Lady: Impossible (24 page)

I can’t believe he’s here. I’m struck by boy-induced panic: increased heart rate, clammy hands, inability to think straight. I’m so glad I put effort into my appearance. I’ll be seeing him within half-an-hour.
 

I type quickly:
I’ll be out in another twenty minutes. Should I send you a picture of myself?

No need. I don’t think you remember, but we’ve actually met before. See you soon.

Met before? If I can’t remember, that likely means I was drunk at the time. What if we met years ago at a Cambridge thing? No, I’m six years younger than him, so it’s unlikely. Another event? The time Jane and I went out one night when we were house-sitting for her aunt, and I got so drunk that when we got back I thought we were breaking into some random person’s home, causing me to wail every time a car drove past the house because I thought it was the police? I can’t even remember what clubs we went to that night. Shit, it could’ve been any time within the last ten years. Why don’t I remember him?

I look down into my clutch and remember that Blair’s note is sitting in here. Blair. I should let him know to expect a delay.

Should I explain why? He might get upset, not to mention he’ll tell my mother about it straight away. No, I’ll be vague for now.
 

Hi Blair. It’ll be more like three that I’ll need a lift. Will keep you posted.

He’s very quick to reply.
Thank you for letting me know.

I’m not actually letting him know
the truth
, though. It’s a lie by omission.
 

And I feel guilty. I don’t even want to imagine the look on his face when I finally tell him I met Oliver earlier than expected. I’m getting stomach pains just from thinking about not thinking about it.

My guilty thoughts are, however, abruptly interrupted by Lady Whittingstall: ‘Any opinion on black caviar, Millie?’

At least she’s moved on from horses. ‘Uh, great but overrated?’

She nods enthusiastically, pointing her teaspoon at Eliza. ‘I tend to agree. Yes, twenty-one wins, I understand that’s brilliant. But to peg her as the best sprinter of all time…’

Sprinting? What does caviar have to do with athletics?

‘… I mean, she hasn’t even raced outside Australia. We’ll see, we’ll see. Maybe I’m just talking her down because my mare hasn’t been nearly as successful, far from it actually.’

Oh. Black Caviar is a horse.
 

I have to get out of this room.

Thankfully, the function winds up and, after another standing ovation for the event organisers and major donors, the crowd starts to disperse.
 

I kiss Eliza on the cheek. ‘Thank you again, El, for taking care of me.’

She raises an eyebrow, apparently unwilling to let me off scot-free. ‘Well, you looked very peaky on Monday. You should’ve said you were annoyed with your brother.’

I shudder. ‘Ugh, let’s not talk about him.’

‘Right, of course. See you at brunch on Wednesday.’
 

‘Bye.’

As Eliza dashes off to find her mother, I turn and shake Lady Whittingstall’s hand, wish her horses luck and tell her I hope to see her again soon.

She practically beams with pride, though maybe it’s the slightly fluorescent shade of pink she’s wearing. ‘Always a pleasure talking to you. Look after yourself, dear.’

‘I’ll try to.’

Finally, finally, finally I’m able to leave the room. Rather than traipse, I engage in an elegant power-walk, if such a thing is even possible. I’m not exactly cut out for rushing in this way, as I never need to be anywhere with urgently. In light of this, I think I deserve a pat on the back, or at least one of those ‘I ran in a race’ stickers they give out at primary school sports days.

At first, I don’t see any men hanging around outside the Palm Court. There is a passing waiter, who seems intent on ignoring everyone, quickly followed by an older man who appears to be a function manager. No such luck. No such Oliver.

Then, from behind a planted palm tree, a smartly dressed man steps out, his eyes not yet meeting mine. I step forward, closing the distance to about five feet. As I approach him, he brushes the lapel of his grey suit jacket in what’s probably an attempt to appear nonchalant. You know, as if the tree shed lint onto him, or if he’s brushing his shoulders off
a la
Jay-Z. It’s kind of ridiculous to think someone can step out from behind a potted plant with dignity – especially one with a pink ribbon around it – but when he does look up, the confidence in his eyes tells me that, yes, he does think this is possible.

Only a slight flicker of recognition registers with me, the kind you get when you see or hear something from your childhood. Certainly nothing that suggests we’ve met before. I try to place him, scanning my memory for men with dark hair, brown eyes and a simply dazzling smile. He’s also a tad shorter than other men I’ve been with, just enough to ensure he’s only an inch taller than me while I’m wearing heels.
 

He extends his hand. ‘Millie, I presume.’

‘You presume correctly.’

His handshake is firm, but his expression friendly. Oliver seems very approachable, like a guy you’d stop on the street to ask for directions. Or a guy you’d trust with your money.
 

It’s true that he’s not a knockout like Blair. I’m not sure that anyone is as gorgeous as Blair, though. The spring in Oliver’s step when he moves, however, tells me he is self-assured, and it’s a different confidence to any kind I’ve seen from Blair. But that might just stem from a stronger sense of self-worth.

Oliver is also sizing me up. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking, given he might be prone to smiling like this all the time.

I touch my hair self-consciously, wishing I’d done more with it than just wearing it down. ‘This is a bit of surprise.’

‘I know, I apologise.’ He purses his lips and tilts his head in the way people do when something is great but comes with a caveat. ‘I would’ve called you, but I thought you at least deserved an explanation in person.’

‘Explanation?’ I hate the way my voice sounds, all desperate and hopeful at the same time.

More invisible-lint removal, and a slight faltering of his grin: ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem. I thought sending a message via Polly would be harsh, if not completely detestable. Shall we go to the bar for a drink?’

My stomach is already churning. Whatever the problem is, it may very well be some sort of deal-breaker. ‘Sure.’

Part of me resents him for smiling so much. It’s not an evil grin, which I suppose is a good sign. Then again, I’ve encountered enough people to know that this could be one of those situations where someone lets you down while smiling angelically. Oliver, the Angel of Impending Disappointment.

The ensuing walk to the Rivoli Bar is thus nerve-wracking. I should be angrier that the date might be in jeopardy – after all, it’s my personality to get all worked up. I’m distracted, however, by the fact I’m walking with a man in public, a man who isn’t a family member or an employee. While he’s not holding my hand, or engaging in small talk, it’s pleasant.

Taking pleasure in disappointment? It’s like Schadenfreude, but in relation to myself.

Oliver takes the lead once we step into the bar, striding a step in front and turning towards me. ‘Shall we sit in the corner?’

Of course we’re going to sit in the corner. He’s dumping me before we’ve even had one date, leaving me to sit here with a dunce cap on my head. If I had any gumption, I would walk out now. It’s embarrassment that holds me back, the matchmaking aspect of this situation giving it a completely new dimension. Polly would be mortified if I ran out without hearing what Oliver has to say.

This had better not have anything to do with Alastair.

I resign myself to sitting at the table for two that, incidentally, sits under a strange painting of a swan sitting on a naked man’s lap. Putting a gold frame around a painting and shoving it in a glorious art deco room doesn’t excuse the fact that a
swan
is
sitting
on a
naked
man’s
lap
. I worry it’s foreshadowing how awkward this conversation will be. Well, it can’t exactly be a good omen, can it?

I should stop reading so much into the artwork.

As soon as Oliver sits down – in fact, maybe even before – a waiter glides over and asks him if he’ll have the usual. Oliver confirms that he’ll have the usual, whatever that is, and then brightly asks me what I’d like. The two men look expectantly at me, the waiter reminding me a little of George, my father’s right-hand man.

I laugh nervously. ‘I want to say scotch on the rocks, but I think a bitter lemon is the more sensible option. It is only two in the afternoon.’

The waiter humours me. Or maybe he’s trying not to laugh at the painting. ‘Excellent choice, miss.’

Oliver raises his hand. ‘Frederick, I think you’ll find it’s ‘Excellent choice, m’lady’.’

‘Ah, is that so?’ He studies me for a second. ‘You must be Lord Silsbury’s daughter. Uncanny resemblance. Which is not to say you look like a man.’

I’m taken aback. ‘Can you really tell by just looking?’

Oliver laughs heartily. ‘Oh, get the lady her drink before you embarrass yourself, old man.’

Frederick winks at me. ‘He slipped me twenty quid to play along.’

‘I most certainly did not.’ Wow, these two get on very well. ‘Don’t believe him, Millie. His trick is that he remembers everyone of note. Your father must’ve tipped him very well back in the day.’

I manage to smile. ‘Must’ve been a while ago. He doesn’t get out much these days.’

Frederick clutches his heart. ‘Did you hear that, Oliver? She called me old.’

‘Get our drinks before I report you to management.’

‘Yes, Your Royal Highness, Prince of… where do you work again?’

‘JP Morgan.’

I jump in, not to be outdone before being dumped. ‘JP Morgan has its own monarchy? Impressive. But how did you get appointed over your superiors? Or is that why you’re a prince and not a king?’

Oliver shakes his head, amused. ‘I should abandon the pair of you.’

While Frederick is free to chortle and leave for the bar, I’m left facing actual abandonment. It’s not nearly as funny as it should be.
 

I clasp my hands in my lap and try to project an air of dignity. ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’

He drums his fingers on the table in what comes across as excitement, before leaning forward and grimacing. ‘When Polly told me you’re an Emilia from a well-bred family – a Cambridge girl now studying at St Andrews – nothing really rang a bell. Until she said you went by “Millie”. I met a Millie very briefly several years ago at an acquaintance’s birthday bash. That person still speaks of his sister every now and again…’

I’m dumbstruck by my luck, so much so I’m tempted to slap him in place of my brother. ‘You’re friends with Alastair?’

Sheepish but still smiling, he sits back in his seat and explains. ‘“Friends” is a strong term. In fact, there’s a bit of acrimony at the moment, and I’m afraid he’ll take my seeing his sister as an offence.’

‘Acrimony? You’ve spoken to him recently, then? Or you speak with him regularly enough for him to possibly take offence?’

‘From the sound of it –’ He stops abruptly, taking a moment. ‘Do you not speak with him often?’

I don’t know how much to give away. Is it embarrassing for me to admit that my brother barely keeps in touch? Or does it put me in a better light, emphasising the fact that I don’t condone his actions?

Apparently, my face gives me away. Stupid Al.

‘Ah, I had an inkling that was the case. But going out with you really would come across as an act of retaliation.’

I employ what I hope is a stern expression, unclasping my hands and folding my arms across my chest. ‘Retaliation? You seem like a gentleman. But you run in the same circles? Is this a Cambridge old boys thing? You weren’t even in the same class.’

I’m imagining a pirate ship with strippers and gambling, my brother laughing his head off as Oliver lurks behind palm trees, all while the ship sails to some unknown island where naked men rest comfortably on the sandy beaches, not caring that birds are sitting on their genitals.

This is how they must know one another.
 

Oliver is rueful about the situation. ‘We have mutual friends – his Eton classmates, who are now my colleagues. And no, I don’t party with him anymore. I only ever did a few times, you know, to escape reality. He does, however, owe me a sum of money, the amount of which he disputes. It’s not a huge debt, but enough for me not to let it go.’

‘Right. And seeing me would seem like you’re simply coming to collect.’ I’m infuriated yet bound from doing anything more than grumbling. If I throw Oliver’s honesty in his face, he could certainly get back at me by simply revealing the sorry fact that I’ve engaged a matchmaking service.

One day. I would like just one day without talk of scandal or money.

‘May I ask why you even need Polly? It’s not laziness, is it?’

My response is curt, even though my motivation is a bit cloudy. My initial reaction to the matchmaking suggestion hasn’t exactly stuck. ‘No.’

‘It’s just that you’re stunningly beautiful. Surely you don’t need assistance? If it’s your disposition you’re worried about, I wouldn’t be too concerned. I’ve heard things, but you seem nicer in person.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps I’m not always this agreeable. With all due respect, Oliver, I’m in no position to bite your head off. I am in a position, however, to go home and feel sorry for myself. At least I know now that I’m nicer in person. Thanks for that, I suppose.’

Frederick, who’s been hovering nearby, swoops in and delivers our drinks with finesse. He really does remind me of a butler, anticipating the right moment to appear, and knowing when not to joke around.

Oliver waits until he leaves before speaking again. ‘I’m genuinely sorry, Millie. I’m looking for someone who isn’t a vapid doormat, and you seem right on the money – for lack of a better expression.’