Lady: Impossible (54 page)

I can’t help myself. I lunge forward and wrap my arms around him.
 

‘Whoa,’ he says, raising his arms.
 

He’s not hugging me back, which should tell me the embrace is unwelcome. Still, I burrow my face into his chest and try to remember what it’s like to be held by him. He smells like soap and fresh linen tonight, the cotton of his t-shirt soft on my skin. I hold him like I’m trying to hold onto us – he’s solid, real in my arms.
 

His heart is beating very quickly. Unfortunately, that could mean any number of things.

‘Millie, please. Don’t.’

His tone is stern. Chastened, I pull away, shuffling awkwardly before him.
 

I can’t bring myself to apologise, not when I already miss the contact.
 

Shit. I’m going to cry again. What is wrong with me?

He sighs and moves out of the way, gesturing for me to come in. ‘Did you really have to wear that?’

‘I was going to take a nap before.’ I sit down in front of his bedside table, tucking my legs to the side and resting my head on his mattress. ‘Sorry. I should’ve changed.’

Oh, Postman Pat. I think you’re unwelcome here.

Blair glances at the door, as if he’s wondering whether or not to shut it. Even when he does close it, he still seems unsure.
 

‘Don’t read into that,’ he says gently, cocking his head at the door.
 

‘Okay.’

He stays where he is. I lower my gaze and see there are two plates of food on the bedspread. While both meals are covered in cling film, one only has a half-eaten croissant remaining, whereas the other has a croissant, jams and small bowl of fruit salad.

‘That’s for you. I was going to leave it at your door earlier, but I chickened out and brought it up with me.’

‘Oh.’ I lift my head and reach for the plate. ‘Thanks.’

He continues to watch me intently. I unwrap the cling film with one hand while bringing the other one to my face so I can shield my eyes. It’s a vain attempt to stop him from seeing that I’m blinking back tears.

‘Postman Pat has a kid, you know. A boy.’

I drop my hand from my face. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, in the new series. I only found out the other day when Francie commented on my ringtone for you.’ Slowly, he comes around to the foot of the bed, drumming his fingers on the brass bed knob. ‘Not the
Postman Pat
I remember as a kid.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Probably.’

‘What if he isn’t? Who’s the mother?’ I ask, sounding way too indignant. ‘Someone on his postal route?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Maybe that’s why Royal Mail didn’t sponsor the remake. Not setting a good example for British family values.’

‘Let’s not get carried away now. I’m sure he’s married. It’s a children’s show.’

‘Jesus, a kid. And what happened to the black and white cat?’

Instead of replying with the expected ‘I don’t know’, he ambles over and sits with his back against the bed, a mere foot away from me.
 

He twists so he can address me directly, digging an elbow into the mattress. ‘Please don’t cry.’

Of course, once he says this, the tears start falling. ‘Don’t tell me. They got rid of the cat?’

Worst cover story, ever. Worse than when Al told
The Sun
that, no, it wasn’t him streaking down a street in Monte Carlo during the Monaco Grand Prix, as he was actually attending mass in the cathedral at the time. He’s not even Catholic.

Blair caresses my cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. Somehow I know not to swoon. He’s still being guarded, even with this gesture.

‘Okay, so I can’t go out with you,’ I say. ‘Not publicly anyway. Doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together in private.’

‘It’s not in private. It’s in secret.’

‘So? I’m not ashamed of you. It’s simply a case of bad timing.’

‘When would it be good timing? When I’m not working here, and when the tabloids don’t care what your brother is up to? When I suddenly win the lottery? Save the estate with my winnings?’

‘Oliver texted me two hours ago and I had to force myself to reply.’

He tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘Which is exactly why you shouldn’t get upset over me. Don’t split your attention.’

The argument in the laundry was our worst ever, but this follow-up has so far been void of apologies. It reminds me of that line from
Love Story.
‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’ I’m sure there’s some lesser version of this statement, one that doesn’t use the ‘L’ word. It’s not like I’m in love with Blair.

I can’t be. I don’t even know what love feels like. Plus, this isn’t happy. It’s sad.

‘I tried to cheer myself up,’ I say as he withdraws his hand. ‘I listened to S Club 7 for two hours.’

He offers me a sad smile. ‘That helps does it?’

‘The power of “S Club Party” should not be underestimated.’

He nods, but doesn’t say anything, sitting back and staring at the wall instead. I chew idly on the croissant, the silence lulling me into recalling things, like our time together in this bed.

‘I’ve never felt this attached before. To anyone. Ever.’

The words were delivered in my voice. I was the one who spoke them. Yet I don’t think I intended to say them out loud.

Blair scowls as he turns to face me. ‘Don’t.’

‘You want me to lie then?’

‘Ever heard of “biting your tongue”?’

‘I’ve heard of it. Sounds limiting.’

‘It is.’

‘Yeah? So what are you not telling me?’

Face suddenly ashen, he gets to his feet, looking down at me with pained eyes.
 

‘Your mother hired me because she pities me. She says she doesn’t, but she does. I never wanted a life in service. I wanted to be like everyone else. Finish uni, get a job, have a life. I’ve been waiting on people for years, picking up after them, running their errands. You think I’m pathetic for being down on myself, for not wanting more, for not trying to get a better job? Well, I’ll tell you what, some days it’s hard enough getting up in the morning. For every minute I’m happy with you, there’s a thousand where chasing you makes me feel like shit. So when I say, “leave it”, I mean it, Millie. Leave it.’

Terrified of his full-blown resentment, I take my plate of food and scurry out of the room, almost tripping on the main staircase in my haste. Steadying myself, I safely get back to the second floor, only to see something out of the corner of my eye as I dart back into my room.

My mother.
 

Chapter 27:

You know things are bad when I’d rather have tea with Eliza than be at home with Mother and Blair.
 

It’s Tuesday afternoon now, and my mother still hasn’t asked me about Sunday’s incident. I know she saw me. Even on a good day, it’d be difficult to explain that kind of scene away. Twenty-eight-year-old daughter fleeing from the top floor in a t-shirt, with tears streaming down her face and a continental breakfast in her hands? I don’t know when that would ever be a rational scene. Maybe in a television commercial for cling film in which I become emotional about food freshness… Or an instructional video on how to look like a sad, hungry aristocratic fool. One day, if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up on YouTube – and no, I’d rather not be associated with the word ‘viral’.
 

What I think she’s doing is scoping out the situation, watching me, watching Blair and attempting to read any signals. Honestly, she could be thinking anything. The best-case scenario is that she reckons I was generally upset from the pressure of being matched with Oliver, a mindset that made it all too easy to pick an argument with the butler, who was in a bad mood already from feeling under the weather. The worst-case scenario? Anything that involves the suspicion of an affair going on right under her nose.

In any case, there’s tension for her to detect. I’ve been morose for the last forty-eight hours, hiding in my room and hardly eating. Communication was minimal yesterday, with the usual brief check-ins with Father and Abby, and a quick phone call to Oliver on his lunch break, where he reiterated what a good time he had on the weekend. But surprisingly, out of the two of us, it’s Blair who is more visibly out of sorts. Not only has he been openly brooding, carrying out his duties with no amount of pep, he’s also forgetting things and misunderstanding instructions – resulting in careless mistakes such as misplacing post, forgetting serving spoons, ironing half a skirt and even getting the date wrong. All of this tells me he’s not okay with what transpired on Sunday, whether it’s the ongoing resentment of having to cede to someone else or because he doesn’t actually believe what he told me. Perhaps it’s both.
 

Anyway, the fact is that talking about Dubai sends me into a tailspin, so why not hang out with Eliza instead? As painful as other subjects are, they’re not as traumatic as my current crisis. It’s like I’m the body in that board game ‘Operation’, but every part of me is buzzing because nothing can be extracted without incredible pain. And to make things worse, Oliver has been texting today with happy replies to my boring texts.

I am a fraud. But at least I know it.

So in my desperation, I now find myself at Song’s Teahouse in Notting Hill (Eliza’s idea of being ‘exotic’ and ‘unexpected’). Chinese tea rather than traditional English tea. Really, it’s not unexpected at all – Lady Eliza and Lady Emilia having tea. That’s all I do anyway. I’m a moping lady who lunches.

‘Who are you texting?’ Eliza asks from across the small table, her saccharine smile a sure sign of an impending interrogation.

‘Oh, nobody.’ I put my phone away so she won’t be able to spy on my screen when Oliver undoubtedly responds. In some way, it’s completely surreal that Dubai was only days ago. All this panic over Blair has once again distorted time. ‘Thanks again for picking me up and taking me here. Our butler is feeling a touch unwell today.’

She waves me off, her golden bangles jingling as she does so. ‘Not to worry. I’ve been meaning to ask about your butler, though.’

‘Oh, really?’ I’m trying to sound thoroughly bored, but unfortunately I’ve tensed, like I’m waiting for a cricket ball to the face. There’s a brightness about her that always worries me in these situations, making even basic questions seem suspicious. If she was to find out about me and Blair, for example, she would be entertained first, concerned second.
 

Eliza flicks her hair over her shoulders, her attempt at nonchalance laughably transparent, but no worse than my own. ‘I called the house when you were away on the weekend and was surprised when he answered – I initially thought he was Al. How old is he?’

‘A year older than us.’
 

Oh look, I managed to answer naturally. Kudos to me.

Unfortunately, the answer is also naturally intriguing.
 

‘Really? How odd.’

I ball my hand into a fist under the table, an admittedly more measured move than breaking a clay teapot in protest. It’s ridiculous, though, being secretly defensive about a man who has yet again rejected me. If he’s prepared to cut his losses, then you’d think I would consider doing the same for myself.

‘Butlers aren’t born at fifty-five,’ I say lightly, fighting the urge to clutch my stomach in pain. ‘Hard to imagine, but it’s true.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Things are different these days.’
 

She sighs dramatically, flicking the other side of her hair. I make a mental note to buy her some hairspray. The other items on my shopping list are a paper bag, that
He’s Just Not That Into You
book and a bottle of gin. I doubt the bag will fit over my head, but I would like to at least attempt to hide from the world. If it doesn’t fit I’ll just consume as much gin as possible and pass out – that’ll solve the problem…

If only I put this much thought into the things I say to Blair.
 

Eliza taps her finger to her rosy lips before continuing. ‘You know, the last time I was at the St Regis in New York, every “butler” who served me was a woman. I think I’ll go back to The Plaza next time.’

‘Isn’t that sexist? They still get the job done, don’t they?’

How different these last two months would’ve been had my mother poached a female butler.
 

Millie! Stop thinking about Blair. You’re having tea with someone.
 

Eliza pulls a face, though not necessarily at me. ‘You know it’s not the same.’

‘The butler service on the rooftop garden at The Surrey isn’t too bad.’

‘Ugh. But the way they pronounce
Surrey
like
Suri
. Makes me want to die.’

I snort. ‘Okay, no trips to New York with you.’
 

‘Now you sound just like Hadley,’ she replies with a laugh. ‘Anyway, how are you – really?’

She asked me this in the car earlier, but predictably I was evasive. Maybe she thinks a tea ceremony will lull me into a false sense of calm.
 

‘Oh, you know how it goes. Plodding along.’

Somebody please enrol us in an acting course.
 

Predictably, she rolls her eyes, exasperated. ‘Millie. Come on, you can tell me. I know your father has been and gone, which is the first time he’s visited during one of your mother’s flights of fancy. Excuse the honesty, but today I’m taking a page out of your book.’

‘You might want to put it back,’ I reply, not without humour.

‘Do tell me what’s going on. Are you okay? I’m worried.’

 
I sit up and try to formulate some sort of plausible explanation, one that doesn’t involve lying outright. ‘I can’t really explain anything without breaking confidence, El. It’s not that I’m dismissing your concern. Really. In fact, I wish I could tell you. It would make things a whole lot easier.’

Talking about things would actually help. Not that I would ever go to Eliza with such information. She’s an old friend, but not the best with personal stuff. If I was to confide in anyone, it would have to be Abby, who already knows a great deal more than others.