Lady: Impossible (43 page)

I resolutely shove my hands into my pockets and refuse to open the gate, hanging back so Eliza can’t reach me with her still-outstretched arm. ‘I’m going through a bit of a rough patch.’ There’s no point pretending everything is okay – that’s only going to make them think I’m in denial. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’

‘Where’s Caroline?’ Lady Beresford asks, this time with more insistence. ‘Marcus? Both back at the estate? And why are you out here dressed like that? Are you camping?’

I laugh nervously. ‘Camping? No, I’m pretty sure that counts as “roughing it”.’

Eliza waves her perfectly manicured hand around some more. ‘How does this gate work? I’ll break in if I have to.’

‘Really, I’m okay.’

‘You look like you’ve been crying.’

‘Only a little bit.’ I step back again. ‘Please. I want to be alone right now. I came out here to get some fresh air.’

The look of pity on both their faces isn’t something I’d usually welcome, but if it means they’re sympathetic enough not to pry, then so be it.
 

Eliza withdraws her arm. ‘Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. You have to let your friends be there for you.’

I fight the urge to snort. My mother would say that they are both just trying to dig up material for the gossip mill. Then again, Eliza has been good to me, at times anyway. I shouldn’t be so harsh.

‘Maybe next week. I still owe you brunch.’

She points her finger at me. ‘Yes, you do. I’ll hold you to it.’

‘Okay.’ I shuffle on the spot, more and more conscious about my appearance. ‘Not to exclude you or anything, Lady Beresford.’

The marchioness waves me off. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m worried about
you
. I’ll be placing a call to Silsbury Hall, darling. Perhaps you should get back inside before you catch a cold. Or get heatstroke. I’m very confused by this weather. Hot one day, raining the next. This summer has felt like one long hot flush.’

I force a smile. ‘Yes, menopausal weather. It’s the pits.’

The two of them exchange meaningful looks before backing away from the gate. Now I feel intimidated, or even vaguely threatened, like they’re two drug lords in a family business, here to collect their dues. Their body language says that they’ll be back and better informed about what’s keeping me at home.

‘Bye, Millie. Take care of yourself.’

I wave half-heartedly. ‘Bye, El.’
 

They get back into the Mercedes and thunder off, the first stage of their drive-by intervention complete. No doubt they’ll be discussing Phase Two already. They’ll entice me out with the promise of a cream tea and a guarantee of shutting down anyone who dares feed false rumours to the tabloids. These two, I can predict. The rest of my life and what I’m supposed to do, I can’t.
 

Even though it’s what the marchioness wants, I do run back into the house. It’s an empty house. No family. No butler. Just me and my guilt about the secret affair I’ve been carrying on. It’s with a heavy heart that I make my way downstairs, a new location for my wallowing. It’s dinnertime anyway. I whip up eggs and toast (not that toast can be whipped), walk over to the servants’ hall and then sit down at the long table, all the while wishing I had company.
 

I really should stay indoors where no one can see me. It’s worrying that Gillian saw me yesterday looking aimless and sad. I must’ve walked straight past her, or seemed to ignore her if she’d waved from afar. I didn’t see her at all.

Sometimes you don’t really see what’s going on around you. Glaucoma may be a bit of a stretch, but I’m easily more myopic than most. I don’t think about the future until it’s upon me or potentially in jeopardy. If someone were to ask me where I wanted to be in five years, I’d probably say: at the estate with a husband and two kids. Shock, horror! Turns out it’s up to me to get there.
 

Which is why I break into a cold sweat when my phone rings. It’s Oliver. I may want Blair more than I’ve ever wanted anybody, but I want a husband
and
the estate. They’re mutually exclusive goals – pursuing both will result in disaster.

I answer the call before it goes to voicemail and tell myself that I’m making the right choice. The sensible, realistic choice.

‘Hi, Oliver. How are you?’

‘Millie, thank God you answered.’ He sounds terribly flustered – perhaps he’s missed out on a lucrative stock option. ‘I tried to call this morning, but you must’ve been asleep. I hope you got my text about the trip. How are you?’

‘I’m okay,’ I say a little shakily, placing a hand on the table. ‘You must be very busy with this disaster that you referred to. I was a touch concerned when you didn’t text me back yesterday.’

He sighs heavily. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I had the most ridiculous working day in the history of working days yesterday. Total disaster. I got so frustrated with the calls I was getting from Zurich that I went for a long, long walk to calm down, only to end up throwing my phone into the Neptune Fountain. I know, I know, completely stupid. It’s not even a nice fountain to look at: Neptune being pranced around by four river women. Anyway, I have a new phone, a new SIM card with the same number, and I’m going to make it up to you by taking you away.’

‘Yes, all the way to Dubai?’

‘Well, it’s the least I can do for postponing. We can meet there for a two-night stay. I’m drowning in air miles. Drowning, Millie. I could set up my own fountain.’

He sounds so desperate to make amends that he’s talking at a rate of knots. I’m getting a little light-headed from the fact that he really wants to see me.
 

‘Not with four women prancing around you, I hope,’ I say, laughing quietly.
 

‘No women, no prancing. No pressure, either. I’ll book separate suites, and you can hang about on your own, if you want, and only see me once a day. Please, Millie, I’d really like to treat you.’

‘Oliver, slow down. You need to breathe.’

‘No time for breathing. I have to get a “yes” from you.’

This is awfully sweet, completely different to the way he deemed me unsuitable on our first meeting. ‘Dubai sounds lovely. It’s a “yes”.’

‘Excellent, I’m so glad.’

‘And you mean it, about there being no pressure? You know, when it comes to…’ How can I say this without being so explicit about it? ‘I’m a little old-fashioned in some regards.’

I can’t sleep with him so soon. I’m not even close to being able to. I’m not over Blair yet.
 

Oh, Blair. He’s not my boyfriend, but I know he feels betrayed that I do want to go on this trip.

‘Polly will have my head if I’m anything less than a complete gentleman,’ Oliver says, sounding completely sincere.
 

‘Okay then. That’s good to hear.’ I try not to sound too relieved, lest he take it the wrong way. ‘So, when are you planning this for?’

‘A week today! Friday. I’ll book it all now if you’re up for it.’

I’m picturing him in front of his laptop with a goofy smile on his face – his mouse hovering over the confirm button. He really is eager about this new date idea.

‘Yes, lock it in before King Neptune hunts you down for sullying his fountain with Apple technology.’

‘I know, I know. He’s a Microsoft man. It’s blasphemy. I’ll buy Zune players for his four river women.’

I laugh. I’m allowed to laugh, after all. I know I slept with Blair again, but Oliver now seems more interested than ever. ‘If you’re talking about the MP3 Player, I’m pretty sure Microsoft discontinued those last year.’

‘Xbox 360, then?’

‘Water damage?’

‘Is that a new game? Should I include it in the pack?’

‘Oh, you’re funny.’
 

‘I try to be. Sometimes you really have to have a sense of humour, especially on the continent. They should make a game called Euro Crisis. It would be so much fun.’

‘Only if there’s an option to play as Chancellor Merkel.’

‘And only if there’s an option to dress François Hollande in a dress.’

Again I laugh. Slowly, I’m getting more comfortable in the conversation. ‘Ah, nothing says “fashion” like a French socialist.’

‘You mean everything says “fashion” like a French socialist. I think the whole point is to make sure everyone gets their fair share.’

‘Well, they can’t come with us to Dubai.’ Oh my God. I’m really going on a trip with him. And I’m confirming it in the servants’ hall. Suddenly, I’m nervous again. I don’t have time to be nervous. I need to be agreeable. ‘Should I give you my email address so you can send through the details?’

‘I have your Cambridge email,’ he says proudly. ‘Will that do?’

‘Yes, that’ll do. I check it more often than my brother checks his.’

‘Ah, right.’ There’s an awkward silence. I should know better than to bring up Alastair. Fortunately, Oliver moves the conversation along before the topic sours everything. ‘Yes, I’ll email you today. No excuses, no waterlogged devices.’

I’m twirling my hair like last time. ‘This is all very exciting.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Do you think we should send Polly an Xbox?’

‘I think we could do better, especially in Dubai. But you call the shots. If you think Polly needs an Xbox, we’ll get her an Xbox.’

‘All right, we’ll see. Keep in touch with texts this week. Tell me everything you’re doing, no matter how banal. I don’t get to see you for another seven days now – my fault, I know – but I’ll be dying to know what you’re up to.’

‘Well, prepare for boredom.’ Because my intent now is to do nothing interesting, nothing even close to remarkable, until I get to Heathrow on Friday. ‘If you want banal, I can give you banal.’

‘Consider me prepped. Anyway, I have to go – talking to you makes me go slightly off-kilter. I’ve just put two different shoes on.’

‘Two different shoes?’ He must be back at the hotel, ready to go out, perhaps? ‘
Vous êtes très à la mode
!’

‘
Oui, oui. Je suis à la hauteur de la mode
. No, really, I’d better focus now – otherwise I’ll be booking you a ticket to Timbuktu.
Au revoir
, Millie. It’s a shame I have to schmooze all week with people who aren’t nearly as interesting as you. Hope to hear from you soon.’

‘You definitely will. Bye, Oliver.’

‘Wait, one more thing!’

‘Oh?’

‘I just want to say sorry again, for delaying the date. Work is always crazy for me.’
 

‘It’s okay. I understand. So does Steve – the peacock bouquet with the superiority complex.’

‘You named him?’

‘My mother is a Steve McQueen fan.’

He chuckles heartily. ‘You really are entertaining.’

‘I try to be. Sometimes you really have to have a sense of humour, especially on this continent.
Eurovision
is over for another year. Who will entertain if not me?’

‘And that’s why I’m taking you out of Europe, so there’s no pressure to entertain. Leave the microphone and sequinned costume behind.’

‘I will dispose of them as soon as this phone call ends.’

‘Good. Bye for now, Millie.’

‘Bye.’

I breathe a sigh of relief when the call is over. I’m not sure if the pressure is internal, external or an uneasy balance of both, but I feel it. I have to continually impress him or risk him getting bored and skipping to the next woman on Polly’s shortlist. With no entertainment of the sexual kind on this trip, I’ll have to be as charming as humanly possible.

I think he means it when he says there’s no pressure in that respect. After all, it’s our first official date. He said he was booking separate rooms, and I’ll hold him to that. Really, I will. I’m not ready to sleep with him.

I send Blair another text asking if he’s all right. Of course, he doesn’t respond, but it leaves me thinking: am I going to be all right, leaving him behind like this?

I stop myself from answering, and instead go back upstairs to fetch Abby’s iPad. I’ll research Dubai, have a shower and then go to bed early – hopefully getting to sleep without obsessing over the man I woke up with this morning.

***

Blair is a mess when he returns on Saturday night. Actually, it’s technically already Sunday when he rings the doorbell at around three in the morning, pressing it repeatedly until I come downstairs to open the door. As soon as I set eyes on him, I know that he’s drunk: dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, shirt half-tucked and jeans that appear to be beer-stained. Oh, and that smell – all sour and heady like he’s been showering under a lager tap.

This is not what I want for him. Having a night out is good, but if I had to bet on it, I’d say he was drinking to forget, not to celebrate.
 

I did this to him. The damage has my name written all over it.

He sways back and forth on the step, rucksack in one hand and a bizarre smile on his face. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lady Emilia.’ He laughs, repeating my name again, this time in an exaggerated manner. ‘Lay-dee Em-eee-lee-ah.’
 

I step out of the way and try to coax him into the house. ‘Oh my God. Are you all right?’

He remains on the doorstep, pointing to himself with his free hand. ‘I’m fine. Sooo very fine. As fine as fine can be.’

‘Where are your keys then?’

‘Somewhere in my bag. And no, I’m not going to use the servants’ entrance, because today I’m not serving you.’

I don’t want to argue with him. I want him out of public view so he doesn’t make a fool out of himself. If he wants to have it out with me then fine, but he needs to do so indoors.

‘Get inside before the neighbours hear you,’ I say, trying not to sound too impatient.
 

At first, I think he’s going to protest. However, he stumbles past me, swinging his rucksack into the air and slurring something about Ascot. He then proceeds to kick the rucksack around like a football when it falls with a thud at the foot of the staircase, dribbling it along before losing his balance and grabbing onto the bannister for support. If we were younger this would be hilarious, but in context it’s just sad.

I shut the door behind me. ‘Drink all day, did you?’

He shrugs. ‘I got the double. Black Caviar and Moonlight Cloud.’ He points to the ceiling and waves happily. ‘Cloud.’