In light of this money question, I’m worried that Blair isn’t being paid well, that maybe he’s being deducted a large amount for board, and that this is only better than working for The Savoy because he gets to live here. I suppose I could ask my mother about his wages later, after she finishes her lecture on my attitude. After all, it is my business in a way. If the estate is being left to me, I should have a say in matters that affect its survival – financial or otherwise.
Ugh. I have to tell my father something. The best-case scenario would be that he merely tells her not to invite people over and, instead, to keep a low profile.
I sigh wearily. It’s like real drama generated from fake drama. We shouldn’t even be in London. If only my mother had an actual hobby. ‘Ladies who lunch’ can’t luncheon all day (though she’d probably be okay somewhere like Spain, where they sensibly insist on three-hour lunches) and, even then, invitations to events aren’t as forthcoming as they once were, not with Father’s refusal to go out and Al’s rakish reputation. I daresay I now receive more invitations than Mother, though in the last year I’ve declined more than I’ve accepted because of uni. This doesn’t really bother me. I don’t want to be someone who eats lunch all day (nor do I want to be someone who skips lunch and then wolfs down a vat of pasta – and side of toast – while trouser-less). My father says, however, that things would be easier if I did socialise more. That way I’d be able to find someone with enough money to keep the estate going without having to open it to the public. We joke about it, but we both know it’s actually true. More than ever now, people are closing ranks to ensure that money and privilege don’t get pissed away in the hands of ‘commoners’.
I don’t know. Just because something is convenient and financially beneficial, it doesn’t mean it’s worth it. Love has to exist somewhere. In fact, marrying for love probably would’ve saved a lot of aristocratic estates from being hit by massive divorce payments.
Whatever the cause, I’d really hate to be put in a position where I’m forced to auction off a whole bunch of family heirlooms to pay the bills. The public has no sympathy when stuff like that is put up at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, and I totally get why: it’s all inherited and part of an entitled culture that society has moved beyond. But to me, it would be very sad. It’s family history, what I grew up with and what I want to share with my children one day.
All this reflection is a bit much for this hour of the morning. Restless, I reach for my iPhone and search on Google for the price of those noodles Blair ate for supper. Each packet is apparently eleven pence, which only makes me worry even more that he’s living on a shoestring. Eating them, even. Eating yellow shoestrings. Eating yellow shoestrings while I nosh fancy pasta ordered from a high-end restaurant.
I recall the sight of him cooking those noodles. Oh, the way his arms looked in that t-shirt. He must be strong. I wonder what it would feel like to have him lift me up and…
I shine my iPhone light up at the ceiling to remind myself of the privilege that surrounds me. No more impropriety or my father will kill me for following in Al’s footsteps and marring the family’s reputation further.
On that scary note, I put my phone away and will myself to have one of the unsexiest dreams in history.
Chapter 4:
I’m ambushed at half past six in the morning. At first I think it’s Blair delivering my breakfast early, rudely entering my room without even knocking, but common sense dictates that he wouldn’t do such a thing. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I’m able to confirm that the intruder is my mother. Of course. The silly lady is dressed in a silk kimono and still has rollers in her hair, meaning she can’t have been up for long. Maybe she’s in desperate need of some hairspray. Or, you know, a lobotomy.
I groan and remain flat on my back, too tired to roll over, let alone get up. The police might as well draw a chalk outline around me because a fitful sleep really does equal death.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
She’s standing over my bed, like she’s about to read me the last rites. It’s frightening, as is the look of profound disdain on her face.
‘I cannot wait any longer. I have to talk to you about your attitude right now.’
‘When I’m not even awake?’
Her nostrils flare. ‘Well, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee!’
‘A breakfast metaphor? Really?’
I close my eyes and try to convince myself that this isn’t happening. Of course she’d ambush me when my limbs feel like lead and my brain hasn’t switched itself on yet. It’s completely unfair.
She pokes me right in the collarbone. ‘Don’t ignore me, Emilia.’
‘Oh my God! Fine.’ I open my eyes. ‘Go ahead. Lecture away.’
‘This isn’t a joke.’
‘Hence my lack of laughter.’
She throws her hands up in the air, a gesture she uses so often she might as well walk around like that permanently. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. Your attitude is terrible. You need to be nice to people. Stop saying anything and everything that comes into your head. Filter your words before you speak – like a polite young woman.’
‘I tell you what, I’m filtering them right now.’
Oh, now the hands are back on her hips, her other default position. ‘You’re twenty-nine next year. You’re practically over the hill.’
‘I don’t even understand what that expression means. How come people only get married when they’re climbing the hill? I mean, when you think about it, it implies you’re only meeting the men who haven’t been able to get very far: the lazy ones, the fat ones, the ones who delegate the real work to other people. Aren’t the men who are over the hill a better prospect? They got to the bloody peak in the first place.’
‘You’re supposed to get to the peak of your life together.’
I lower my voice, and talk from the corner of my mouth. ‘And it’s all downhill from there, apparently.’
I’m treading on dangerous territory, making a comment like that, but it’s the obvious thing to say. And no, I don’t have a filter, especially not this early in the day.
‘What was that?’
She obviously heard me but is pretending otherwise.
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’
‘Look, you’ll never find a man if you don’t put yourself out there and stop being so blunt.’
‘I don’t believe in batting my eyelashes and pretending to be stupid just so some moron feels comfortable enough to ask me out. If he can’t handle a bit of backchat, then he’s not really a man, is he? He’s a coward.’
‘Don’t you feel lonely, not having a man in your life?’
‘My sense of self isn’t tied to a man.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘No, I am not lonely.’ I wish she’d leave me alone.
She sighs, one of those motherly sighs that can signal anything from regret to frustration. ‘When you were younger, people just put it down to precociousness. Nowadays, people think you’re being a bitch when you speak to them the way you do.’
I try to end the conversation by meeting her halfway. ‘Mother, I understand what you’re saying. I do. I’m less likely to offend people if I bite my tongue. But I’m not going to undergo a personality change in order to gain a few more friends.’
‘Oh, Millie. Don’t you see it’s your attitude that is causing the problem? It’s obviously not your looks – you inherited your features from me.’
‘That’s a little harsh. I happen to think Father is quite the looker.’
The way she’s shaking her head really does make me feel like I’m on my deathbed.
‘Why are you behaving like this is make-or-break time now?’ I ask. ‘Is there some secret trust fund that only kicks in if I marry before I’m twenty-nine?’
‘The rubbish you come out with sometimes. No, you daft girl. Take a look at yourself. You’re twenty-eight years old and completely free to stay with y
our mother because you don’t have anything better to do.’
‘What do you mean nothing better to do? Get off my case. It’s the uni holidays.’
‘Even I know your Masters is supposed to be completed in one year, with a dissertation to be written over the summer. You’re postponing things by studying part-time.’
‘I prefer it this way. Full time is too intense. It’s been a while since my Cambridge days.’
She continues to hover, getting more and more worked up. ‘If you’re going to spend two years attending a university that isn’t Oxbridge, then at least meet someone while you’re there. Is this what I get for letting you do what you want? Had I not taken a stand and come here to London, you would’ve traipsed back to Yorkshire to continue biding your time. Waiting around – for what? For a man to come to you? For your father to relinquish control of the estate?’
‘I do not traipse.’
‘In the five years between Cambridge and St Andrews, you traipsed around the world, returning now and then to help manage the estate.’
Channelling some of my ire into energy, I’m finally able to sit up. ‘I’m not going to lie here and let you disparage the work I did and will continue to do.’
The obvious thing to do would be to point out how little she has done to help the estate over the years, but I stop myself. I will not let this go nuclear.
She huffs. ‘You’ve left me no choice but to take over in this matter.’
‘What matter?’
‘I’m going to make an appointment for you with my friend, who’s a matchmaker.’
I burst out laughing. ‘And you expect me to attend?’
‘This stops today! You will be more agreeable from now on. You’ll meet with her in Mayfair next week.’
‘I’m not going.’
She raises her chin in triumph. ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll get Blair to force you if I have to.’
‘Lovely. Kidnapped by the butler. It’s short enough to tweet.’
‘By all means, tweet away. Practise for when you’re an old bird.’
I’m stunned. ‘Do you even know what Twitter is?’
She snorts. ‘My comeback was better than yours, and that’s all that matters.’
‘Congratulations. I’ll be sure to send you a garland with your morning tea.’
‘Be agreeable, Mille. Agreeable.’
‘Right.’
She finally steps away from my bedside and, after a final withering stare, she leaves the room while humming the song ‘Matchmaker’ from Fiddler on the Roof. It’s eerie, to say the least, like the creepily upbeat refrain they play in horror films to highlight the juxtaposition of the serial killer’s joy with the sheer terror of their victims.
Ugh. Why am I being so morbid?
I’m positively incensed at the early morning belittling. I may not be perfect, but she doesn’t have to attack me before she’s even dressed for the day. What’s particularly amazing this time is that she’s also taking action, being proactive in how she wants to fix the ‘problem’. It then dawns on me that I’m the project of the summer. This – finding me a husband – is what is going to keep her occupied for three months.
A matchmaker. Honestly, it’s humiliating. I’d rather try internet dating. I can see my profile now: Millie, 28. Would rather receive spam than hear from you.
I know Alastair met a lot of his dodgy ‘friends’ on the internet. Come to think of it, the boredom theory I apply to my mother also applies to Alastair and his transgressions. He worked for the City of London after graduating, but proceeded to get very, very bored. So bored, he decided to liven things up with small pranks, like gatecrashing events while completely off his face. By the time he was my age, he had moved on to bigger enterprises, like holding stripper parties in international waters. Apparently, women gyrating on this side of the nautical boundary aren’t nearly as fun.
The point is I’m the good one here. I should be getting the benefit of the doubt. At least my father understands.
I hear footsteps coming from the corridor. Assuming it’s my mother, back to reiterate her case, I’m surprised to see Blair, already up and dressed in full livery.
Able to see that I’m wide-awake, he stops in his tracks and nods his head in greeting. The formality of it all almost has me wondering whether last night in the kitchen really happened. However, I know it to be real. I wouldn’t have this urge to smirk if it had been a dream.
He totally checked me out last night and he knows I saw.
I make sure not to smirk outwardly, thinking instead what a pity it is that he’s not in his pyjamas.
‘Good morning, Lady Emilia. You’re up early.’
‘Not by choice, Blair. Not by choice.’
He gives me a sympathetic look as he stands in the doorway. ‘Ah.’
‘So she’s told you all about it, has she?’
‘I don’t know every detail, but I’ve been told to, err, kidnap you next week. Tuesday, I believe.’
I gesture for him to enter the room. ‘I need to talk to you about that.’
He takes two steps before looking at the floor, where my discarded dress and high heels lie at his feet. My mother probably didn’t even notice the mess, being more concerned with what she had to tell me. I think the lecture would’ve been worse had she tripped over my shoes first, as it would have given her an excuse to call me irresponsible. Then again, tripping her would’ve ended the lecture before it even began.
Blair’s gaze travels to his left. That’s when I spot the item closest to the bed.
It’s my bra. I took it off before returning to bed, for comfort’s sake. Great. Now he probably thinks I’m leaving some sort of trail for him to follow.
‘Sorry,’ I say. At least it’s a standard white bra and not something lacier. ‘Um…’
‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ He picks up both discarded garments without further hesitation. ‘I’ll put this in the drawer here, and I’ll take your dress downstairs for pressing.’
‘Err, thanks.’ I look down at my t-shirt to check I’m not having any indecency issues, and then watch as Blair strides over to the chest of drawers. He really is composed this morning. Perhaps our first day was so confrontational that this is nothing in comparison. Or maybe he knows that he needs to be as professional as possible. ‘I guess you’ve seen hotel rooms messier than this.’
‘You don’t have anything to make a mess with. I’ll call the airport in a few hours. I saw the notes you left by the phone in the hall.’
‘You mean my hit-list and accompanying manifesto on how to get revenge on every unhelpful person I spoke to?’
He manages to crack a smile, closing the drawer and draping my dress over his arm. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to dispose of the manifesto. Your colourful language might get you in trouble with Scotland Yard.’
I pout in what I hope is a cute way. ‘I was angry.’
‘Yes, m’lady. I could tell.’ He walks over to my bedside, though he affords me more personal space than my mother did. It really should be the other way around.
Then again, the proximity is still dangerous. I swallow before inquiring casually, ‘Are you not overheating in that jacket?’
‘No, not really.’ He shrugs. ‘I can always take it off later.’
‘I didn’t mean that to sound like I’m trying to undress you, by the way.’ I sigh. ‘You’ll get used to me speaking with disclaimers attached.’
He nods. ‘Yes, m’lady.’
I clear my throat. ‘Anyway, so hopefully I’ll have my things back soon, because if not, you’ll have to drive me to the shops. Will you be busy tending to my mother today?’
‘She has a luncheon at Claridge’s. Also possibly shopping in the afternoon.’
I pull a face. ‘Oh no. She might want to join me so she can offer fashion advice.’
‘Shall I call the airport first?’
‘Please.’
‘And do you want to have breakfast soon?’
; ‘Yes, bring it up when you can.’
‘I’ll do that, m’lady.’
He turns to leave, but I remember something else I have to tell him. ‘Oh, you’ll need to iron that dress very carefully. Inside-out.’ I pause. ‘You don’t look annoyed, but I apologise for my nagging anyway.’
‘Really, it’s completely fine.’
He’s now a little more upbeat. Maybe it’s because he got to touch my bra.
He starts to walk away but then turns back to face me. ‘Actually, before I forget, I’d better give you my mobile number in case I’m not in the servants’ hall when you ring the bell. It’s a big house.’
For some reason, I’m stupidly excited about this development. It’s not even unforeseen or unprecedented – I should have had his number from the beginning. He’s the butler and I’ll need him for all sorts. And yet my heart rate is up and, if I’m not careful, I might just grin.
I will not grin. I will instead silently enjoy the moment and wish I could set his phone wallpaper to a photo of my legs.
‘Mobile number. That does make sense.’ I manage to keep my voice even and controlled as I reach over to the bedside table and hand my phone to him. ‘Here, type it in. I would do it but I don’t trust myself to do it properly. I have fat fingers when I’m tired. Many an embarrassing autocorrected text has been sent this way.’
‘That happens to me too.’ He takes the phone from my outstretched hand and adds himself to my contact list. ‘There we go.’
‘You should set a special ringtone for my number.’ Why the hell am I saying this? ‘That way you’ll know it’s me.’
Aha – a smirk. He places the phone back on the bedside table. ‘I might just do that.’
I’m not a hundred per cent sure why he’s smirking, or whether I’m supposed to return the smile. Logic says this isn’t flirting, so the most reasonable explanation is that he’s amused by my quirky suggestion.
Lady: Impossible Page 5
