Lady: Impossible (19 page)

He speaks first, setting the tray table down on my lap.

‘I brought you a selection of things, a pick ‘n’ mix supper: savoury sandwiches – salmon and dill, and duck liver pâté. And petit fours I originally bought for your dessert: lemon tart and a fruit flan.’ He adjusts the fork on the tray so it’s no longer askew, before picking up the teapot. ‘May I pour you some tea, m’lady? It’s a blend your mother had me order online for you. It’s very mild.’

‘Um, yes, please do.’
 

I knew he’d be like this. For some reason, it hurts – it’s as though he’s already forgotten we had sex. It makes me feel used, resentful even. It’s irrational to think this way when I’m sure he’s merely trying to cope. Then again, I’ve never been great at managing my temperament.

He pours the tea with a steady hand and puts it on a coaster on my bedside table. ‘Text me when you’d like this cleared. Is there anything else you need?’

I frown, not trusting myself to speak. Surely he must know I’m affronted. He’s always saying I’m so easy to read.
 

‘M’lady?’

‘No, there’s nothing else. You’re free to go.’

Leaving without another word, he closes the door behind him. It’s then, in the dim light, with my food on my lap, that I register just how alone I really am.

Chapter 10:

By Monday evening, I am a complete and utter basket case, the type of basket case who hides herself in her room to shield the world from her craziness. While this isolation hasn’t been absolute – I did have a lunch to go to today – the intent is to keep to myself as much as possible. The less I interact with people, the better.

This self-imposed seclusion began as soon as I woke up yesterday morning. At first I was disoriented, confused as to whether the previous night had actually happened or if I’d dreamt up the entire scenario out of sheer frustration. It was then that I registered the ache between my legs, that delicious after-burn you get from rough, torrid sex. I was still a little sore. There was no denying it: I’d slept with Blair.

It was certainly panic-stations after that. I sent Blair a message at seven to tell him not to bring me breakfast – a message he didn’t even reply to, but obviously passed on to my mother. I say ‘obviously’ because she came straight up to check if I was feeling okay. I faked illness, not telling her my true ailment was self-inflicted guilt and loneliness. The grimace she saw on my face was not from fever or stomach pains, but rather from the knowledge that I had caused a tonne of regret for Blair – a man who, hours after the fact, pretended nothing had happened between us.

My mother was frightened I had come down with something that was bound to last the week, affecting my scheduled meeting with Polly and any possible dates that could be in the pipeline. Despite my protests, she made Blair being me crumpets and jam, a meal that used to make me feel better when I was seven. The look on his face as she ushered him in… It killed me. Again, the concern he showed was purely professional. I wanted to throw the crumpets in his face and yell at him, because even genuine surprise would be better than the mask he was wearing. Alas, throwing crumpets is surely a sign of an unstable mind.
 

I was left alone after that, the only interruptions being lunch and dinner, meals my mother insisted on bringing up to me. When I wasn’t staring at a tray of food, I was sitting in the corner, listening to my iPod. ‘Never Ever’ by All Saints has been my token boy-trouble song since 1997. While the lyrics don’t directly relate, as it’s not like I’ve broken up with Blair – having never actually been his girlfriend – it manages to convey the way I’m feeling.
 

After hearing it on repeat for a little too long, I switched to something more upbeat in an attempt to psych myself out of the funk I’d sunk into. I tried S Club 7, 5ive and the Spice Girls, but all I got from those was a sense of confusion as to why I have so many songs that pre-date the existence of the iPod.
 

I’d turned into a basket case with unkempt hair and a penchant for old pyjamas. I even snuck out at three in the morning to get ice cream and, on finding none, I ate two vanilla slices left over from dessert, a can of spaghetti I found in the pantry, two pieces of fruit toast and a packet of mini marshmallows intended for use in cakes.
 

It was only after I’d eaten all this that I realised the can of spaghetti had been sitting next to the two-minute noodles on the shelf, so it was probably Blair’s. Moreover, my mother would never allow such tinned food to be formally served in this house. So, not only had I caused Blair grief, I’d eaten his bloody dinner too. I left a post-it that said ‘Will replace spaghetti – Millie’, so he won’t think rats are getting to the food.

It was only when my mother brought me breakfast this morning herself, that I discovered Blair had decided the night before that, yes, if it was okay with her, he did want to take the two Diamond Jubilee Bank Holidays off. Though his official reason was wanting to spend time with his family, it’s not impossible that he fled because of me. This news brought on more panic: the thought of him not being here for three days straight too much for me to bear.

I had to get it together though. I was determined not to cancel on Jane, and my mother agreed that I should make the effort to see my friends now that some colour had returned to my cheeks.
 

So, with no butler to drive me anywhere, I took a taxi to Jane’s, not bothering to drive myself as there’s limited parking on her exclusive Chelsea street. Anyway, as if acting normal wasn’t hard enough, it just so happened that what I thought was a ladies’ lunch turned out to be a couples’ luncheon by default. How was I to know that my group of friends would be bringing their husbands along? Just because it’s a Bank Holiday, it doesn’t mean the men get an automatic invite to come along and toast the Queen in Jane’s back garden. Henny even brought her children, for crying out loud. I really was the token single white female.
 

This inadequacy did not sit well with me at all, and I apparently did a poor job of hiding my mood, because Eliza told me off for my sourness, asking point blank if I was some sort of anti-monarchist who wanted to ditch the established order. After declaring my love for the Queen
and
the established hierarchy – an order that puts her father above mine because he is a Marquess – I stuffed two salmon puffs in my mouth and pretended I’d just received a text. Unfortunately, the most recent texts in my inbox were from Abby asking why I hadn’t returned her calls, so that only made me more flustered.
 

When I got home, I ran straight up to my room and locked the door. In the five hours that I’ve been sitting here, I’ve begun to long for Blair’s return, revelling in the fact he finds me attractive. The thing is, I can’t fix anything between us if he’s not around. Even worse, I’m beginning to think about ways we could justify the ‘encounter’. My knee-jerk reaction after the fact had been ‘it’s just a bit of fun’. Rationally, I know I have to accept that he’s never going to sleep with me again – he was so horrified by the encounter – but a little bit of me hopes that he might be okay with a fling, if I guarantee the security of his job. This, of course, makes no sense, as there has never been any security in this job, not that he’d believe me. Plus, I shouldn’t be ignoring how important this job is for the financial support of his siblings.

No, things are not going well. I’ll sit here until I start thinking rationally again, if that’s even possible. Hopefully it’s possible.

I jump from a knock on the door. It must be my mother bringing me dinner.

‘Millie! Open up. I have no idea why you insist on locking this door.’

‘I feel sick again. I shouldn’t have gone out today.’ I grumble and get up, heading straight for the door instead of prolonging the inevitable. If I don’t let her in, she’ll use the master key and start lecturing me on the dangers of solitary confinement, even if one is sick.

When I open the door, I find her still dressed in the outfit she wore to the Jubilee celebrations. She looks past me and spies my own dress lying in a heap on the floor. Her eyes immediately roll.

‘Honestly. You’ll have to pick up after yourself. Don’t you remember? Blair’s not here today.’

I sigh and let her into the room, noticing she’s brought up a very light meal. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Well, because he’s not here, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what I can feed you.’ She sets the tray table down on my bed. ‘Luckily, Andrew Carrington called earlier, saying you’ve been ignoring Abby’s calls. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I told him you’ve been unwell. He relayed this to Abby, and now he’s going to drop off some soup. Apparently Abby makes good soup?’

‘Sorry?’

Her hands go straight to her hips. I carefully get into bed, not wanting to knock over the solitary bread roll that’s sitting on a limited edition Royal Doulton plate, and wait for the ensuing tirade.

She’s not looming over me like she did last week, but she’s still hovering closely. ‘I know you’ve been feeling under the weather and that you went out today, but you shouldn’t ignore Abby. I hope you two haven’t fought. You might have to borrow clothes for your dates if you don’t recover soon enough to go shopping. She’s the same size as you.’

I’m confused. ‘Mother, Abby doesn’t cook.’
 

‘No, I didn’t think she did. Perhaps Andrew cooked it. It must be leftovers. Or maybe they bought the soup. I don’t know. I’m not psychic.’ She shakes her head. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that luncheon today – I just wanted you to be social. It made you feel worse, didn’t it? You needed more rest.’

I poke at the bread roll with my knife. ‘The main thing is that I managed to get through it. It was tough, though.’

Because my mind was elsewhere.
 

‘Yes, we should be more cautious now. No more outings until you’re better.’ She tilts her head inquiringly. ‘Out of interest, any mention of your brother today?’

‘To be honest, I wasn’t really aware of what was going on around me.’ I set the knife down, thinking I should wait for the soup that’s on its way. ‘Eliza thought I was being insubordinate.’

‘Eliza? I still think of her as the precocious little child she was. God, I hate the Routledges.’

I reply before she starts ranting about them in more detail. ‘Why are you asking about Al anyway? Was there talk of him at the function you went to?’

The pinched look on her face confirms that there was. I’d heard from Father that gossip like this was a problem for her, and it turns out he’s spot on.
 

She waves her hand flippantly, but I know she’s just trying to hide how rattled she is. ‘Just the usual, my dear: talk of him setting up questionable businesses and laundering money via Switzerland.’

‘Oh yeah, the usual.’
 

‘It’s so funny – some of these people think he’s a hardened criminal. He may be an incredible embarrassment to this family, but he’s hardly Mafioso. He’s never been fond of Italian food.’

‘Um, I don’t think organised crime comes with dietary requirements. Nor is such crime exclusive to Italy.’

She gestures with her hands again. I’m beginning to think she believes it possible to physically wave off the stench of scandal. ‘All rumours. I just worry it’ll get into the tabloids and affect your chances of securing a husband.’

I nod, finally offering her some comfort. ‘I’m sure a lot of it is exaggerated. Al doesn’t like answering to anyone, and I imagine the Mafia has a hierarchy.’

‘Yes.’ She claps her hands together. ‘Anyway, Andrew will be here in fifteen minutes, so I’ll bring the soup up to you then. Unless you feel well enough to greet him at the door, in which case you should put on a dressing gown to cover your cutesy pyjamas. What is it with you and cartoon characters, anyway? So childish.’

‘Mother, these aren’t cartoon characters,’ I say, pointing to the motifs on my clothes. ‘They’re palm trees. This is the pyjama set cousin Felicia gave me for Christmas five years ago. She ordered it from America.’

As expected, she turns up her nose. ‘America? How common.’

I don’t know why I feel so defensive about this pyjama issue. Probably because the real reason I’m not wearing my regular sleepwear is because I don’t want to feel sexy. Feeling sexy makes me think about Blair and how fabulous the sex was before we both realised how reckless our actions were.

‘And, if you’re referring to my other nightie, well,
Postman Pat
is not a cartoon. It’s stop-motion animated.’

‘Isn’t animation a cartoon?’ She throws her hands up in the air again. ‘Why are we even discussing this? I’m going downstairs to wait for Andrew. If you’re going to come down, at least look respectable.’

She mutters something about palm trees and leaves me with my roll, not bothering to shut the door behind her. Finally noticing she didn’t even bring me butter to put on the bread, I yell like a mad woman from my bed.
 

‘You didn’t bring me butter!’

‘I’m not your butler!’ is her immediate reply, yelled at an even higher volume.
 

‘No, you’re not,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘The butler ran away because we had hot sex on the stairs.’

I wish he’d come back. We really need to talk. I could call him, but it’s hardly a conversation I want to have over the phone.
 

I sigh again and glance down at the roll. It looks so forlorn sitting on the fine china plate – it needs a friend in the form of soup. And, speaking of friends, it’s nice that my own friends are looking out for me. I really should return Abby’s calls. The trouble is, I’m worried I’ll start babbling about what happened with Blair. Out of respect, I shouldn’t say anything because, if he was to find out I’d talked, he’d be even more upset.
 

She probably thinks I’m cross with her for the way she ditched me on Saturday, and is too scared to call at the house. Poor Andrew is too nice to her, and is now ferrying soup to Kensington on a public holiday.
 

Knowing I should acknowledge this effort, I set the tray table aside and find a long blue dressing gown in the back of the wardrobe. It gets left here in London because it’s a bit much for Fife. I’d feel like a real snob if I walked around my flat in a monogrammed robe: ‘EP’ embroidered on my chest. People who live alone shouldn’t have monogrammed items – it’s not like your things are going to be confused with anyone else’s. Maybe if I was prone to forgetting my initials, then yes, but I’m too young to be going senile.