She doesn’t respond – just sits up straight in her seat and looks dead ahead with a stricken expression on her face. She may be dressed in a smart linen trouser suit, but she has no bag with her so doesn’t really intend to be driven anywhere.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she says, her calm tone quite creepy at this time of night.
‘Abby’s.’
She turns her head in a laboured manner, the sluggishness making me think of a zombie movie. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
I think quickly, flicking on the overhead light and emphasising the half truth. ‘A hundred paper flowers prove I was at Abby’s. You can even check with Lord Whittingstall. He came by to drop off some fabric samples.’
‘Fabric samples, really?’
‘Yes, really.’
I casually unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for my bag. I’m not going to confine myself to this car, not when Father is inside. He’s likely the very person she doesn’t want overhearing. The house is a safe haven right now. I don’t need questions. I need quiet time so I can come to terms with tonight’s surprise and be rested enough to succeed tomorrow.
Mother snaps into action, grabbing hold of my arm. She’s certainly alive now. It’s like someone has lifted the haze and told her to get on with it before I weasel my way out and bring down the entire empire.
‘And, pray tell, how long does it take to drive from Knightsbridge to Kensington?’
‘Probably the time it takes for Shakespeare to travel here so he can ask for his language back. “Pray tell”, indeed.’
I think she knows I’m putting up a front. Her lips press into a line. It’s not a smirk, nor the grin of victory. It’s more like sour vindication.
‘Andrew was on the phone to your father and mentioned that you’d already left by the time he got home,’ she says, releasing my arm. Why hold me in place physically when she can pin me with words? ‘Perhaps you should better train Abby to back up your alibis beforehand.’
I sit back with my bag in my lap. ‘Do I have to account for every single minute of my day? I hate to disappoint you, but such a log is likely to include a lot of online window-shopping and lunching.’
‘And rehearsing for tomorrow, of course?’
‘I no longer feel the need to rehearse. I know what to say and I know I’m not going to screw it up.’
‘You owe me an explanation.’
‘I ask you for explanations all the time and you never give them to me.’ Deflection is a desperate counter, but I need to go there. ‘Case in point: these excursions. If you really are considering divorce now that you know Father lied to you about money, then I will give you that. But for the other times you fled the estate for London – proper explanations would’ve been nice.’
Mother meets my confidence with more of her own. ‘You, my dear, are out of line, and certainly out of your depth. I’m now going to ask you one question. It is not a “yes” or “no” question, and it is not a question you can brush off either. And, mark my words, if I suspect you of lying, I will be all over you like a hollandaise on Eggs Benedict.’
‘Well, you could always elect for sauce on the side. That’s what a lot of people do.’
I should be more scared. She’s about to reveal her trump card.
‘What’s going on between you and Blair?’
There it is. The question she’s been waiting to ask for days.
I don’t want to outright lie to her but I don’t want to confirm anything either. This results in an incriminating silence. I try to take a page from Blair’s book and hold my facial expression in a dignified, unaffected pose.
‘If you don’t answer,’ she adds, ‘I’ll put him on leave for another week. This time unpaid.’
The threat isn’t hurled at me with cruelty, probably because she cares for him. The thing is, a measured ultimatum is still an ultimatum. She can very well penalise Blair for both his lies and mine.
‘Don’t do that,’ I say firmly, shuffling closer and gesturing with my hand. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong, and he needs the money. You know he does.’
‘Millie.’ This time she takes my hand and squeezes it, her attempt at affection catching me off guard. ‘What’s going on?’
I take a moment to fight the emotion gathering in my chest. I will not turn into a crying mess. ‘Can we do this another time? You know I have to see Oliver tomorrow.’
‘Don’t make me ask him what I am now asking you. I sent him away because I knew he was lying about the real reason you were upset.’
‘Please don’t do anything. Don’t punish him. Please.’
She looks at me searchingly, as if she’s actually capable of probing my mind for the specifics.
When I fail to elaborate, she drops my hand, clearly irritated all over again. ‘You realise he’s the butler? He’s not a toy. I didn’t hire him for you to mess around with.’
‘I’m not “messing around” with him!’ My composure effectively lost, I slap the dashboard with my hand.
The outburst is enough. I’ve walked into her trap, and the ‘aha!’ look on her face proves it. Slumping against the door, I shake my head at how predictable I am.
‘I can’t believe I fell for that.’
She raises her hand as if taking an oath, her smugness tempered by seriousness, it seems. ‘That man has been through hell. I don’t see how you, of all people, can make his life any better.’
While I appreciate where she’s coming from, the doubt makes my blood boil. My face flushes with rage. ‘I know I’m not good enough for him, not yet. But it surely won’t kill him to give me a chance.’
She blinks at me as if I’m not real. Then I realise she’s actually looking past me.
‘Oh goodness, your father is coming out here.’ She levels a look of warning at me. ‘This isn’t the end, do you hear me? I have a lot to mull over for now.’
I check over my shoulder to make sure she isn’t lying. She’s not. Father is indeed strolling down the path.
I turn back to my mother. ‘If you fire him, I’ll never speak to you again.’
‘Oh, save the histrionics.’ She turns off the light in a huff. ‘Trust me. It’s tiring.’
We both get out of the vehicle, acting as if nothing of consequence has been said. Father approaches, but seems more concerned with the car than with us.
‘Millie, darling. I believe you’ve scratched the car.’ He bends down and points at a not-insignificant scratch near the front wheel. ‘You ought to be more careful.’
I open my mouth to apologise, but Mother cuts in before I can respond.
‘Yes, yes, she needs remedial driving lessons,’ she says, coming over to reopen the gate.
Father acts bemused, eyes bright with bewilderment. ‘Is that why you were in the car? Threatening a late-night lesson, were you?’
‘Come along. Let’s get back inside.’
Father doesn’t make a move, apparently still perturbed by the vehicular damage. I, too, bend down for a closer inspection, frowning at the ugliness of the gash. Mother can go back inside if she wants. I have one last apology to make.
‘I’m so sorry. Add the insurance claim to the Tilton debt I’ve drawn up. I really should start looking for a job.’
‘It’s not that,’ he says, brow furrowing. ‘I’m just worried that you’re not taking care on the road. Being under stress is not an excuse to drive with inattention. You’re my only child now, remember?’
He may have lost a lot of money, but he would never abandon me. Even if we lost everything, he’d still want to look after us.
I stand back up, holding out my hand. ‘I may or may not have mounted a curb. A pack of garden gnomes scared me. Someone should tell them to lighten up.’
This at least draws a chuckle from him. ‘All right, back inside,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Big day tomorrow. Hearts to break.’
Though merely an expression, hearts plural had better not be the case. I might break one, but the other I intend on stealing.
Chapter 30:
Driving to JP Morgan’s new headquarters on Bank Street in Canary Wharf is probably the easiest thing I’ll do today, even with the car-scratching adventure making me nervous about being on the road. My father wanted to drive me this morning, citing the risk I would pose to innocent investment bankers in the area. However, what saved me from his insistence was the fact that both my parents understand this is something I have to do on my own. It’s my responsibility, and not anyone else’s, to let Oliver down.
Of course, my mother isn’t in a position to accompany me anywhere. Still stupefied by the Blair issue, she took me aside before breakfast to say I’ve left her in an impossible situation. Get rid of Blair and I’ll be devastated. Keep him and it’ll be an uncomfortable household. Keep it from Father and it’s another case of secrets and lies. Feed all of this into the context of Oliver, and suddenly my choice becomes a whole lot more daring. I believe ‘socially unacceptable’ was the exact phrase Mother bandied about, though the sting was tempered by her steadfast loyalty to Blair.
Whatever her current opinion on the conundrum, I refuse to think about it until after this meeting. Already I’m fighting the urge to be negative, the JP Morgan building looking particularly imposing as I approach. It’s a glass and steel skyscraper that somewhat psyches me out.
Interestingly, once I’ve parked and left the car, I begin thinking about what life would’ve been like had I actually sought a career in finance. In a parallel universe, there could be a Millie walking through these doors in a power suit, ready to deal with venture capitalists, hedge fund managers or equity specialists. Then again, even with the money that parallel Millie would have, I’m not sure she’d still be ‘me’. But, I remind myself, that’s the whole point, because it would be a different universe.
My logic on this is stretched. All I know is that Billie Piper got stuck in a parallel universe on Doctor Who, spent a subsequent season trying to travel back and, after all that, ended up on Secret Diary of a Call Girl. The lesson in all this – other than the fact that I can’t differentiate between actresses and their roles – is that you have to pay attention to your life in this universe. Perennially asking ‘what if?’ will get you stuck, and quite possibly lead you to becoming a prostitute.
Where am I again? Right, the rather vast reception area of JP Morgan. It’s quarter past ten so I’m fifteen minutes early – Oliver will be down when he’s finished his conference call. In the meantime, I know to expect supportive texts from Abby. I surprised myself by calling her last night to tell her the entire story, a tale that made her gasp, cry, squeal and also yell. Poor Andrew got told off when he knocked on the door of their guest room’s walk-in wardrobe to ask if Abby was all right. Clearly he should have known that she was only in the ridiculous hiding spot because she was taking a private phone call.
After making a mental note to bring Andrew some apology soup, I decide to mill about near the far wall so I can read Abby’s first text in peace.
Sorry, can’t keep my mouth shut. Just want to wish you luck.
iMessage tells me she’s still typing, and before I know it I have five extra texts.
But you probably have your phone off right now. So you won’t know about the luck I’m sending you until later.
Also dying to know even more details. I know, I know – now is not the time.
Maybe you can come by for tea?!
No, no. Stay focused. Good luck. Be strong. BE AMAZING.
Sorry, too much enthusiasm there. Be normal. Amazing but normal!
I text her back before yet another message comes through.
Aren’t I normally amazing?
She pounces on the text.
Oh look. You’re back to normal. Ha!
I try not to grin obviously, not wanting to look like I’m here to congratulate my hedge fund manager on a successful investment. While I may be setting myself free, so to speak, this is still a sad episode of my dating life – a fact that hits home as soon as I see Oliver emerge from the shining silver doors of one of the lifts.
With a gait missing the usual signs of swagger, he takes his time walking over to me. I feel compelled to close the distance, somehow not being able to stand how dejected he seems before I’ve even broken things off. Then it occurs to me that maybe his demeanour and the muted smile he offers me have nothing to do with us at all. His conference call could’ve gone badly. Or maybe his secretary forgot his morning coffee or ate his croissant.
These suspicions turn out to be unfounded. When we finally stand before each other, I can tell this is about me. It’s the look in his eyes, all intense and pleading. Oddly, I’m not even sure what he’s seeing right now. Can he tell how determined I am? How sorry I am too?
I purse my lips and hug my bag to my chest, sure as to what I need to say but without the faintest idea as to how to begin. In the end, it’s Oliver who speaks first.
‘Hi.’ Apparently nervous, he touches his tie rather self-consciously. It has a diagonal stripe, making it look suspiciously like an old school tie. I know it isn’t, but I find it irksome nonetheless.
‘Hey.’
He gestures towards the entrance, his expression tightening a fraction. ‘Shall we find a coffee shop?’
‘Will that be private enough?’ It’s the hesitation in his voice that’s prompting me to be more merciful. Surely he doesn’t want to be let down in public. ‘I know I suggested the whole coffee thing, but now that I’m here…’
He drops his arm, and when he speaks again it’s with what seems to be a renewed sense of confidence. ‘Well, we could go up to my office.’
We are on his turf, after all. If meeting in his office makes him feel more settled, then I have no objection. ‘Of course, that’ll be nice.’
‘Okay then.’ He pauses, his hand twitching as if he wants to walk with me arm-in-arm. ‘Lifts are this way.’
I smile politely and fall into step beside him, instantly remembering the first time I walked by his side. It was at The Ritz, of course, when we were marching towards his rejection of me. While I did put up some protest, ultimately I let the situation be. I wonder if he will do the same.
The lift is amazingly fast. By the time I remember Oliver’s Berlin lift episode (and how he didn’t seem to have post-traumatic-elevator-disorder in Dubai) we’re already at the twenty-sixth floor.
‘After you,’ he says as the doors open.
‘Thanks.’
The chivalry is wasted, though, because he has to lead the way to his office. After passing the floor’s reception area and no fewer than three boardrooms, we turn a corner into what appears to be a hive of investment bankers. I try to act natural as we pass by their cubicles, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Still, it makes me doubt the choice to stay in the building. Now I feel as if I’m parading myself – if anyone was to ask Oliver who I am or what I was doing here, he might feel humiliated.
‘Are you sure this is okay?’ I ask as we walk into a corridor between two rows of glass-walled offices. ‘Should we go out for coffee?’
He stops in his tracks, prompting me to as well. At that moment, two of his colleagues stride by, one of them raising an eyebrow at my presence. Oliver rebuffs the immaturity with a disapproving look, and while on one level I find this endearingly protective, on another I feel a little bit like a trophy date.
He returns his attention to me, now displaying more warmth than nerves. ‘We can leave if you don’t feel comfortable. I don’t mind you being here at all though. I actually rather like it.’
My cheeks go all hot. Wanting to believe the best in him, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, taking his words as genuine rather than the product of wanting to show off a woman.
‘Okay, here’s fine then.’ I look down the corridor in curiosity. ‘Which one is yours?’
‘Oh, the corner office.’
Of course he has a corner office. Everyone knows a vista is more impressive when viewed at an apex.
I cont
inue to follow him and, when he opens the door, am confronted by a spectacular view of the wharf. ‘Confronting’ is the right word, because if you weren’t expecting it, you’d probably feel assaulted. Moreover, the size of the office has got to be at least five times that of the glass-panelled ones in the corridor, and the sleek, modern furniture probably far more expensive.
Oliver interrupts my awe when he shuts the door behind us.
‘Come to think of it, I hope being here doesn’t feel too business-like.’ He waits until I look at him before continuing. ‘Unless that’s what you’re going for.’
I’m quick to correct him, waving my hands to emphasise my point. ‘No, no, it’s not like that.’
‘Jesus, I’m sorry. That was an awfully forward thing to say.’ He pats his hands on his suit jacket, which makes me think he’s breaking out in a nervous sweat.
I try smiling to put him at ease, but it’s clear that all of this is rather unsettling, so I change tack and go for simple honesty instead.
‘I’m really sorry this is so awkward.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he says immediately. ‘Um, shall we sit?’
I take the lead, making a beeline for the two armchairs in the corner where the window meets one of the non-glass walls. Conversing here will be better than sitting at his desk or standing idly at the window. Of course, once we’re seated, I wonder if it’s too cosy. A glass vase with a single gardenia sits on the small circular coffee table between us, adding a hint of romance to the scene. Then I spy the copies of Forbes and Financial Management sitting next to it.
Oliver and I stare at each other, both our faces probably hard to read from all the over-thinking and strain. It’s my job to pull the plug, and yet somehow it seems cruel to not ease into it without some rudimentary chitchat. Or is it crueller to drag it out?
He shakes his head. ‘Where are my manners? Should I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Juice? My secretary makes an excellent cappuccino.’
I sit up a little straighter, trying to get comfortable. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Are you sure?’
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