Lady: Impossible (11 page)

‘Listen, Mrs Wright –’

‘Please, call me Polly.’

‘Okay, Polly. I’m embarrassed that I’m here. Part of me knows I should take this seriously, because maybe this is a good way to meet men who are up to my standards. But the other part is humiliated that I would even have to do this in the first place.’

‘Let me tell you more about what we do here at Tilton & Bree. We’re no ordinary matchmaking service. Our clients are very accomplished men and women. Not just anybody can sign up for our services.’

I fidget in the chair, looking around me for an escape route. A trap door, a rope made out of sheets, a tunnel dug by a single spoon over many years… Anything to get me out of here.

Unfortunately, I know it’s a lost cause. Polly will call my mother if I bolt out of here screaming, and the mess that would cause is definitely not worth the trouble. I’m going to get through this meeting, no matter how many panic attacks I have to stave off to do so.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asks.

‘Please.’

She buzzes through to someone on her intercom, and requests that refreshments be brought in. I can’t help thinking that this means yet another person knows about my presence here and, if the help in my household is anything to go by, sometimes assistants can’t be fully trusted.

I don’t know what to think of Blair now. The glory of Thursday night’s vindication was short-lived, as I woke up the following morning and immediately had to deal with the fact that things were beyond awkward between us. I had to send him a text at seven to ask for breakfast to be served in the dining room. I couldn’t have him in my bedroom so soon after the whole wine-and-perv incident. Anyway, my mother decided to join me at the dining table, meaning I was quizzed on those questions she’d had him type for me. I almost choked on my almond croissant when she got to the sex questions, so there I was gagging, all the while hoping I wouldn’t have to look to Blair to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre.
 

I chide myself for thinking about him again. I have to focus. Focus on Polly and what she can do for me.

‘I’m sorry I’m so rattled.’

‘It’s fine. I understand that this process can be confronting for some.’

I try to smile. ‘You must think it strange that I’m frightened of these… dates. Well, if it gets to that stage.’

She leans forward in her seat. ‘Fear is very common. Some of my clients are in their fifties, scared to death that they’re going to die alone.’

‘Please do not match me with anyone like that. My hard limit is thirty-five.’

This response apparently amuses her. ‘So you do have an idea of what you want.’

‘Perhaps.’

Her assistant, a young mousy-blonde, enters the room with a tea tray. She does not handle herself with the same grace as Blair. In fact, she pours the tea at a very sharp angle, which makes me ‘tut’ inwardly. Not only that, but the handle of my cup is facing away from me. It’s just not very sensible.
 

‘Thank you, Penny,’ Polly says to her.
 

I laugh, feeling yet more awkward, and address the assistant. ‘Penny and Polly. That has a good ring to it. Though it should probably be Polly and Penny, considering you’re just the assistant.’ I pause, surveying the bemused look on Penny’s face. ‘I am so sorry. I’m freaking out and just saying whatever comes into my head. Everyone says this is why I can’t find a husband.’

Penny forces a smile. ‘It’s all good, ma’am.’

She nods and kind of does a half-curtsey before rushing out without another word to her boss.

I clear my throat. ‘So, now you’ve seen first-hand what’s wrong with me.’

Again, Polly is Zen. I imagine redecorating this office, making it into a Zen garden complete with giant stones and a novelty rake. I’m not in gardening clothes, having chosen a classic (albeit three-year-old) Burberry summer dress, but I’d probably enjoy it anyway.
 

‘How about we frame this as a positive? You’re assertive, educated and empowered.’

‘Is this you glossing me over for my profile?’

‘Don’t think of it as gloss. I need to get to know the real you so I can find someone with whom you can actually connect.’

‘That does make sense. By the way, you can call me Millie. That’s what everyone calls me. I mean, except for our new butler.’

Oh my God. Why am I bringing up Blair?

She nods. ‘Millie and Polly. I think that has a good ring to it.’

‘It does.’

I need to lower my heart rate and relax. Be chilled, Millie. Imagine you’re raking sand, calmly raking sand and making patterns around pebbles. Then maybe I’m rearranging pebbles and raking some more.

Come to think of it, I have no idea how Zen gardens are supposed to work.

‘How would you describe yourself, Millie?’

‘Uh. Direct.’

‘Ah, there has to be more than that.’

I try to stop myself from fidgeting and start to focus. ‘Sharp in a good way? I’m not an idiot, and I don’t like being treated like one.’

More nodding. ‘You’d want a man who respects you?’

‘Yes. But he can’t be a pushover, either. Weak men won’t do. Not interested.’

‘How are you on compromising? I see you’re annoyed that your new butler refuses to call you Millie.’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Are you trying to say things always have to be my way? That I’m a control freak? I can’t really be a control freak when I have to defer to my parents on certain matters. They are my source of income, after all.’

‘Do you resent that? How will you be with a man who commands a sizeable income but wishes to retain full control over that income?’

I take a moment to think about this. ‘Oh my God. I’m a gold-digger.’

‘Gold-digger isn’t the right word. You’re looking for someone who wants to share their income and enjoy their wealth with you.’

‘That’s the gloss again, isn’t it?’

She chuckles. ‘I think you and I are going to work well together.’

‘But I’m still –’ I stop, unsure how to say that I’m unprepared for this kind of humiliation, ‘not sure about this whole thing.’
 

Polly lets me take a sip of tea and, thankfully, doesn’t stare at me, waiting until I’m ready to talk again. Instead, she leans back in her chair and swivels slightly to her right. There’s such an air of confidence about her, it’s like she’s posing for a portrait.
 

‘Are you going to be taking my picture today?’ I ask.

She swivels back into position, a seamless transition. ‘The way we match people isn’t akin to internet dating, those sorts of profiles. If left to their own devices, sometimes people miss out on what’s actually right for them.’

‘I see. So you’re the arbiter of who’s right for me?’

‘I’m very good at what I do,’ she says, gesturing with her hand. ‘If you choose to trust me, you will be rewarded. You’re a fine candidate, the type of person for whom I want to find a match. You’re not flighty. You’re not outright demanding a billionaire. That tells me something.’

I mull over her sales pitch, drinking more tea while I’m at it. ‘I think I want you to be my counsellor,’ I finally say. ‘Seriously.’

She obviously reads people for a living. Plus, she’s got that whole bullshitting thing down, which essentially means she’s armed with a wealth of motivating statements and isn’t afraid to use them.
 

‘Millie, you don’t need a counsellor. This process will help you define what it is you’re looking for and, in turn, will help you to better understand yourself.’

‘Wow. And to think I used to scoff at your ads whenever I saw them in
Tatler
.’

‘Good magazine, good magazine.’

We spend twenty more minutes talking about my life, my history, and slowly I become more comfortable with the whole thing. I mean, it’s still embarrassing, but the overall goal becomes a degree more acceptable. On some level, I really have to understand that it’s a means to an end. It may not be the ideal way to meet my future husband, but if I do end up meeting him, it’ll be the ultimate payoff.
 

Not payoff as in money only. Obviously, I wouldn’t be at this particular matchmaking service if prestige and standing weren’t factors, but money cannot be
the
deciding factor, something that can tip an average man into the ‘suitable’ category. I want to
want
my husband. I have no idea how those supermodels can forgive an eighty-year-old’s libido and age spots, all for a slab of cash and more jewellery than they can wear in a lifetime. That, to me, is madness. Or, you know, prostitution.

In the end, I agree to meet with Polly again next week to work out more specifics, and then hopefully after that she can officially start the search. She claims to have a few men in mind already – it helps tremendously that I’m pretty, apparently. Rich, attractive men can afford to be particular about that.

Speaking of attractive men, as I walk from the plush offices towards the car, I can’t help but contemplate whether dating will solve my Blair problem. Surely it will force me to pay attention to someone who wants the attention or, more specifically, someone willing to admit that they want the attention. On the way here, each of us kept trying to look at the other in the rearview mirror, without letting on. Farcical really – I’m still not sure what his goal was – did he want to look at me, or did he want to catch me looking at him?

For my part, I was trying to gauge his reaction to my presence. The back and forth wasn’t easy, though. My eyes haven’t been so tired since the time I played Tetris for three hours straight when I was a child. All those parts continually in need of being joined with other parts…

Yes, I can even make arcade games dirty. I should tell Polly about this talent of mine.

I approach the car with caution, slowing my walking pace while not trying to look outwardly shifty. However, this probably makes me look like some sort of well-dressed car thief, so I dispense with the caution and stride over as I would normally. There’s something to be said about the wartime slogan ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.
 

I have no time to figure out what to say, because Blair gets out of the vehicle and quickly meets me on the footpath. There’s something about him that now screams ‘terrified’ – he’s gone as white as anything and he seems reluctant to meet my gaze, though he does offer me a perfunctory nod before opening the door. His entire demeanour rankles me. This is just an ongoing stupid tiff, yet he’s acting as if I’m about to fire him.
 

Oh. Maybe he does think that. He’s been keeping it together for the past several days, and now maybe it’s too much for him.
 

I stand on the other side of the open door and look at him face-to-face. ‘Right, let’s have a sit-down chat. You’re scaring me with this whole petrified vibe of yours.’

He sighs, and it must be frustration that makes him rake his long fingers through his hair. ‘I wish I could tell you how sorry I am about the other night.’

‘Well,
that’s
why I’m suggesting this chat.’ I step out of the way so he can close the door. ‘Come on, lock the car and follow me. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.’

He quirks his lips, then nods. ‘All right.’ The correction quickly follows. ‘I mean, yes, m’lady.’

I’m irked by his switch to deferential. ‘Oh my God, I hate weak men.’

‘I’m not weak,’ he snaps, slamming the door. ‘I’m your employee.’

‘Welcome back, Blair. I knew you were in there somewhere.’

He locks the car and then raises an eyebrow. ‘Fine, lead the way,
Emilia
.’

He’s hot when he’s angry. This is not the point I’m supposed to be taking away from the moment, I know, but I can’t help it. It makes me wish he’d slam me against the car and go for it.
 

‘Let’s go then.’

I’m not sure whether it’s a conscious decision on his part, but he walks next to me rather than behind me. I guess it would look odd otherwise – a man in a sharp suit following a lady down the street. It would be no less creepy than my car thief impression.

In a rare instance of synchronicity, we arrive at the coffee shop side by side. On peering through the door before opening it, I realise the place is busier than I would’ve liked. It’s medium-sized, not exactly one of those hole-in-the-wall joints where everyone is packed in tightly and, guessing by the string of Union Jacks up in the window, it could be a bit of a tourist haunt too, though the flags may just be a sign of pre-Olympic patriotism. Still, it’ll have to do, and certainly beats having a domestic on the street.

Blair and I don’t say a word to each other as the waitress seats us at our table – for two, in the far corner – which is as private as I could’ve hoped for. As soon as the waitress walks away to get us some water, Blair leans forward and puts his hands on the table as if he’s at a lectern. There’s an eagerness about him now, like he wants this dreaded conversation to be over and done with.

‘I wasn’t trying to seduce you the other night,’ he says, voice lowered a fraction so no one overhears.

‘Right, you came to offer an olive branch and got distracted. I understand.’

‘No, I don’t think you do. I wasn’t trying to be a hypocrite.’

‘Well, as long as you weren’t
trying.
’

He’s not impressed. ‘It’s not the same. You’re constantly staring at me with this hungry look in your eyes. I only slipped up for a second or two.’

‘Oh, so outside those two seconds you have no sexual interest in me whatsoever?’

‘You sound awfully offended.’

‘Maybe I am.’

The waitress returns with the water. She looks about Polly’s age, although she is nowhere near as thin or equipped with same level of insight when it comes to people. She completely fails to pick up the tension between Blair and me, her saccharine smile making me want to whack her over the head with one of the laminated menus.
 

‘I just want to say, you two are a
gorgeous
couple,’ she gushes, her hand over her heart. ‘Aw, bless.’

I laugh airily. ‘Why, thank you.’