Lady: Impossible (10 page)

‘Fine.’

I whip around and close the heavy doors, barely getting them shut before he speaks.

‘Stop looking at me like you want me to rip your clothes off. There, I said it.’

I turn to face him. He steps out from behind the table and slowly stalks towards me, stopping a few feet away from me. He looks deadly serious and mighty pissed off.

I don’t deny I’ve been inflicting unwanted attention on him. ‘Sorry.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘You apologise all the time. How about acting on the supposed remorse you feel?’

‘I
am
sorry.’ I’m getting more emotional than I thought I would.

‘But you can’t help it, right? I’ve been trying to make the best of things, but there’s only so much I can tolerate. And like you said, it’s only day five!’

Something about this still feels overly formal. ‘Is this how you normally talk?’

‘What? Just because I’m a servant, I must be a chav?’ he spits. ‘I must be working-class, having learnt over the years how to act and speak properly?’

I clench my fists. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you insinuated it. Once a noble, always a noble, I guess. You’re bloody stuck-up, that’s what you are.’

‘I am not.’

‘Of course you’re not.’ He returns to the computer. ‘Let me print this off for you. It’ll give you something to think about.’

I remain where I am, surprised his barbs are affecting me this way. The feeling in my chest is terrible, so full of chagrin. I’m afraid that if I move, I’ll make another mistake, one he’ll claim I won’t learn from.

The printer goes into action, spitting out whatever questions my mother has made him transcribe. He takes the pages and brandishes them at me like they’re weapons, before striding back over to me so he can thrust them in my face.

‘Here’s your assigned reading, m’lady.’

After a moment of inaction, I snatch the pages from him, wanting to read them now to get it over and done with. Blair steps back, but stays close enough so he can gauge my reaction.
 

What qualities do you look for in a man?

What has been your longest relationship to date?

Have you even been in love?

Do you tend to value sex over companionship?

Are men objects to you?

Do men take you seriously?

Do men want
you
for sex, not companionship?

What flaws do you need to work on?

Why do you think your friends all have partners/husbands and you don’t?

Do you say, ‘I’m not looking’ to disguise the fact that nobody wants you?

The aching ball of anger in my chest melts momentarily as a sharper pain hits me, and my head begins to spin.

I stop reading. I get the message. Even if I wanted to continue reading I wouldn’t be able to because, like the drama queen I apparently am, I can feel the hot pricking of tears in my eyes from the humiliation of it all.
 

I turn towards him. ‘Well, I suppose I should study this in my own time.’
 

I’m trying to remain as composed as possible, to retain some semblance of dignity even though I’m blinking back tears. Blair, for his part, seems to have changed stances again. Instead of anger, he’s now regarding me with pity.

He sighs and shakes his head in disgust. ‘I’m such a dick.’

‘No, you’re not.’ I roll the pages into a scroll. ‘I, literally, asked for it.’

‘Millie…’
 

It’s the first time he’s called me that. He catches himself, hesitating again.
 

‘Lady Emilia, maybe we should start again.’

I smile ruefully. ‘No, thank you. It’s going to take me a while to process these lessons as it is.’

‘But –’

I almost rip my arm off opening the door so quickly. I dash to my room, knowing full well that my flight must seem childish.
 

It’s only when I’m back in my yellow sanctuary that I remember how Blair looked at me the other night. I was supposed to throw the attention back in his face, when challenged. However, I think my silence was best – maybe he never looked at me that way at all. It really is possible I’m arrogant enough to have concocted the entire scenario.

Alastair might actually have the right idea. He absconded with one clear goal in mind: live a carefree life. The estate was meant to be his. He saw it as a burden.
 

Stupid rich-people’s problems. I should’ve signed up for a super-sexy pirate party when I had the chance. No one would bother lecturing me on a pirate ship.

Argh.

***
 

An hour later, I’ve managed to get through the rest of the five pages, having read them in the dull light emitted from the bedside table lamp. Many of the questions were just repeats of the ones that came before, permutations along the same theme. To save myself the more terrifying levels of introspection, I take it slowly at first and concede that maybe I would be happier if I didn’t mouth off as much. I’m still against being completely silent, but now I see the lonely future that could be ahead of me:
 

The estate. Lots of cats. Auctioning heirlooms to pay for those cats and their needs. (Cat) Lady Emilia Pembroke…
 

I shudder and try to think of something else.
 

Sitting against the door now, as if another ambush will be upon me if I don’t guard the area, I think back to the last time I had sex. It was seven months ago, with a visiting scholar from Cambridge. He was only in town for a week, to deliver a presentation on a discussion paper he’d co-written with someone from St Andrews. At the time, I thought it was a bit of fun, nostalgic even – a hankering for my old uni days. Now I’m wondering whether I was merely being a slut-bag.
 

There’s a gentle knock on the door. It must be the gods wishing to confirm my slut-bag theory. One knock for ‘yes’, two knocks for ‘no’, three to say they’ll get back to me after they finish assessing the slut-bags of a higher ranking (daughters of kings and dukes, I suppose).
 

There are another two raps against the wood. I’m not sure whether this means two knocks for ‘no’, or whether I’m supposed to add all three together, for the ‘we’ll get back to you’.

‘Lady Emilia?’

It’s not the commanding tone of the gods. It’s Blair, sounding like he’s still taking pity on me.

‘What?’
 

‘May I please speak with you? I brought refreshments. Out of my own pocket.’

‘I’ll reimburse you tomorrow.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’ I hear him sigh. ‘Please just open the door.’

One of my Scottish friends, Mary, claims this constantly apologising thing is a Londoner’s habit. Londoners frequently say sorry when they shouldn’t. ‘Sorry, you gave me the incorrect change.’ ‘Sorry, do you have the time?’ ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there’ (said to an inanimate object). Maybe it really has lost its meaning of true regret.

I sigh and slowly get up. ‘I’m pretty much resigned to leaving you alone.’

He knocks more insistently. ‘Please.’

Grumbling, I unlock the door and open it just enough so I can speak to him.
 

The first thing I notice is that he’s changed into his pyjamas. The cheek! Testing me so soon after our fight.
 

‘I’m about to go to bed,’ I say.
 

It’s true. I’m even back in the
Postman Pat
t-shirt. It’s more comfortable than any of my summer sleepwear.

He holds up a bottle in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. ‘I have to warn you, it’s probably not of the quality you’re used to. But it’s not as though I picked the cheapest one either.’

It’s a peace offering, though I’m not sure whether accepting it is a good idea.

‘Just have a bit,’ he urges. ‘A toast to our truce?’

‘Truce, huh? There was probably less animosity at Versailles.’

He tilts his head. It’s kind of adorable, which is frustrating. I am, after all, angry with him. ‘Let’s not get overdramatic now. That was after an
actual
war – a nasty one, at that. We’re just having a tiff.’

I’ve been mulling over my own mistakes for an hour. Absolution won’t come this easily. ‘The tiff started when I told you you’d soon be out of a job. Or maybe it started when I told you I’d like it if you –’

‘No need to say it. Let’s call a truce. A proper one this time.’ He hurries to explain himself. ‘But you can only have one glass. If you’re hungover tomorrow, I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Fine.’ I open the door wider and use the papers as a traffic baton, guiding him in. ‘Go ahead. Pour a glass.’

He steps inside and heads straight for the bedside table so he can sort out the wine. From the looks of it, it’s a cheap white (though, I must remember, not the shop’s cheapest) in a screw-top bottle. Even as I’m closing the door, the only thing I feel certain about is the need for a drink.
 

I know he’s trying to be nice, to make the best of things, as he said before but, inexplicably, I start freaking out. How will I keep up an uncomfortable pretence for months on end?

Blair has turned around and moved towards me with a wine glass in one hand. A warm glow from the yellow-burnished bedside light illuminates one half of his face, while the other remains in shadow. Who is this man? I still don’t know him as a person, and now he’s in my bedroom. One second I have him on my side, the next he’s back to being repulsed by me. There’s a trust that’s needed between employer and employee, and I don’t mean on a fiduciary level. I’m talking about a basic human level. I don’t even know if I can afford him that, not when I’ve been treating him like an object.

I stay lost in these thoughts until it occurs to me that Blair hasn’t offered me my glass yet. It’s still in his hand. Why is he just standing there?

Then I register why he’s motionless.
 

He’s too busy staring at my legs, that dazed look I saw last night is back in full force and, this time, I see him lick his lips. He likes what he sees, and I’m not talking about the wine.

Something inside me snaps.
 

‘Oh, so you can come into my room and look at me like that, but I can’t look at you?’

He jumps at the sound of my voice, wine sloshing over his hand.
 

I don’t even care how ridiculous I sound. ‘What are you playing at? And Sunday too, when we were in the kitchen! I saw the look in your eye.’

Unable to deny that he was ogling me after scolding me for ogling him, he simply gapes at me, speechless.
 

‘Well?’
 

‘Uh…’ He blinks several times. ‘I’m so sorry, Lady Emilia. I should leave.’

Nervous, he shifts unsurely, looking at the wine bottle and then the door. He reaches for the bottle with his free hand but then thinks better of it. He’s probably flustered because he’s already poured two glasses, and neither of us is in a position to drink them before he goes.

‘Forget it,’ I instruct. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘All right then.’ He shakily sets down my glass, before wiping his hand on the side of his trousers.
 

I’m blocking his exit. Chastened, he defers and waits for me to move out of the way.
 

I only let him out after I utter one final word. ‘Hypocrite.’

Maybe it’s a matter of degree, and I probably come off sounding worse, but his mind was still in the gutter.

He doesn’t offer a comeback before fleeing.

Energised by the power reversal, I shove the papers into the top drawer of the bedside table and then down my half-full glass of wine in one go.
 

The hot butler totally wants me.

Too bad we’re fighting now.

Chapter 6:

‘So, Emilia, what kind of man are you looking for?’

I stare blankly across the table at my matchmaker, a Mrs Polly Wright. She’s middle-aged and well presented. Her auburn hair is tied up in a neat, no-nonsense bun. Her make-up looks natural. The trouser suit she’s wearing is by Dolce & Gabbana (I recognise it from their ad campaign), so I’m guessing she either earns enough in her own right to finance such a wardrobe, or her husband is loaded. People say you should judge a hairdresser by their own hair, so it follows that I should judge Mrs Wright on her own ‘match’. If only I could turn around these photo-frames on her desk to see what Mr Wright looks like.

Oh no. I hope she doesn’t make any lame jokes about finding me my Mr Wright. If she does, I’m going to groan like a walrus dying slowly in the Sahara.

I hate to admit it, but I’m incredibly nervous. The setting might be a traditional wood-panelled office, but I feel as though I’m at the police station in one of those grey interrogation rooms with the single overhead light. Guilty and confused, that’s how I feel. In fact, I don’t even know how to answer her question. All I can think about is Blair. Blair, who dropped me off here fifteen minutes ago, and is currently waiting for me in the car. Blair, who has been polite and respectful towards me for the last several days, even though I know he’s embarrassed and frustrated about our situation. Blair, who I should not be concerned about because I’m in a meeting designed to help me find a husband.

‘Um, I don’t know.’

‘Take your time,’ she says in a soothing tone. I wonder if any of her clients are as panic-stricken as me. ‘I’m here to help you find your life partner. Let’s not be flippant about this.’

‘I just don’t understand who would come to you asking for help,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, I’ve been sent here by my parents. Well, my mother set this up, as you well know, but my father completely approves. Are the men on your books as spineless as me? Going along with what their mummies and daddies want them to do?’

She stays perfectly calm, clasping her hands and smiling sweetly – more therapist than matchmaker.
 

‘You are anything but spineless. I think you know that. And no, our clients are not all tied to the wishes of their parents.’

I feel a panic attack coming on. This building is a four-storey townhouse, but I doubt they have the type of fainting room that I’ll need. A cell with padded walls would also suffice. I’m guessing they don’t have that either.