Lady: Impossible Read Free

 
    ‘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