‘Strange woman,’ I mutter, passing Blair the Cornish pasty.
‘Your mother?’
‘No, the waitress, silly. But speaking of my mother, may I ask why you decided to work for her?’
He points his fork at me. ‘Interesting. You’re actually requesting permission before asking. That’s new.’
I recoil and shake my head, pushing at the air with outstretched hands. ‘Please don’t fork me for asking. I’m just wondering.’
‘Oh, right.’ He sticks the fork into the pasty. ‘Serving one person is better than serving a whole bunch of strangers day in, day out. I know she’s tough on you, but she’s reasonable when it comes to my workload.’
He clams up after this, so we eat in silence, sharing the sandwich and slicing up the cake so we can each have some.
I know it’s not a date but, when I come to think about it, it’s the first time in a while that I’ve had coffee with a guy I hardly know. There are all these questions and get-to-know-you subjects that don’t come up when you’re having lunch with, say, a male friend from uni. Plus, despite the meal sharing, his blue eyes stay trained on the table, on the food, on his list – everywhere but me. It makes me want to reach over and yank his tie to get his attention.
I pay the bill, not complaining about the smorgasbord Blair ordered, and then we make our way back to the car. Again, he walks next to me. His proximity makes my heart race and my mind wander, this time because his words are replaying in my head. He acknowledged his attraction to me, something that only makes me want him more. Conscious that I can’t let this show, I do my best to mimic his neutral mask and hope he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable.
He unlocks the car and opens the door for me. ‘Your Ladyship.’
‘Thanks.’
I’m confused now, resigned to the matchmaking game but still mildly obsessed with the butler. Luckily, it’s his day off tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll be able to clear my head. But, then again, perhaps I’ll miss him and compensate for his absence with new fantasies and daydreams.
I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. Nothing is said, yet somehow I get the feeling our struggle isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 7:
I’m turning into my mother.
I’ve spent the better half of my Saturday morning lining up social events for the next two weeks – a Diamond Jubilee lunch at Jane’s on Monday, dinner with Henny and her husband on Thursday, a charity fundraiser at The Ritz next Saturday (my RSVP was pretty late, but they were happy to squeeze me in), brunch with Eliza the following Wednesday, Gillian’s birthday bash two days after that and a night at the ballet with a whole bunch of people I haven’t seen in ages. This last one depends upon Mindy being able to score me a late ticket (read: bump off her cousin Samantha, who is a total drag whenever she deigns to leave her hippy artist’s studio and join us for something).
So, what started as an attempt to catch up with friends has morphed into evidence that my mother is right – I have nothing better to do. Now I’m sitting in the library, wondering whether I should cancel today’s shopping trip with Abby. I’ve mutated into a younger version of my mother. It’s terrifying. I shouldn’t leave the house.
What’s even more terrifying is how well we’ve been getting along since she found out that my matchmaker appointment went swimmingly. She’s so proud of me, she says, so thrilled I’ve overcome my troubles and decided to embark on a new life with a man who will save me from ruin. She even laughed when I told her that made me sound like a born-again Christian.
I will be praying to Jesus for earplugs when she finds out that Father forwarded the charity luncheon invitation to me, and that I’m technically going in her place. Maybe I should just tell her now, so our usual dynamic can be restored.
I check my watch. There’s no time for such an argument. Blair will be here any second to tell me that Abby and her driver are outside.
Leaving the house is a good thing in another respect: it means that Blair and I don’t have to spend as much time interacting. We’ve been civilised since his return to duties on Thursday morning, but it’s still understandably weird between us. In fact, this morning was the first time this week that I’ve let him bring me breakfast in bed and, without even discussing it, we just knew a drop-off was all that was needed. He was in and out in twenty seconds – which, trust me, never happens in my fantasies.
Thinking I can avoid him if I just wait outside, I leave the library and go to fetch my handbag from my room. When I get there, however, I find Blair putting away my clean clothes.
‘Err, hi,’ I say, waving at him from the door.
Why am I waving? He’s at my wardrobe, not standing on a dock ready to board a cruise ship bound for Bermuda.
He flashes me a tight-lipped smile. ‘Your dry-cleaning was just delivered,’ he says, holding up the maroon dress I wore the first day we met. ‘Which is good timing because I just finished ironing your other clothes.’
He points to a neatly folded pile on my bed. The top item is clearly the infamous makeshift nightie.
‘Cool.’
Cool? The simultaneous delivery of my dry-cleaning and regular laundry is cool?
He ducks his head away from me as he starts to hang the dress, so I’m guessing he’s suppressing laughter. ‘Yes, m’lady. Cool indeed.’
‘Oh, just laugh at me. I won’t be offended.’ I step over to my bed. ‘Anyway, I was just getting my bag.’
Confusion shows in his features and colours the timbre of his voice. ‘Did I miss the doorbell?’
‘No, I’m just going to wait outside…’ I pause. ‘Get some fresh air. Fresh air is good. Good for the lungs. Lungs need to breathe.’
You know what else is good? Sentences of more than four words.
He finally places the maroon dress in my wardrobe and then proceeds to finger-space the coat hangers, keeping his back to me. ‘You’re going to wait outside like a loser because you don’t want me to open the front door?’
Don’t overreact. Don’t overreact. Don’t overreact.
The best I can do is sound mildly annoyed. ‘No, I’m going to wait outside like a loser because I don’t want to subject you to my presence any more than I have to. And thank you for calling me a loser, Mr Professional. You’ve been so civil lately, and now this.’
‘Forgive me, m’lady, but avoiding each other is not coexisting.’ He rakes his fingers up the back of his neck as he turns around, looking exasperated and, unfortunately, delicious. ‘Your mother thinks I’m slacking. She saw that you left your tray table in the hallway for me to pick up, and I was promptly reminded that this isn’t a hotel.’
I groan. ‘I wasn’t trying to get you into trouble.’
‘I know. My point is –’
‘That I should let you do your job?’
‘Yes.’
I pick my handbag up off the floor near my bed. ‘Okay, then I shall wait in the sitting room until you inform me that my friend has arrived.’
‘I didn’t mean to make you angry.’ He’s following me hurriedly out of the room. I quicken my steps, nearly sprinting for the stairs. I need space between us.
‘I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s not test the boundaries of our truce.’
He has the sense to fall back and not follow me downstairs. Unfortunately, Abby is late, so I have more time to stew over how annoyed I am that he couldn’t just leave things be. It’s a stupid tray. Why not simply remind me over tomorrow’s breakfast instead?
Either way, the Second Earl isn’t impressed with me – if only he had a sister portrait in the servants’ hall so that someone could glare at Blair all day. Though, according to eighteenth-century gossip, his sister was a bit loose. And I will not permit any loose women to be around someone I’m not allowed to sleep with. Charity does have its limits.
***
Abby nudges me in the arm, trying to get me to respond to her with more enthusiasm. We’re on the ground floor of Louis Vu
itton on New Bond Street and, while everything is very fancy and pretty, I’m just not feeling it. I want to go home and tell Blair I can’t bear to be around him anymore. Then I need to post myself to the end of the universe (priority shipping, no return address) so that he’ll be safe from the dangers of his employer’s unwanted attentions.
‘What is with you, Mills? I haven’t asked, but I’m about to…’
It’s too hard to pretend I’m not bothered by something. I shrug, inviting her to bring up what she’s been dying to ask since we left the house. Frankly, I’m surprised she was waiting for me to bring it up first – maybe she thought she’d get more out of me that way.
She leans into my shoulder and whispers, nudging me with her elbow. ‘What was with the tension between you and the butler when I arrived?’
I make a sound that I can only describe as three walruses dying a slow death in the Sahara.
Abby reacts to this sound with yet more pep. ‘Oh my God, did something happen? Are you keeping something from me?’
I am keeping something from her. I haven’t told her anything beyond what I accidentally hinted to Andrew, so the last thing Abby heard was that Blair had touched my bra. She doesn’t need to know the specifics, just that I have a problem.
‘I can’t be around him. It’s too hard. As in, I want him to be hard.’ Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, right? I may as well lay it right out there. ‘It’s driving me bonkers – in that, I want him to bonk me. That’s it – I should go back to the estate.’
A grin slowly spreads across Abby’s face. Her optimism really is unbelievable at times. ‘He wants it too, doesn’t he? That’s why you two are so annoyed with each other. He can’t do his job, because all he wants is to do you.’ She points at me for emphasis, several handbags still dangling from her arms.
‘Something like that.’ I shake my head. ‘No, actually, I think he’s only ever interested in me for one or two seconds at a time.’ I don’t tell her the time reference is from Blair himself.
‘You mean he only lets it show for one or two seconds at a time. Do you have any idea how often the average male thinks about sex? It rivals how much I think about shopping. You should shag him and be done with it.’
‘Shag him and be done with it? How would that solve anything?’
‘It solves everything, obviously.’ She rolls her eyes and ceremoniously dumps one of the bags back into the golden display. ‘The problem with unresolved sexual tension is that it’s unresolved. Duh.’
‘Right, how stupid of me.’
‘It’s all in the strategy now. You have a clear path.’
‘Oh yeah, crystal clear.’
She must think the accessories section is affecting my attitude, because she suddenly decides she’s over the handbags, and swiftly abandons them on the nearest leather sofa. Before I can step in and return the bags to their rightful perches, she promptly drags me up the glass stairs to the quieter first-floor clothing section, where she then proceeds to pick the most scandalous outfit she can find.
Abby holds up the semi-sheer dress with pride, pointing to the lacy shoulders and the cut-outs on the side. ‘Ooh, how about this?’
‘That?’ I’m too scared to reach out and touch the fragile material, lest it tear in my hands. ‘For tonight?’
She’s taking me to the exclusive Arts Club on Dover Street. She and Andrew proposed and seconded my membership weeks ago, pulling in big favours to do so. Again, there is a bit of a concern on my part that I’m trying to emulate my mother’s heyday, but if Abby has the connections I’d be a fool not to use them. Oh, God. I really am becoming my mother.
She laughs. ‘Yes, for tonight. So you can seduce the butler.’
I’m more than thankful that the shop assistants in this section are already assisting other customers, rendering them unable to hover around us, and our inappropriate conversation.
‘What are you on about?’ I turn my nose up at the garment. ‘No point paying a thousand pounds if my intention is to take it off.’
‘That’s the spirit!’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
She replaces the dress and takes me by the shoulders, faking seriousness.
‘Resolve the sexual tension. It’s. The. Only. Way.’
‘You’re frightening me.’
‘It’s the only way,’ she whispers. ‘The only way.’
With a bit of effort, I manage to shake her off. ‘Have you been sniffing nail polish again?’
She suddenly jumps back a step, as if the memory actually knocked the wind out of her. After taking a series of heaving breaths, she then looks around with frenzied eyes, obviously pretending she has no idea how she got here. ‘What happened? Was I possessed by the most awesome idea in the world? Did that idea speak to you using my voice?‘
‘You’re terrible. I don’t like you.’
Continuing the charade, she puts a hand to her brow and pretends she’s losing balance, putting one foot behind the other. ‘Oh my. That idea. So possessive. Almost as strong as your need to get laid tonight.’
I glare at her until she drops her hand and returns to a normal stance. ‘What would your husband say if he knew what advice you’re giving me?’
‘Ha! I’m sure you’ll text him by accident, telling him all about it. And by the way, that nail polish thing was for five seconds in year nine. Ancient history. But you know what’s ancient future? You and the butler.’
‘Ancient future? Do you even understand what you’re saying?’ I walk past her on my way to the adjacent railing of clothes. ‘If you’re going to suggest the impossible, don’t use oxymorons. They merely compound the impossibility.’
Even my sharp words can’t dampen her excitement. She’s immune, having known me for far too long. ‘It’s not impossible, if it happens.’
‘What?’
‘And it’s actually far from impossible. All you have to do is tell him that you want him.’
I shoot her an incredulous look. ‘I’ve technically already done that, remember? You were there. Hello? Sideways?’
‘Yes, but you didn’t say it to his face seriously. You apologised and took it back. Tell him to his face this time.’ She lowers her voice and waves her hand around her chest area. ‘Preferably while wearing something see-through.’
‘I’m not going to go there. It’s not worth it.’
‘Not worth it? Have you forgotten what he looks like? He must’ve been a model before this whole butler thing. I was even thinking last week that I’d seen him somewhere before.’
‘Wait. You felt that way, too? I thought I was imagining things.’
‘Honey, don’t imagine. Do. Or, more specifically, fuck.’
‘Promise me you’ll never become one of those life coaches.’
Her face lights up at my attempted dismissal, a touch of cruelty in her mischievous smile. ‘You need me.’
‘Oh, go and travel back to the ancient future! Or forward, if that’s how it works.’ I pause, trying to remember the logic from the Back to the Future films. ‘Whatever.’
She leaves me alone to browse, though I can still see her smirking out of the corner of my eye. Really, she is being the opposite of helpful.
It’s funny that Tilton & Bree headquarters is practically around the corner, because I’m beginning to have the same sort of anxiety I experienced in Polly’s office. Looking around frantically for an escape route, I can’t focus on any one object. It doesn’t help that the place is currently housing an art exhibition for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. The decoration is all very disorienting. There is a litany of festive touches – splashes of bright colour, royal motifs, portraits and the like. Frankly, I prefer the regular Vuitton style of gold, beige and brown, all sleek and traditional.
The mannequins in the first floor exhibit are the freakiest show here, though. They’re lined up in neat rows, like the terracotta warriors in the tomb of China’s first emperor, a sight I saw when I was six. For a moment, I
allow my mind to lose itself in the happy memory of that family holiday – a time when my parents still got along. Then I glance back at the mannequins and find myself spooked all over again: they look like they’re going to attack me in all their monarchy-inspired fashion glory.
I’m losing it. There has to be something non-Blair related I can think about, something that will ground me, but I can’t come up with anything. Instead, I find myself obsessing over the fact that Abby also thinks she’s seen Blair before. It’s too bad that I have no chance of discovering whether he’s been in a fashion campaign or not. The man simply won’t answer questions about his background.
Maybe he modelled something embarrassing, or nothing related to fashion at all. He could’ve been a poster boy for any number of things: haemorrhoid cream, erectile dysfunction pills, annoying mobile ringtones, late-night personals ads? The list goes on…
I wonder if Google might help.
I stroll over to the nearby shoe section, but before I can continue brainstorming, Abby pops out of nowhere and scares the living daylights out of me. You’d think she’d purchased the power to teleport.
‘You look like you have an idea!’
‘Jesus, Abby!’ I take a moment for my heart rate to return to normal. ‘No ideas. Just wondering if there was a way of finding out where we’ve seen Blair before.’
Surprisingly, she comes up with something brilliant. ‘You haven’t Facebook stalked him yet? What kind of woman are you?’
‘Facebook, right.’ I whip out my phone. ‘There might be a million Blair Baxters, though.’
‘Not necessarily.’
A million, no, but a few, yes. I scroll down and spot the profile that’s definitely his, though I almost scrolled past his photo. He looks different with a carefree smile on his face. The casual photo of him and three friends looks like it was taken at Glastonbury or some other sort of festival. There’s even a slutty bargirl in the background.
Lady: Impossible Page 10
