Lady: Impossible (62 page)

The lift is amazingly fast. By the time I remember Oliver’s Berlin lift episode (and how he didn’t seem to have post-traumatic-elevator-disorder in Dubai) we’re already at the twenty-sixth floor.
 

‘After you,’ he says as the doors open.

‘Thanks.’

The chivalry is wasted, though, because he has to lead the way to his office. After passing the floor’s reception area and no fewer than three boardrooms, we turn a corner into what appears to be a hive of investment bankers. I try to act natural as we pass by their cubicles, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Still, it makes me doubt the choice to stay in the building. Now I feel as if I’m parading myself – if anyone was to ask Oliver who I am or what I was doing here, he might feel humiliated.

‘Are you sure this is okay?’ I ask as we walk into a corridor between two rows of glass-walled offices. ‘
Should
we go out for coffee?’

He stops in his tracks, prompting me to as well. At that moment, two of his colleagues stride by, one of them raising an eyebrow at my presence. Oliver rebuffs the immaturity with a disapproving look, and while on one level I find this endearingly protective, on another I feel a little bit like a trophy date.

He returns his attention to me, now displaying more warmth than nerves. ‘We can leave if you don’t feel comfortable. I don’t mind you being here at all though. I actually rather like it.’

My cheeks go all hot. Wanting to believe the best in him, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, taking his words as genuine rather than the product of wanting to show off a woman.
 

‘Okay, here’s fine then.’ I look down the corridor in curiosity. ‘Which one is yours?’

‘Oh, the corner office.’

Of course he has a corner office. Everyone knows a vista is more impressive when viewed at an apex.
 

I continue to follow him and, when he opens the door, am confronted by a spectacular view of the wharf. ‘Confronting’ is the right word, because if you weren’t expecting it, you’d probably feel assaulted. Moreover, the size of the office has got to be at least five times that of the glass-panelled ones in the corridor, and the sleek, modern furniture probably far more expensive.
 

Oliver interrupts my awe when he shuts the door behind us.

‘Come to think of it, I hope being here doesn’t feel too business-like.’ He waits until I look at him before continuing. ‘Unless that’s what you’re going for.’

I’m quick to correct him, waving my hands to emphasise my point. ‘No, no, it’s not like that.’

‘Jesus, I’m sorry. That was an awfully forward thing to say.’ He pats his hands on his suit jacket, which makes me think he’s breaking out in a nervous sweat.

I try smiling to put him at ease, but it’s clear that all of this is rather unsettling, so I change tack and go for simple honesty instead.

‘I’m really sorry this is so awkward.’
 

‘No, it’s fine,’ he says immediately. ‘Um, shall we sit?’

I take the lead, making a beeline for the two armchairs in the corner where the window meets one of the non-glass walls. Conversing here will be better than sitting at his desk or standing idly at the window. Of course, once we’re seated, I wonder if it’s too cosy. A glass vase with a single gardenia sits on the small circular coffee table between us, adding a hint of romance to the scene. Then I spy the copies of
Forbes
and
Financial Management
sitting next to it.
 

Oliver and I stare at each other, both our faces probably hard to read from all the over-thinking and strain. It’s my job to pull the plug, and yet somehow it seems cruel to not ease into it without some rudimentary chitchat. Or is it crueller to drag it out?
 

He shakes his head. ‘Where are my manners? Should I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Juice? My secretary makes an excellent cappuccino.’

I sit up a little straighter, trying to get comfortable. ‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

He nods. ‘Okay, well, I suppose you should speak first. There are many things I want to say pre-emptively, but saying them all at once may prove foolish. So, please, go ahead.’

He’s wringing his hands already, even cracking a knuckle or two.
 

I push on, determined not to be distracted by his trepidation. ‘So, you know how something was bothering me over the weekend?’

‘Yes. You were worried about doing the wrong thing.’

‘Well, there’s a little more to it. You see, I was never really sure about the whole matchmaker thing from the start. It was something my mother wanted. This was before we knew of the money problem, I promise.’

He stops the hand-wringing. Now he’s merely gripping one hand on the arm of the chair as if it’s the key to keeping his emotions in check. ‘Okay. Go on.’

I lean forward slightly, not wanting to underplay how personal this is for us. ‘Eventually I came to realise it wasn’t the most terrible idea in the world. I was up for it. The problem was, unbeknownst to both Polly and my mother, there was someone I was kind of interested in before we were matched.’

I’m almost impressed by how steady I sound. I’m not waffling or being overly apologetic.
 

However, whatever sense of pride I feel is quickly dashed by Oliver’s reaction. He’s clearly angry: his brow furrowing and lips curling as if someone’s just told him he’s being demoted. Well, maybe worse than a demotion – he’s being dumped.
 

‘Someone else.’ It’s not a question when he says it. It’s a knowing, bitter statement, like he knew the answer all along but didn’t want it confirmed.

‘It was nowhere near serious, this interest of mine. Nothing I believed to be of consequence. So, when you cancelled on me, I was very upset –’

‘That was a colossal mistake on my part,’ he says quickly.
 

I hold my hand up and smile ruefully. ‘Please, let me finish.’

He opens his mouth but catches himself, apologising instead – though not without an added grimace. ‘Sorry. Do go on.’

‘After you called it off, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to get involved with that other guy. But then you un-cancelled on me, and suddenly everything was back on track.’ I stop, noticing how flushed Oliver’s face is becoming. Even though his eyes are boring into mine, his anger doesn’t seem the type of rage that could prompt him to punch a wall. I honestly don’t think he has much experience with not being in control of a situation. He seems really frustrated.

Then again, perhaps the latter is merely a precursor to the former.

I deliver the line he needs to hear from me, whether he wants to hear it or not. ‘I guess the long and short of it is that I can’t seem to leave him behind.’

He averts his gaze as I hear his sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘I wasn’t trying to deceive you,’ I say, leaning forward. He recoils slightly, probably taking the sign of familiarity as an insult, so I sit back. ‘I seriously thought you and I had a chance. I didn’t think it would come to this. Turn out this way, I mean.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I suppose this is what I get for being hesitant.’
 

Again, it’s not a question. Not on the face of it, anyway. Maybe he’s expecting me to rebut the point.

‘I wouldn’t blame the delay.’
 

It’s true. Blair would always have won. I just didn’t know that and, certainly, Blair still isn’t aware he’s won.

Without warning, Oliver leaps from his chair and starts pacing around restlessly. I choose not to interrupt what I’m sure is a frantic thought process. Some patience here won’t kill me.

When he does come to a halt, his energy seems to be on edge, as if contained involuntarily by outside forces. All his words come out in one go, swift yet frustrated. ‘I don’t know whether to do the gentlemanly thing and bow out gracefully, or to simply say I won’t be outdone and that I’ll fight for your affection.’

It’s impossible not to be moved by this admission. I leave my bag on the chair, go over to him and gently place a hand on his arm. ‘Some might say I’m being rash, but I don’t want to lead you on if I’m not a hundred per cent committed.’

He moves his hands to his hips, flicking back the sides of his suit jacket. ‘Millie, I’m not one for losing.’ He manages to make this declaration without sounding sullen. ‘I made a serious mistake when I doubted you as a match. Now, I don’t know who this other man is or what he has to offer, but I know that you and I get on well. I’m very taken with you.’

‘We do get on. That’s why I’m so sorry. I’ve taken up your time, your money –’

‘Please don’t make it sound like a waste.’ The emotion is making his voice shake. ‘It wasn’t.’

I squeeze his arm and then drop my hand back to my side. ‘That’s sweet of you to say.’
 

I was trying to be subtle about no longer comforting him with touch, but he stares at his arm as if there’s already a phantom pain.

‘You could take some time to reconsider,’ he says when he looks back up. ‘I’ve waited a very long time to meet someone like you.’

‘I have to say I’m quite sure,’ I say, though not unkindly.

He covers his mouth, pressing on his lips as though he’s sentenced himself to silence, but it doesn’t last. He’s firm when he speaks, though as unerringly polite as always. ‘This is going to sound unsporting, but I’m not ready to accept defeat. I’ll still be here. If you find that you do want to reconsider, I won’t be gallivanting around town with Polly’s next pick for me. And I can’t promise that I won’t contact you after a bit of time has passed.’

I try to instil a sense of alternative hope: ‘I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. Polly is very good at what she does.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he says, his irritation showing. ‘Sorry, I’m not cross with you. I’m angry with myself. I didn’t trust her at the start either, but I should have.’

As terrible as it sounds, I can’t sit – or stand – here all morning dissecting what seemed to be a dream match by Tilton & Bree standards. I’ve said what I needed to say and I shouldn’t torture Oliver by fuelling his spiral of regret.

‘I can’t apologise enough for all this. I had the most splendid time with you. Truly. It’s just –’

I stop abruptly when he takes half a step closer.
 

‘Had I known I had a rival, I would’ve tried even harder.’
 

There’s no denying he means it. I’m almost afraid for Blair in this moment. If things work out, there will come a day when Oliver finds out the whole truth.
 

In fact, that day is a rather frightening prospect, full stop. Oliver seems like an upstanding individual, but that won’t prevent him from feeling angry or humiliated that I chose my butler over him. He may even feel vindicated, concluding his suspicions about me as a Pembroke were correct all along. If he wanted to be particularly ruthless, the way he apparently is in business, he could retaliate by revealing my family’s financial woes before they become public or before anyone confirms them to be true.

These are the worries that torment my mother and put her at risk of an eventual celebrity-style breakdown. But for me, the end result of any scandal wouldn’t be worse than losing Blair. I know it’s selfish to judge the cost in my terms, but somehow I think my mother will pull through for me. If she hasn’t already banished Blair permanently to save me from a ruined reputation, then she’s going to at least try to come up with a workable arrangement.
 

‘Oliver, I don’t think you could’ve done more,’ I say firmly, looking him in the eye before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He reacts by tensing, which I take as him knowing it’s a goodbye kiss. ‘Please don’t let this discourage you. You’re going to make someone really happy one day. I promise.’

His rigid stance reminds me of how athletes hold their head up high when they’ve lost a well-fought game. Their pride is completely evident, although that doesn’t mean they’re anywhere near happy.
 

‘Like I said, I’ll still be here.’
 

I nod in acknowledgement, even though I won’t need to keep in touch. ‘Anyway, I should get going.’

Despite everything, he still remembers his manners. ‘I’ll walk you out.’

I try to spare him without sounding like I’m desperate to flee. ‘No, you don’t have to. I remember the way. Besides, you’re a busy man.’

He laughs bitterly. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hide in here for a little while and lick my wounds.’

Gosh, this is killing me. Delivering bad news is not an occupation I ever want to have.
 

‘Look after yourself,’ I add.

‘I’ll try to.’

I turn on my heel, only for him to speak again once I’m almost at the door.

‘This other man. May I ask why you’re choosing him over me?’

Conscious that my answer could feed him hope if I don’t answer tactfully, I turn around slowly.

‘I just know that I have to.’
 

There are no further questions. He keeps his head high and his jaw clenched, his frustration clear in the intensity of his gaze. It’s only when I take a step back that he nods reluctantly, a sign of acceptance, however temporary.
 

‘Goodbye, Oliver.’

And with that, I finally take my leave.

***

An hour later, I find myself in Trafalgar Square, a location I wouldn’t normally frequent unless visiting the National Gallery, which sits, imposing and majestic, to its north. I’m waiting for Mother on one of the gallery’s many steps, looking out towards Nelson’s Column and the fountain. She’ll hate me when she arrives, citing the common, tourist crowds as an irritation, but maybe when she listens to my reasoning she won’t be so predictably spiteful.
 

There’s method to my madness – even my strange post-JP Morgan mood has its purpose – the house is not where I want to be right now. Hushed whispers and tension are far from therapeutic. I want to be outside, in the open air, where I’m not automatically a focal point or problem to solve. I could be anyone, sitting here halfway up the steps, which is exactly the beauty of it. It’s anonymity, not notoriety.