Lady: Impossible (21 page)

It’s hard not to be defensive. ‘I ask Father about the finances all the time. Even if I was suspicious, I wouldn’t be able to check anything from London.’

‘Ah.’ She looks away momentarily. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘What does that mean? Are you going to ask him? Or are you going to hire a private investigator?’

She waves me off. ‘You just worry about finding a husband. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you the soup which, by the way, smells like feet.’

I tend not to eat when upset, and this comes under that category.

‘I might just fast until Blair returns.’

‘It’s terrible not having a butler. Do you want to abduct him from Kilburn? He’s staying with family.’

‘Kilburn?’ There are dodgier places to live, but I still can’t picture him being there.

‘Relax, I won’t actually send you there, it might not be safe.’
 

I’m very fortunate when compared with a lot of people, not just Blair and his family. No one is going to sympathise if my family has to sell property to free up cash – we’re lucky enough to have property in the first place. I look around the room, surveying this part of my family’s heritage, and get even more nervous about the dwindling cash reserves.
 

If money makes the world go round, it’s certainly giving me motion sickness.
 

Chapter 11:

On Wednesday, I get the first lucky break I’ve had in a while. I’m able to see Polly a day early, due to a last-minute cancellation. It’s perfect timing. Had she not called, I would’ve had to endure the agony of Blair driving me to Tilton & Bree tomorrow, as per the original schedule.
 

I’m not ready to see him. The more I think about it, the more afraid I am that I’ll have an extreme reaction on his return. I spent the whole of yesterday visualising our reunion, scripting what I would say and pre-empting his line of argument. In some versions, I’m yelling at him for leaving without having finished our conversation, a move I call cowardly and cruel. In others, I’m crying and begging him to give me his attention, whether sexual or otherwise. I’m a dramatic person with a big mouth – things may very well play out this way if I’m not careful.

In light of this risk, it’s very fortunate that I’m now moving forward with the Tilton & Bree-approved dating. Being here is giving me a renewed sense of purpose. I’m doing something active. Yes, I may be developing a bit of a gold-digging complex but, as Polly reminded me, it’s about security and
trust
. The shock of Andrew’s visit has only made this more pertinent, no matter how misguided his information.

To be honest, I’m not even sure that Polly believes in half of the things she says, and it’s wholly possible she said
trusts
, not
trust
. However, I’m trying to get my head in the game, and if this means believing in her sugar-coated phrases, then I will play along for now.

I sit forward in my chair like I’m on a game show and about to answer the million-pound question, though, in this case, one million is not going to be enough. ‘As predictable as it may be, I’m going to go with Prospective Husband Number One.’

Polly is amused, smiling knowingly from across her desk. Now she can get on with the dating arrangements.
 

‘You mean Oliver.’

‘Yes, him.’

Prospective Husband Number One is probably the safest bet out of the four profiles Polly thinks are suited to mine, at least on paper anyway. He’s a high-flyer at JP Morgan, and his excuse for being unlucky in love is that he lets himself get swept up in work. While he dutifully attends many business-related functions, he only appears at other events when he’s not drowning in investments. At thirty-four, he’s thinking it may be time to settle down, hence the involvement of Tilton & Bree.

This is not to say I have no reservations. There’s a possibility that this guy is a stressed-out workaholic. I’m also concerned that I’m mimicking Abby in the direction I’m taking, as if I’m trying to emulate her comfortable lifestyle by securing the same kind of man that she did. I should be guided by what’s best for me, not what has worked for my friends.

But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. Prospective Husband Number One seems like a very sensible choice, and I wasn’t quite convinced by the other three. Two of them aren’t even in the country at the moment – a definite deal-breaker. The longer I wait for a date, the longer I have to endure the torture that is being obsessed with Blair Baxter.
 

Polly starts flicking through her diary, which by virtue of its pale-blue pages and luxurious leather cover must be by Smythson. It’s not the same diary I saw on her desk last week, so I’m assuming it’s a gift from Mr Wright. Then I remember that Polly can afford things such as this without depending on other people. Unlike me, she has a job.
 

‘Right, how does a night at the opera with him on Saturday sound?’ She doesn’t look up. ‘Splendid.’ And there goes the perfunctory click of her pen, like she’s never been surer about a decision. ‘I’ll make the arrangements.’

‘Which opera?’

She chuckles. ‘Does it matter? If it’s boring, you can leave and have a drink instead.’

‘Ha! That’s generally the plan if your date is boring.’ When she nods slowly instead of laughing, I move the conversation along. ‘Is there dinner with this opera? How am I supposed to get to know someone during a performance?’

‘Hmm, dinner.’ She twirls the pen once or twice before pointing at me to emphasise her evaluation. ‘My gut feeling with this one is that we can’t put him under too much pressure. We don’t want to scare him off –’

‘You mean you don’t want
me
to scare him off.’

‘This is a team effort, Millie. I’m just as responsible as you are. Now, I think a pre-function will work very well. Have a drink, a few canapés. Tapas, perhaps.’

I nod, agreeing to the plan. I even make a mental note to eat properly during the day so as not to gorge on the canapés in front of him or get tipsy off one flute of champagne. ‘I’m up for it.’

‘I’m glad to see you’re enthusiastic.’

Throughout the meeting, there’s been a slight undercurrent of suspicion, presumably at my enthusiasm. Now Polly is regarding me with a keener eye, as if she can sense something is not quite right. Even with her pep talk, I shouldn’t be this
keen. Before coming here, I sprayed myself with perfume to hide the scent of desperation, but perhaps I was too light with the spritzer.

‘I just feel that time is of the essence.’

While not terribly convincing, it’s technically not a lie. Time is definitely of the essence. I can’t have my mental state deteriorate any further. Last night, I took a stroll around the house to stretch my legs, only to zone out and trip over the Fifth Earl’s umbrella stand on the ground floor. If I can’t find a husband, I might have to sell that umbrella stand, along with a whole host of other heirlooms, in order to pay for the upkeep of the estate. The least I can do is not let my infatuation with Blair damage any antiques.

And if Andrew’s acquaintance is right – though I’m sure he’s not – such sales may only be the beginning.
 

Polly purses her lips for a moment before brightening suddenly and answering the question I asked some time ago: ‘La Bohème at the Royal Opera House.’

I’ve seen La Bohème performed by at least half a dozen different companies. But this is hardly the point, I try to remind myself. ‘Should be great. You’ll tell me where to meet him? Or will he pick me up? Probably not the latter if we don’t want to spook him – I suspect my mother may want to take a look at him.’

‘I’ll give him a ring and get back to you.’

This time I’m the suspicious one. ‘It’s not too short notice? For him, I mean?’

She sits back in her chair, an air of satisfaction about her. It’s already quarter to five so, in a way, it’s as if all her work is done. ‘I put him on standby. I had a feeling you’d go for him. He’s a Cambridge man, after all.’

‘Yes, well, not all Cambridge men are husband material. I will, however, give this one a chance. Oliver. I will give Oliver a chance. It is Oliver, isn’t it? He doesn’t go by Ollie, at all?’

‘No, it’s Oliver.’

‘Anti-nickname, huh? I can forgive that.’

There’s another pregnant pause, during which I expect her to begin chiding me for my glass-half-empty attitude. But she doesn’t, probably realising it might open Pandora’s box.
 

She beams warmly at me, her fairy godmothering done for now, before pushing back her chair and standing. ‘I’ll be in touch, Millie.’

I shake her hand without hesitation. ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help.’

To my surprise, I leave the office with a sense of quiet confidence. I suppose it’s only natural to be excited about a date, no matter how it was organised. So while I’m not exactly skipping – a sure hazard in these heels – I am feeling uplifted.
 

The necessary preparations come to mind as I walk along the teaming rush-hour streets of London, not letting the swarms of people pushing past me put a dampener on my spirits. Hair, clothes and general grooming: I can do my own hair, but I’ll need Abby to lend me something smashing to wear. We met yesterday after I rang her to apologise for being
incommunicado
. After a brief fascination with the word ‘
incommunicado
’, repeating it several times, each one with more Spanish flavour, she then said sorry for pushing me on the Blair issue and for sending over the ‘feet’ soup. Nothing was said about Epsom – neither regarding Andrew’s drunkenness nor anything he heard while in the box – but, other than that, it’s all back to normal.

So, to start with the pros: I have a date and Abby and I are fine. But then there are the cons: I’m nervous about Blair, silly rumours and my mother being secretive about her ‘financial investigations’. All in all, things could be a lot worse.
 

I’m still mulling over this pros and cons list when I return to the car (I drove myself to Mayfair, not wanting to be lazy, but rather regret this decision now, with the traffic at its daily worst). However, before I can get in, I receive a call from my mother.
 

At first, I’m spooked more than anything else. How could she possibly know my meeting just ended? If she’s spying on me, I’m going to be very cross. Maybe she got a two-for-one deal from a private detective: ‘bonus surveillance on your daughter with any probe into your husband’s financial situation’.
 

I make myself comfortable in the driver’s seat before answering, not wanting to be out in the hustle and bustle of the street. Then again, if a private detective is going to bug something, the car is an obvious target. Too bad I’m out of time to consider my options – any longer and my mother will start berating my voicemail for not answering her questions.

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘Sweetie, I need you to pick up Blair from the supermarket.’

I cover my other ear, thinking I must have misheard due to the noise outside. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I asked him to buy a few things before returning home. He’s at the Sainsbury’s closest to the house.’

‘Sainsbury’s?’

‘Yes, it’s a supermarket.’

I huff. ‘I think out of the two of us, I’m more likely to be familiar with a supermarket. Where do you think I get my food from in Fife?’

‘Oh, you think you deserve a round of applause, do you?’ I can just picture her, all alone in the roomy house, her aggravation reverberating around the hallways. ‘Put that familiarity into practice and pick him up, please. I don’t want him catching the bus.’

‘This is not a time for detours. Traffic is bedlam. Can’t he hop in a taxi, or
walk
?’

‘Emilia!
You’re
the taxi, and that’s final. While you’re there, please help him find all the ingredients for that summer soup that Martha makes back at the estate. I don’t know the right brands, but I know she taught you how to make it.’

‘That was, like, four years ago.’

I can’t deal with this. Not the soup part, the Blair part. Sainsbury’s is not the place for a reunion. He and I should have a rational, honest discussion back at the house, not a stilted meeting in the biscuit and home baking aisle amongst the icing sugar and ground nuts.
 

‘I’ll leave you to get on, if you want to beat the traffic. Oh, and by the way, one or two of his siblings might be with him. Be nice to them.’

‘Why are they with him?’

I don’t get a response because she hangs up on me. I’m pretty sure it’s deliberate. Blair must have given her lessons on how to use her phone more confidently.
 

Damn it. And to think I was under the impression that my luck had returned. While I imagine that Blair protested at this whole picking-up idea, my mother would have insisted on it. The secretive soul he is, he’ll probably send his siblings away before I arrive, which is some sort of consolation in this otherwise ridiculous situation.

Summer soup. Bah. I’d rather order pizza. I should do that one day: order pizzas for the entire street, courtesy of the Countess of Silsbury/Dominos. Mother will kill me for not only embarrassing her, but for engaging in unauthorised philanthropy. Imagine what the tabloids would say:
Free food for the rich! Millie’s misguided attempt at charity.

Flustered, but determined not to make the situation worse, I start the car and head for the supermarket. I will be calm and pleasant – none of the things I daydreamed of being towards him – and will then politely request a private conversation at home.
 

I can do this.

Mind you, it’s difficult to remain composed when people on the road are asking to be raged at. By the time I enter the supermarket, I’m all frazzled again. Psychologically, things get a bit more nerve-wracking when I recall how I was going to accompany Blair here before our library fight put a stop to that plan. Nevertheless, I plough on with caution, picking up a shopping basket and strolling into the fruit and veg section.

I’m not going to text Blair to find out where he is. Systematically going through each section of every aisle is obviously inefficient, but it will buy me time. So, I start by building a raft of ingredients for the summer soup – cucumber, celery, peas, spinach, asparagus, mint, lemons, chives – and move on from there.