Lady: Impossible (64 page)

The seriousness doesn’t faze me as much as it should. I do understand where she’s coming from though, and she’s also right about giving him time. He’s probably still reeling from yesterday.

I nod. ‘I understand.’

‘Good.’

We keep nodding at each other like two nodding dogs on a dashboard. It’s the immediate next step that must be confounding us both.

‘So, what should we do now?’ I ask.

She removes her sunglasses from her hair, holding them in front of her for inspection. ‘Not go home, for a start. Your father keeps wanting to talk to me, which is the last thing I need.’

‘He probably misses you.’

It’s not a comment she appreciates. ‘Be that as it may, it doesn’t make dealing with this any easier. Given, it was difficult to be angry with him for coming down to see you. He was right to be concerned.’

The sunglasses are perched once more on the top of her head, which is nice because she knows I don’t like talking to my reflection in her lenses.
 

I cock my head at the gallery. ‘Shall we go inside and attend one of those art lectures you’re always on about?’

I wasn’t interested the last time she went. That was the morning she told me about the phone call confronting Father about the money rumours. I spent the rest of that day following Blair around as he cleaned.

She rolls her eyes with scepticism. ‘You don’t have to pretend to want to go.’

‘No, let’s go. I’m sure there’s a timetable inside.’ I put a hand to my ear, pretending to hear something. ‘What’s that? The French Masters are calling?’
 

When her expression softens, I know I’ve won her over. ‘This is spending time together, isn’t it?’

I drop my hand. ‘It won’t kill you. And it keeps me away from Blair, doesn’t it?’

She contemplates this and shrugs. ‘At least you didn’t ask me to meet you at the Tate Modern. Wax lyrical about modern art and I might just kill you.’

‘I’ll be sure to remember that, or at least have it engraved on my tombstone in a Pop Art-style comic strip… Lichtenstein gets my drift.’

‘Oh, just get inside, Millie.’

I hook my arm through hers and lead her up the steps and around to the entrance, all the while humming a tune to drown out her muttering. I hear it anyway: the stress my love life has caused her and how much money she could’ve saved had she known I’d choose the butler and not the match suggested by Polly.
 

Somewhere in the annals of Tilton & Bree, I’m going to be recorded as a failed client, which, if you ask me, is nothing to be ashamed about.
 

Chapter 31:

Four days have passed and Blair is yet to give me an answer.
 

I thought things would resolve far more quickly than this, convinced that my mother’s words to him on Friday afternoon would free him. After all, she did as promised and took him aside to tell him to follow his heart, so I honestly expected him to declare his love within a day – two if it took longer to grapple with the consequences. What I didn’t count on was him taking her involvement this badly, to the point where he hasn’t been able to look me in the eye, let alone speak to me. My mother’s blessing seems to have been taken as a betrayal, the ultimate insult to his dignity.
 

Over the weekend there was another reminder that life doesn’t merely operate in a localised vacuum within one’s household. Saturday night brought Viscount Weller’s birthday party, where my father once again mentioned the perceived hostility between Blair and me, asking why I’d been so worried about getting him in trouble earlier in the week when we didn’t get along in the first place. I mumbled something about principle and sipped my second glass of Moët, wishing Mother would find her way back to us instead of mingling with all her old friends. I can confidently say that if anyone ever needs a detailed explanation of what the carpet looks like at the Cavalry and Guards Club, I’m the girl to ask because when I wasn’t being taken aside to answer gossip about my family that’s exactly what I was looking at – the floor.
 

We Pembrokes were certainly cause for curiosity at the event, what with Father’s rare public appearance and the divorce whispers that continue to dog us. If they’re here together, then surely Lady Silsbury is due back at the estate any day now! Look at this sign of solidarity in the face of Al’s continuing disgrace! The talk only made me infinitely more nervous. I couldn’t help but wonder about the future, about the gossip that will come from the estate being put up for sale and, on a more hypothetical note, what will be said about me if I end up with Blair. In the end, I had to remind myself that I’m not one to care about talk – a belief I consolidated with a fourth glass of champagne while Eliza prattled on in my ear.
 

And to top things off, there was the supposed positive side of being out and about. Father, Mother and I made it into the social pages on Sunday – a cheery set of photographs that made us all stop and pause when we saw them. People kept ringing to say we looked smashing together (a message Blair had to relay repeatedly) along with invitations and requests for calls to be returned. I wonder if it was a huge kick in the guts to be delivering these messages, acting as an intermediary between the elite and privileged rather than being an active part of the community.

Since then, he’s mostly kept to himself, carrying out his duties with a thin smile and listless demeanour. Sometimes I spy him at moments when anger and frustration appear to have taken hold of him: his tightening grip on a silver tray, as if he means to strangle it of its shine; the restrained slam of the telephone receiver after taking a call in the hall; and the way his jaw clenches when my father discusses Andrew’s wealthy connections, those Oxonian and those not. Whatever the signs, I’m beginning to think that my rejection of Oliver, rather than assuring him, has backed him into a corner from which he has no escape or reprieve. It’s not exactly what people mean when they say a woman has trapped a man, yet it’s concerning nonetheless. Whatever the constraints, I still want him to act of his own free will.

It’s that free will I have to respect. If he’s not ready to talk, then I’m just going to have to deal with it. He’s out running an errand at the moment anyway, which saves me from having to give him space. Yesterday I left the house for a few hours for that very reason, accompanying Abby to her Bikram yoga session and then to lunch. In retaliation for the sweaty pain that was Bikram yoga, I’m making her bring over afternoon tea.

She meets me in the kitchen, bouncing in with a bright smile and what looks to be a picnic basket on her arm. I’m suspicious enough to take a step back, leaving the china plates I’ve just selected on the table. Her sunny disposition is expected because she’s in charge of cheering me up, but the basket implies she intends for us to sit outside on a blanket, talking about life while noshing on lemon marmalade sandwiches.
 

She beckons me towards the door. ‘Your mother says you need fresh air. Come on, let’s go.’

‘Not sure why you’re speaking to me in that gentle voice,’ I say, staying where I am. ‘I’m not fragile. I just need to know where I stand with Blair.’

Of course, as soon as the words are out, my chest tightens with fear. I try to recover by pretending that I didn’t just wince, which in turn leads to Abby pretending that she didn’t just see me pretend I didn’t wince, which leads us back to the beginning of this exchange as if nothing happened.
 

She snaps her fingers at me. ‘Come on, outside. Where it’s nice and sunny.’

‘This is London. It’s never that sunny.’

Predictably, she ignores the protest, leaving me with no choice but to obediently trail after her as she makes her way out into the back garden. Further complaints about sore muscles, fresh air and potential hay fever are also duly ignored and, before I know it, I’m following orders and spreading out a tartan blanket over the grass.
 

‘Oh, well done.’ Abby claps her hands before kneeling on the blanket so she can unpack the basket’s contents.
 

I manage a laugh as I join her. ‘Always wonderful to be around people who don’t take my bullshit.’

‘Yes, well, there should be another joining our ranks in the near future. Officially, I mean.’ She holds her hopeful smile for a good five seconds before wavering slightly. ‘Right?’

I sigh and collapse backwards rather ungracefully, my head ending up half on the blanket and half on the grass. ‘He still hasn’t said anything.’

‘Get up, Mills. That’s not good for your hair.’

‘Hence the invention of shampoo.’

‘And who buys your shampoo?’ she asks. The question is not nearly as innocent as she makes it sound.

With a groan, I sit up and help her with the cake tin. ‘You don’t go out and buy your own shampoo either. It gets delivered.’

‘Sorry, can’t hear you. I must have too much hope in my ears.’

‘Rather odd place to be storing hope.’

She chuckles lightly. ‘Says she, the patron saint of hope.’

I match her wit with a sidelong look. ‘I have been hopeful, but it’s been four days now. I wonder if it’s time to prepare a concession speech.’

‘Be patient. You said it yourself: he’s a pragmatist. This can’t be easy for him.’

Despondent again, I flop back down on the blanket and stare at the sky. ‘I just think that if he felt the same way, he would’ve said something by now.’

‘Yes, but you could easily say the same for the reverse.’

I think about this for a moment, imagining yet another version of his internal musings. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
 

Probably recognising that I’m about to get lost in my own thoughts, Abby keeps mum for a bit, studying the labels on the jam jars as if they’re required reading for a test. Meanwhile, I return to the script in my head, the one where Blair is so torn that he has no choice but to remain suspended between two less-than-perfect options.
 

Eventually Abby pipes up with an opinion. ‘He’s probably just waiting for your father to leave.’
 

‘Maybe.’

‘Why hasn’t he, by the way? Left, I mean.’
 

‘I think he wants to be with us – that’s why. It is his house.’ I pause, momentarily transfixed by the clouds up above. Some of them shift so surreptitiously that you wonder if it’s just your eyes playing tricks. ‘He’ll have to go back to the estate soon, though. Things to do. For a start, he has to tell the staff they’re going to be let go.’

‘Maybe the buyer will want to keep them on. Can’t very well hire people who don’t understand the building and what’s required.’

‘The buyer may not want to hire anyone at all.’ The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach stops me from speculating any further. ‘Anyway, let’s not talk of the estate.’

‘Back to Blair then?’

I turn my head, now seeing that she has a plastic wine glass in her hand. It makes me think of liquid courage, and then just courage in general. ‘Maybe all that’s left is for him to break the news to me. It’s akin to him telling me the world is over, so I’d be intimidated having to break that kind of news. It’s a message worthy of a Mayan prophet.’

Suddenly all those predictions about 2012 bringing the apocalypse make sense. Here I am bemoaning my lack of contingency plan, when all along there have been examples publicised for me to follow. Clearly I’m meant to be standing in the middle of a cornfield with a backpack full of rations and Evian, waiting for some ancient spaceship to arrive. Only when the alien leader graces our planet will judgement be delivered. Those worthy will be saved. The rest will have to live in hell on Earth – a place where sins are public knowledge and Russell Brand is the prime minister.
 

I wonder where the nearest cornfield is. There are probably some decent ones in Essex, though I’m not sure I want to share a spaceship with that lot.

I’m jolted out of my contingency plan by Abby, who’s now peering in the direction of the house.

‘Here comes your mother.’
 

‘I mention the apocalypse and she arrives. How fitting.’

I get up before she too can tell me off for lounging around and getting grass in my hair, though, by the snippy expression on her face, I can guess that she has bigger grievances than my apparent lack of haircare.
 

‘Abby, I wasn’t aware that you’d arrived,’ she says, striding up to the edge of the blanket.
 

‘Relax. I knew Blair was out.’ Abby waves her off without much concern. ‘His Lordship let me in.’

Mother rolls her eyes, probably at the use of honorifics. ‘And what is this exactly? A champagne picnic?’
 

‘Funny you should notice – I was just about to open a bottle.’

‘At a quarter to four on Tuesday?’

‘Just a glass or two to calm Millie’s nerves.’

The extended pause from my mother seems to indicate that, yes, maybe this nerve-calming strategy is legitimate, if risky. Too much alcohol and I might cry. Even more and I might get violent – smashing picnic foods against the house while Mrs Skene watches over the fence.
 

Mother narrows her eyes at the bottle Abby has produced. ‘What is it?’

Abby taps the side of the basket, where the Fortnum & Mason initials are printed. ‘A champagne that came in the hamper.’

‘Generic, is it? Can’t be worth more than thirty pounds.’

‘Which is why it’s only worth one glass.’

Another pause and then a hurried shake of the head. ‘No, no. None of us should drink, especially not Millie.’

I finally enter the conversation. ‘Why? Is a certain someone going to speak to me soon?’

It’s a touch insulting that they’re both surprised by my interjection, as if having a say in my treatment is a sign of instability in and of itself. Even in my anxious state I believe I’ve been more productive than usual. I’ve left the house for outings rather than moping about in my room. I’ve brushed up my CV in preparation for job hunting and even looked into more affordable short courses to help update my skills.