Lady: Impossible (51 page)

‘What’s your opinion on tennis?’ Gwen asks me. ‘Sven and I were just going to practise our game together, but now that we know Oliver is here, Sven would love to challenge him to a match. Of course, we don’t want to hinder the audition process.’

Oliver shakes his head. ‘I’d love to smash you again, Sven, but I’m not sure I want Millie witnessing my on-court aggression.’

‘It doesn’t have to be a five set match,’ Sven replies. ‘Three sets is fine. Though I’ll probably dispose of you in two.’

Oliver smirks. ‘What absolute rubbish.’

I’m finding it very difficult to read Oliver’s expression. Does he actually want to play tennis today? I still haven’t answered Gwen’s question, though admittedly I don’t think it’s my approval they’re waiting for.

Gwen is not going to let Oliver go. She wants the match to happen today. ‘Come on, a three-set match. Millie won’t mind watching for an hour or two.’ She turns to me, her piercing grey eyes telling me this isn’t really negotiable. ‘Or, if you hate tennis, they can play during my spa appointment. Today at eleven. And you can take my place for the facial. Please, Millie. Sven has wanted a rematch for ages.’

Oliver looks at me apologetically. ‘Only if it’s okay with you. I promise to go all Federer on him and be done by lunch.’

I don’t have a choice here. It’s hilarious and sad at the same time. ‘I’ll take the spa appointment, thank you, Gwen.’ I turn to Sven. ‘No offence. Spectating has never been my strong point.’

‘You’re a good sport. I really appreciate this,’ he says, pumping his fist before returning his attention to Oliver. ‘I’ll book a court. See you at ten-forty-five.’

I finally get to sit down after the arrangement is confirmed. Oliver appears troubled, staring into space for at least ten seconds after they’ve left.

‘That wasn’t the right thing to do, was it?’ he asks. ‘I should’ve said no.’

I laugh and start cutting up my fruit. ‘I don’t think you had a choice there.’

‘Are you really okay with this?’ He pulls a face and drums his fingers on the table. ‘I guess it’s only an hour or so.’

‘Hey, I got a spa appointment out of that.’ I pause, a realisation dawning on me. ‘Wait. I should’ve said that I wanted to watch you play. I should be supporting you court-side, not having a facial.’

The admission seems to put Oliver at ease, probably because it shows I don’t know the right protocol either.
 

‘That was the first “couple conversation” I’ve had in long time. It was a little intense, wasn’t it?’

‘They’ve obviously had more practice. They double-teamed us. I was too scared to protest.’

‘Oh my God, me too.’

I nod. ‘Power couple. I’m glad they didn’t ask to play doubles.’

‘I suppose I should eat something then.’

‘Do you want me to get the food? You look a little peaky.’

‘I don’t even know why I’m scared. I’m a much better tennis player.’

‘Don’t let him psych you out. That’s what he wants.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’

We do that thing where you keep nodding until you end up in a fit of giggles. It’s a refreshing moment. Interacting as part of a couple isn’t something I’m used to and, while I was too docile for my liking, it’s certainly an encounter I can learn from – or, rather, we can learn from.

Anxiety does creep back into my mind after breakfast, however. Oliver takes me to the aquarium, holding my hand as we meander through the mazes and tunnels. Every time we’re in the vicinity of a couple, or even a family, I wonder about the power balance in those relationships. Does the girlfriend or wife say ‘no’ when they want to, or do they go along with whatever their other half wants? Because I’m not sure what right I’ll have to insist on what I want. I feel it’s only right to defer to Oliver, as he’s the one with the money.
 

I’m not sure if this is a normal feeling. A lot of gold-diggers seem awfully shameless and forthright with their demands, kicking up a fuss if they don’t get the jewellery or the clothes they want, for example. Is there such a thing as a happy medium between being shameless and being a walkover?

The anxiety builds over the morning to the point where my beautician – well, Gwen’s beautician – comments on the tension in my neck muscles during my facial. She gives me a spiel about how I need to relax so that my face will be more receptive to the treatment. ‘Neck and face cooperating’ is an anatomically confusing explanation, but I merely ‘um’ and ‘aah’, causing me to get even more tense because maybe I shouldn’t be agreeing when I obviously don’t understand.

On a related point, this is the life I’m setting myself up for. Fine dining, spa appointments, making plans around Oliver’s tennis matches. I mentioned taking up a hobby yesterday, so I’ll have to come up with a reputable pastime in the near future. He may not want a doormat, but it’s up to me to be a busy enough non-doormat, otherwise I’ll be doing nothing but waiting for him to return from work every day.

Perhaps this is too deep a thought process for right now. I lie back in the reclined chair and close my eyes so the beautician can cover them with cucumber slices. I breathe in the fresh scent, appreciating the meditative music and atmospheric lighting. The cucumbers, however, remind me of cucumber sandwiches, which remind me of afternoon tea – which reminds me of Blair.

His mobile number starts running through my head again, and I begin to visualise it in a
Matrix
-style way: strings of green code travelling every which way in a black landscape. A lump grows in my throat, and I have to take deep breaths in order not to hyperventilate.

I remember muttering an apology to Blair for not being up to his standards. I’m not independent. I’m educated but don’t apply myself to anything outside the estate. The only society I contribute to is high society, and even then my appearances are few and far between. It may not be fundamentally wrong – and there are a lot of good-hearted women who lead lives like Abby’s – but I can see how it rankles Blair.
 

He probably thinks I should do so much more. I wonder what it would take for him to be proud of me.
 

‘Are you okay, Miss Pembroke?’

I hum to indicate that I’m still alive. The face mask is hardening, so it’s not like I can express myself by way of facial movement. And words are beyond me… I’ll probably spout out Blair’s number, which I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate.

I wonder if he gave his number to anyone last Saturday when he went out for drinks. I mean, it’s possible. He was angry and felt rejected, after all.

No, he said he’d wait for me, whatever that means.

Oh my God, what did he mean? Why haven’t I asked him yet?

I feel a hand on my shoulder. ‘Miss Pembroke, are you having trouble breathing?’

This time I force myself to say something. ‘I’m okay. I just get anxious sometimes.’

‘I can call the tennis-court staff to get an update, if you’d like.’

‘No, no. I’m sure Oliver is doing fine, thank you.’

Oliver is very likely smashing Sven up and down the court. It’s Blair that I don’t know about.

Forget waiting until tonight. I should call him as soon as I’ve left the spa. If I clear the air with him, maybe I’ll speculate less and be able to properly focus on the rest of this trip.

Or maybe it’ll make things worse. My duty is to Oliver, and I should go to the tennis court like a loyal woman would.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

I am definitely not okay. The beautician ceases treatment, placing the chair back in an upright position so that I can drink a cup of peppermint tea whilst trying to get a grip on myself. Distressed, and hideous in this green mask, I’m inadvertently reminded of last week, when I thought Blair quoted
Frankenstein
. ‘From darkness to promote me’ is the final line of a three-line quote from the novel’s title page, a quotation that’s actually from Milton’s
Paradise Lost
.

I laugh bitterly. I still don’t know what Blair meant by it, if he meant anything at all. As I won’t be calling him until much later, I suppose the only thing I can do is lie back again, let the treatment continue, and hope the supposed fate of Atlantis – the submerged city after which this hotel was named – isn’t going to be a metaphor for my love life.
 

***

Oliver wins the tennis match, but not without losing the second set. His explanation, offered afterwards at lunch, is that he began to worry about how I was doing at the spa. I snorted and told him not to lie, as it doesn’t matter if he won by an inch or a mile: winning is winning. That’s what Vin Diesel said in
The Fast and the Furious,
so it must be true.

We’re now milling about in the helipad waiting area, gearing up for our sunset helicopter tour. It is definitely balmy out here, even though it’s almost seven. At least this helipad is at ground level. I’m not sure how good I’d be waiting at the top of the hotel.
 

The last few hours have flown by (no, that is not a helicopter pun). After lunch, we took an afternoon stroll in the hotel’s luxury goods mall. I had to insist on Oliver not buying me anything, so we agreed to look for a token gift for Polly. It took a while for something to jump out at us, and in the end we bought her a crystal replica of the hotel. Yes, it’s kind of cheesy, but at least it wasn’t chocolate or a keyring. We could’ve done worse.

Once the gift was taken care of, we went to view a fish-feeding at the lagoon, before heading to the beachside bar at Nasimi Beach for a drink and some snacks. It’s all been very fun, but even in the most enjoyable moments, the Blair question sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind. I found myself wanting to buy him a little gift too, only to realise that he’d see it as a worthless insult. I may not know what he wants, but I know he doesn’t want pity.

I’m running out of time. It’s almost four in London. I’ll have to call Blair after this helicopter ride ends.

My worrying must be visible because Oliver places his hand on my arm – his lips pursed tightly when I look at him.

‘How did you play tennis in this heat?’ I ask lightly. ‘I feel like I’m going to melt like an ice lolly.’

He steps out so that he’s facing me, seriousness marking his features as he removes his sunglasses. ‘There’s something that’s been bothering me since lunch. I was going to ask you about it later, but I can’t bear to wait any longer.’

‘Oh?’

He tilts his head, hesitating. ‘Just hear me out, okay?’

‘Uh, sure.’
 

Oh my God. He’s changed his mind. Maybe Sven and Gwen think I’m a liability and told him as such. Those scheming, double-teaming Swedes! I will boycott all things Swedish for the rest of the year. No IKEA, no ABBA, no Daim bars and no meatballs. I’ll even give up
True Blood
because of Alexander Skarsgård.
 

Wait, I’m getting carried away. It’s not a boycott if I don’t enjoy any of those items in the first place (Alexander excepted). The logical thing to do would be to let Oliver explain what he means before coming up with a blanket ban on any nation’s culture or goods.
 

He cringes and rocks back on his heels as he reveals the issue. Conscious of his discomfort, I push my sunglasses up so that he’s not talking to a reflection.

‘I pressed the spa lady for information. She sounded worried about you when I called to have the services billed to me rather than to Gwen. In fact, she asked three times how you were feeling.’

I try not to swallow visibly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not following… What information? Is my skin bad? Did I offend her when I said I didn’t like the cucumber slices?’

‘Your skin is fine,’ he says with an exasperated chuckle. ‘What I’m asking is: did I make you anxious by abandoning you earlier today?’

‘You didn’t abandon me.’ The answer is automatic, defensive even. I can’t have him knowing the truth about why I had a panic attack. ‘Everyone gets nervous sometimes. That was my moment.’

‘Please be honest,’ he says gently, taking my hands in his before lowering his voice. ‘I’ve really enjoyed today, but I’m worried something is bothering you. You don’t feel pressured, do you? I know this is a weekend away, but I meant what I said about no pressure. I want to do this right. You don’t have to sleep with me tonight just because I’m paying the bill.’

I hang my head. I’ve been giving myself credit for revealing the money problem, but it’s not as if that’s my only secret.
 

I’m careful to breathe properly, to tolerate each intake of hot, dry air so that I don’t pass out. ‘It’s true. I’m not quite ready for that step. But that’s not the reason I had a bit of a panic attack at the spa. There’s so much going on in my brain, that’s all. I’m worried about…’ I look up at him, thinking it insincere not to look him in the eye. ‘I’m worried about doing the wrong thing.’

‘Then that makes two of us,’ he says emphatically.

The fact that this conversation is taking place in a public place is more than a little strange. In some way it’s a testament to how far we’ve come from the time he ditched me at The Ritz. Our helicopter ride might be a private charter, but there are still other groups here waiting for their respective bookings, and as far as they’re concerned we could be a couple on our honeymoon.

‘I – I just think it’s too soon.’

It is too soon. I have to get over someone else first.

He smiles broadly. ‘It’s fine. Really.’

‘But how can it be fine?’ I mentally slap myself for sounding so plaintive, so teenage. I’m like the prude who’s worried she’s going to get dumped for not putting out.

‘Not all men are dogs. I want you. Trust me, I do. But waiting is a very small price to pay to make sure we protect what we have.’

My heart flutters. I’m flattered that he does want to sleep with me. With that flattery, however, comes pressure, perhaps not from him, but from me internally. If one of us is going to ruin this now, it’s going to be me.

I try to lighten the mood. ‘Will it help if I wear baggy clothes and don’t wear make-up?’

Again, he bowls me over with his confidence. ‘I’d still find you attractive.’

‘What if I wear an Arsenal strip?’ I ask, knowing he hates Arsenal.