Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  He nods. ‘Okay, well, I suppose you should speak first. There are many things I want to say pre-emptively, but saying them all at once may prove foolish. So, please, go ahead.’

  He’s wringing his hands already, even cracking a knuckle or two.

  I push on, determined not to be distracted by his trepidation. ‘So, you know how something was bothering me over the weekend?’

  ‘Yes. You were worried about doing the wrong thing.’

  ‘Well, there’s a little more to it. You see, I was never really sure about the whole matchmaker thing from the start. It was something my mother wanted. This was before we knew of the money problem, I promise.’

  He stops the hand-wringing. Now he’s merely gripping one hand on the arm of the chair as if it’s the key to keeping his emotions in check. ‘Okay. Go on.’

  I lean forward slightly, not wanting to underplay how personal this is for us. ‘Eventually I came to realise it wasn’t the most terrible idea in the world. I was up for it. The problem was, unbeknownst to both Polly and my mother, there was someone I was kind of interested in before we were matched.’

  I’m almost impressed by how steady I sound. I’m not waffling or being overly apologetic.

  However, whatever sense of pride I feel is quickly dashed by Oliver’s reaction. He’s clearly angry: his brow furrowing and lips curling as if someone’s just told him he’s being demoted. Well, maybe worse than a demotion – he’s being dumped.

  ‘Someone else.’ It’s not a question when he says it. It’s a knowing, bitter statement, like he knew the answer all along but didn’t want it confirmed.

  ‘It was nowhere near serious, this interest of mine. Nothing I believed to be of consequence. So, when you cancelled on me, I was very upset –’

  ‘That was a colossal mistake on my part,’ he says quickly.

  I hold my hand up and smile ruefully. ‘Please, let me finish.’

  He opens his mouth but catches himself, apologising instead – though not without an added grimace. ‘Sorry. Do go on.’

  ‘After you called it off, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to get involved with that other guy. But then you un-cancelled on me, and suddenly everything was back on track.’ I stop, noticing how flushed Oliver’s face is becoming. Even though his eyes are boring into mine, his anger doesn’t seem the type of rage that could prompt him to punch a wall. I honestly don’t think he has much experience with not being in control of a situation. He seems really frustrated.

  Then again, perhaps the latter is merely a precursor to the former.

  I deliver the line he needs to hear from me, whether he wants to hear it or not. ‘I guess the long and short of it is that I can’t seem to leave him behind.’

  He averts his gaze as I hear his sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to deceive you,’ I say, leaning forward. He recoils slightly, probably taking the sign of familiarity as an insult, so I sit back. ‘I seriously thought you and I had a chance. I didn’t think it would come to this. Turn out this way, I mean.’

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I suppose this is what I get for being hesitant.’

  Again, it’s not a question. Not on the face of it, anyway. Maybe he’s expecting me to rebut the point.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame the delay.’

  It’s true. Blair would always have won. I just didn’t know that and, certainly, Blair still isn’t aware he’s won.

  Without warning, Oliver leaps from his chair and starts pacing around restlessly. I choose not to interrupt what I’m sure is a frantic thought process. Some patience here won’t kill me.

  When he does come to a halt, his energy seems to be on edge, as if contained involuntarily by outside forces. All his words come out in one go, swift yet frustrated. ‘I don’t know whether to do the gentlemanly thing and bow out gracefully, or to simply say I won’t be outdone and that I’ll fight for your affection.’

  It’s impossible not to be moved by this admission. I leave my bag on the chair, go over to him and gently place a hand on his arm. ‘Some might say I’m being rash, but I don’t want to lead you on if I’m not a hundred per cent committed.’

  He moves his hands to his hips, flicking back the sides of his suit jacket. ‘Millie, I’m not one for losing.’ He manages to make this declaration without sounding sullen. ‘I made a serious mistake when I doubted you as a match. Now, I don’t know who this other man is or what he has to offer, but I know that you and I get on well. I’m very taken with you.’

  ‘We do get on. That’s why I’m so sorry. I’ve taken up your time, your money –’

  ‘Please don’t make it sound like a waste.’ The emotion is making his voice shake. ‘It wasn’t.’

  I squeeze his arm and then drop my hand back to my side. ‘That’s sweet of you to say.’

  I was trying to be subtle about no longer comforting him with touch, but he stares at his arm as if there’s already a phantom pain.

  ‘You could take some time to reconsider,’ he says when he looks back up. ‘I’ve waited a very long time to meet someone like you.’

  ‘I have to say I’m quite sure,’ I say, though not unkindly.

  He covers his mouth, pressing on his lips as though he’s sentenced himself to silence, but it doesn’t last. He’s firm when he speaks, though as unerringly polite as always. ‘This is going to sound unsporting, but I’m not ready to accept defeat. I’ll still be here. If you find that you do want to reconsider, I won’t be gallivanting around town with Polly’s next pick for me. And I can’t promise that I won’t contact you after a bit of time has passed.’

  I try to instil a sense of alternative hope: ‘I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. Polly is very good at what she does.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he says, his irritation showing. ‘Sorry, I’m not cross with you. I’m angry with myself. I didn’t trust her at the start either, but I should have.’

  As terrible as it sounds, I can’t sit – or stand – here all morning dissecting what seemed to be a dream match by Tilton & Bree standards. I’ve said what I needed to say and I shouldn’t torture Oliver by fuelling his spiral of regret.

  ‘I can’t apologise enough for all this. I had the most splendid time with you. Truly. It’s just –’

  I stop abruptly when he takes half a step closer.

  ‘Had I known I had a rival, I would’ve tried even harder.’

  There’s no denying he means it. I’m almost afraid for Blair in this moment. If things work out, there will come a day when Oliver finds out the whole truth.

  In fact, that day is a rather frightening prospect, full stop. Oliver seems like an upstanding individual, but that won’t prevent him from feeling angry or humiliated that I chose my butler over him. He may even feel vindicated, concluding his suspicions about me as a Pembroke were correct all along. If he wanted to be particularly ruthless, the way he apparently is in business, he could retaliate by revealing my family’s financial woes before they become public or before anyone confirms them to be true.

  These are the worries that torment my mother and put her at risk of an eventual celebrity-style breakdown. But for me, the end result of any scandal wouldn’t be worse than losing Blair. I know it’s selfish to judge the cost in my terms, but somehow I think my mother will pull through for me. If she hasn’t already banished Blair permanently to save me from a ruined reputation, then she’s going to at least try to come up with a workable arrangement.

  ‘Oliver, I don’t think you could’ve done more,’ I say firmly, looking him in the eye before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He reacts by tensing, which I take as him knowing it’s a goodbye kiss. ‘Please don’t let this discourage you. You’re going to make someone really happy one day. I promise.’

  His rigid stance reminds me of how athletes hold their head up high when they’ve lost a well-fought game. Their pride is completely evident, although that doesn�
�t mean they’re anywhere near happy.

  ‘Like I said, I’ll still be here.’

  I nod in acknowledgement, even though I won’t need to keep in touch. ‘Anyway, I should get going.’

  Despite everything, he still remembers his manners. ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  I try to spare him without sounding like I’m desperate to flee. ‘No, you don’t have to. I remember the way. Besides, you’re a busy man.’

  He laughs bitterly. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hide in here for a little while and lick my wounds.’

  Gosh, this is killing me. Delivering bad news is not an occupation I ever want to have.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ I add.

  ‘I’ll try to.’

  I turn on my heel, only for him to speak again once I’m almost at the door.

  ‘This other man. May I ask why you’re choosing him over me?’

  Conscious that my answer could feed him hope if I don’t answer tactfully, I turn around slowly.

  ‘I just know that I have to.’

  There are no further questions. He keeps his head high and his jaw clenched, his frustration clear in the intensity of his gaze. It’s only when I take a step back that he nods reluctantly, a sign of acceptance, however temporary.

  ‘Goodbye, Oliver.’

  And with that, I finally take my leave.

  ***

  An hour later, I find myself in Trafalgar Square, a location I wouldn’t normally frequent unless visiting the National Gallery, which sits, imposing and majestic, to its north. I’m waiting for Mother on one of the gallery’s many steps, looking out towards Nelson’s Column and the fountain. She’ll hate me when she arrives, citing the common, tourist crowds as an irritation, but maybe when she listens to my reasoning she won’t be so predictably spiteful.

  There’s method to my madness – even my strange post-JP Morgan mood has its purpose – the house is not where I want to be right now. Hushed whispers and tension are far from therapeutic. I want to be outside, in the open air, where I’m not automatically a focal point or problem to solve. I could be anyone, sitting here halfway up the steps, which is exactly the beauty of it. It’s anonymity, not notoriety.

  Of course, true anonymity would mean being out of reach of any family member, what with the issues set to define us for the foreseeable future. I know that Father is holed up in his study at the moment, council paperwork and development plans scattered over his desk. His unease over the estate is now likely magnified by the fact I’ve asked to see Mother and not him. Hopefully he’ll understand that this isn’t a deliberate slight – I honestly really want my mother. It’s an occurrence so foreign, so rare, that even I couldn’t hide my sense of surprise when I called her.

  Even in the expanse of the square, it doesn’t take long to spot her when she does arrive, her speed and gait unmistakably determined. It’s like watching a raindrop dart across a windowpane, cutting across stationary drops and leaving them in its wake. The only difference is that she’s not coming into contact with anything as she blitzes through: not the couples holding hands by the fountain or the families milling about with prams, and certainly not the young folk lounging around on benches. I wave at her as she approaches, but the gesture I get in return is more of a swatting action, like an impatient, ‘of course I know you’re there.’ So much for a simple case of looking towards the gallery and scanning for me – maybe it's maternal instinct at work again.

  Soon enough she’s at my feet, staring at me with obvious concern. Her sunglasses are pushed up and her hands already on her hips.

  ‘What’s going on? I thought you said the meeting went well.’

  I shrug, hoping for a more casual start to these proceedings. It certainly doesn’t help that ‘combative’ is our default setting. Oddly enough, I get a sudden rush of delayed emotion now that she’s finally here – struck by the sense of nostalgia that comes with a parent being able to find you and that sense of safety you have when they’re around. Somewhere along the line, probably in my school days, I lost that trust in my mother. Maybe she wanted me to fend for myself, or maybe it was just a part of growing up, but I stopped asking for her comfort. In fact, I tended to blame her for not giving it to me unasked.

  I clear my throat to give her a verbal answer. ‘It did go well. As well as could be expected, at least.’

  Now both her eyebrows are raised. She’s never been one for intrigue, but here I am trying to ease into things like a fool.

  ‘Care to tell me why I’m here then? Don’t tell me we’re actually going to discuss all things verboten.’

  ‘Maybe I just want to spend some time with you,’ I say, a bit flippantly.

  ‘That’s ridiculous and you know it.’

  I actually take offence. Call it sensitivity or overreacting, I fold my arms across my chest before responding.

  ‘Is it so wrong to want one’s own mother?’

  ‘Maybe if you’re D.H. Lawrence, yes.’

  I hold her gaze for a few seconds before appreciating the joke. ‘Blair would’ve liked that. He’s well read, you know.’

  ‘It might do him good to think on what the censors did back then – banning any readings of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. You two have crossed a line.’

  I sigh before nodding at the space next to me. ‘Sit, will you? I think this conversation requires a seat.’

  ‘What this conversation requires is privacy, and somewhere with more dignified seating.’

  I make a point of looking around us. The square itself is busier than where we are. The steps are sparsely populated in comparison, and there isn’t anyone close enough to overhear with any true clarity.

  ‘No one’s paying attention.’

  ‘Regardless,’ she replies, her voice charm-school smooth, ‘one does not sit on the ground in Prada.’

  I give her pastel-blue suit the once-over. ‘Pretend it’s from the high street.’

  A long silence ensues, during which I think she’s going to tell me that she’s never heard of a shop called The High Street. That, or she’s going to berate me for even joking about it.

  ‘Not funny.’

  ‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’

  After another awkward silence – this one lasting for as long as it would take her to calculate this week’s dry-cleaning bill – she deigns to sit down on the step, keeping a foot of space between us.

  ‘All right,’ she says, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in her new seat, even after she’s mirrored me and tucked her legs to the side. ‘Let’s get to it then. How did it really go?’

  I recall Oliver’s conflicted yet resigned reaction, a guilt-inducing memory that prompts me to uncross my arms in an attempt to relax. ‘It’s not like I lied to you on the phone. He really did take it on the chin in the end.’

  ‘You know that’s not really what I’m asking,’ she replies. ‘Stop wasting my time and tell me.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’ I pause, steeling myself for the confession. ‘Yes, I told him there was someone else.’

  She throws her hands up in the air, sighing angrily. ‘Oh, of course you did. Why, oh, why didn’t I stop you?’

  ‘Because you know it’s up to me, and I wasn’t comfortable feeding him some weak excuse.’

  Massaging her temples, she casts me a withering look. ‘Do you not think it foolish? To lead him into mystery? Other than the fact he’s now going to tell Polly – who is really owed an explanation, by the way – you’re also putting Blair at risk. If he wants you, he’ll find out who his competition is and unmask him, so to speak.’

  I huff. ‘Please. There is no competition.’

  ‘Oh, one minute you can’t read between the lines and the next you’re taking things literally. Where did you learn to communicate?’

  ‘Clearly the same place you did.’

  We glare at each other momentarily, breaking eye contact in mutual self-consciousness. Another check of our surroundings reveals no obvious eavesdroppers or people with supersonic ear devices,
so we continue, albeit in more tempered voices.

  ‘How worked up did he get? Was it mere frustration, or disappointment? Did it seem like he wanted revenge?’

  ‘Revenge?’ I balk at the idea. ‘He’s still interested. He has no reason to put me offside.’

  ‘You mustn’t underestimate pride in these situations,’ she says with a shake of the head. ‘He may not have reason to spread word of our troubles now, but once he finds out who you actually chose – assuming that even works out – he may very well want retribution for all his time wasted, not to mention the humiliation he’ll feel.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Won’t that be excellent? Financial woes made public, a daughter who covets her butler, and a son disowned and disgraced.’

  ‘And parents divorcing?’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘No, it’s bloody everywhere if you ask me. It’s relevant.’

  ‘Pay attention to what I’m saying. Oliver might come back to haunt you. Though I suppose the more pressing issue is the man you actually seem to have chosen.’

  My mind is struggling to keep up, still reeling from the deft way that she deflected the divorce comment. The truth is that I was serious about the relevance factor. Now I have to come at it from a different angle.

  Thankfully she allows me some thinking time, which is generous under the circumstances. I find my angle in going back to the beginning, so to speak.

  ‘Did you not think there’d be a chance I’d be interested when you hired him?’

  She shuffles a bit closer, laughing in incredulity as she turns towards me. ‘He doesn’t have any money. I never thought you’d want that, what with your distaste for scandal.’

  ‘But you like him. Saved him, even.’

  I’m met with a sidelong look. ‘Blair doesn’t need saving.’

  ‘Okay, not saving per se. But he did say you hired him out of pity.’

  ‘He tends to read compassion as pity. Call it a by-product of his situation.’ She gazes up at the overcast sky, looking wistful. ‘Do you know his story?’

  ‘Some of it. I only found out yesterday.’