Lady: Impossible (8 page)

For five seconds all I can hear is chuckling.

‘It was a mistake,’ I say.

‘That was the best text I have ever received. I sprayed coffee all over my copy of
The Times
. You owe me a newspaper
and
a coffee. Sorry I didn’t reply straight away – I didn’t know what to make of it.’

‘Ssh.’

‘No one can hear me. I’m on my way to the office. Unless…’ He lowers his voice. ‘You are not alone?’

‘Your discretion would be greatly appreciated.’

He laughs again and returns his voice to normal volume. ‘I’m dying to call Abby to find out what this text means. Because I know
you
won’t tell me. She’s at the gym, if you’re wondering.’

I take a quick glance at Blair. He still has his neutral face on.

‘Gym, right. Now what do I have to do to make sure you don’t hold this over my head?’

‘I want you to admit that this year’s race was a farce.’

I groan. The Oxford and Cambridge boat race was in April, and he’s still not over Oxford’s loss. ‘To say that would be lying.’

‘Oh, come on, Millie. A bloody protester swam out and interrupted the middle of the race. You should apologise for the way you carried on that day.’
 

I roll my eyes. Men get so dramatic over sports. It really is hilarious sometimes. ‘Why do you always act like Oxford was the only one interrupted? Both teams had to start again. That’s how a restart works.’

‘I cannot accept this. I will now forward this text of yours to everyone I know.’

‘You do that.’

‘Including your mother.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Okay, so I’m not doing any of that. But yes, Abby is at the gym, and you will be able to gossip with her when she is done.’

‘Thank you, Andrew.’

‘I’m serious about the coffee you owe me. We can talk finance and investments. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the-race-that-shall-not-be-named.’

‘It does have a name. It’s called the boat race.’

‘I really don’t like your attitude. I don’t know why my wife is still friends with you.’

‘Goodbye, thanks for calling.’

‘Bye, Millie. Keep yourself out of trouble.’

I’m relieved when the call ends. It’s still embarrassing, but at least he has a sense of humour. I can’t imagine what it would be like if he didn’t.
 

Sadly, any relief I feel is tempered by the slightly alarmed look on Blair’s face. He went from neutral to concerned in the space of thirty seconds. Did he suddenly not like that I was talking to a man? I think of telling him it was actually Abby’s husband, but it’s probably more fun if I don’t. This way, any jealousy on his part will be made worse.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask, keeping my voice innocent.

He clears his throat. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Okay.’ I take a sip of orange juice and continue to judge his expression, doubting that everything is really okay.
 

‘About next Tuesday…’

‘Yes, you were going to tell me about the appointment. Do go ahead.’

I start eating but then stop when he clears his throat again.

‘I’m guessing you’re not in actual need of a lozenge,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s nothing, m’lady. Uh, where was I?’

‘In the middle of coughing, I believe.’

Once more, he composes himself. My best guess is that this morning he’s making a concerted effort to get along with me, but I’m causing difficulty by, well, being myself.
 

‘Your appointment is in Mayfair. Next Tuesday at two,’ he says.

‘And who’s this friend of my mother’s? Do you know?’

‘Her Ladyship mentioned a Mrs Tilton-Bree.’

I drop my cutlery with a clang, and cringe – more from his words than the noise. ‘Please tell me you are joking.’

‘I’m not. Is something wrong?’

Instinct tells me to pick up the butter knife. I might not be able to defeat her by spreading jam on toast, but there’s something to be said about the power of the imagination. You say, jam on a butter knife. I say, blood on a dagger.

Rage causes my own blood to rush to my head, so I steady myself by taking a series of deep breaths. ‘There’s no such person. It’s her way of being funny. The appointment is at Tilton & Bree. The elite matchmaking service.’

‘Oh.’ Even he looks bewildered. ‘Elite?’

‘Matchmakers for millionaires and highly successful people.’ The more I think about it, the more vexed I become. I raise the knife. ‘I’ll kill her.’

‘With jam and butter?’

‘This is humiliating.’ I slap the tray table with my free hand.
 

Blair slowly reaches for the knife. ‘Let me take that for you.’

‘No.’

‘I will butter your toast for you before it gets too cold.’

‘Fine.’

I relinquish the knife. When Blair takes it from me, his hand shakes noticeably for a second.
 

‘Are you quite sure you’re all right?’ I ask, this time more firmly. ‘You’re worrying me.’

Again, he’s dismissive. ‘I’m fine.’

I don’t believe him, but he’s not going to budge. ‘What else do you know about the appointment?’

‘Uh, I’m supposed to make sure you go.’

‘Brilliant. How are you going to do that?’

‘By asking you nicely?’
 

I react to his gentle tone. ‘All right, I’ll go along with it.’

Blair proceeds to butter my toast for me, which makes me feel like the laziest person in the world. ‘Would you like marmalade or strawberry jam?’ he asks.

‘Marmalade.’ I eye the knife. ‘I’ll need that to cut up the sausages.’

‘I’ll cut them up for you.’

Now I’m annoyed for both of us. ‘I’m not a child, Blair.’

‘No. You’re an angry lady who shouldn’t be near sharp objects right now, let alone be holding one.’

‘It doesn’t even have a serrated edge! It’s useless to me!’

My outburst is so ridiculous that the two of us burst out laughing. I daresay the moment is amazing. I even consider watching my words more carefully in order to see those blue-grey eyes sparkle with mirth more often.

I hold out my hand. ‘Give me my knife.’

‘Are you sure, m’lady?’
 

Formal again. Part of me wants to get on my knees and beg him for a fresh start, but he’ll only think I’m positioning us to do something more salacious.

‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine. Are you? Should I apologise for my words again?’

‘I’m fine.’

He’s well trained in hiding his unease, but I can tell he’s been rattled by something, or even by a combination of things.
 

I take the knife from him. ‘I’ll take it from here then. If I need you, I’ll ring the bell. Or text you.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

He backs away slowly at first, giving me a few more precious seconds in which to surreptitiously admire him in his suit. He then hurries out with his head down, leaving me to eat my breakfast in peace.
 

Peace. I can see the benefit in keeping the peace with Blair, but it’s going to be awfully difficult to reach an armistice with my mother.
 

Tilton & Bree. An appointment made
for
me, but not
by
me.
 

Although I risk sounding like a spoilt brat now, my father will hear about this.

Chapter 5:

In the end, I don’t call my father until Thursday night, when I retire to the mural room after dinner. It’s a room that relaxes me and, having just been scolded by my mother for wearing casual clothes to the dinner table, I’m in need of a soothing atmosphere. The way she had carried on, you’d have thought I was wearing the
Postman Pat
t-shirt, but I’d merely opted for something comfortable – a light-grey t-shirt and white cotton shorts – an outfit I changed into as soon as my luggage arrived. The truth is that she’s lucky I even wore a bra, something I only did for Blair’s sake.

It’s but one example of why having Blair around is bizarre. The last couple of days have been so strange, with my mother acting like nothing is wrong and me acting as if there’s an unwelcome guest in the house. I’m jumpy around Blair – so overly conscious of his presence that I feel as though every entrance of his should be announced with a great fanfare. Don’t get me wrong: he’s been completely professional, if not a little reserved. It’s just that I don’t feel like I can be myself in my own house, which is more than a little disconcerting, and all the more reason to retire to this room so I can channel good vibes and happy thoughts.
 

Upon entering the room I dim the lights so that the soft yellow glow complements the mural, and plop down on the comfiest armchair. I feel better already – the mural of Silsbury Hall and its grounds providing a welcome reminder of home. Oh, the palatial facade of that old, solid stone and its surrounding green of sprawling acres draw me in. I yearn for the familiarity and order of the estate in times like this. This oval room on the first floor is the closest I can get to it right now, so instead I settle for the vicinity of the walls that bear its image.
 

Sometimes I don’t blame my father for hardly ever leaving the place. There are moments when shutting out the world around is exactly what’s needed.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket to call him, but I’m instantly reminded of Monday morning’s misdirected text. When I finally managed to get hold of Abby that afternoon, she laughed so hysterically that she sounded deranged. That laughter ended as soon as I told her about next week’s matchmaker meeting. Then it was consolation time, something I greatly appreciated.

Hopefully there will be further consolation in a moment. Scrolling through my contacts more carefully this time, I correctly select my father’s number.

He picks up promptly. ‘Millie, my dear. How wonderful to hear from you.’

It’s a relief to hear his stern but caring voice. ‘How are you?’

‘The usual, dear. You know how it is. How are you?’

‘Ah. That’s a very good question.’

‘Oh no. That doesn’t sound good.’

I picture him standing by a window, thinking of London and shaking his head. Maybe George, his loyal butler, is with him too, ready to hand him a drink when I get to the juicy bits.

‘I honestly don’t know where to begin.’

‘Start anywhere. That’s what you always tell me.’

I sigh and draw my legs in so I can sit cross-legged. ‘She’s arranged for me to meet with a matchmaker.’

The sound that greets this news can only be described as a guffaw: a kind of ringing, throaty bleat that I want to shrink away from despite the miles between us. ‘No confidence in you at all, apparently! Amazing.’

‘The only reason I don’t have a husband is because I haven’t been looking. Plus, I don’t think I’m ready yet.’

‘Is that a modern take I’m hearing? I have to admit, there comes a time when one must consider looking.’

Something tells me he’s not a hundred per cent outraged, that he’s more amused than anything. ‘Are you defending her? I didn’t even ask for this meeting. Plus, I’ve heard the fees start at ten thousand pounds. In a time of cutting corners, it’s hardly a justifiable figure.’

‘They’ll like to portray it as an
investment
, my dear: spend ten thousand to make millions more. There’s a difference between ‘wealthy’ and ‘very wealthy’. I suspect the matchmaker’s has only prime candidates on its books?’

I gasp. ‘Marcus Pembroke, Eighth Earl of Silsbury, are you betraying me?’

‘Betrayal is such an ugly word, Millie. I see this more as a reality check – emphasis on the ‘cheque’. The family fortune can only last so long. Without more income, there will come a time when we will have to sell our assets.’

‘You didn’t put her up to this did you?’

He snorts. ‘Nonsense. That would involve a level of communication that is beyond us at this stage.’

It’s hard to believe that they were once capable of having sensible discussions. Sometimes I even question my recollection of childhood times, thinking I merely invented their civility.
 

‘People who resort to matchmakers –’ I pause briefly with embarrassment ‘– there must be something wrong with them in the first place, don’t you think? I mean, why can’t they find anyone themselves?’

‘Some people are just busy, inaccessible to those with whom they should be socialising. Are you really this unforgiving about the whole thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Millie.’

‘Father.’

‘Are you frightened of commitment? Before Alastair left for the beginnings of his, um, escapades –’

‘You mean his super-sexy pirate parties?’

‘Who said anything about pirates?’

‘I don’t know. Who else would hang out in international waters? Mermaids?’

‘Hush. Before Alastair left a while back, he told me you had a tendency to only – Oh, what was that expression? He had to explain it to me… Ah, that’s it: “hook up” with men you knew you wouldn’t have to see again. Men you met on your travels, or men about to go travelling.’

I bristle with the mortification of hearing my father say such things. ‘I hardly think you should listen to Alastair, especially when it comes to this stuff. I’m disturbed that he even knew anything about it in the first place.’

What an arsehole Al is, undermining me from beyond the British border. If I knew where he was, I’d send him a very threatening postcard, one laced with a trace of mysterious white substance, which could be anthrax but is more likely to be talcum powder.

My reverie is disturbed my father’s voice. ‘Well, at least you’ve always chosen Englishmen over foreigners,’ he says, sounding very relieved. ‘A string of foreign lovers would be ever so crass.’

‘Did he tell you that too?’ I’m mortified. ‘He really does have a network of contacts, doesn’t he?’

Father changes tack. ‘What if there’s someone out there who hasn’t been able to meet someone, but whom is actually worth meeting?’

‘Emphasis on the “worth”?’

He tries to placate me. ‘Just go along with it for now, lest your mother gets even more gung-ho about it. I doubt the initial consultation costs anything – they have to woo you as the client. It’s a two-way street, my dear.’

Resigned to defeat, I mumble my surrender. ‘All right then.’