Lady: Impossible (39 page)

‘Well, I doubt there’s one in this room. Alastair never struck me as a lint-free-or-die type.’

‘You think he’s serious about visiting? He did send that postcard from Yorkshire.’

His response is understandably clipped. ‘He’s not serious about anything.’

I let the subject go. It must’ve been interesting for him, though, to stay in his son’s room for this many days.
 

‘Let’s pretend I didn’t see the lint,’ I say. ‘Just get the staff to do something about it when you get back.’

‘I shall do as you say, lest you come over and do it yourself.’

The both of us laugh heartily.
 

‘Would you like to shine my shoes as well?’ he adds.

‘Why don’t you text the butler?’

‘Why don’t you text the butler for me?’

Still teasing each other, we close the suitcase and carry it over to the collapsible table, ready for its final items to be added tomorrow morning. Who knows, maybe in a few months we’ll be bringing our belongings into this house rather than out of it.

And maybe we’ll have no butler at all.
 

***

On Thursday, I’m called down to the dining room for breakfast, only to find there’s no food on the table. Or if there is, I can’t see it, not behind the ridiculously large floral arrangement that is now the focal point of the room. The flowers have been arranged to resemble a three-foot high peacock with vibrant bulbs fanning out to create a striking effect. It’s either a technicolour nightmare or a nightmarish gift from Oliver.

‘What on earth?’

My mother, already dressed for her train journey, sidles up to me as if she’s about to impart some artistic commentary. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

‘Depends on your definition of “impressive”.’
 

She chuckles, walking around to the peacock’s left with her hands clasped behind her back. ‘Everyone needs an unexpected peacock in the morning.’

‘That makes zero sense. Unless you drop the “pea” and –’

‘That’s quite enough, Little Miss Sunshine.’

Smirking, I lean towards the vase and breathe in the dizzying scent of grass and sickly sweet fruit. ‘Did it come with a card or, you know, a customs declaration? Gardening tips? Pesticide? Explanations on how to feed it? Recipe for peacock soup?’

She’s still stuck on the customs declaration. ‘An imported peacock? Fascinating.’

‘Card, Mother?’

‘Oh, right.’ She checks her skirt pockets, her brow furrowing when she can’t seem to find it. ‘It fell when we moved the entire thing. I must’ve handed it to Blair.’

Of course she did. ‘And what is he going to do with it?’

‘Give it to you, grumpy.’ She moves to the peacock’s side, holding up her arm as if she’s a model on a game show. ‘You can stay here with Steve while Blair drives me to the station.’

I hold up my hand. ‘Wait. One, you named my peacock? Two, you named it
Steve
? Three, who are you to do such a thing?’

‘The answer to all three is that I was here first.’

‘Then by that logic Blair should be the one to name it, as he accepted the delivery.’

‘What’s wrong with Steve?’

‘Steve the name or Steve the peacock, as in what’s wrong with his existence?’

‘Are you getting existentialist about a bouquet of flowers? What’s wrong with you?’

It’s only when I step back and roll my eyes that my peripheral vision catches Blair standing in the doorway. The shock of him lurking causes me to jump back a step. Both he and my mother look at me oddly, as if I’m breaking out the ‘Macarena’ eighteen years after it was cool.

‘How long have you been there?’ I ask, folding my arms across my chest. He’s not likely to stare at my chest in front of my mother – and I am wearing my palm-tree pyjamas – but, ultimately, I shouldn’t take the risk. I know he’s been watching me these past few days. I just know it.

‘Don’t mind her, Blair,’ Mother tells him. ‘She’s a strange one.’

If he’s attempting to hide his smirk, he’s failing. ‘Yes, m’lady.’

I shoot the both of them a disapproving look. ‘I don’t approve of this collusion. And what’s this about me waiting here while Blair drives you to the station? I thought I was coming to see you off.’

She pulls a face. ‘I don’t need to be seen off. I’m not a child.’

‘I didn’t say you were a child.’

Suddenly it’s all too much for her. She flaps about, hands going left, right and centre as if she’s flagging down three planes at once. ‘You don’t need to see me off. I’m fine. Stay here and make sure Abby comes over with a suitable outfit for Saturday.’

Stunned into submission, I watch her rush out of the room. Instinct tells me she’s emotional and needs space. However, I’m not a hundred per cent sure of the root cause. Is this about Father? Me? Silsbury Hall? All three?

Blair seems to know something. I say this because his eyes are darting here and there – though, to be fair, his retinas may be damaged from having to look at technicolour Steve.
 

I decide to brave him, stepping forward so that we’re only two feet apart. After a few seconds of staring, it becomes clear that he’s waiting for me to engage with him rather than the other way around.

‘Blair.’

‘Your Ladyship.’

‘Buh-lair.’

‘Permission to speak frankly?’

There’s a smugness to him that indicates he’s about to be a smartarse now. Nevertheless, I give him permission.
 

‘Go on.’

He points at the floral arrangement. ‘Firstly, “Steve” is ghastly and, secondly, I have no idea how I’m going to keep him fresh.’

‘I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘So, you’re just going to let Steve die because you don’t like Oliver?’

I refrain from mentioning anything about our scandalous sex being the real reason he hates the bouquet. It’s a reason that informs all our interactions anyway.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Maybe he can breed with the first bunch of flowers so he’ll have a legacy before he keels over.’

‘You’re not funny.’

‘You can’t possibly find Steve romantic.’

‘What I find romantic doesn’t concern you.’
 

Predictably, he bristles. I can hear his teeth grinding. I hold my ground, knowing it was the right thing to say – a necessary reminder for the both of us.

‘Have you at least thought about what I said?’ he says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘You frighten me.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not going to pounce on you.’

‘Aren’t you?’ I glance around, paranoid. ‘Okay, maybe “frighten” is the wrong word. You make me nervous. I can’t think around you. My date is in two days.’

Oh look, an average of five words per sentence. That’s a twenty-five per cent increase from previous ramblings.

‘Steve McQueen,’ Blair says at normal volume.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The peacock is named after
the
Steve McQueen, whom your mother may or may not admit to having fancied back in the day. I suggested Captain Peacock, you know, from
Are You Being Served?,
but your mother thought it would be a bad omen to name the peacock after a department-store employee. So we named it after a famous, wealthy actor. Coincidentally, Captain Peacock’s first name was actually Stephen.’

I stare at him blankly, incensed by his mocking tone. ‘That is the most useless story I have ever been told. Please bring out my breakfast.’

‘Sorry, m’lady. You’ll have to serve yourself this morning. Cereal is in the pantry.’ He gestures to his left, as if the pantry is within reach and not beneath us.

Unable to stand his teasing, I clench my fists and try not to shove him in the chest.
 

He’s clearly enjoying this. ‘Would you like me to draw you a map to the pantry? “X” marks the cornflake.’

I open my mouth to deliver a witty retort, before realising I have one more card up my sleeve. Or rather, his sleeve. ‘You have the card from Oliver?’

The onset of sullenness is instant. I hold out my palm and wait for him to produce the card. It’s with great reluctance that he delves into his inner jacket pocket, and he can hardly look at me as he places it in my hand.

I immediately tuck it into my breast pocket.
 

‘You’re not going to read it?’ he asks.

‘In front of you?’

The tables have turned so fast that it seems he has whiplash, or at least the unstable feeling you get from riding on a merry-go-round too much. He rocks back and forth, then left and right. The movements are slight but noticeable, especially to someone who’s watched him so intently.

He bows his head. ‘If you’re happy to make yourself a cup of tea to tide you over, I shall bring you brunch after I drop your mother off.’

‘That would be great, thank you.’

‘Is there anything else?’
 

It’s impossible to ignore the twinge of hope in the question.
 

‘I, too, think Steve is a little garish.’

‘Be careful, m’lady.’ He cocks his head to the right. ‘You might hurt his pride.’

I step into his path when he tries to leave, one last question left to ask. ‘Is my mother okay?’

I know it sounds like I’m dismissing the tension between the two of us, but he and I will still have the same problem when he returns. However, my mother is off to the estate, where I can’t corner her even if I had the courage to do so.
 

‘Her Ladyship is a touch emotional at the moment. It’s not my place to elaborate any further.’

‘I see.’

I let him exit, waiting until the sound of his footsteps disappears. It’s then that I read the card, breaking the golden seal that I’m relieved is there for privacy’s sake:

Millie,

How hilarious is this peacock? A guaranteed inferiority complex for every bouquet within a ten-mile radius!

Looking forward to lunch. I’ll call you on Saturday morning.

Oliver

While it may not be the most romantic prose, it at least shows we have personal jokes. I pat Steve’s ceramic head (the only non-foam, non-plant part of him) and place the card back into my pocket, wondering how else I can prepare for this date.

Before I can complete my musings on whether or not to bring something on Saturday – a gift, a bottle of wine or some other token – Mother returns to the room, the clack of her Ferragamo heels sounding particularly laboured.

She seems to have calmed down though. ‘Come along then. Get dressed in a jiffy and come to see me off.’

‘Well, all right then,’ I say brightly, eager to cheer her up. I tug on the lapel of my pyjama top. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’

‘Wait a moment.’ She grabs my arm as I attempt to pass her, the unexpected coolness of her fashion ring on my skin making me shiver. ‘I just want to say I’m sorry for not preparing you better.’

I gently try to shake off her hold. ‘For what? My date?’

‘No. For gossip and outcast status.’ There’s a lucidity to her words that is wholly unfamiliar. ‘Even with a quiet sale, there will still be talk. You might end up okay, but you should think about lying low for a bit. Don’t give Oliver cause to panic by being too social. He’s afraid of our notoriety.’

I think of the last week, of the madness that comes with being cooped up indoors. I’ve cancelled on people, dodged questions and texts, and hung back from any type of social media. I’ve struggled to breathe in this house, choked by expectation and fear.

‘Lying low draws suspicion too, you know.’

She places both hands on my shoulders. ‘I hate to say it, but don’t be surprised if your Arts Club membership suddenly gets annulled. Andrew has his reputation to think about too – he co-sponsored you. People love to talk about Alastair –’

‘Or see if they know anyone who can get them his contact details. His party invite list is a member’s club in itself.’

‘He won’t be the problem anymore. The loss of Silsbury Hall will be.’ She casts a wary eye at Steve. ‘Don’t brag too much to Oliver. Don’t talk up the estate. Be as humble as you can be. It may even pay off to mention in passing that other families have found it tough to hang on to their heritage.’

‘I don’t want to think about it too much. It all sounds so orchestrated.’

‘Think about it.’

Between her, Father, Blair and Oliver, I have enough thoughts to fill the Olympic swimming pool. How brilliant it would be to bleach my brain with chlorine and start all over, sanitised and ready for competition.

It’s with a great sense of worry that I head upstairs and change. I even put my jeans on backwards, that’s how out of sorts I feel. It’s terrible, too, seeing the Roberto Cavalli label and not knowing if I’ll ever be able to afford these kinds of clothes anymore. And to think I’ve been relatively conservative with my spending for years, wearing pieces for seasons at a time, or trying to buy classic pieces that are timeless.
 

Days ago, I was subjected to the pricing of our belongings, the idea that the objects around me really do have an approximate net worth and that people may want to buy them. Now I wonder how long it would take to earn enough money to buy those items back. Even then, how many could one person even purchase without short-changing other areas of their life, like food or rent?

I must be having some sort of mild epiphany, made worse by the fact that I’m starving. Come to think of it, what kind of brunch does Blair intend to buy for me today anyway? The budget we’ve had on my mother’s money may need to be tightened further – her inheritance isn’t infinite.
 

Rattled, I focus all my remaining brainpower into dressing myself correctly, and then head downstairs to be bundled into the car. A car we might have to sell for a second-rate price.

Convinced that I really am losing it, I remind myself that the estate may be able to fetch a perfectly comfortable sum. However, within a second, I remember that – as my mother has pointed out – there may be the additional price of social judgement.
 

My thoughts whir away in this vein for the whole drive to Kings Cross station, conflicting ideas circling each other like weary enemies. The madness even makes me try to cost everything that I see out of the car window, price tags popping up in my head for different cars, trees, buildings, clothes and even products on billboards. I begin to wonder how much Oliver earns per hour, or whether he bills in six-minute increments like a lawyer would. He makes money for other people, cultivating accounts as if money really does grow on trees. Will he be okay with me spending his hard-earned cash? Is his cash even hard-earned, or is he an overpaid fat cat who sits around fooling people?