I don’t even know what I’m saying. I should shut my mouth.
‘I suppose so, m’lady.’
‘Hmm.’
I’m suddenly impatient. Once we’re back at the house, he’ll be taking orders from my mother, and there may not be a good moment to raise a particular concern of mine. As he seems deserving of my honesty, I decide to plough ahead and assert my case.
‘May I be frank with you, Blair?’
‘You may.’
‘I don’t think my mother is serious about this whole ‘staying in London’ business. I think it’s selfish that she hired you. She doesn’t really mean it when she says she’s had enough of my father – this isn’t the first time she’s thrown a hissy fit. I think you deserve to know this. I do hope The Savoy will take you back.’
Although my intent was to be brutally honest for his own good, the assertion doesn’t sound all that well intentioned. Blair clenches his jaw, clearly affronted.
I quickly add some clarification. ‘I’m just saying. I don’t want you to get a nasty shock at the end of the month, that’s all.’
No response.
Rather than admiring how smouldering he looks when he’s angry, I shuffle over to the window and pretend to be interested in the scenery. Unfortunately, there’s nothing scenic about the M4 on the approach to central London. It’s no different to any other major arterial motorway – just cars, concrete and crash barrier, with the occasional slither of urbanised greenery here and there – not nearly as interesting as what, or who, is in the car.
And it’s when we get onto the A4 that I realise I’m running out of time to apologise. I don’t like admitting that I’m wrong. I was trying to do him a favour, but nothing good is going to come out of staying silent.
‘I’m sorry.’
His reply is clipped. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, m’lady.’
Now I’m defensive because he’s defensive. ‘I detect sarcasm in your voice.’
‘Not at all, m’lady.’
With the mood well and truly soured, I slump back in the leather seat and prepare to write off the entire morning. I’ll serve myself elevenses when we get to the house and then make some more calls to the airline. Tea and hostility: the staples of a British war room. I’m not declaring war on him per se, but rather on my mother for dragging others into the chaos caused by her flighty behaviour.
Finally, we pull up at the house, though I’m not sure how relieved I actually am. I’m certain Mother is going to berate me for offending her young butler, and I probably won’t hear the end of it for hours. Luckily, there should be somewhere to hide for a while. The house, like most of our property, has been in my father’s family for generations and, while its grandeur isn’t comparable with that of the estate, as a Georgian townhouse it’s still quite sizeable.
Conscious of my guilt, I try to apologise again when Blair opens the door for me.
‘I’m a very direct person,’ I say as I step out, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t expect you to understand this fact within five minutes of meeting me.’
‘Really, there’s no problem, m’lady.’
I can tell he’s lying, but I don’t think there’s anything more I can do. And before I can think of some grand gesture, my mother flings open the front door and rushes to the front gate.
‘Millie!’
She looks like she’s going out somewhere, but I know she’s only dressed up for me. Suit, pearls – and a hat. Her honey-brown hair has recently been cut into a Jackie O-style bob, though today it looks a little frizzy. What’s really terrible is that we’re both wearing maroon and, sure enough, it’s the first thing she points out.
‘I knew you missed me. We’re practically twins,’ she says proudly as Blair opens the gate for her.
‘No, Mother, we’re not.’
We’re really not. I have my father’s mahogany hair, hazel eyes and rather serious expression, with a thin figure to boot. Not that my mother isn’t slim – you can just tell she’s not twenty anymore.
Blair and I barely take two steps into the front garden before my mother detects the tension between us. It must be incredibly obvious.
‘Whatever she said, you should ignore it,’ she says to him, ‘she’s terrible like that. It’s why she hasn’t found a husband.’
‘At least I’m not the scandalous one.’ I kiss her on both cheeks, though she probably doesn’t deserve it.
‘Yes, for now.’ She throws a curious look at Blair. ‘Where are Millie’s bags? You know better than to stand around.’
‘They’re still in Scotland, m’lady.’
She turns to me, and I know an overreaction is guaranteed. ‘What are you saying? Are you not staying long?’
‘Yes, I consciously decided to pack absolutely nothing so I have no reason to be upset that the airline lost my bags.’
‘I’ll call the airport for an update,’ Blair says.
I doubt it. He’ll probably tell them I’m a drug-smuggler.
She’s still suspicious of me. ‘Are you sure that’s it?’
I sigh. ‘They said they’ll deliver them later today.’
‘Okay then.’ She ushers me into the house before I can escape. After following me in, she turns around and speaks to Blair, who shuts the front door behind him. ‘Oh, Blair, I found a firmer mattress for you. If you can manage, swap yours with the one in the green bedroom. If not, we’ll have to enlist one of the neighbours to help you move it.’
I whip around, alarmed. ‘Why does he need a mattress?’
‘What? You think it’s fair to let him sleep on the floor?’ She puts her hands on her hips. ‘And you say I’m the harsh one.’
‘Why is he sleeping here at all?’
It’s Blair who provides the answer. ‘I live here, m’lady. I’m a live-in butler.’
It’s impossible to miss the look of triumph in his eyes. It’s completely unnerving, like he actually believes he’s proven me wrong in some respect.
My mother is unruffled in her explanation. ‘It’s more convenient this way. He was having trouble with his flatmates.’
So, this is the real reason he was so evasive about where he lived. My stomach lurches. I’m far too stunned to say anything. I end up staring at the pair of them with my mouth wide open. I’m sure it’s very unattractive, though I am in the comfort of my own home. Oh wait, it’s the family home – one of them, at least – and the hot butler apparently lives with us now.
I don’t know how good the mattress in the green bedroom is, but I had better not find myself wanting to test it. And I swear, if my mother has designs on him, I will scream from here to August.
When I finally come to, I say something completely worthy of my expensive education:
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
And with that I stalk off to the sitting room to fix myself a drink.
Chapter 2:
It’s a stupid decision, stalking into the sitting room. I’ve forgotten how museum-like it is in here – it certainly isn’t a place to relax. The settee is almost three hundred years old, and I can never sit on it without feeling like I’m perched upon a ledge covered in blue and gold wallpaper, those two colours being the scheme for the room. And then there’s the imposing presence of my ancestor, the Second Earl of Silsbury, whose giant portrait hangs over the mantelpiece. I always feel like he’s judging me, disapproving of the fact I’m sitting on his sofa. Once, when I came home drunk after a gala, I actually told him to get over it. Maybe he hasn’t forgotten.
And the sitting room isn’t exactly a smart place to pick to avoid the butler… I can hear my mother telling Blair to bring me my tea, despite the fact that I’m apparently ‘a bigger drama queen’ than her. He’ll be here any minute, and I’ll have nothing to do but to talk to him again, because not only is there no alcohol here – I forgot that my father moved the cabinet – but there’s no television either.
I dump my handbag on the rug, and its contents spill out unceremoniously, creating a me
ss that the Second Earl would most definitely disapprove of. I’m tempted to call a friend to discuss this surprise butler/housemate situation, but they won’t really understand without seeing Blair in person. I wouldn’t care as much if he was older or uglier – in other words, unremarkable. To some degree Mother is correct: this isn’t as ‘amusing’ as Al’s exploits. But it certainly doesn’t help to have such a young, attractive male living in the family’s London home when she’s claiming to be tired of her married life.
I already know I won’t be able to stop staring at Blair whenever he’s around, and it’s bound to descend into flat-out perving. The only times I’ll be inclined not to look at him is if he’s doing my laundry (knickers and all) or cleaning the toilet in my bathroom. It’s not like in a hotel, where the staff try their best not to be seen. I’m going to be near him twenty-four seven, or whatever hours he’s officially ‘on the clock’.
I can’t be bothered getting up. Besides, it’s entirely too childish to go to my room and sulk – at least, not immediately anyway. I’ll stay here and try to calm down before the start of what’s bound to be another awkward conversation.
Suddenly my phone rings. I do that thing where you reach for something and hope it will move by telekinesis, but unfortunately it doesn’t work. I end up lunging for my handbag rather ungracefully.
It’s Abby.
‘Hello. Shouldn’t you be in church?’
‘I just got out,’ she says brightly. Whether she’s happy about being released or is just happy in general today, I’m not sure.
‘You’re not calling to redeliver the sermon, are you? I assure you everyone already imparts sermons to my family. Did you know that ‘pulling an Alastair’ is a thing now?’
‘Oh yes, I use the phrase all the time. But only because I know him personally.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
She can make jokes like this because she’s been my best friend since we met at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and became inseparable, so much so that we went to the same university too. Anyone else would make it into my bad books for that comment, and in families like mine these books are then kept in a large library in the name of ‘heritage’. And revenge.
‘Anyway, I’m calling because I’ve unilaterally decided that we’re watching DVDs together today: The Only Way is Essex, season four. You’re home already, right?’
‘I am. But I’m not sure I want to celebrate my return to London with that rubbish.’
I find the ‘reality’ TV show unbearable. Too many fake tits, fake tans and fake situations. There was a time when being rich demanded some kind of decorum. Nowadays every tart with a trust fund feels deserving of a spot on primetime television.
But maybe I’m just annoyed because I have actual first-world problems, not contrived ones. The new butler lives here, and I have no idea what to do about it.
Abby laughs. ‘It’s not rubbish. Even Kate watches it.’
‘Kate who?’
‘Kate Middleton, you dimwit.’
‘Hey, you don’t know her personally. And her first name isn’t as standalone as, say, Beyoncé’s.’
‘Well, who else would I be talking about? There’s no other Kate who can legitimise my television preferences.’
‘I don’t think that’s a thing, Abby. It’s not the Duchess of Cambridge’s job to guide you on these matters. Besides, she has other things to worry about. You know, like being a royal.’
She can’t help but tease me. ‘Oh, because you know her so well? Even though you only met her by accident when she returned to St Andrews for a visit.’
I’m about to answer but get completely distracted by the sight of Blair striding into the room. He’s taken off the suit jacket but looks just as smart, with the white-shirt-and-grey-waistcoat combination giving me an even better idea of how fit he is. I want to know if he has abs under those clothes, or whether he’s the type of guy who forgoes the gym because he already looks better than average.
Anyway, he’s carrying a three-tier cake stand in one hand, holding it by the top of its metal frame, and in the other hand he’s bearing a tray of tea. His aura of professionalism makes me sit back in my seat – my doubts about his hospitality training were apparently unfounded.
We lock eyes as he comes over to the coffee table to set down the food. I don’t detect any smugness in his eyes this time: it’s not a cold look, but it’s not a warm one either. I’m still so wound up that it’s hard not to watch him with a keen eye.
‘Millie, are you still there?’
‘What?’ Oh right, I’m on the phone with Abby. ‘Yes, I’m here. Where were we?’
‘Kate Middleton and the endorsement of shows that are so bad they’re good.’
‘Right.’
‘I guarantee you’ll be amused. We have to finish this so we can start watching season five.’
Again, my mental faculties seize up before I can answer. Blair is waiting patiently by the coffee table, tea tray still in hand. I should probably give him some directive as to whether I want him to pour my tea or not. However, all my brainpower is being sapped by the mere fact he’s standing to attention only a couple of feet away from me.
He deftly picks up the teapot and raises his eyebrows in expectation.
I scramble to provide a direction. ‘Uh… just leave the tray on the table.’
This must go against his way of doing things, because he flinches. My mother would gesture for him to pour the tea while continuing to talk on the phone – there’s no need for privacy – butlers end up knowing everyone’s business anyway.
Not that I’m having a very intelligent conversation. I wonder if he’s judging me on what he’s heard…
‘What tray?’ Abby asks, jolting me out of my thoughts.
‘What? No, not you. I’m talking to the butler.’
Abby is outraged. ‘Your mother hired a butler? You mean for a limited time only, right? She’s only going to be here for two months! Three if she wants to hang around for the Olympics, but who wants to do that? This city is unbearable enough with all the usual tourists.’
‘Oh my God, I’m so glad you understand.’
‘Your mother is mental.’
Blair and I lock eyes again, and this time I can see the defiance. He even flouts my instruction by pouring the tea. Part of me wants to say, ‘But I’m not ready yet, and now it’s going to get cold.’ I hold my tongue, especially as it sounds like something that the Second Earl would say.
‘I have no idea how you deal with her,’ Abby adds. ‘No wonder you fled the country.’
It’s no use, I can’t concentrate – Blair hasn’t left yet. He’s taking an inordinate amount of time to add milk and sugar to my cup. I daresay he’s loitering. Unless, of course, there’s some kind of time warp that initiates whenever we’re in close proximity, making the minutes go by so slowly when, really, they’re not.
‘Millie? Why do you keep zoning out? What’s wrong with you? Actually, you can tell me in person because I’ve just arrived. Get the butler to let me in.’
I feel a surge of panic. ‘What, you’re here now?’
‘Yes, I said we were going to watch DVDs, didn’t I? Hurry up and let me in. I’m already outside the gate.’
She hangs up, leaving me to wonder how to handle her impending surprise. Blair would be a shock to anyone, and that’s exactly the point I want to make.
‘I’ll get the door,’ he says dutifully.
Ah, so he was listening. My father always says that the mark of a good servant is their ability to anticipate needs. At least Blair has initiative.
‘Yes, please do. It’s my friend Abby dropping by on short notice. No notice at all, in fact.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’ He nods and turns on his heel.
I wish I could record her reaction when she sees Blair. It’ll be ten times more entertaining than that Essex crap.
My mother enters the room just as he leaves, making me jump. She was definitely waiting to pounce.
; On me. Not him.
Hopefully.
She marches over to me, a sergeant in maroon, ready to interrogate. ‘Did you apologise for being so rude?’
Her words sometimes come out like they’re literally being flung at you. My impulse is to dodge to the side just to avoid their trajectory.
I stall by taking a sip of tea. It’s a technique I learnt from my father, the expert on these ambush attacks. ‘Abby’s arrived. I wonder how she’ll react.’
‘There’s nothing to react to.’ She hesitates, sucking in her cheeks while she thinks. You’d think she’d swallowed a lemon. ‘You and I will talk after she’s gone. We really need to discuss your attitude.’
‘My attitude?’
‘Yes, your attitude towards people. You really need to grow up. This summer in London will be good for you – we can improve your attitude and get you a husband.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Oh, right. Because it’s “the season”. Pity those families who lost their London mansions during the war. How did they continue their bloodlines?’
‘Probably by marrying their cousins.’
‘Right.’
She hangs around, pilfering several mini sandwiches while I drink my tea. Already I’m thinking of an escape route for when this conversation inevitably resumes later. Maybe I can hide in the wardrobe in the mural room. I once hid there for three hours as a child but, alas, the portal to Narnia was closed.
‘Millie!’
Oh, that’s Abby, all right. It’s the call of someone who sounds desperate to talk. She’s definitely going to tell me off for not giving her any warning.
It’s Blair, however, who appears in the doorway first.
‘Mrs Carrington has arrived. I will return in a moment with her tea,’ he says before walking away.
At least I didn’t look at his arse this time. My restraint astounds me.
Abby bursts into the room. The first thing I notice is the gorgeous floral dress she’s wearing, but then I take heed of the pointed look she’s giving me – the one she reserves for ‘true betrayal’. I know she’s about to get animated. It doesn’t even matter that my mother is here – they’ve known each other long enough.
Lady: Impossible Page 2
