’s only when I hear the distant roar of the car engine that I drop my hand, my own thoughts and judgements now screaming at me.
I’m numb but I’m not numb. The shock has completely overtaken me, and yet I’m feverishly awakened by the memories and clues now replaying in my mind.
Abby hurries back, the gallop of her heels prompting me to imagine Blair in his past life.
‘So that’s where we’ve seen him before!’ she says, her proclamation ringing in the space as she re-enters the room. ‘My God, that was ages ago. Can you believe it? Andrew must be too old to have known him at uni. Wait! How old is Blair? One year older than us. But when did he play then? Must’ve been when Al was at Cambridge and we tagged along!’ She pauses, her scandalised excitement now giving way to concern. ‘Mills?’
‘I can’t believe I didn’t know.’
I fight off the urge to hug myself. I do not need comfort. I need to bolt over to Blair – God knows where he lives – and confront him on his former privilege.
No wonder he won’t fight for me. He’s already lost everything.
‘It’s not something he would’ve wanted known,’ Abby says. ‘Though I bet your mother knew all along.’
I look at Abby, imploring her to understand without me having to explain. After all the years of friendship, she must be able to pick up on what’s wrong. Yes, I don’t tell her things because I think I’m always right, but I’m begging her to read between the proverbial lines.
‘Oh. My. God. No, you didn’t.’ She’s shaking her head like it can’t be true. ‘No, no, no, no, no. This is my fault! I planted the idea in your head. I told you to go there.’
‘It is so not your fault.’
She can’t seem to process the magnitude of what I’m admitting. If she shakes her head any more vigorously, not only is she going to end up with a chronic neck ache, her head might just spin off.
Abby begins fanning herself with both hands, her breathing becoming scarily like those breathing exercises for women in labour.
‘Don’t panic on me,’ I warn, finally stepping forward to grab hold of her arms. ‘I can’t take it.’
She reciprocates by taking hold of my shoulders. ‘You’re going to break things off with Oliver… so you can sleep with your butler.’
‘It’s deeper than that.’
‘Oh, Millie. It always feels deeper with the hot ones. You’ve got to separate sex from the rest of it.’
‘What? No, no, no! I didn’t mean that in a dirty way.’
Her panic is contagious. I need to calm down. I need to have enough composure to get into the car and drive to Kilburn without getting into an accident.
She digs her nails into my shoulders. ‘I take back what I said about seducing him. Things are different now. You can’t trade a potential marriage to a good man for a bit of butler banging.’
Oh, was that the wrong phrase to invent.
‘Abigail Louise Carrington, don’t you ever refer to what I’m doing as butler banging.’
She gasps and steps back, hands covering her mouth.
‘Don’t make me say it,’ I say, pleading. ‘Just try to understand.’
She drops her hand and makes a sound akin to a squeak – too feminine to be a squawk and too emotional to be a mere hiccup. ‘You really like him?’ She steps forward so she’s inches from my face. ‘No! You think you’re in love?’
‘I have to go,’ I say, hurriedly reaching for my handbag. ‘I need to find where he lives and talk to him.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes, now. It’s important.’
‘But Millie…’ She hugs herself, clawing at her own forearms in distress. ‘I don’t mean to play devil’s advocate, but –’
‘I know. He’s the butler, and my family already has to suffer enough scandal.’
‘And when the estate sells, even if it sells quietly, there will be talk. It’ll be in the press, too. You know this.’
‘Talk is cheap, which is why rich folk like it so much.’ I take her hands in mine and try to communicate how important this is to me. I need to leave now. ‘I’ll let you know how this goes.’
She shoots me a nervous but benevolent look, something I read as her blessing, however reluctant. ‘Okay, go, but –’
‘I won’t get lost! I promise.’
I hug her and then flee from the house. She’s probably too stunned to chase me to the front door. It’s fine – I can fill her in later when I know for certain what’s going on. Racing to the car, I jump into the driver’s seat and try to make a mental calculation of how to get to Blair’s part of London.
Mental calculation fails. I curse the lack of GPS, and instead whip out my phone to check which main roads to take.
He has to see me. I tell myself this throughout the journey to Kilburn. Unless he went to Harrow and Oxford on scholarships, he had money when he was younger. He doesn’t have that money now.
My heart aches for him. He’s already lost so much. I will not add myself to that list.
I turn right off Kilburn High Road when I near the McDonald’s there, thinking it’s a landmark that locals will know. It’s dark, yes, but there are a few people about. Impatient, I park behind a line of cars on a side street, quite possibly in a loading bay. My best guess is that there is nothing to deliver at nine o’clock on a Thursday night, though I suppose I’m not quite versed in the workings of the real world. Who knows? Maybe it is common knowledge that beef patties need to be dropped off now, in which case the delivery van will just have to suck it up and park elsewhere.
I turn off the ignition and try to call Blair.
Not surprisingly, he doesn’t pick up. Not wanting to leave messages, I hang up and call back about nine times before I get a text from him.
Stop calling me.
I could punch through the window in frustration. He’s so infuriating, once again not giving me a chance. He’s lucky that punching my own car window would make me look mental, as would taking out my anger on a fast food outlet and scaring the McJesus out of strangers.
I unclench my fist to text him back.
Listen up, Oxford boy. I want to see you right now. I’m outside your local McD’s, so please tell me where you are before I start crying on this street corner.
It takes a full minute for a response, which is understandable considering my complete lack of sensitivity. It occurs to me that he might be too ashamed to let me near his family’s home, in which case I’ll have to convince him to meet me somewhere neutral.
I’ll have to do this convincing carefully, as there’s no text message this time. He’s calling me.
‘Hello, Millie speaking.’
Blair launches straight in with bitter criticism. ‘So she told you, did she?’
>
‘If you’re referring to my mother, then no, she didn’t tell me a fucking thing.’
I understand why she didn’t. It wasn’t her place to tell me, but it doesn’t erase the trauma of being blindsided by sheer happenstance.
‘You’re angry you didn’t know?’ He laughs cruelly, as if it’s the most absurd concept ever. ‘Boy, you are entitled.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that. I do not deserve that from you.’
‘You and I don’t deserve anything from each other. Go home.’
‘I will not go home. I will sleep here in the car on this random street until you tell me where to meet you.’
‘No woman should be sleeping in a car, especially in an area they are not familiar with.’
‘I will make a “come and get it” sign and wait for my fate.’
‘That is a disgusting threat.’
‘Is it? How desperate of me.’
The ensuing silence is loaded with resentment, but somehow I’m able to find a degree of solace in it. At least he’s talking to me. Yelling and sniping is better than not hearing from him at all, and if he’s this worked up, he must care more than he lets on. Surely?
‘Okay, I’ll tell you where I live, where my family lives,’ he says, his voice strained but steady. ‘Come and see how much we don’t have.’
He hangs up, his last challenge speaking volumes about loss and perspective. Yet when the text with his address comes through, I’m not any more rattled than I was before.
I’m going to get some answers.
Chapter 29:
Usually when I get into a rage, there’s no way to reason with me – no compromise. There’s just me, channelling white-hot anger like a superconductor.
Oh, how things have changed. I may be fired up, but now there’s caution involved. I have a vested interest. So, while I want to speed down these residential streets at sixty miles an hour, I’m actually doing about twenty, clutching my iPhone in one hand and slowing down at every street sign because, for some reason, I’m picking this very moment to doubt Google Maps.
It must look insane – this flashy car stop-starting like the driver doesn’t know how to work a manual. The guys on Top Gear would be horrified at the way I’m handling the steering. I’ve already mounted one curb and had a near miss with two angry-looking garden gnomes. Do you know how scary garden gnomes are when it’s dark and you’re straining to see street signs and house numbers? Fucking scary. It’s akin to a child’s fear of all their toys coming alive at night.
I don’t want to add gnome-killer to the list of cons that Blair has surely drawn up against me. Even with a favourable pros to cons balance, I’m still up against his inner demons. Those demons are Harrow-educated and have at least a year of Oxford under their belts. This torment of his is real. It may be a mind-fuck for me to hear about, but it would’ve been even more of a mind-fuck for him to experience.
I slow down when I get to his street, my heart pumping like an overworked piston. There’s so much room for error – something I’m reminded of when the turn I make is imprecise, leading me to drag one side of the car over the curb. My eyes are focused further down the street, scanning every pocket of light in anticipation of Blair’s house. Street lamps. Porch lights. The occasional lit window… Yellow. White. Pale, unnatural blue. My senses are on overload, and so are my emotions.
As I follow the odd-numbered countdown to my right, I see a figure up ahead. The person paces up and down, withdrawing to the garden path and then back to the roadside. For some stupid reason, I put my headlights on high beam so I can get a better view and confirm it is Blair. It’s Blair, and now I’ve blinded him. Perfect!
I switch the lights off and come to a stop in front of his house, but he retreats once more into the garden, his hands on his hips and his back to me. It’s crazy, but I feel like abducting him – just dragging him into the car and speeding away. Whether or not he’d answer my questions, he’d still be with me, and being so near him now, all I want is to keep him with me. I cannot fuck this up. I cannot lose him.
Gnome-killer. Abductor. Time to rein in the criminal madness.
I get out and make my way towards him, slamming the door entirely too hard in the process. The swift punch and click is satisfying, like it’s telling him I mean business. He turns and, before I can say a single word, he rounds on me, getting right up close and peering down with those fiery eyes I love so much.
His voice is crisp and clear, cutting through the stagnant summer air. ‘So how did you find out?’
That’s what he wants to know – how I found out. What I want to know is the whole bloody story.
I meet his gaze unafraid and unimpressed. I just want to embrace him. It’s a milder impulse to that of the kidnapping, but reason prevails so here I stand, galvanised, if slightly unhinged.
‘If you must know, I’ll tell you,’ I say, trying to find my balance on the unpaved gravel and grass. ‘But only after you explain your wealthier past.’
His swift response bursts from his lips. ‘Why make me repeat something you already know?’
‘Because I haven’t heard it from you!’ I poke him hard in the chest. ‘Harrow? Oxford? Even if you did drop out, you were there long enough to be a star polo player. I didn’t know any of this.’
He shakes his head, his grin of disbelief making him appear borderline maniacal. ‘You want me to tell you the whole sob story?’
‘You gave me your address, didn’t you? I’m here.’
The grin disappears. He pauses, holding my gaze for several seconds before pointing over his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you see behind me?’
I look at the house that is his family home: two-storey; narrow, whitewashed facade; visible cracks and signs of wear; an unkempt garden with just as many weeds as plants. And, not only is a light on upstairs, but the curtains of a first-floor window are being jostled, creating shifting shadows that confirm someone is trying to secretly watch this exchange.
Apart from the identities of its occupants, I don’t know what’s inside the house. Is it messy? The interior dated? Are there obvious signs of too many people living in one place? I’m not sure Blair is going to show me. What I dare to assume is that there are many people who are perfectly happy living in houses like the one before me now. When you’ve had more, however, the downgrade would be particularly embittering.
I take a step back, as if the extra distance will help me process the picture before me. Like a camera refocusing, I redirect my attention to Blair in the forefront and see his hostility take on a sadness he probably doesn’t want to show.
‘Sir Francis Eldridge,’ I tell him, hoping my voice carries no hint of pity. ‘I found out from Sir Francis Eldridge.’
It’s a name that instantly breaks his composure. Just like that, his bravado is stripped away, leaving him somewhat defenceless. His face is not one of a guilty man, but of a man who knows pretence will not help.
Dropping his hands from his hips, he enunciates carefully. ‘I wasn’t aware you knew him.’
‘I don’t know him. He’s a friend of a family friend. That’s the thing with these social circles. They overlap because there are only so many of us.’
‘Outed by a Venn diagram.’ He raises an eyebrow, a bitter smirk accompanying it. ‘And to think I see most things as mutually exclusive.’
‘Like you and me?’
‘Don’t even…’
More head-shaking. His shoves his hands into his pockets and stares into the distance, his expression vacant for at least ten seconds.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and sigh heavily. ‘Blair?’
‘Let’s not do this out here.’
His next gesture is subtle, a slight wave of the hand, almost like a secret signal. In reality, I know it’s more a sign of his reluctance. He may have been resolute on the phone but now that I’m here, about to step into the house, it’s different. I follow him as he makes his way slowly to the front door, a part of me now wan
ting to reach out and hug him from behind. Luckily, I know better than to try comforting him. He opens the door, but only wide enough to poke his head inside and speak to somebody who’s in earshot, and though at first I think he’s shielding me from his family, the truth is that he’s shielding them from me.
‘I need to have a meeting with my employer,’ he says to whoever is there. ‘Just go upstairs for a bit… Give me some privacy, come on… Thank you.’
I hear the sound of at least two girls talking and the thump-thump-thump of them stomping up the stairs. The door is ajar enough that they’re able to see me once they get to a decent height. Since neither of them are Julie, they must be Francie and Sylvie. Though probably years apart in age, they are strikingly similar: tall and lithe but, unlike their brothers, beautiful in a plain way. You wouldn’t necessarily peg them as supermodels on first glance, but the more you stare the more you appreciate their features.
They’re appraising me as I appraise them through the opening in the door. Wide-eyed and curious, they slow when they near the top of the stairs. I can no longer see their faces from where I am, but I can tell from the way Blair has tensed that he doesn’t appreciate the mutual curiosity.
After waiting a few more seconds, he looks over his shoulder at me. ‘I suppose I’m making this worse by not acting like this is a routine visit.’
‘Your house, your rules.’
‘That’s the thing. It’s not my house.’
‘Okay, not your house per se, but where your family lives.’ I tell myself to bite my tongue before I overdo the aggravation.
As he swings open the door he stares at me as if my reaction is all he wants to get from this experience. I’m so taken with him that I momentarily forget to notice our surroundings.
Blair steps aside so I can walk into the house. I see the entirety of the steep, narrow staircase, its worn shag carpet making me wonder about the rest of the interior I’m about to see. The floorboards creak when I take another step, and I find myself staring at my Jimmy Choos as if I’ve walked into a church wearing muddy work boots. I’m insulting a sacred space or something.
Lady: Impossible Page 46