Lady: Impossible (6 page)

***

It’s now half past four in the morning. And I can’t sleep.
 

Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with my long nap in the evening, my late-night carb-loading or the result of my glee over the Blair situation. In fact, it’s actually the opposite. I’m now focused on the negatives again, worrying about his presence for the reasons I originally identified.

Regardless of how awkward I feel, I’m going to have to tell my father about this strange situation as part of my duty to him. This is his house, and whatever money my mother is using is also likely to be his. Why would she use her own inheritance when she blames him for the state of things?
 

 
It’s true that he may have had some inkling that she was going to hire someone, as she didn’t bring any of the estate’s staff with her (her long-suffering lady’s maid retired two years ago). But Father wouldn’t have expected her to employ such a young guy, and he definitely wouldn’t want her entertaining people in this house – not if they’re going to see the butler and gossip accordingly.
 

It’s circular, really. He doesn’t like leaving the estate, which in turn pisses her off, prompting her to act out in ways that could embarrass the family name, thereby giving him even less incentive to be social. In an ideal world, they would sit down and sort out their issues, preferably before they spend their autumn years in a state of full-on hostility. At this rate, Silsbury Hall will need its very own demilitarised zone by the end of the decade (because by that stage he’ll have banned her from the London house).

Of course, it’s not that easy, not when the issues are long-term. The two of them have always butted heads to some extent. They married too quickly, before either of them discovered how irritating the other could be. My father is headstrong and traditional and, while my mother is too, her stubbornness has an irrationality to it that is hard to handle. Eventually, he learnt not to take her demands seriously, as she would always agree with him in the end – after she tired of the spectacle and attention that came from kicking up a fuss.

I’m no psychologist, but just want some sort of truce and an acceptance on her part that times have changed. She could have the time of her life now, if she’d just change her attitude a little. Trying to relive your heyday is one thing. Making the most of now is another. It’s too bad that I can’t psychoanalyse her to her face, for fear she’ll lash out. One day, I might snap and attempt to serve up a reality check, but until then I’ll hold my tongue.
 

The money issue in our family is also a factor to consider. Father and I converse frequently about the estate’s finances. For the last seventy years, it’s run comfortably off the fortune of the Sixth Earl, a stroke of luck we appreciate to this day. My father’s father – the Seventh Earl – thought things so good that he didn’t see the point in encouraging his son to have his own career. However, times are tougher these days, so when I returned to Silsbury Hall after the spring semester, we decided to think about restructuring the way we ran the place. Frankly, it’s not ideal to have more people on our payroll, not when the property’s upkeep expenses are so high. The public access does bring in money, but it also requires us to spend it, so the profit margins are tighter than one would think. Plus, when it comes to filming requests, there are only so many commercials one can set at a manor house. The last lot filmed an ad for a type of mustard that Jane Austen would’ve apparently liked (how woefully fanciful).

In light of this money question, I’m worried that Blair isn’t being paid well, that maybe he’s being deducted a large amount for board, and that this is only better than working for The Savoy because he gets to live here. I suppose I could ask my mother about his wages later, after she finishes her lecture on my attitude. After all, it is my business in a way. If the estate is being left to me, I should have a say in matters that affect its survival – financial or otherwise.
 

Ugh. I have to tell my father something. The best-case scenario would be that he merely tells her not to invite people over and, instead, to keep a low profile.
 

I sigh wearily. It’s like real drama generated from fake drama. We shouldn’t even be in London. If only my mother had an actual hobby. ‘Ladies who lunch’ can’t luncheon all day (though she’d probably be okay somewhere like Spain, where they sensibly insist on three-hour lunches) and, even then, invitations to events aren’t as forthcoming as they once were, not with Father’s refusal to go out and Al’s rakish reputation. I daresay I now receive more invitations than Mother, though in the last year I’ve declined more than I’ve accepted because of uni. This doesn’t really bother me. I don’t want to be someone who eats lunch all day (nor do I want to be someone who skips lunch and then wolfs down a vat of pasta – and side of toast – while trouser-less). My father says, however, that things would be easier if I did socialise more. That way I’d be able to find someone with enough money to keep the estate going without having to open it to the public. We joke about it, but we both know it’s actually true. More than ever now, people are closing ranks to ensure that money and privilege don’t get pissed away in the hands of ‘commoners’.

I don’t know. Just because something is convenient and financially beneficial, it doesn’t mean it’s worth it. Love has to exist somewhere. In fact, marrying for love probably would’ve saved a lot of aristocratic estates from being hit by massive divorce payments.
 

Whatever the cause, I’d really hate to be put in a position where I’m forced to auction off a whole bunch of family heirlooms to pay the bills. The public has no sympathy when stuff like that is put up at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, and I totally get why: it’s all inherited and part of an entitled culture that society has moved beyond. But to me, it would be very sad. It’s family history, what I grew up with and what I want to share with my children one day.

All this reflection is a bit much for this hour of the morning. Restless, I reach for my iPhone and search on Google for the price of those noodles Blair ate for supper. Each packet is apparently eleven pence, which only makes me worry even more that he’s living on a shoestring. Eating them, even. Eating yellow shoestrings. Eating yellow shoestrings while I nosh fancy pasta ordered from a high-end restaurant.
 

I recall the sight of him cooking those noodles. Oh, the way his arms looked in that t-shirt. He must be strong. I wonder what it would feel like to have him lift me up and…

I shine my iPhone light up at the ceiling to remind myself of the privilege that surrounds me. No more impropriety or my father will kill me for following in Al’s footsteps and marring the family’s reputation further.
 

On that scary note, I put my phone away and will myself to have one of the unsexiest dreams in history.

Chapter 4:

I’m ambushed at half past six in the morning. At first I think it’s Blair delivering my breakfast early, rudely entering my room without even knocking, but common sense dictates that he wouldn’t do such a thing. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I’m able to confirm that the intruder is my mother. Of course. The silly lady is dressed in a silk kimono and still has rollers in her hair, meaning she can’t have been up for long. Maybe she’s in desperate need of some hairspray. Or, you know, a lobotomy.

I groan and remain flat on my back, too tired to roll over, let alone get up. The police might as well draw a chalk outline around me because a fitful sleep really does equal death.
 

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

She’s standing over my bed, like she’s about to read me the last rites. It’s frightening, as is the look of profound disdain on her face.

‘I cannot wait any longer. I have to talk to you about your attitude right now.’

‘When I’m not even awake?’

Her nostrils flare. ‘Well, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee!’

‘A breakfast metaphor? Really?’

I close my eyes and try to convince myself that this isn’t happening. Of course she’d ambush me when my limbs feel like lead and my brain hasn’t switched itself on yet. It’s completely unfair.
 

She pokes me right in the collarbone. ‘Don’t ignore me, Emilia.’
 

‘Oh my God! Fine.’ I open my eyes. ‘Go ahead. Lecture away.’

‘This isn’t a joke.’

‘Hence my lack of laughter.’

She throws her hands up in the air, a gesture she uses so often she might as well walk around like that permanently. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. Your attitude is terrible. You need to be
nice
to people. Stop saying anything and everything that comes into your head. Filter your words before you speak – like a polite young woman.’

‘I tell you what, I’m filtering them right now.’

Oh, now the hands are back on her hips, her other default position. ‘You’re twenty-nine next year. You’re practically over the hill.’

‘I don’t even understand what that expression means. How come people only get married when they’re climbing the hill? I mean, when you think about it, it implies you’re only meeting the men who haven’t been able to get very far: the lazy ones, the fat ones, the ones who delegate the real work to other people. Aren’t the men who are over the hill a better prospect? They got to the bloody peak in the first place.’

‘You’re supposed to get to the peak of your life
together
.’

I lower my voice, and talk from the corner of my mouth. ‘And it’s all downhill from there, apparently.’

I’m treading on dangerous territory, making a comment like that, but it’s the obvious thing to say. And no, I don’t have a filter, especially not this early in the day.

‘What was that?’

She obviously heard me but is pretending otherwise.

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

‘Look, you’ll never find a man if you don’t put yourself out there and stop being so blunt.’

‘I don’t believe in batting my eyelashes and pretending to be stupid just so some moron feels comfortable enough to ask me out. If he can’t handle a bit of backchat, then he’s not really a man, is he? He’s a coward.’

‘Don’t you feel lonely, not having a man in your life?’

‘My sense of self isn’t tied to a man.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘No, I am not lonely.’ I wish she’d leave me alone.

She sighs, one of those motherly sighs that can signal anything from regret to frustration. ‘When you were younger, people just put it down to precociousness. Nowadays, people think you’re being a bitch when you speak to them the way you do.’

I try to end the conversation by meeting her halfway. ‘Mother, I understand what you’re saying. I do. I’m less likely to offend people if I bite my tongue. But I’m not going to undergo a personality change in order to gain a few more friends.’

‘Oh, Millie. Don’t you see it’s your attitude that is causing the problem? It’s obviously not your looks – you inherited your features from
me
.’

‘That’s a little harsh. I happen to think Father is quite the looker.’

The way she’s shaking her head really does make me feel like I’m on my deathbed.
 

‘Why are you behaving like this is make-or-break time now?’ I ask. ‘Is there some secret trust fund that only kicks in if I marry before I’m twenty-nine?’

‘The rubbish you come out with sometimes. No, you daft girl. Take a look at yourself. You’re twenty-eight years old and completely free to stay with your mother because you don’t have anything better to do.’

‘What do you mean nothing better to do? Get off my case. It’s the uni holidays.’

‘Even I know your Masters is supposed to be completed in one year, with a dissertation to be written over the summer. You’re postponing things by studying part-time.’

‘I prefer it this way. Full time is too intense. It’s been a while since my Cambridge days.’

She continues to hover, getting more and more worked up. ‘If you’re going to spend two years attending a university that isn’t Oxbridge, then at least meet someone while you’re there. Is this what I get for letting you do what you want? Had I not taken a stand and come here to London, you would’ve traipsed back to Yorkshire to continue biding your time. Waiting around – for what? For a man to come to you? For your father to relinquish control of the estate?’

‘I do not traipse.’

‘In the five years between Cambridge and St Andrews, you traipsed around the world, returning now and then to help manage the estate.’

Channelling some of my ire into energy, I’m finally able to sit up. ‘I’m not going to lie here and let you disparage the work I did and will continue to do.’

The obvious thing to do would be to point out how little she has done to help the estate over the years, but I stop myself. I will not let this go nuclear.

She huffs. ‘You’ve left me no choice but to take over in this matter.’
 

‘
What
matter?’
 

‘I’m going to make an appointment for you with my friend, who’s a matchmaker.’

I burst out laughing. ‘And you expect me to attend?’

‘This stops today! You will be more agreeable from now on. You’ll meet with her in Mayfair next week.’

‘I’m not going.’

She raises her chin in triumph. ‘We’ll see about that. I’ll get Blair to force you if I have to.’

‘Lovely.
Kidnapped by the butler
. It’s short enough to tweet.’

‘By all means, tweet away. Practise for when you’re an old bird.’

I’m stunned. ‘Do you even know what Twitter is?’

She snorts. ‘My comeback was better than yours, and that’s all that matters.’

‘Congratulations. I’ll be sure to send you a garland with your morning tea.’

‘Be agreeable, Mille. Agreeable.’

‘Right.’

She finally steps away from my bedside and, after a final withering stare, she leaves the room while humming the song ‘Matchmaker’ from
Fiddler on the Roof
. It’s eerie, to say the least, like the creepily upbeat refrain they play in horror films to highlight the juxtaposition of the serial killer’s joy with the sheer terror of their victims.