Lady: Impossible (2 page)

As it turns out, Blair must’ve found an excellent spot in the nearby short-stay car park because it doesn’t take long for him to pull into the pick-up area. It then occurs to me that I was perfectly capable of walking
with
him
to the car, and should have insisted as such. I pride myself on not being so dependent. His looks are obviously to blame for distracting me.
 

To make up for it, I open the car door myself. This does not go down well.
 

‘I’ll do that, Your Ladyship,’ he says, getting out of the vehicle.

He really does take his job very seriously. The concerned look he gave me had me thinking I was opening the door incorrectly, as if the doors open upwards like a Lamborghini’s.
 

‘No, forget it.’ I wave him off and get into the back. All he manages to do is shut the door behind me.
 

He climbs back into the driver’s seat and waits patiently to pull out. I scoot over to the middle of the back seat, noticing the leather interior has been redone. It must’ve been a money-saving decision from my father – reupholster rather than buy a new car. Jags certainly aren’t cheap.
 

It soon becomes clear that I have no idea what to say to Blair, or whether I’m even allowed to engage in idle chitchat with him. We’re silent as the drive to Kensington gets underway. Most of the help at the estate have known me since I was a child, so I’ve never really had this problem. Of course, I haven’t made things easier with my verification phone call. So even though it’s a drive that should take half an hour in the early Sunday-morning traffic, the awkwardness makes the time drag. I check my phone, play with my watch, take my sunglasses off and then check my phone again. At one stage, I catch Blair’s eye in the rearview mirror, which makes things even more uncomfortable. Eventually, he starts a conversation.

‘So, you go to St Andrews?’

I’m sure my mother has told him all about me, but it won’t hurt to tell him myself.
 

‘Yes. I may be a Cambridge girl, but I thought I’d get my Masters in Finance elsewhere. I know what you’re thinking: St Andrews is very Prince William, isn’t it? Well, as they say in real estate: location, location, location. It’s close to home, without being home, which is convenient when you have a mother who’s this dramatic.’

‘I see. What about Yorkshire? I hear you open Silsbury Hall to the public?’

‘For most of the year. We also lend it to studios for filming and such.’

‘That must be difficult – sharing your home with strangers?’

‘It’s not too bad. It’ll be mine one day anyway. Which reminds me, does my father know about you?’

He hesitates. ‘I might let Her Ladyship answer that.’

Clearly that’s a ‘no’.

I try to think of a question, one that won’t make me sound like a snob. But the longer I take, the more aloof I seem, so I go ahead and ask for his story. ‘Did you work at many hotels before The Savoy?’

‘Yes, m’lady. I started working in hotels when I was seventeen – just part-time during the holidays. I didn’t really mean to stay in the industry… Things happen.’ He says it in a bright tone, but I get the impression he’s not all that enthused.

This is certainly different. Other butlers I’ve known have always seemed settled in their roles – proud too. I think this guy fell into it, and just hasn’t managed to escape yet. I’m not sure what’s stopping him, but it’s probably more complicated than simply having the will to leave.
 

‘Does it take you long to get to the house?’ It’s a roundabout way of asking where he lives – I don’t want the question to sound too direct.
 

He takes a long time to answer. ‘No.’

The delay makes me wonder if the question is classist in some way. It was more out of curiosity than anything.
 

‘That’s good. And do you always work on Sundays or are you in today because of me?’

‘My day off is Wednesday, so it’s no trouble at all.’

The guy works six days a week then. It’s probably not the most taxing job, waiting on one person, but if he’s being housekeeper and chauffeur too, then maybe it is. That said, I’m sure he’s exempted from keeping the entire place spic and span as the London house is cleaned every week. Our neighbour lets in the cleaning service when the house is empty – heirlooms tend to get dusty when forgotten.
 

‘Is that enough time off?’
 

‘Your mother is quite flexible.’
 

Well, there’s a statement you never want to hear from an attractive man.

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. You must be worth being flexible for.’

I don’t even know what I’m saying. I should shut my mouth.
 

‘I suppose so, m’lady.’

‘Hmm.’

I’m suddenly impatient. Once we’re back at the house, he’ll be taking orders from my mother, and there may not be a good moment to raise a particular concern of mine. As he seems deserving of my honesty, I decide to plough ahead and assert my case.
 

‘May I be frank with you, Blair?’

‘You may.’
 

‘I don’t think my mother is serious about this whole ‘staying in London’ business. I think it’s selfish that she hired you. She doesn’t really mean it when she says she’s had enough of my father – this isn’t the first time she’s thrown a hissy fit. I think you deserve to know this. I do hope The Savoy will take you back.’

Although my intent was to be brutally honest for his own good, the assertion doesn’t sound all that well intentioned. Blair clenches his jaw, clearly affronted.

I quickly add some clarification. ‘I’m just saying. I don’t want you to get a nasty shock at the end of the month, that’s all.’

No response.
 

Rather than admiring how smouldering he looks when he’s angry, I shuffle over to the window and pretend to be interested in the scenery. Unfortunately, there’s nothing scenic about the M4 on the approach to central London. It’s no different to any other major arterial motorway – just cars, concrete and crash barrier, with the occasional slither of urbanised greenery here and there – not nearly as interesting as what, or
who
, is in the car.
 

And it’s when we get onto the A4 that I realise I’m running out of time to apologise. I don’t like admitting that I’m wrong. I was trying to do him a favour, but nothing good is going to come out of staying silent.
 

‘I’m sorry.’

His reply is clipped. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, m’lady.’
 

Now I’m defensive because he’s defensive. ‘I detect sarcasm in your voice.’

‘Not at all, m’lady.’

With the mood well and truly soured, I slump back in the leather seat and prepare to write off the entire morning. I’ll serve myself elevenses when we get to the house and then make some more calls to the airline. Tea and hostility: the staples of a British war room. I’m not declaring war on him per se, but rather on my mother for dragging others into the chaos caused by her flighty behaviour.
 

Finally, we pull up at the house, though I’m not sure how relieved I actually am. I’m certain Mother is going to berate me for offending her young butler, and I probably won’t hear the end of it for hours. Luckily, there should be somewhere to hide for a while. The house, like most of our property, has been in my father’s family for generations and, while its grandeur isn’t comparable with that of the estate, as a Georgian townhouse it’s still quite sizeable.

Conscious of my guilt, I try to apologise again when Blair opens the door for me.
 

‘I’m a very direct person,’ I say as I step out, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t expect you to understand this fact within five minutes of meeting me.’

‘Really, there’s no problem, m’lady.’
 

I can tell he’s lying, but I don’t think there’s anything more I can do. And before I can think of some grand gesture, my mother flings open the front door and rushes to the front gate.
 

‘Millie!’

She looks like she’s going out somewhere, but I know she’s only dressed up for me. Suit, pearls – and a hat. Her honey-brown hair has recently been cut into a Jackie O-style bob, though today it looks a little frizzy. What’s really terrible is that we’re both wearing maroon and, sure enough, it’s the first thing she points out.

‘I knew you missed me. We’re practically twins,’ she says proudly as Blair opens the gate for her.
 

‘No, Mother, we’re not.’

We’re really not. I have my father’s mahogany hair, hazel eyes and rather serious expression, with a thin figure to boot. Not that my mother isn’t slim – you can just tell she’s not twenty anymore.

Blair and I barely take two steps into the front garden before my mother detects the tension between us. It must be incredibly obvious.
 

‘Whatever she said, you should ignore it,’ she says to him, ‘she’s terrible like that. It’s why she hasn’t found a husband.’

‘At least I’m not the scandalous one.’ I kiss her on both cheeks, though she probably doesn’t deserve it.

‘Yes, for now.’ She throws a curious look at Blair. ‘Where are Millie’s bags? You know better than to stand around.’
 

‘They’re still in Scotland, m’lady.’

She turns to me, and I know an overreaction is guaranteed. ‘What are you
saying
? Are you not staying long?’

‘Yes, I consciously decided to pack absolutely nothing so I have no reason to be upset that the airline lost my bags.’

‘I’ll call the airport for an update,’ Blair says.
 

I doubt it. He’ll probably tell them I’m a drug-smuggler.
 

She’s still suspicious of me. ‘Are you sure that’s it?’
 

I sigh. ‘They said they’ll deliver them later today.’

‘Okay then.’ She ushers me into the house before I can escape. After following me in, she turns around and speaks to Blair, who shuts the front door behind him. ‘Oh, Blair, I found a firmer mattress for you. If you can manage, swap yours with the one in the green bedroom. If not, we’ll have to enlist one of the neighbours to help you move it.’

I whip around, alarmed. ‘Why does he need a mattress?’

‘What? You think it’s fair to let him sleep on the floor?’ She puts her hands on her hips. ‘And you say I’m the harsh one.’

‘Why is he sleeping here at all?’
 

It’s Blair who provides the answer. ‘I live here, m’lady. I’m a live-in butler.’

It’s impossible to miss the look of triumph in his eyes. It’s completely unnerving, like he actually believes he’s proven me wrong in some respect.
 

My mother is unruffled in her explanation. ‘It’s more convenient this way. He was having trouble with his flatmates.’

So, this is the real reason he was so evasive about where he lived. My stomach lurches. I’m far too stunned to say anything. I end up staring at the pair of them with my mouth wide open. I’m sure it’s very unattractive, though I
am
in the comfort of my own home. Oh wait, it’s the family home – one of them, at least – and the hot butler apparently lives with us now.
 

I don’t know how good the mattress in the green bedroom is, but I had better not find myself wanting to test it. And I swear, if my mother has designs on him, I will scream from here to August.
 

When I finally come to, I say something completely worthy of my expensive education:

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

And with that I stalk off to the sitting room to fix myself a drink.

Chapter 2:
 

It’s a stupid decision, stalking into the sitting room. I’ve forgotten how museum-like it is in here – it certainly isn’t a place to relax. The settee is almost three hundred years old, and I can never sit on it without feeling like I’m perched upon a ledge covered in blue and gold wallpaper, those two colours being the scheme for the room. And then there’s the imposing presence of my ancestor, the Second Earl of Silsbury, whose giant portrait hangs over the mantelpiece. I always feel like he’s judging me, disapproving of the fact I’m sitting on his sofa. Once, when I came home drunk after a gala, I actually told him to get over it. Maybe he hasn’t forgotten.
 

And the sitting room isn’t exactly a smart place to pick to avoid the butler… I can hear my mother telling Blair to bring me my tea, despite the fact that I’m apparently ‘a bigger drama queen’ than her. He’ll be here any minute, and I’ll have nothing to do but to talk to him again, because not only is there no alcohol here – I forgot that my father moved the cabinet – but there’s no television either.
 

I dump my handbag on the rug, and its contents spill out unceremoniously, creating a mess that the Second Earl would most definitely disapprove of. I’m tempted to call a friend to discuss this surprise butler/housemate situation, but they won’t really understand without seeing Blair in person. I wouldn’t care as much if he was older or uglier – in other words, unremarkable. To some degree Mother is correct: this isn’t as ‘amusing’ as Al’s exploits. But it certainly doesn’t help to have such a young, attractive male living in the family’s London home when she’s claiming to be tired of her married life.
 

I already know I won’t be able to stop staring at Blair whenever he’s around, and it’s bound to descend into flat-out perving. The only times I’ll be inclined not to look at him is if he’s doing my laundry (knickers and all) or cleaning the toilet in my bathroom. It’s not like in a hotel, where the staff try their best not to be seen. I’m going to be near him twenty-four seven, or whatever hours he’s officially ‘on the clock’.
 

I can’t be bothered getting up. Besides, it’s entirely too childish to go to my room and sulk – at least, not immediately anyway. I’ll stay here and try to calm down before the start of what’s bound to be another awkward conversation.
 

Suddenly my phone rings. I do that thing where you reach for something and hope it will move by telekinesis, but unfortunately it doesn’t work. I end up lunging for my handbag rather ungracefully.