‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can do for you? Should I draw the curtains?’
‘Definitely not. It’s too early for this daylight business.’ I put a hand to my forehead and pretend to act distressed, quoting a play by Ibsen. ‘The sun, the sun.’
Blair raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, Ibsen. Strange man. Strange play, too.’
I’m taken aback. ‘You’ve studied Ghosts?’
He seems taken aback that I’m taken aback, his brow furrowing with concern.
I need to take back the taken aback. ‘That sounded completely elitist. I’m so sorry.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I shouldn’t have quoted that, anyway. Especially as the character in question has syphilis.’
Yes, because everyone wants to talk about syphilis before breakfast, Millie.
‘Um, I’d better go and see to your sausages,’ he says, gesturing towards the door.
‘That’s probably best.’
He’s gone in a blur, leaving me to ruminate on how I get myself into these situations. Perhaps my mother really does have a point. Yesterday, it was an inappropriate sexual remark. Today, it’s an insinuation that only Oxbridge candidates are qualified to quote and understand literature.
I sigh and lie back down, sinking under the covers in embarrassment until it becomes difficult to breathe this way. I pull the duvet down to my shoulders and then reach for my phone. I need to tell Abby about these latest developments – she’ll know exactly what to say.
With a bit of autocorrect trouble, I manage to send the message: Inadvertently showed off legs last night. He touched my bra this morning. But then I dissed his intelligence.
It’s very fragmented and mysterious, but it’s the best I can do right now. It’ll be enough to pique her interest into ringing me. However, a split second later I realise she’s probably still asleep, or was before I woke her up.
Sure enough, there’s no reply text or call in the next half an hour, meaning she is either asleep or simply too cranky to point out that I woke her. Whichever way, without a reply to occupy me I contemplate going back to sleep. Before I can fully commit to this idea, Blair returns with my breakfast on a tray table, and the last thing I want to do is make his job harder for him.
‘I’m awake, honest,’ I say, slowly sitting up.
‘Are you sure, m’lady?’ he asks, refraining from setting the tray table down. ‘I can always come back later.’
‘I’m okay.’ I accept the tray from him, unable to resist the scrumptious scent of sausages and hash browns he’s whipped up for me. ‘This certainly looks good.’
He bites his lip before replying. ‘I hope it tastes all right. Be sure to tell me if it doesn’t.’
‘No doubt I will,’ I say, trying to sound good-natured.
It’s a delicious spread. In addition to the cooked meal there’s toast with jams and marmalade, orange juice and coffee – a far cry from the cornflakes I have every morning in Fife.
‘I also have good news about your luggage.’
‘Oh?’
I can see the pride in his eyes, which suggests he’s the one responsible for this news.
‘I took a different approach to the one in your manifesto and managed to get some results.’
‘A different approach? You didn’t kill them with kindness, did you? I hate it when people do that. It’s so creepy.’
‘Actually, no. I simply said that Lord Silsbury himself was on the verge of calling the airline’s CEO to complain about the ridiculousness of the situation.’
I’m baffled. ‘My father doesn’t know any airline CEOs. He barely leaves the house.’
Blair shrugs. ‘They don’t know that.’
‘You can’t just drop names and get people to do things. Who cares if Lord so-and-so is cross? It’s not the nineteenth century.’
‘Oh, but Lord so-and-so is cross and he has connections.’
‘Fake connections.’
‘But real results.’ He’s emphatic, as if he’s in an advert.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You’re funny.’
‘Funny butler has confirmed your luggage should be here by midday.’
‘Well, then. That means no shopping trip.’
He nods, pretending to be gravely upset. ‘How unfortunate. I was looking forward to driving you to Harrods.’
‘Harrods? No way, Knightsbridge isn’t anywhere near far enough. To escape my mother I would’ve asked you to at least put the Thames between us.’
‘I look forward to when you next expect me to put a river between the two of you.’
I sigh happily. ‘I like it when things work out.’
‘So do I.’
There’s an extended moment where we bask in the mutual joy of defeating a passenger airline. It’s refreshing to feel at ease with him, to see his smile. Unfortunately, my iPhone cuts the moment short with a message alert.
‘You have a text.’ He takes the cloth napkin from the tray table so he can place it in my lap.
‘It must be Abby.’
The wise thing to do would be to check the text later, in private. But I’m too curious about what she has to say, so I simply take care to shield my screen from Blair.
I gasp when I realise who the text is from. ‘Oh, shit.’
Fat fingers, indeed. I didn’t even send the text to Abby. I sent it to the next ‘A’ name in my phone: her husband, Andrew.
Fuck. I was concentrating so hard on typing that I’d failed to notice his name at the top of the screen, nor did I glance at the previous messages in the thread. Talk about tunnel vision. I can use five-syllable words but I can’t correctly select the recipient.
‘Is everything okay?’ Blair asks.
‘Um…’
Andrew has expressed his amusement in six words: Millie. How London has missed you.
He’s probably laughing his head off. Abby will be livid that he got the butler gossip before she did, not that he knows to whom I’m even referring. Andrew and I get on well, but we’re not close or anything, so I can’t help but blush from my mistake.
I shake my head. ‘I’m an idiot.’
If Blair’s intrigued, he’s doing an excellent job of not showing it. ‘Should I give you some privacy?’
My eyes are glued to the screen. ‘No, I think what I need most right now is a distraction.’
‘A distraction?’
I switch off the display and look up. ‘Tell me what you know about next week’s appointment.’
‘Well –’
He’s interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing. Andrew is calling.
‘Shitty McShitterson,’ I declare.
‘McShitterson? Friend from Scotland, m’lady?’
I give him a sidelong look. ‘Jokes now? You’ll be smiling permanently soon.’
The smirk returns, if only for two seconds. ‘I apologise.’
‘No need.’ I hold up my finger. ‘Give me a minute. I’ll deal with this quickly.’
And as vaguely as possible.
‘Andrew, I’m deeply sorry,’ I say straight away, holding the phone up to my cheek.
For five seconds all I can hear is chuckling.
‘It was a mistake,’ I say.
‘That was the best text I have ever received. I sprayed coffee all over my copy of The Times. You owe me a newspaper and a coffee. Sorry I didn’t reply straight away – I didn’t know what to make of it.’
‘Ssh.’
‘No one can hear me. I’m on my way to the office. Unless…’ He lowers his voice. ‘You are not alone?’
‘Your discretion would be greatly appreciated.’
He laughs again and returns his voice to normal volume. ‘I’m dying to call Abby to find out what this text means. Because I know you won’t tell me. She’s at the gym, if you’re wondering.’
I take a quick glance at Blair. He still has his neutral face on.
‘Gym, right. Now what do I have to do to make sure you don’t hold this over
my head?’
‘I want you to admit that this year’s race was a farce.’
I groan. The Oxford and Cambridge boat race was in April, and he’s still not over Oxford’s loss. ‘To say that would be lying.’
‘Oh, come on, Millie. A bloody protester swam out and interrupted the middle of the race. You should apologise for the way you carried on that day.’
I roll my eyes. Men get so dramatic over sports. It really is hilarious sometimes. ‘Why do you always act like Oxford was the only one interrupted? Both teams had to start again. That’s how a restart works.’
‘I cannot accept this. I will now forward this text of yours to everyone I know.’
‘You do that.’
‘Including your mother.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Okay, so I’m not doing any of that. But yes, Abby is at the gym, and you will be able to gossip with her when she is done.’
‘Thank you, Andrew.’
‘I’m serious about the coffee you owe me. We can talk finance and investments. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the-race-that-shall-not-be-named.’
‘It does have a name. It’s called the boat race.’
‘I really don’t like your attitude. I don’t know why my wife is still friends with you.’
‘Goodbye, thanks for calling.’
‘Bye, Millie. Keep yourself out of trouble.’
I’m relieved when the call ends. It’s still embarrassing, but at least he has a sense of humour. I can’t imagine what it would be like if he didn’t.
Sadly, any relief I feel is tempered by the slightly alarmed look on Blair’s face. He went from neutral to concerned in the space of thirty seconds. Did he suddenly not like that I was talking to a man? I think of telling him it was actually Abby’s husband, but it’s probably more fun if I don’t. This way, any jealousy on his part will be made worse.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask, keeping my voice innocent.
He clears his throat. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Okay.’ I take a sip of orange juice and continue to judge his expression, doubting that everything is really okay.
‘About next Tuesday…’
‘Yes, you were going to tell me about the appointment. Do go ahead.’
I start eating but then stop when he clears his throat again.
‘I’m guessing you’re not in actual need of a lozenge,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing, m’lady. Uh, where was I?’
‘In the middle of coughing, I believe.’
Once more, he composes himself. My best guess is that this morning he’s making a concerted effort to get along with me, but I’m causing difficulty by, well, being myself.
‘Your appointment is in Mayfair. Next Tuesday at two,’ he says.
‘And who’s this friend of my mother’s? Do you know?’
‘Her Ladyship mentioned a Mrs Tilton-Bree.’
I drop my cutlery with a clang, and cringe – more from his words than the noise. ‘Please tell me you are joking.’
‘I’m not. Is something wrong?’
Instinct tells me to pick up the butter knife. I might not be able to defeat her by spreading jam on toast, but there’s something to be said about the power of the imagination. You say, jam on a butter knife. I say, blood on a dagger.
Rage causes my own blood to rush to my head, so I steady myself by taking a series of deep breaths. ‘There’s no such person. It’s her way of being funny. The appointment is at Tilton & Bree. The elite matchmaking service.’
‘Oh.’ Even he looks bewildered. ‘Elite?’
‘Matchmakers for millionaires and highly successful people.’ The more I think about it, the more vexed I become. I raise the knife. ‘I’ll kill her.’
‘With jam and butter?’
‘This is humiliating.’ I slap the tray table with my free hand.
Blair slowly reaches for the knife. ‘Let me take that for you.’
‘No.’
‘I will butter your toast for you before it gets too cold.’
‘Fine.’
I relinquish the knife. When Blair takes it from me, his hand shakes noticeably for a second.
‘Are you quite sure you’re all right?’ I ask, this time more firmly. ‘You’re worrying me.’
Again, he’s dismissive. ‘I’m fine.’
I don’t believe him, but he’s not going to budge. ‘What else do you know about the appointment?’
‘Uh, I’m supposed to make sure you go.’
‘Brilliant. How are you going to do that?’
‘By asking you nicely?’
I react to his gentle tone. ‘All right, I’ll go along with it.’
Blair proceeds to butter my toast for me, which makes me feel like the laziest person in the world. ‘Would you like marmalade or strawberry jam?’ he asks.
‘Marmalade.’ I eye the knife. ‘I’ll need that to cut up the sausages.’
‘I’ll cut them up for you.’
Now I’m annoyed for both of us. ‘I’m not a child, Blair.’
‘No. You’re an angry lady who shouldn’t be near sharp objects right now, let alone be holding one.’
‘It doesn’t even have a serrated edge! It’s useless to me!’
My outburst is so ridiculous that the two of us burst out laughing. I daresay the moment is amazing. I even consider watching my words more carefully in order to see those blue-grey eyes sparkle with mirth more often.
I hold out my hand. ‘Give me my knife.’
‘Are you sure, m’lady?’
Formal again. Part of me wants to get on my knees and beg him for a fresh start, but he’ll only think I’m positioning us to do something more salacious.
‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine. Are you? Should I apologise for my words again?’
‘I’m fine.’
He’s well trained in hiding his unease, but I can tell he’s been rattled by something, or even by a combination of things.
I take the knife from him. ‘I’ll take it from here then. If I need you, I’ll ring the bell. Or text you.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
He backs away slowly at first, giving me a few more precious seconds in which to surreptitiously admire him in his suit. He then hurries out with his head down, leaving me to eat my breakfast in peace.
Peace. I can see the benefit in keeping the peace with Blair, but it’s going to be awfully difficult to reach an armistice with my mother.
Tilton & Bree. An appointment made for me, but not by me.
Although I risk sounding like a spoilt brat now, my father will hear about this.
Chapter 5:
In the end, I don’t call my father until Thursday night, when I retire to the mural room after dinner. It’s a room that relaxes me and, having just been scolded by my mother for wearing casual clothes to the dinner table, I’m in need of a soothing atmosphere. The way she had carried on, you’d have thought I was wearing the Postman Pat t-shirt, but I’d merely opted for something comfortable – a light-grey t-shirt and white cotton shorts – an outfit I changed into as soon as my luggage arrived. The truth is that she’s lucky I even wore a bra, something I only did for Blair’s sake.
It’s but one example of why having Blair around is bizarre. The last couple of days have been so strange, with my mother acting like nothing is wrong and me acting as if there’s an unwelcome guest in the house. I’m jumpy around Blair – so overly conscious of his presence that I feel as though every entrance of his should be announced with a great fanfare. Don’t get me wrong: he’s been completely professional, if not a little reserved. It’s just that I don’t feel like I can be myself in my own house, which is more than a little disconcerting, and all the more reason to retire to this room so I can channel good vibes and happy thoughts.
Upon entering the room I dim the lights so that the soft yellow glow complements the mural, and plop down on the comfiest armchair. I feel better already – the mural of Silsbury Hall and it
s grounds providing a welcome reminder of home. Oh, the palatial facade of that old, solid stone and its surrounding green of sprawling acres draw me in. I yearn for the familiarity and order of the estate in times like this. This oval room on the first floor is the closest I can get to it right now, so instead I settle for the vicinity of the walls that bear its image.
Sometimes I don’t blame my father for hardly ever leaving the place. There are moments when shutting out the world around is exactly what’s needed.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket to call him, but I’m instantly reminded of Monday morning’s misdirected text. When I finally managed to get hold of Abby that afternoon, she laughed so hysterically that she sounded deranged. That laughter ended as soon as I told her about next week’s matchmaker meeting. Then it was consolation time, something I greatly appreciated.
Hopefully there will be further consolation in a moment. Scrolling through my contacts more carefully this time, I correctly select my father’s number.
He picks up promptly. ‘Millie, my dear. How wonderful to hear from you.’
It’s a relief to hear his stern but caring voice. ‘How are you?’
‘The usual, dear. You know how it is. How are you?’
‘Ah. That’s a very good question.’
‘Oh no. That doesn’t sound good.’
I picture him standing by a window, thinking of London and shaking his head. Maybe George, his loyal butler, is with him too, ready to hand him a drink when I get to the juicy bits.
‘I honestly don’t know where to begin.’
‘Start anywhere. That’s what you always tell me.’
I sigh and draw my legs in so I can sit cross-legged. ‘She’s arranged for me to meet with a matchmaker.’
The sound that greets this news can only be described as a guffaw: a kind of ringing, throaty bleat that I want to shrink away from despite the miles between us. ‘No confidence in you at all, apparently! Amazing.’
‘The only reason I don’t have a husband is because I haven’t been looking. Plus, I don’t think I’m ready yet.’
‘Is that a modern take I’m hearing? I have to admit, there comes a time when one must consider looking.’
Something tells me he’s not a hundred per cent outraged, that he’s more amused than anything. ‘Are you defending her? I didn’t even ask for this meeting. Plus, I’ve heard the fees start at ten thousand pounds. In a time of cutting corners, it’s hardly a justifiable figure.’
Lady: Impossible Page 6
