Lady: Impossible (4 page)

No, it’s my brain that’s the problem. It’s too busy hanging out in the gutter, a refuge from the intensity of the week’s examinations. It’s lucky I’m not an undergrad anymore – I could’ve had two more weeks of exams. Though, come to think of it, had I been stuck at uni until June, this morning with Blair wouldn’t have happened.

The basement level is starkly more basic than the rest of the house, with the walls a shade of off-white and the floor simply tiled. When I turn into the servants’ hall, which is not as cavernous as the one at the estate, the first thing I see is the bell-board mounted on the wall. There are two rows of bells rigged to pulleys, with a brass plaque under each bell denoting which room the call of service is being made from. Whether he accepts my apology or not, Blair will probably stare at this board from now on in the hope that it’s not me who’s ringing it.
 

I spy him sitting at the far end of the long wooden table, looking as sullen as expected. When he notices me, he clenches his fists and immediately looks down at his plate of food: sandwiches, like the ones he made for me. However, the rules of the household then kick in – he pushes his chair back and stands. A member of the family is in the room.

Back in the day, this hall would’ve been bustling. ‘The season’, as it was known, was a time when the aristocratic families flooded London with the intent of socialising and networking. It went on for months every year and, of course, servants were in great demand during this time. Now, however, there’s only Blair. Even the shelving on the wall is mostly bare, besides a few pieces of copper serving ware and a set of ceramic jars I know to be empty.

‘I’m very sorry that you heard my comments,’ I tell him, slowly approaching his side of the room. ‘Please, sit.’

He regards me with suspicion. I keep walking and take the seat opposite him, a move that prompts him to unclench his fists but question me with his eyes. I drop my shoes to the floor with a clunk. Unfortunately, it echoes in the space, like a giant, heavy penny dropping.
 

‘May I be frank with you, Lady Emilia?’ he asks as he sits down.

He’s echoing my earlier words.
 

‘You don’t have to call me that, but go on.’
 

I steel myself for whatever he has to say. If I can dish it out, then I should be able to take it back.

He leans forward in his chair, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of resignation and ire. ‘Look, I get it, all right? You don’t think I should be a butler, and you don’t think I should be here. But I am. I’m just trying to do my job.’

He drops his shoulders and clenches his jaw. I really did a number on him. It’s obvious he’d like to use stronger language, but he’s in no position to do so.
 

I clasp my hands together on the table and begin my apology, hoping I can reverse some of this damage. ‘I’ll definitely treat you with more respect from now on. That was just a one-off comment, and an inappropriate one at that. I apologise.’ I pause. Even though I’m not intending to sound this way, my words are stilted. Blair doesn’t seem moved by the apology at all. ‘Really, I didn’t mean it…’

His expression darkens, but he lets me continue.

‘… I mean, it might’ve sounded like I meant it, but –’

‘Just forget it,’ he interjects with a wave of his hand.
 

I push on. ‘No, please. It’s probably best you understand how flippant I can be at times –’

‘I’ve heard worse, okay? Yes, even on the job. So, let’s pretend it didn’t happen.’

He’s not joking. He really wants to forget about this.
 

‘Okay,’ I say gently.
 

It still isn’t fixed. This entire exchange is tipped in my favour because I’m his employer by association. He can’t piss me off without running the risk of a reprimand or, worse, dismissal.
 

He straightens up. ‘Will Mrs Carrington be staying for lunch?’ he asks, his voice taking on its formal tone again.
 

‘Yes, I think so.’

He nods. ‘I’ll take that into account when I order the food – from a restaurant – I’m still working on my cooking skills.’

‘I see.’

Chastened, I push back my chair and stand up to leave. He deserves to eat in peace. Traditionally, this hall is supposed to be a place of respite, allowing for a brief break from the obligations of the household.

But a lot of tradition has died since then. I try to address this before I go.

‘Most people call me Millie, including the staff at the estate. If that’s weird because we’ve only just met, then Emilia is fine. We could start there.’

This time he doesn’t hesitate. I see a hint of the confidence I’d detected earlier, during our previous conversations.
 

‘Sorry, m’lady, but I’m a big believer in respect.’
 

Ouch.

I try hard not to visibly wince, but I can’t help it. Now even more desperate to go, I nod humbly and briskly walk out of the room towards the staircase. It’s only then that I realise I’ve left my heels behind. I’ll have to retrieve them another time, when I’m welcome in the servants’ hall.
 

I break into a light jog along the ground-floor corridor, portraits of my ancestors looking down on me, scandalised that I dare run in the house. I ignore them – I need to get back to Abby as soon as possible, even if it means putting antiques in jeopardy along the way (really, the smart thing to do would be to put some of these vases elsewhere). Anyway, I’m going to take back everything I said about
The Only Way is Essex
, because it turns out I’m so much more embarrassing.
 

When I get back to the sitting room, I find Abby pacing around finger on chin like she’s trying to solve a mystery. I haven’t seen her this concerned since the time she ‘lost’ her credit card on a trip to Selfridges (it was in her
other
Chanel purse).
 

‘Oh, how did it go?’
 

I throw up my hands to indicate I’m rather lost for words. ‘I am terrible.’

She stops pacing. ‘That bad? Don’t worry. He’ll get over it. It’s not like you asked him to actually fuck you sideways. That would have been a thousand times worse.’

‘Yes, an excellent consolation. I could’ve been an outright whore, but I really held back this time.’

‘It’s not our fault he had ninja footsteps. So quiet. How were we to hear over our own laughter? ’

‘Well, in any case, I do hope you’re right about him getting over it. I think this job is important to him.’

She nods. ‘Some people are very committed to their jobs. I don’t know how they do it.’

Her husband, Andrew, is the one who earns all the money. He’s an investment banker with Goldman Sachs, which, by his own admission, should mean he’s soulless. But he’s a pretty terrific guy who’s intent on earning his own money instead of living off Abby’s family – or his own, for that matter. It’s probably why Abby’s parents like him so much.
 

My mother would love it if I met someone like Andrew. But I’m having enough trouble dealing with men who
have
to be around me.

Abby nods at the cake stand. ‘Anyway, I’ve finished eating, but do you want to sit down and have some more food? The apple Danishes are delicious.’

‘No, I’ve lost my appetite. I don’t suppose I should ring the bell to get Blair to take all this away?’

‘I’m sure he’ll come up to check.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

The immature girl in me wants to ring the bell and run away. I know, however, that there’s no point doing that: he knows where I live. Because he lives here too.

I’ve offended someone who lives in my house.

‘Come on, Abby. Let’s go upstairs before I screw up again.’

She claps excitedly and picks up her handbag. ‘Excellent. There’s nothing a bit of telly won’t fix. You’ll forget about being a sexual predator in no time.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

It’s a worrisome day when a friend has to say something like that. Hopefully she’ll never have to say it again.

Chapter 3:

It’s now eleven at night. And I’m starving.
 

I hardly ate anything at lunch, mainly because I was still rattled by the whole Blair incident. Interestingly, lunch ended up being the last time I saw him all day. Abby left at four, after loyally sticking around so that any further conversation with my mother was delayed, and, in the only instance of luck today, my mother came down with a splitting migraine soon after. She cancelled dinner, declaring she only wanted cranberry juice and paracetamol, and told me I could reheat the pasta I’d barely touched at lunch.
 

The way she phrased it made it clear that I was supposed to do it myself and wasn’t to bother Blair with the task. I didn’t even get a chance to do this, because after three infuriating phone calls to both the airline and Heathrow, my blood pressure was so high that I went to bed early.
 

I shouldn’t have done that. I feel so groggy now, more tired than relaxed. The room spins when I finally muster the energy to sit up in bed, and turning on the bedside lamp only stings my eyes.
 

This is the yellow bedroom on the second floor, where there’s yellow everything: the walls, the cushions, the French rug, the silk curtains and even the bedding on this four-poster. I was assigned this room years ago in the vain hope that it would give me a sunnier disposition. Colour therapy, or something like it. Really, it’s far too much yellow, but I tolerate it because, like my father, I think it would be blasphemous to redecorate. We inherited it like this, and it should stay this way, even if it does occasionally seem that I’m a canary sleeping in a box of lemons.

The green bedroom, on the other hand, is so much more tasteful, with its softer tones and less garish gold piping. I had to go in there earlier to raid the dresser for some of my brother’s old clothes before showering, as I needed something comfortable to sleep in. I did briefly wonder whether Blair had changed the mattresses by that stage, but I was quick to reprimand myself for caring about his quality of sleep.

Once again pushing aside thoughts of the butler and his bed, I hop out of my own bed with a groan and grab the torch I keep in the top drawer of my bedside table. It might sound stupid, but it’s easier than switching on every corridor light on the way to the kitchen. While a few lights are kept on at night, they’re usually very dim, so a torch definitely comes in handy.

However, before I depart, I need to check my appearance – just in case I bump into Blair. I quickly drag my fingers through my hair and contemplate whether I should change back into my maroon dress. The alternative would be to stay in what I’m wearing now: an oversized Postman Pat t-shirt. Admittedly, this is a tad embarrassing for an adult. Why Al had it, I have no idea, though it does make for a comfy nightie.
 

In the end, I decide to risk embarrassment – the dress is crumpled because I left it in a heap on the floor. I do put my bra back on for decency’s sake, though. Erect nipples and a character from a children’s TV show don’t go together. I do not feel that way inclined towards Postman Pat, his black and white cat, his Royal Mail van or any of the mail he delivers. It’s nothing personal. Post delivery just doesn’t get me going, no matter how big the package.

With the aid of the torch beam, I make my way to the ground floor, all the while hoping that Blair is sound asleep somewhere. But as I reach the top of the service staircase, it becomes clear that he’s still down in the basement. All the lights are on, and I can hear enough to guess that he’s in the kitchen, washing dishes or stacking crockery.

I really do consider turning back. The problem is that I’m starving. My stomach rumbles, making the Royal Mail van sound like it’s revving its engine. I simply must eat. All I have in my handbag upstairs is a packet of chewing gum, and everyone knows that if you chew too many pieces of that stuff it has a laxative effect. That’s not really what I mean when I say being in London puts me in a shitty mood.

I leave the torch on the top step and descend the stairs. It’s a case of survival versus embarrassment, and survival wins.
 

I pass the servants’ hall en route to the kitchen, backtracking when I remember my shoes are in there. Thinking that I can spare Blair the reminder of our confrontation by retrieving them myself, I sneak into the room to get them. I may be no ninja, but I do manage to complete the mission without the aid of the torchlight. Perhaps my night vision is better than I thought.

Buoyed by this small success, I smile to myself and leave the shoes by the kitchen door. The true mission is to get food, so I quickly enter the kitchen before Blair suspects that someone is spying on him.
 

To my surprise, he’s neither washing the dishes, nor stacking plates. He is standing at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan and looking tired. In fact, he does seem ready for bed – he’s in his pyjamas.
 

It’s hard for me not to get all stupid. As if seeing him in his uniform looking sexy wasn’t bad enough, the white V-neck top he’s wearing has short sleeves, so I can see how defined his arms really are. Now it’s confirmed: he’s toned but not too muscular. And while the navy pyjama trousers don’t exactly reveal much, my eyes hone in on the drawstring, making me wonder what it would be like to undo it and see what he really has to offer…
 

Shit. He’s my butler, albeit a butler in a modern context. I cannot think of him in this way. I try to snap out of it, and luckily I’m able to just before he looks over at me.
 

He goes wide-eyed. ‘Err, good evening, Lady Emilia.’

It’s the damn t-shirt. I should’ve worn shorts, or tights at the very least.
 

I keep my distance, standing just inside the doorway so I’m at least ten feet away from him. But somehow the deliberateness of the space between us only makes things more awkward, like there’s a restraining order in place. Next thing I know, I’ll be whipping out a tape measure to see how much closer I can get before I’m in breach.