Lady: Impossible (23 page)

‘Why did you have to be out and about this afternoon?’

The question, though rhetorical and carrying a mournful tone, strikes me as a little odd. ‘Did my mother not tell you?’

He sighs and leans away so he can rest his head against the window. ‘Tell me what?’

‘That my meeting at Tilton & Bree got moved to this afternoon.’

He straightens up immediately, as if an army sergeant has whacked him on the head. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? I’m made to feel like a poor man after you meet with… ’ He grunts in frustration and looks away in disgust.
 

‘I – I didn’t mean to make you feel poor.’
 

‘I don’t want to talk about it. In fact, I don’t want to talk to you at all. Unless it’s work-related.’

My head is screaming at me to retaliate. I’m always ready to bite back – it’s why adrenalin and emotion are coursing through my veins, priming me for a showdown I don’t want to have.
 

Leave it, Millie. Leave it. He’s upset.

‘Okay.’ Oh my, I sound like such a weakling. I can’t stand it. I spent days locked up in my room, obsessing over him, obsessing over us. ‘But brushing things aside doesn’t always work. I think you know that.’

When there’s no response, I turn the key in the ignition and start driving us home.
 

Chapter 12:

It’s midday on Saturday and I can scarcely believe my date with Oliver is less than eight hours away.
 

If I were an optimist, I would say things are starting to turn around for me, the case in point being yesterday: a day that went by without any drama. After a tense return to work on Thursday, Blair calmed down and went back to being his professional self (though more contained and solemn) and I began to focus on my date, and nothing but my date. Mother was even helpful for once, taking me through a list of topics of conversation and giving me access to all the jewellery she brought with her from the estate. On the surface of things, it seemed like the most functional day I’ve had since arriving.

The problem is, I know it’s too good to be true. It’s my mother’s determination to marry me off that’s keeping her regular attitude in check – keep me happy and I might just succeed. She hardly even flinched when I mentioned today’s fundraiser was an invitation forwarded by Father. Her tongue must be hurting by now from being held so often.

As for Blair, his apology came in the form of a handwritten note I found at breakfast this morning. He’d tucked the piece of folded card under my cereal bowl with only a corner peeking out. It was lucky that I didn’t miss it, as he would’ve been offended had I left it there, but in some way I’m sorry I read it. Oscillating between anger and sympathy after the Sainsbury’s incident was exhausting enough, which is why focusing on something else was a relief. Now I’m struggling all over again.

While I’m still pretty pissed off with him, the fact is that the note took my breath away, so much so that I thought it was kind of romantic. A handwritten note from a man is old school in its charm. I felt like writing a reply using a calligraphy pen and staining the paper with tea to make it look old-fashioned, a technique I learnt from an episode of
Art Attack
when I was a kid. Or, if I wanted to emphasise the ‘school’ in ‘old school’, I could use a piece of torn file paper and pass it to him like I would’ve done in a classroom (something I never actually did because I went to an all-girls boarding school). In the end, I came to my senses and did nothing. The note was clearly meant to be informative, a ‘for your information’ message:

Lady Emilia,

I sincerely apologise for the way I behaved on Wednesday. There’s simply no excuse. By way of explanation, I admit that I’ve been feeling very sorry for myself lately, a frustration I took out on you. Had I managed to get over my own sense of pride, I would’ve apologised sooner.
 

As for my other failing, I know I owe you a follow-up conversation regarding last Saturday. Please understand that I’m very hesitant to revisit this matter. I fear I will only upset you further with the things I have to say. You deserve better than to be upset by the unguarded words and actions of your servant. You deserve much, much more than that.

Blair

My heart is all aflutter just thinking about it, which is wholly inappropriate considering he’s currently driving me to The Ritz. It doesn’t help that the card is sitting in my clutch bag (a result of my not wanting to leave it where it could be found by my nosy mother).
 

I need to think about Oliver and the date. I need to be Zen. I need to recall how much of a third wheel I was on Thursday night when I went to dinner with Henny and her husband. This fundraiser is a public event and if I’m not careful, I’m going to start exuding the same zoned-out, stressed vibe I did at Jane’s luncheon, making it look like I’m actually against raising money for charity.
 

‘So what’s this fundraiser for?’

Astonished, I look at Blair in the mirror and try to figure out if he really just spoke to me or whether I imagined it. Conversation unrelated to work hasn’t been on the agenda this week. He glances at me expectantly when I don’t answer, meaning he must’ve said something.

‘Breast cancer. It’s a ladies’ luncheon. The theme is pink. Hence this dress.’
 

Average words per sentence: three. Very natural indeed.

Though his eyes stay focused on the road, his voice is warm enough. It makes me think he’s extending an olive branch – or maybe a twig, if the branch is too much. ‘Oh, okay. It should be nice. Hotel functions usually are.’

I try not to squirm from nerves. ‘Yes, I hope so. I mean, ideally I would be at home all day today, but my father told me over the phone yesterday that he’s already made a donation. Plus, it would be rude to bail when my RSVP was so last-minute.’
 

I don’t say anything about it now, of course, but I felt a huge sense of relief after speaking to Father. If we have enough money to make a donation, then we must be doing okay. After all, Gift Aid isn’t the most generous of tax incentives.
 

Blair nods, concentrating on making a turn before speaking again. ‘This thing ends at two, right?’

‘Yes. I’ll call you though, as my friends tend to get chatty. Maybe half-past is more realistic.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll have tea ready for Mrs Carrington’s arrival at four. I can even serve it in your room, if you’d like. And as your mother isn’t going anywhere, I’ll be around all afternoon if you need me to run any errands.’
 

‘Okay.’

It’s all I can say. The thought of sending Blair back to Sainsbury’s to buy emergency leg wax is a little preposterous. What I really want is to read more of his letters. He has such neat handwriting too…

No. Not the point of today. Not the point of any day, in any year – ever.

The Ritz comes into view, giving me reason to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll call you then.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

There’s a bit of a queue in the drop-off area and, in my eagerness to get out of the vehicle, I begin to fidget as if I’m dying to go to the loo. Fortunately, this doesn’t draw comment from Blair. Nor does he protest when I let myself out of the car instead of waiting for either him or the valet to open the door for me.

I can open my own doors, after all. That may sound like some deep, introspective metaphor about how I can make my own opportunities but, let’s face it, it’s not. It’s more of a reminder that I can function without help and should not act as if I can’t.
 

When Eliza steps out of the car behind us, I’m even more relieved about Blair not exiting the vehicle. She would’ve asked about him, as would any woman with decent vision. Both cars drive off, and within seconds we’re walking into the hotel together arm-in-arm, commenting on each other’s outfits.

‘Millie, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s good to see you in a new dress. I was beginning to worry about you. Scotland isn’t exactly the fashion capital of the world now, is it?’

I don’t tell her that the bright Erdem number is actually Abby’s, couriered over yesterday by her driver. ‘It’s easy to get lazy. I’m sorry I worried you. Still, it’s not as nice as your dress. Jason Wu?’

While she does look marvellous, the understated pink of the material making her platinum-blonde hair stand out, I think Abby’s dress is more fun.

‘Yes, it is.’ She leans in a little closer, a move that usually means one of two things: she’s about to gossip about someone, or she’s about to tell me I’m being gossiped about.
 

It turns out to be a combination of the two. ‘Don’t be cross, but I called in a favour and had you seated next to me. Your family’s reputation isn’t great at the moment, and I think this will help set you apart.’

As terribly blunt as she is, I’m grateful. ‘That’s very nice of you, El. I appreciate it.’

True to her word, we are seated together in the Palm Court, a cream and gilt room famed for hosting afternoon tea. The usual cream tablecloths have been replaced by baby pink ones, matching the bouquets of gardenias that act as a centrepiece on each round table.
 

Eliza’s mother – also known as Sissy Routledge, Marchioness of Beresford – is very active in the charity world, a role that warrants her a table of her own for her friends. She waves hello on seeing us and then, to my surprise, she comes over before Eliza and I can sit down. She kisses me on the cheeks like I’ve always been a revered family friend. Never mind that she hates my mother.

She lowers her voice so only Eliza and I can hear. ‘Millie, my dear. How brave of you to come out today. I hear
The Daily Mail
is running a piece on your brother next week.’

Caught off-guard, I almost laugh in her face. The day I actually laugh in the marchioness’s face will be the day I get banned from every social event in London.
 

‘I hadn’t heard, no. But I doubt it’s so bad that it would stop me from leaving the house. I’m not my brother.’ It’s a reply delivered so smoothly that even I begin to think I’m not worried.

I am worried, though. If Al is said to be doing God-knows-what in God-knows-where, it might scare off Oliver, assuming I haven’t already scared him off by that stage. A possible plus point is that it may send my mother packing back to Yorkshire in embarrassment, but then where would that leave my love life? And Blair?

‘Every family has a black sheep.’ She touches her earring self-consciously, as if she thinks said black sheep can hear her gossiping. ‘Ours was the Sixth Marquess. Heavens, was he a drinker. Philanderer too.’

Eliza nods. ‘Oh yeah, I think the family had to pay off the two maids he bedded.’

Someone bedding the help. Shocking.

The marchioness frowns. ‘No, Ellie, I think both of them were deported to Australia for petty theft. Convicts, you know.’

‘Really? I thought that was the cover story.’ She shakes her head. ‘I must be mixing up our history with someone else’s.’

‘Maybe you’re thinking of our Second Earl’s sister,’ I say.

Eliza nods knowingly. ‘Loose.’

Her mother gives me a final pat on the arm. ‘On that note, I must leave you. Pass on my best wishes to your father for me. Tell him he should come to Viscount Weller’s sixtieth.’

‘I will.’

Excellent. Now I get to stew about Al and his stupid indiscretions over dainty sandwiches and tea. It’s like being back home, except I can’t swear over how much of an arsehole he is. The least he could do is call.

There’s a bit more networking and chitchat before the food comes out. Luckily, on the other side of me is Lady Whittingstall, who’s a good person to sit next to because she does all the talking, meaning I can zone out and respond with ‘um’s and ‘ah’s.
 

A portly woman of forty-five, she only ever talks about two subjects: horse racing and her husband’s woefully bad polo-playing. At one point she laughs and tells me that I can’t attend any summer polo matches until he ‘learns how to play rough and use his mallet properly’. It’s really not something I want to hear from a middle-aged woman, even though I know she’s talking about sports.

Throughout the event, I begin to notice women glancing, not so furtively, at me from around the room. They aren’t snide looks, just a little curious. It’s obviously a much lesser form of the scorn my mother endures, so it’s easier to ignore than it is for her. However, after the speeches are delivered and a light dessert served, Lady Whittingstall surprises me by bringing up the subject of Al, though of course it’s in the context of horses.

‘Your brother wasn’t a bad polo player. Were he still here, he could’ve given my husband a few tips.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there are plenty of people better qualified to give such advice.’

She finishes her bite of macaroon. ‘He’s not really money-laundering in Switzerland, is he?’

‘I haven’t heard anything. All rumours, I think.’ Cue bright smile.
 

Eliza, apparently having heard the exchange, goes in for the quick save. ‘Lady Whittingstall, how are your horses shaping up for Royal Ascot?’

Why didn’t I think of that question? Oh, yeah, I hate horses. Not in an animal-cruelty way, but in a why-would-I-watch-them-run-around-an-oval kind of way.
 

My thoughts turn to the cufflinks Blair wore on Saturday, the cute horse ones.
 

Damn my obsession with him. I need an intervention.
 

As if a higher power is listening, I get a text a minute later. With Lady Whittingstall still going on about her two horses, I open my clutch and sneak a peak at the text.

It’s from Oliver – the first message I’ve ever received from him.

At The Ritz. Hoping to bump into you when your fundraiser is finished. Oliver.
 

Wow. That’s certainly keen. Polly said he was a bit funny about speaking to me before the date, thinking the surprise element would be better. We were given each other’s mobile numbers anyway and, while I did tell Polly I was attending this luncheon here today, I didn’t think it would turn into an impromptu meeting.