Lady: Impossible (44 page)

‘And you pissed away your winnings?’

‘Didn’t win that much. Not enough to impress you, anyway.’
 

Ouch. ‘Nice.’

Finally, he’s able to focus his gaze, staring at me with the same full-blown resentment he showed yesterday morning. ‘I don’t want your pity.’

The ache in my chest flares up again, grabbing hold like hooks. ‘I’m not pitying you.’

‘Whatever.’ Grumbling, he begins to stumble up the staircase, leaving his rucksack behind. He’s had two sick days already, but he’ll need another one tomorrow judging by the state he’s in.

‘My mother isn’t coming back until Monday now,’ I call after him.

He stops and looks down at me from the next flight. ‘I know that, Your Majesty.’

‘I’m just checking that you know.’

They must’ve spoken today, because yesterday she was under the impression that he only needed a day off. With my date with Oliver moved to next week, perhaps she didn’t really mind. If that’s the case, then I’m assuming she wouldn’t have answered the marchioness’s calls because, if she had, she might be a little more concerned about how I’m doing.
 

She knows better than to take other people’s words as gospel. Natural scepticism of gossip must be a Pembroke thing.

Sighing, I pick up his rucksack and slowly ascend the stairs, not wanting to catch up with him lest he accuses me of not leaving him alone. It feels lumpy, probably having been hastily packed. I can only hope he spent last night with his family and not somewhere more unsavoury.
 

I hear the slamming of doors the higher I get, and by the time I reach the attic door, I’m not surprised that it’s fully locked. I could very easily dig into his bag and find his keys, but I refrain, knowing it’ll only make him angrier. So I leave the rucksack at the door and try to come to terms with the fact that he’s finally home.

At least he’s back, I tell myself. I can stop wondering how he is. I know how he is – shattered, worse for wear and bound for a killer hangover in the morning.
 

A hungover butler is certainly not a detail Oliver has to know about. Today I texted him about breakfast cereal, how Katie Holmes filing for divorce is long overdue and the fact that bird fountains aren’t exactly the most useful of ornamental garden features. With every text, however, I got increasingly nervous about how he’d react to meeting Blair, whenever that may happen. If both men are here to stay, then they’re going to meet at some point – Blair does live here, after all. Even if Oliver isn’t threatened by the presence of a handsome male in my house, Blair certainly has a problem with him. Who knows if he’ll be able to keep it together?

I’m getting ahead of myself. Oliver may not even want to be seen coming in and out of this house. He has his reputation to think of.
 

Knowing yet again that there’s nothing I can do to appease Blair right now, I wearily head back down the stairs and decide on tomorrow’s peace offering. I’ll go out and buy something greasy for his breakfast and make him lots of coffee or one of those weird, gross-tasting concoctions that some people swear by. Either way, I reset my alarm and go back to sleep, still haunted by the memories of Thursday night.

However, I barely get twenty minutes’ rest before being roused by a ruckus somewhere in the house. Concerned that Blair has fallen down the stairs or tripped over an antique on one of the landings, I drag myself out of bed – again – grab my torch and go exploring for the source of the sound.

I stand on the stairs and hear groaning coming from the floor below me. Further investigation reveals that Blair has tripped over a hallway table that was moved during last week’s valuation. Picture frames are now strewn over the ground (at least two of them cracked) and the crystal paperweight has rolled away, coming to a stop next to the suit of armour further down the hall.

I look down and shine the light onto Blair’s face, attention he does not appreciate in the slightest.

He squints up at me. ‘Ack.’

‘What are you doing down here?’

‘Forgot to tidy the library yesterday. Table needs polishing.’

I swing the beam away from his face, noticing he’s changed his clothes and no longer smells like a uni party. ‘Well, at least you had the sense to shower first.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure you are, doing chores at this time of night.’ I step over him and crouch down, picking up one of the frames and tapping the cracked plastic. ‘Lucky for you, these were bought by Al. Nobody cares about them.’

‘Do you even like this Oliver guy, or do you just want his money?’

The question is asked with surprising clarity considering how drunk he is.
 

My heart is racing now. Say the wrong thing and he’ll hate me even more. Feed him a white lie and the same effect will be had. ‘I like him. He makes me laugh and I find the way he carries himself appealing.’

Even though the still-present hooks in my chest are burning, I think I’m telling the truth.

He groans again, a pained wail I’m not even sure he knows he’s emitting. I keep the light away from him, not wanting to highlight his embarrassment.
 

With some effort he sits up. ‘I could do with a kebab. Or a curry. With chips.’

I pause before answering, wondering if the brief exchange about Oliver really happened. He went from the subject of rival to fast food in under ten seconds. Maybe he doesn’t even realise he asked the question.

‘I’ll go out and get you all of that,’ I tell him, patting his arm.
 

‘I’ll drive.’

‘You can’t. You’re drunk.’

‘But I showered and everything.’ He takes a deep breath, perhaps trying not to slur so much. ‘Millie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you really think you’ve seen me before?’

‘You said I was mistaken, Blair.’

‘You are mistaken. In so many ways. You’re wrong.’

Frowning, I poke him in the chest to see how responsive he is. He merely groans again.

‘If I get you the food, will you feel better? I could be back in half an hour, depending on how quickly I can move.’

‘I’ll wait for you.’ He sighs tiredly. ‘I’ll keep waiting, even if you don’t want me to.’

I’m rendered speechless. I feel like he’s talking about something else. It’s the kind of thing someone says when he or she is waiting for the love of their lives to come to their senses, which of course doesn’t apply to us. We haven’t known each other for that long. While it’s true that I’ve never been so strongly attracted or challenged by anyone before – not to mention the amazing sex – I know we’re a fling of the past. The very, very recent past – but still the past.
 

‘Okay, you wait here and I’ll be back soon.’

Why am I so nervous now?

‘Wait right here?’

‘Or somewhere else in the house. Just be careful not to trip this time.’ I put the torch in his hand. ‘Here you go.’

‘Ohh, light.’

There are several things I haven’t done since my uni days, including eating a kebab at two in the morning, driving somewhere in flip-flops and wondering if a guy I’ve slept with wants more. Just now I’m about to do all three.

Chapter 22:
 

Knowing my favourite kebab shop in South Kensington is already closed, I make the executive decision to drive to a takeaway joint that I know to be pretty decent in Earl’s Court. If memory serves me correctly, there was an epic moment years ago when Henny almost had an orgasm after biting into one of their doner kebabs. I’d thought she was just recreating that scene from
When Harry Met Sally
, where Meg Ryan ‘fakes it’ in the diner, but she was apparently serious about the kebab being the best she’d ever tasted. I’d settled for chips and curry sauce, not wanting to be all ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, and was pretty satisfied in the end so, overall, it must be a safe bet (if drunken memories are in any way reliable, that is.)

On the way there, I have to stop myself from laughing. The situation is completely mad. Here I am, wearing yesterday’s jeans and an old oversized t-shirt, driving the Jag to get my butler the greasy food he needs to help him sober up. I checked on him just before I left, and he was still lying on the floor in the first-floor corridor, the only difference being that he was now waving the torch around like a one-man disco. He was also whistling to what sounded like an Oasis song.
 

He mentioned something two nights ago about drinking too much previously, that he reined it in because he didn’t want to set a bad example for his siblings. While he does deserve to let off a bit of steam, I hope I’m not triggering some sort of epic relapse. I may be getting ahead of myself with the damage talk, but I worry about him and what impact this is having on his mental state.

Sighing, I switch off the radio’s irritating late-night music. It’s not the only thing to get on my nerves: every traffic light does too. Once I’m onto the right stretch of Earl’s Court Road I start looking out for places to park, and luckily find a spot relatively close to the kebab place. It’s like the parking gods have granted me a special favour, just for this emergency. On second thought, maybe it’s not them at all. Maybe it’s the kebab gods thinking that Blair deserves this because he works so hard. Even better, it could be a merger of the relevant deities, all for a man who tripped over a table leg and survived to whistle ‘Wonderwall’ on loop.

Jesus, it’s late. I’ve really gone bonkers this time. Keep this up and I’ll be inventing my own brand of Scientology, based on late-night takeaways (free kebabs for all aliens, including Tom Cruise!).
 

I get out of the car, telling myself it’s not that late and that no one dodgy is going to jump out from an alleyway to assault me. Flip-flops weren’t the best option, safety-wise, but they at least make me look casual. I join the queue, order without too much trouble (Surely he’d want doner and not chicken?) and wait eagerly near the counter, my mouth watering from the aroma of meats and spices.

Of course, I’m not the only one waiting keenly for their food. There’s a bunch of young guys standing to my left – clearly inebriated but cheerful nonetheless. I may feel like I’m slumming it in this outfit, but I’m apparently doing enough to get their attention. One of them, a lanky lad with a buzz cut, sidles up to me and starts talking.

‘You’re out late tonight, darlin’.’
 

I’m a bit perturbed by the attention. To make things even more awkward, when he tries to wink, it comes off as more of a lazy eye situation. His three mates break into raucous laughter, slapping him on the head and immediately giving him shit (the technical term for these situations, of course).

‘Smooth, Nathan, so smooth.’

‘Isn’t she a bit old? Thirty? Probably a mum.’

‘A yummy mummy.’

‘A MILT.’

‘It’s MILF, dickhead. What the fuck is a MILT?’

‘A Mum I’d Like to… to…’

‘To… no, nothing.’

‘To… Tap?’

‘Tap what?’

‘Tap whatever she’ll let you.’

‘Ahahaha. Yeah. That’ll do.’

Lanky Nathan shoves them off, telling them to shut up in no uncertain terms. I have the impulse to laugh because it is funny, in a pathetic, juvenile way, but it’s difficult not to feel mortified. Do I look old to them? Should I have put on make-up?
 

Then again, why would I put on make-up to impress a bunch of drunken uni students anyway? I’m not here for them. And why am I asking myself so many questions?

I force a smile, thinking they’ll leave me alone if I show that I have a sense of humour. They do leave me alone, but only because their order is ready. The four of them walk out onto the street, still giving each other shit, before disappearing into the night and possibly harassing other MILTs.

Ah, to be young and a moron.
 

I’m left wistful by the encounter, and start thinking of my younger years once I’m back in the car. I’m probably old and boring now if I’m reminiscing like this, even if I have spent the last year as a student. Blair likely knows a story or two, thanks to my mother’s babbling on about my antics to him that day (which I’m sure wasn’t the first). Everyone is the same in some way – we all want to have a good time. It’s just that when you get older, the price you pay the next day becomes dearer.

These memories of yesterday play through my head as I drive home at about the same pace a grandma would. Then, after two shocking attempts at parallel parking (it’s the smell of chips – makes it hard to concentrate), I get out of the car and immediately wonder whether Mrs Skene is up and about at this hour, spying on the street. If she is, she’ll have seen me almost trip on the curb before struggling with the front gate – the same gate Eliza had no idea how to open yesterday – and finally letting myself into the house.
 

Continuing the non-stealth theme, I clumsily bound up the stairs with the plastic bag of food, forgetting that running in flip-flops is usually reserved for excited nine-year-olds at the public pool.

Come on, Millie. Get it together.

I hear a groan from Blair. ‘Millie, is that you?’
 

I make it up to the first-floor landing. Blair is still lying in exactly the same spot, like he’s an extra in a production of
Hamlet
where the ‘dead’ aren’t moved until the entire play is over. As far as I know, no such production exists, but maybe it should. It would be entertaining to watch the surviving actors try to navigate their way around the bodies on stage.

Again, I’m being weird. I think I need sleep just as badly as he does.

‘You stopped whistling,’ I say, kicking off my flip-flops.
 

He scratches his nose and tries to keep his eyes open. So drunkenly adorable. ‘Yeah. Tired.’
 

‘Uh-uh. Open those eyes. I have meaty goodness here.’

A split second later, I realise this is something a guy would say. It was possibly going to be Lanky Nathan’s next pick-up line before he was rudely cut off by his mates.

Blair blinks at me, apparently not understanding. I suddenly panic again on remembering he said that line about waiting for me even if I don’t want him to.