Lady: Impossible (13 page)

Confusion shows in his features and colours the timbre of his voice. ‘Did I miss the doorbell?’

‘No, I’m just going to wait outside…’ I pause. ‘Get some fresh air. Fresh air is good. Good for the lungs. Lungs need to breathe.’

You know what else is good? Sentences of more than four words.

He finally places the maroon dress in my wardrobe and then proceeds to finger-space the coat hangers, keeping his back to me. ‘You’re going to wait outside like a loser because you don’t want me to open the front door?’
 

Don’t overreact. Don’t overreact. Don’t overreact.

The best I can do is sound mildly annoyed. ‘No, I’m going to wait outside like a loser because I don’t want to subject you to my presence any more than I have to. And thank you for calling me a loser, Mr Professional. You’ve been so civil lately, and now this.’

‘Forgive me, m’lady, but avoiding each other is not coexisting.’ He rakes his fingers up the back of his neck as he turns around, looking exasperated and, unfortunately, delicious. ‘Your mother thinks I’m slacking. She saw that you left your tray table in the hallway for me to pick up, and I was promptly reminded that this isn’t a hotel.’

I groan. ‘I wasn’t trying to get you into trouble.’

‘I know. My point is –’

‘That I should let you do your job?’

‘Yes.’

I pick my handbag up off the floor near my bed. ‘Okay, then I shall wait in the sitting room until you inform me that my friend has arrived.’

‘I didn’t mean to make you angry.’ He’s following me hurriedly out of the room. I quicken my steps, nearly sprinting for the stairs. I need space between us.
 

‘I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s not test the boundaries of our truce.’

He has the sense to fall back and not follow me downstairs. Unfortunately, Abby is late, so I have more time to stew over how annoyed I am that he couldn’t just leave things be. It’s a stupid tray. Why not simply remind me over tomorrow’s breakfast instead?
 

Either way, the Second Earl isn’t impressed with me – if only he had a sister portrait in the servants’ hall so that someone could glare at Blair all day. Though, according to eighteenth-century gossip, his sister was a bit loose. And I will not permit any loose women to be around someone I’m not allowed to sleep with. Charity does have its limits.
 

***

Abby nudges me in the arm, trying to get me to respond to her with more enthusiasm. We’re on the ground floor of Louis Vuitton on New Bond Street and, while everything is very fancy and pretty, I’m just not feeling it. I want to go home and tell Blair I can’t bear to be around him anymore. Then I need to post myself to the end of the universe (priority shipping, no return address) so that he’ll be safe from the dangers of his employer’s unwanted attentions.

‘What is with you, Mills? I haven’t asked, but I’m about to…’
 

It’s too hard to pretend I’m not bothered by something. I shrug, inviting her to bring up what she’s been dying to ask since we left the house. Frankly, I’m surprised she was waiting for me to bring it up first – maybe she thought she’d get more out of me that way.

She leans into my shoulder and whispers, nudging me with her elbow. ‘What was with the tension between you and the butler when I arrived?’
 

I make a sound that I can only describe as
three
walruses dying a slow death in the Sahara.

Abby reacts to this sound with yet more pep. ‘Oh my God, did something happen? Are you keeping something from me?’

I am keeping something from her. I haven’t told her anything beyond what I accidentally hinted to Andrew, so the last thing Abby heard was that Blair had touched my bra. She doesn’t need to know the specifics, just that I have a problem.

‘I can’t be around him. It’s too hard. As in, I want
him
to be hard.’ Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, right? I may as well lay it right out there. ‘It’s driving me bonkers – in that, I want him to bonk me. That’s it – I should go back to the estate.’

A grin slowly spreads across Abby’s face. Her optimism really is unbelievable at times. ‘He wants it too, doesn’t he? That’s why you two are so annoyed with each other. He can’t do his job, because all he wants is to do
you
.’ She points at me for emphasis, several handbags still dangling from her arms.
 

‘Something like that.’ I shake my head. ‘No, actually, I think he’s only ever interested in me for one or two seconds at a time.’ I don’t tell her the time reference is from Blair himself.
 

‘You mean he only lets it show for one or two seconds at a time. Do you have any idea how often the average male thinks about sex? It rivals how much I think about shopping. You should shag him and be done with it.’

‘Shag him and be done with it? How would that solve anything?’

‘It solves everything, obviously.’ She rolls her eyes and ceremoniously dumps one of the bags back into the golden display. ‘The problem with unresolved sexual tension is that it’s unresolved. Duh.’
 

‘Right, how stupid of me.’

‘It’s all in the strategy now. You have a clear path.’
 

‘Oh yeah, crystal clear.’

She must think the accessories section is affecting my attitude, because she suddenly decides she’s over the handbags, and swiftly abandons them on the nearest leather sofa. Before I can step in and return the bags to their rightful perches, she promptly drags me up the glass stairs to the quieter first-floor clothing section, where she then proceeds to pick the most scandalous outfit she can find.

Abby holds up the semi-sheer dress with pride, pointing to the lacy shoulders and the cut-outs on the side. ‘Ooh, how about this?’

‘That?’ I’m too scared to reach out and touch the fragile material, lest it tear in my hands. ‘For
tonight
?’

She’s taking me to the exclusive Arts Club on Dover Street. She and Andrew proposed and seconded my membership weeks ago, pulling in big favours to do so. Again, there is a bit of a concern on my part that I’m trying to emulate my mother’s heyday, but if Abby has the connections I’d be a fool not to use them. Oh, God. I really am becoming my mother.
 

She laughs. ‘Yes, for tonight. So you can seduce the butler.’

I’m more than thankful that the shop assistants in this section are already assisting other customers, rendering them unable to hover around us, and our inappropriate conversation.

‘What are you on about?’ I turn my nose up at the garment. ‘No point paying a thousand pounds if my intention is to take it off.’

‘That’s the spirit!’

‘I was being sarcastic.’

She replaces the dress and takes me by the shoulders, faking seriousness.

‘Resolve the sexual tension. It’s. The. Only. Way.’

‘You’re frightening me.’

‘It’s the only way,’ she whispers. ‘The only way.’

With a bit of effort, I manage to shake her off. ‘Have you been sniffing nail polish again?’

She suddenly jumps back a step, as if the memory actually knocked the wind out of her. After taking a series of heaving breaths, she then looks around with frenzied eyes, obviously pretending she has no idea how she got here. ‘What happened? Was I possessed by the most awesome idea in the world? Did that idea speak to you using
my
voice?‘

‘You’re terrible. I don’t like you.’

Continuing the charade, she puts a hand to her brow and pretends she’s losing balance, putting one foot behind the other. ‘Oh my. That idea. So possessive. Almost as strong as your need to get laid tonight.’

I glare at her until she drops her hand and returns to a normal stance. ‘What would your husband say if he knew what advice you’re giving me?’

‘Ha! I’m sure you’ll text him by accident, telling him all about it. And by the way, that nail polish thing was for five seconds in year nine. Ancient history. But you know what’s ancient future? You and the butler.’

‘Ancient future? Do you even understand what you’re saying?’ I walk past her on my way to the adjacent railing of clothes. ‘If you’re going to suggest the impossible, don’t use oxymorons. They merely compound the impossibility.’

Even my sharp words can’t dampen her excitement. She’s immune, having known me for far too long. ‘It’s not impossible, if it happens.’

‘What?’

‘And it’s actually far from impossible. All you have to do is tell him that you want him.’

I shoot her an incredulous look. ‘I’ve technically already done that, remember? You were there. Hello? Sideways?’

‘Yes, but you didn’t say it to his face seriously. You apologised and took it back. Tell him to his face this time.’ She lowers her voice and waves her hand around her chest area. ‘Preferably while wearing something see-through.’

‘I’m not going to go there. It’s not worth it.’

‘Not worth it? Have you forgotten what he looks like? He must’ve been a model before this whole butler thing. I was even thinking last week that I’d seen him somewhere before.’

‘Wait. You felt that way, too? I thought I was imagining things.’

‘Honey, don’t imagine. Do. Or, more specifically, fuck.’

‘Promise me you’ll never become one of those life coaches.’

Her face lights up at my attempted dismissal, a touch of cruelty in her mischievous smile. ‘You need me.’

‘Oh, go and travel back to the ancient future! Or forward, if that’s how it works.’ I pause, trying to remember the logic from the
Back to the Future
films. ‘Whatever.’

She leaves me alone to browse, though I can still see her smirking out of the corner of my eye. Really, she is being the opposite of helpful.

It’s funny that Tilton & Bree headquarters is practically around the corner, because I’m beginning to have the same sort of anxiety I experienced in Polly’s office. Looking around frantically for an escape route, I can’t focus on any one object. It doesn’t help that the place is currently housing an art exhibition for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. The decoration is all very disorienting. There is a litany of festive touches – splashes of bright colour, royal motifs, portraits and the like. Frankly, I prefer the regular Vuitton style of gold, beige and brown, all sleek and traditional.

The mannequins in the first floor exhibit are the freakiest show here, though. They’re lined up in neat rows, like the terracotta warriors in the tomb of China’s first emperor, a sight I saw when I was six. For a moment, I allow my mind to lose itself in the happy memory of that family holiday – a time when my parents still got along. Then I glance back at the mannequins and find myself spooked all over again: they look like they’re going to attack me in all their monarchy-inspired fashion glory.
 

I’m losing it. There has to be something non-Blair related I can think about, something that will ground me, but I can’t come up with anything. Instead, I find myself obsessing over the fact that Abby also thinks she’s seen Blair before. It’s too bad that I have no chance of discovering whether he’s been in a fashion campaign or not. The man simply won’t answer questions about his background.
 

Maybe he modelled something embarrassing, or nothing related to fashion at all. He could’ve been a poster boy for any number of things: haemorrhoid cream, erectile dysfunction pills, annoying mobile ringtones, late-night personals ads? The list goes on…
 

I wonder if Google might help.

I stroll over to the nearby shoe section, but before I can continue brainstorming, Abby pops out of nowhere and scares the living daylights out of me. You’d think she’d purchased the power to teleport.

‘You look like you have an idea!’

‘Jesus, Abby!’ I take a moment for my heart rate to return to normal. ‘No ideas. Just wondering if there was a way of finding out where we’ve seen Blair before.’

Surprisingly, she comes up with something brilliant. ‘You haven’t Facebook stalked him yet? What kind of woman are you?’

‘Facebook, right.’ I whip out my phone. ‘There might be a million Blair Baxters, though.’

‘Not necessarily.’
 

A million, no, but a few, yes. I scroll down and spot the profile that’s definitely his, though I almost scrolled past his photo. He looks different with a carefree smile on his face. The casual photo of him and three friends looks like it was taken at Glastonbury or some other sort of festival. There’s even a slutty bargirl in the background.

‘You know, even his name sounds familiar,’ Abby muses, peering over my shoulder. ‘No, I must be making that up.’

I lift the screen to enable her to see more clearly. ‘Private profile. Too bad. You can’t glean anything from this other than that he likes beer. Like every other European male.’

She snatches the phone from me so she can take a better look. ‘Ooh, interesting.’

‘Hey! Give that back!’
 

My exclamation earns me a dirty look from the nearby shop assistant, who’s busy tidying the wedges on the wall and apparently needs silence. Or maybe she’s looking down on me because my dress is last season’s. Either way, I’m making a scene. I try again, using a more controlled voice.
 

‘Abby, hand it back please.’

The devilish grin has resurfaced, which cannot mean good news. She taps the screen once and then hands over the stolen property. ‘There you go.’

I have a good idea of what she’s done, but it isn’t until I look at the screen that it’s confirmed:
Friend Request Sent
.

‘Oh my God.’ I feel ill. ‘How could you do that?!’

Oh, shit. He’s going to kill me. Even if I tell him it was Abby who physically pressed the button, he’s going to know I cyber-stalked him in the first place. I’m going to have to own up to the entire embarrassing thing.
 

I could cry right now. ‘I don’t want to be his friend.’

‘No, you want to be his friend with benefits,’ she says, looking mightily pleased with herself. ‘But there’s no button for that.’

‘I have to fix this. I have to fix this
now
.’

‘Okay, you do that. I’ll be here trying on shoes.’