Lady: Impossible

by Fraser, B. D.

  ‘I didn’t think anything would come of it. I thought wrong.’

  Her resistance comes across as disbelief, like she can’t believe I managed to find someone without her help. I’m an anomaly that must be explained. I liked Polly better when she was on my side, fighting my good fight. I once thought I could set up a Zen garden here. Now that I’ve messed with her plans, I’m not so sure.

  ‘I just really think you should think long and hard about this,’ she says. It’s more of a command than a request.

  ‘Trust me, the long and hard of it has been assessed.’

  I shouldn’t have said that. Now she probably thinks I find Oliver lousy in bed, which is of course something I know nothing about. Thankfully, she ignores me.

  ‘Naturally, Oliver is devastated.’ She points at the crystal replica. ‘And look at me. I can’t even bring myself to remove this gift.’

  I shrug. ‘I suppose it makes for an adequate paperweight?’

  She laughs but I don’t think it’s real laughter, just air she needs to expel before it turns to fire. If she keeps dwelling on this, she will go from disappointed to raving mad.

  I don’t know why she’s taking it so hard. Hiccups like this must happen with other clients. Besides, for the fees she charges, she should have to work to make these matches happen. It’s not on that she’s doubting my judgement.

  Then I remember how good she is at reading body language and picking up cues. She must know I’m serious. In which case her doubt must come from a good place, or at least a neutral one. After all, I broke things off after one official weekend. If you didn’t know the full story, you’d probably call it a snap judgement too.

  I lean forward in my chair. ‘You can find him someone else. I’m sure you can.’

  She smiles again, this time with more warmth. ‘I will surely do my best.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I won’t be closing your file, though, Millie. Things happen, and you did pay the placement fee. My door is always open, so to speak.’

  Resolving just to go along with it, I nod. Closing my file may cost more money.

  Out of respect to Oliver, I offer what feedback I can when she asks about Dubai. Any information I give may help her to pick someone suitable for him. I tell her about how polite he was, how thoughtful he was, how he has random Swedish associates and likes to order fish for dinner. Whoever is next on Polly’s radar must be smart and witty and not terrible to look at. Oh, and not a gold-digger. Gold-digging won’t be tolerated because you can like his money but you have to like him first.

  ‘A rare find,’ Polly says as she settles further into her chair.

  ‘Yes, you could say that about him.’

  ‘I meant this woman we’re profiling.’

  ‘She exists.’ I pause for emphasis. ‘Definitely out there somewhere.’

  She nods slowly. ‘I believe so.’

  Ignoring the obvious insinuation, I offer my last few observations, and then we wrap up the exit interview. I shake Polly’s hand once more and say goodbye to Penny before scurrying from the building to my getaway car.

  I’m sure that Blair parked closer than this. Perhaps running away skews one’s perception of distance. I almost twist my ankle trying to rush down the street, meaning that when I finally reach the car, I have no patience to stand around waiting for a door to be opened for me.

  Not that Blair got out of the car to do so. In fact, they’re all shocked when I open the door, Abby and Mother clutching their hearts in surprise.

  ‘Oh gosh! You could’ve knocked first,’ Abby says as I clamber in next to her.

  ‘Seriously? You wanted me to knock on the door? It’s a car, not a building.’ I shut said door and throw a questioning look at all three of them. ‘Glad to know we’re all super relaxed here.’

  Blair looks sheepish, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. ‘I probably should’ve opened the door for you. Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry, m’lady,’ Mother says, the correction almost as natural as breathing to her.

  I snort. ‘Apology accepted, Lady Silsbury.’

  She leans forward so that her view of me isn’t obstructed by Abby. ‘I was correcting Blair’s informality.’

  ‘Yes, and I was correcting your formality.’

  Blair corrects himself before another reprimand is issued. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Emilia. I should’ve opened the door for you.’

  I pause, meeting my mother’s gaze. ‘Oh, this isn’t ridiculous at all.’

  She stares right back at me. ‘He’s working. Behave yourself.’

  Luckily, Abby backs me up. ‘I’m very confused. We were talking casually before, Blair included. Do we have to act abnormally now that Millie is back?’

  I smile sweetly, apparently aggravating my mother even more. ‘I love it when I enter a scene and it’s everyone’s cue to act abnormally.’ Ignoring Mother’s eye-roll as best I can, I turn my attention to Blair, who, now that I’m looking properly, appears to have a paper and pencil in his hand. ‘What are you up to here? Crossword?’

  Cheekily, he proceeds to act as though he hasn’t heard me, not even looking up as he continues to scribble away like he’s doing a Sudoku puzzle.

  ‘It’s not a crossword,’ Abby says. ‘It’s the postcard your brother sent you last week. I packed it up in the picnic basket by accident, remember?’

  ‘Blair!’ Leaning over Abby, I huff. ‘You’re reading my post?’

  ‘I was told to.’ He points the pencil at my mother.

  Abby pulls me back. ‘Blair’s only just worked out the key. We’re waiting for him to apply it.’

  I wave my hand around at them all. ‘There are some serious boundary issues here. It’s like Kashmir. None of you should be reading my personal post.’

  Blair continues deciphering the letters. ‘Calm down. You’re going to tell us what it says anyway, so there’s no issue.’

  ‘Not cool, Blair. I don’t care if you’re the butler now or my boyfriend – not okay on either count.’

  My mother pipes up again. ‘It’s obviously not private. It’s a postcard.’

  ‘Yes, an encoded one.’

  Al could have written about Oliver. It’s possible. Although none of us – not me, not my mother, nor my father before he left – were interested enough last week to want to read the postcard, but that doesn’t mean it’s been deactivated of all explosive material.

  As it turns out, Mother is reading my mind. ‘It’s not going to say anything controversial. Besides, you forgot about it. You can’t care that much.’

  I refrain from pointing out that the main reason she probably forgot about it is the row she had with Father. It was so bad that they haven’t spoken since. She was supposed to ring him about whether she wanted to be at the estate when he told the staff about the impending sale. Instead, she got Blair to phone and say she was still making up her mind.

  I return to my own defence. ‘I only forgot about it because of him,’ I say, cocking my head at Blair.

  He has the audacity to laugh, apparently fully entertained. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘I was so happy about us. You made me forget about it.’

  Mother speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You’re referencing your relationship.’

  ‘Look behind you, Mother. We went informal thirty seconds ago.’

  Abby pats the shoulder of the driver’s seat. ‘Keep decoding it, Blair.’

  I do my best to reach over and retrieve the card. ‘Hand it over.’

  Blair turns his head, looking at me and then at my mother. With a roll of the eyes, he hands me both the postcard and the pencil. ‘So dramatic.’

  ‘Victory is sweet,’ I say, sitting back and poking my tongue out at my mother.

  Abby claps happily. ‘You chose her.’

  My mother raises an eyebrow, seemingly exchanging looks with Blair in the rearview mirror. ‘You can drive now.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  With the journey underway, I’m soon familiarising
myself with the postcard, double-checking that the alphabet key Blair has written out is correct. Admittedly, it’s good to know he was clued in enough to guess my name was the key. It’s a bit personal though, like being able to guess somebody’s email password.

  As for the actual message, he only got as far as Dear Millie, I hear the… He’ll have to wait a bit longer for the conclusion to this cliffhanger because I’m not going to read it aloud as I go along.

  I only manage to decipher the next few words – family is in – before my mother interrupts with questions about the meeting.

  ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘She was rather disappointed, actually.’ Thinking back on the odd tenor of our meeting, I can’t help adding, ‘Almost unprofessionally so.’

  ‘Well, it’s done now. He didn’t tell her about the estate, did he?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She kept highlighting how suitable I was. A client with serious debt? If she knew, she would’ve been glad to see the back of me.’

  The comment doesn’t sit well with Mother. Her lips press into a fine line. I was only trying to be funny, yet even Abby seems lost for words.

  I tap the pencil against my chin. ‘I seem to have acquired a new skill – conversation killing.’

  ‘It’s far from new,’ my mother responds.

  ‘Fine, I’ll finish decoding the postcard and give us something else to talk about.’

  Abby nudges me. ‘How exciting!’

  ‘It’s not going to be that exciting.’

  ‘It’s probably another promise to visit,’ Mother says.

  ‘If you know what it is, then why are you so curious about it?’

  She sighs, her face the picture of frustration. ‘I shouldn’t say “promise” to visit. They’re more like threats, don’t you think?’

  I turn the postcard around to flash her the picture of the one-eyed Olympic mascot, Wenlock. ‘Scary, eh?’

  Blair rejoins the conversation. ‘One of the mascots for the Sydney 2000 games was named Millie. Short for “millennium”, I believe.’

  ‘“Millennium”, did you say?’ Mother repeats. ‘Otherwise known as the amount of time it’s taking Millie to tell us what the message is.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I grumble. ‘I’m getting there.’

  I ignore the three of them as I start putting the correct letters in place. However, my concentration reaches an entirely new level when I complete the first sentence. By the time I reach the end, I’m so alarmed that all I can do is stare at the postmark. This was sent from East Yorkshire.

  Another minute passes. I tune into the conversation happening next to me, hoping they’ll notice my near-catatonic state soon.

  ‘Millie is my best friend. I think I have the right to converse freely with her boyfriend. I have to look out for her. No offence, Blair.’

  ‘None taken, ma’am.’

  ‘Abby, she already has someone looking out for her. Me.’

  ‘It’s not the same, Mrs P! Not even nearly the same.’

  ‘Oh, look. I think she’s finished.’

  And just like that, the spotlight is back on me.

  I turn the postcard on an angle so Abby can’t read it for herself.

  ‘So, what does it say?’ she asks.

  ‘Out with it, Millie,’ my mother says in a commanding tone.

  Even Blair is clearly interested, looking over his shoulder when we come to a stop at a T-junction.

  ‘Um…’ I can’t believe this is really happening. The last thing my family needs is more internal drama. ‘Should I read it out?’

  My mother glares at me, seemingly ready to slug me with her handbag. ‘Yes.’

  I don’t think I can tell her, not when she’s already this highly strung. I just sit there, frozen, clutching the postcard as if I’m holding an illegally obtained copy of the nuclear codes.

  Abby gives me a playful punch, probably thinking she can put me at ease. Unfortunately, even her spirit isn’t enough to allay my fears.

  ‘Everything all right, Millie?’ Blair asks.

  I think both Abby and my mother say something after that, but I’m not sure what. I’m too busy psyching myself up to go ahead and read out the message.

  It’s when Abby pokes me in the collarbone that I’m finally able to find my voice. She’ll only keep prodding if I don’t come out with it. Feeling more like some sort of piñata than I ever want to be, I read quietly:

  “Dear Millie

  I hear the family is in financial strife. I’m sure I can help. I’ll explain how when I’m in London for the Olympics.

  Al”

  Mother goes eerily still, as if her rage has sent her into a state of suspended animation. Fifty years from now, she’ll calm down enough to reanimate, where the first point on her agenda will be to disown her disowned son all over again for good measure. After that, she’ll probably denounce global warming, congratulate King William V on his coronation and then finally get around to forgiving Father for keeping our finances a secret.

  When she comes to, it becomes clear that denial is her weapon against insanity.

  ‘I’m going to pretend this isn’t happening.’

  ‘I’m not sure how healthy that is,’ I say slowly, focusing solely on her. The car’s moving, so Blair’s eyes must be on the road, and as for Abby, she’s leaned so far back into the seat that it might just swallow her up.

  Nothing happens for at least thirty seconds. You’d think we were playing a game where the first person to move has to drink something disgusting

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs P?’ Abby eventually asks, emerging from the back of the seat. ‘Millie?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you in five minutes,’ I say.

  My mother, however, doesn’t respond.

  Maybe if I fill the air with inane chatter she’ll strike up the urge to scold me for being annoying. That counts as a response. I want to make sure she’s still lucid.

  ‘Oh wait, I think I know how I am,’ I say, embracing fake enthusiasm. ‘I think I might be okay. I mean, when you think about it, I have a lot to be thankful for. Certain family members. Friends. New boyfriend. I’m going to concentrate on that right now. Never mind the distractions that get dropped off by the postman. Brother? What brother? What brother and his stupid network of spies and gossips?’

  She doesn’t quite take the bait, but does speak. ‘Is it too early for a drink?’

  ‘We could go back to mine,’ Abby suggests, looking back and forth between my mother and me. ‘I have cake, champagne and another season of The Only Way is Essex.’

  ‘I’ll take the first two,’ my mother says, deadpan. ‘No idea what the third is.’

  I could complain, or I could go along with it.

  It’s the latter. ‘Done. Let’s go.’

  Abby immediately rejoices. ‘Yes! And Blair can hang out with us too.’

  At first, I think Blair hasn’t heard the comment, but he eventually responds in a less than enthused manner.

  ‘I might just stay on duty.’

  ‘No,’ my mother and I say in unison.

  Finally, we’re in agreement on something.

  ‘Well, now you have to go off duty,’ I tell him.

  Cue heavy sigh. He’s either frustrated with traffic, or not exactly comfortable with being my boyfriend in this context.

  Time for more needling, though I think men tend to call it nagging. ‘You’re going to have to bond with them at some point.’ I point at Abby and my mother. ‘They’re part of the deal.’

  I can see from here that he’s wavering.

  ‘All right, Abby,’ he says. ‘Where do you live exactly?’

  She actually does a ‘jolly hockey sticks’ arm swipe before leaning forward to say, triumphantly: ‘You called me Abby! Hello!’

  ‘Yes, hello. Nice to meet you.’

  My mother is smirking. Smirking is a sign of lucidity, though I suppose there are crazy people who smile for no reason.

  ‘I love you, Blair,’ I throw in, happily
. ‘Just saying.’

  He grins and gives me a wink in the rearview mirror. He really can be agreeable at times.

  I could get used to this. I’m going to get used to this. Because even amongst Abby’s confusing directions and Mother’s mumblings about Al, I now feel stable enough to not have a breakdown over this latest family crisis. That stability should mostly be credited to Blair.

  I can only hope he knows what he’s getting into. Then again, maybe I don’t even know what we’re getting into. Either way, we’ll just have to figure it out as we go, because failure is simply not an option here. This is going to work, whatever it takes.

  In the meantime, there’s a champagne brunch on the agenda. Cake, drinks and loved ones? Drama aside, I’ll definitely toast to that.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my Series Editor, Tanya Brown, for helping me craft Millie’s world. It’s our world now. Never mind the twelve hour time difference or the fact you’re on the other side of the planet… Millie is our meeting point.

  *

  To Sophie McClelland, my Copy Editor, thank you for your red pen and infinite patience. You’re an absolute gem. I hope to entertain you with misplaced Americanisms and Australianisms for at least another book.

  *

  To my sister, Maddy, thank you for putting up with all my crazy. No thanks for interrupting me when I was writing the very last sentence of this novel – no, Sean Paul’s ‘Get Busy’ is not a legitimate reason to disturb my process.

  *

  I’d also like to thank Susan Trammel and Jennifer DeMaio for helping me with my writing over the last several years.

  About the Author

  B.D. Fraser is a law graduate of the University of Western Australia. She also holds an Arts degree (majoring in Political Science & International Relations) from the same university, as well as having successfully completed Summer Intensive Studies (Graphic Design) at Parsons The New School for Design in New York.