Lady: Impossible (45 page)

I move the conversation along. ‘Do you want to eat here? Or get into bed and then eat? I’ve got some water for you too – let’s flush out the alcohol, shall we?’

He frowns, directing the torch at the table and switching it on and off. ‘Huh?’

‘That’s not a bed, Blair. It’s a table.’

‘Oh.’ He groans again, head lolling to the side. ‘Bed is far away.’

Oh no. If I have to help him up to his room, I’m going to go insane from the flashbacks of being fucked against his door.

There has to be another option.

‘Oh!’ I’ve got the perfect solution. ‘There are guest rooms on this floor. Let’s get you to the purple one. It’s haunted, but don’t worry – the ghosts won’t eat your food.’

‘Where’s my backpack?’ he asks, smiling goofily.

I’m not sure he even heard me, though at least he’s not slurring as much now. I kneel down and set the food aside. ‘Okay, I’m going to help you up and we’ll walk to the purple bedroom –’

‘Purple?’

‘Yes, purple.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Really, really purple?’

‘Yes, extremely. If Barney the Dinosaur and Tinky-Winky had a baby, this bedroom would be it.’

‘Huh?’

I shouldn’t tell jokes. It’s only going to lead to more problems. ‘Never mind. I forgot they’re both guys, or at least asexual.’

‘Are they gay?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know them.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m very selective in the company I keep.’

‘You have a company?’

‘Yes, and it’s in the purple bedroom. Let’s go there.’

‘Okay.’

Helping him up is not an easy feat, not when he seems to think I can lift him off the floor unaided. I’ve got my forearm under his shoulder in a vain attempt to get him to shift. It’s not until ten seconds later that he begins to move of his own accord, using his elbows to prop himself up before somehow managing to stand upright. I place my hand on his back and lead him over to the correct room, where he then collapses onto the bed.

He groans and rolls over onto his back. ‘Dark.’

‘I know, I know.’ I place my hand on his forearm so he knows I’m still close by. ‘Will your eyes hurt if I turn the lamp on?’

‘Dark.’

I’ve forgotten how incoherent people get when they’re in this state. Knowing the torch isn’t going to do the trick, I walk around to the other side of the bed and switch on the lamp there, not wanting to sting his eyes by turning on the closest one.

He hums contentedly. ‘Hmm.’

‘Stay here. I’ll be right back.’

I rush out to the corridor, almost tripping over the suit of armour in my haste. I collect the plastic bag and am more careful on my way back, impressed that Blair has managed to sit up against the headboard in the time it takes me to re-enter the room.

‘From darkness to promote me,’ he says, swaying slightly but managing to bring one knee up to his chest. Why he’s quoting fragments from
Frankenstein
, I’m not quite sure.

I climb up onto the bed and settle next to him. ‘Do you always quote Shelley when you’re drunk?’

‘Food?’ He clumsily reaches into the plastic bag, eyes lighting up at the sight of the kebab. Guessing that he’s going to struggle with opening up the box, I help him. It probably shouldn’t be cute, but it is anyway – there’s a look of intense concentration on his face when he chomps down, eyes fixated on the food, his unkempt hair making him appear a little crazed.

I bring out the chip container. ‘Don’t forget these.’

He grunts in approval, alternating between bites of kebab and chips. I worry that bringing the final dish into the mix will turn him into an unstoppable eating machine, but experience tells me that some people get cross when you deny them curry sauce with their chips (given, those people were northern.) So I open that plastic container too, and hold it steady for him as I patiently wait for him to finish.
 

It’s the least I can do after upsetting him so badly. I just hope he doesn’t get indigestion.
 

After polishing off the bottle of water, he holds out the kebab – there’s about a quarter remaining – the meat, lettuce and sauce now a mangled mess. ‘Yours.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s for you.’

It’s an answer he won’t accept. He waves it around in front of me, eventually holding it up to my mouth when I won’t free up a hand to accept it. I take a bite and chew and swallow in what I hope is a ladylike manner, only to have him try to feed me again.
 

I relent, taking another bite and then eating some chips, all while he watches. He then takes the curry sauce from me after finishing the kebab. Again, he wants to share, dipping a couple of chips into the sauce container for me and gently putting them into my mouth. I eat a little and then shake my head at eating more, happy that he seems a little more settled.

That should be it for the night. He’s fed and ready for bed – dental care permitting. As I won’t be brushing his teeth for him, I clear the rubbish from the bed and chuck it in the bin. It’s then that I stand back and realise this will just make the room smell greasy, much like what happened to the car.
 

I fish out the offending rubbish and head for the door. ‘Just going to chuck this out. I’ll be back.’

He perks up. ‘Backpack?’

‘Yes, I’ll fetch it for you in a second.’

It’s odd, taking care of him like this. I don’t think anyone takes care of Blair. I find myself wondering when he last had a girlfriend, and whether she tended to him after a big night out. I doubt he’d tell me if I asked, so I try to cast the thought aside, much like the rubbish I throw into the kitchen bin.

However, as with all things Blair-related, barely a minute passes before I become fixated on the issue again. My head is spinning when I reach the attic, where I left his rucksack earlier. On some level I must be traumatised, because I end up hugging this bag like it’s a lost friend or memory and carry on nursing it as I head back to the first floor. Originally, my thirst for knowledge was driven by both curiosity and frustration. Now I really do want to know more about Blair, beyond the fact that he likes to be in bed with me. Maybe then I can accurately judge whether he’s okay or not.

But this isn’t the time to feel so sentimental. I steel myself for our next set of interactions and carry his belongings with a lighter grip.
 

‘Sleepy?’ I ask as I re-enter the room.

He’s curled up on the bed now, head resting on one of the frilly lavender pillows. ‘Yeah.’
 

I bring the rucksack over to him, allowing him to unpack its contents like he’s got Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpet bag. Clothes. Earphones. His shaving bag. A Steinbeck novel. Two Oyster cards. Several sheets of folded A4 paper, one of which falls off the bed onto the floor. An apple. And, most surprising of all, a can of beans.

I stand by, wondering what he’s looking for exactly. ‘Have you lost something? Toothbrush?’
 

He lifts his head and peers into the now mostly empty bag, an action that quickly exhausts him. ‘Wallet. Upstairs. Jeans.’
 

I have the urge to reach over and put my hand on his shoulder when he buries his face into the pillow. I know what this is about now – money and pride.

‘You don’t have to pay me back.’

Predictably, he insists, turning his head and looking directly at me. ‘I have money.’

The last thing I want is to come across as patronising. I kneel down bedside the bed and place my hand on his cheek, gently rubbing my thumb over his two-day stubble. ‘Don’t worry about it. Really, it’s my treat.’

He swats my hand away, anger flashing in his eyes. I know he’s drunk and moody, but the rejection of the gesture still hurts.

‘I don’t want your pity,’ he says.

I wring my hands, anxious to resolve this calmly. ‘It’s not pity. I owe you, anyway.’

‘For what? Sex?’

I let the sentence hang in the air, hoping he’ll realise how insulting it is. ‘Don’t be like that.’
 

Instead of replying, he shuts his eyes tightly, as if he’s silently praying for an intruder to leave. Upset, I stand and step over to the foot of the four-poster, grabbing the covers and hauling them upward. It’s a haphazard attempt at tucking him in, mainly because I didn’t tidy his belongings first. I shove most of the items into the rucksack and dump it on the ground before pulling the covers again.

I’m about to leave when I accidentally step on the piece of paper that fell to the floor earlier. With Blair seemingly asleep, I bend down and pick it up, now noticing that it looks like some sort of grid highlighted in all sorts of fluorescent colours. Rather than being a new ‘fluoro tartan’, I realise it’s a timetable, a schedule he’s drawn up to keep track of his sibling’s activities. Who’s at work and when, who needs to complete certain chores and errands and who needs to buy groceries and with what money. It must be his way of micromanaging from afar. I don’t even have Al’s mobile number, and here’s Blair making sure his siblings are looked after even though he lives elsewhere.

‘Busy reading?’

Startled, I drop the timetable and place my hand on my chest instead. ‘Jesus. Busy faking sleep?’

He looks at me sullenly, like I’m the sole cause of his exhaustion. ‘I wish you didn’t live here.’

Ouch again. I’m struck by a prickly sensation right in my chest. ‘Look, I –’

‘I’m tired of looking. That’s all I can do, isn’t it? Look from a respectable distance.’

‘I don’t understand what you want from me.’ It’s true – I am questioning what’s going on here. However, it’s a stupid thing to say to a drunken man. Heck, it’s a stupid thing to say to a sober man. It either provokes a response that no one wants to hear, or results in a lie designed to protect one’s pride.

He sighs angrily. ‘I wish I had money.’
 

I rein in my urge to ask why, because it sounds like he wishes he could compete for me properly. That would make his goal the same as Oliver’s, even though Oliver is clearly looking for a wife.

‘I wish I could look after you,’ Blair adds.

‘You already look after me. Every day.’ I step back, worried he’ll see that my cheeks are flushed. ‘Just get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

Yes, because hangovers are a fantastic state of being, right up there with nirvana.

He regards me coolly before shutting his eyes and sighing once again. ‘I hate you.’

I’m stunned by the comment, I really am. His being drunk doesn’t lessen the impact. In fact it heightens it, because this is how he must really feel, what he wishes he could say but can’t because he’s an employee.

I’m not completely stupid. In some way, I do get it. If I hadn’t come down for the summer, his working life would be a whole lot easier and his personal life would be a lot less complicated. Wanting to sleep with me conflicts with his priorities – his values, even.

‘Well, I don’t hate you,’ I whisper.

He snorts but doesn’t acknowledge me further. The night ends here.

If we were twenty, this summer would just be one big carefree affair. But we’re not twenty.

I pad around the bed, switch off the lamp and walk backwards out of the room, all while biting my lip so hard that I almost draw blood.

***

Usually, the only mail on Sunday is, well, the
Mail on Sunday
(not that I ever deign to read that particular ‘newspaper’). Today, however, there is something in the letterbox, though I’m assuming it was delivered yesterday. For all that time spent in the front garden, I didn’t even check the post.
 

That’s the power of a Blair problem – anything rudimentary gets forgotten. As far as I know, he’s still asleep in the purple bedroom and probably still hating me for whatever reason too. Admittedly, I did think about taking some paracetamol and water up to him, but after what he said last night, I decided it’s best not to force my presence on him.

I don’t even know if he’ll remember anything from last night. Alcohol-induced amnesia can be quite debilitating. I know this because I called my mother this morning to see how she is, only to have to listen to her admit that she’s too hungover to properly account for how she feels about the estate, the valuation or the fact that she misses me.

Alcohol, it seems, is the prevailing theme of the weekend. The postcard that arrived yesterday even carries the theme – ‘Greetings from cider country’, emblazoned over the photo. Interestingly, the postmark is Somerset. I know Al has friends who own a cider distillery in that region, so that’s my best guess as to why he’s there. If I had nothing better to do, I suppose I’d treat myself to some quality cider, too.

Indeed, after deciphering the code in the sitting room, it seems I still know a thing or two about my brother.

Dearest Millie,

[Sorrok!]
Looks like my visit to London is going to be delayed
. So many friends to see, so much fine cider to test.
 

See you in a few weeks.

Cheers, Al

He was likely more than a little tipsy when he wrote this, as his handwriting is awfully sloppy and the message even more brief than usual. How he managed to successfully write in code in this instance is a mystery.
 

Either way, the postcard makes me angry all over again. He’s living it up, enjoying top-notch farmhouse cider, while I spend yet another day at home, wondering what to do about the men in my life. Yes, I know my problem is hardly cataclysmic, but it’s still very trying. As I’ve said all along, the least he could do is call, especially if he doesn’t actually intend to visit.

Stupid, absent Alastair. Doesn’t he in any way miss me? He may have sent me a couple of postcards, but the control is still in his hands. I only get to see him when he wants to be seen, which is completely unfair. Has it never occurred to him that I’m willing to meet him without the parents present? I should storm down to Somerset, just so I can throw a glass of his friend’s cider in his face. Better yet, I’ll pummel him with the very apples the cider is made from.

I lie down on the settee, an awfully uncomfortable position indeed. These chairs weren’t made for fainting women. Nevertheless, I stay horizontal, placing the postcard over my eyes like a paper eye mask.