Free Lady: Impossible by B.D. Fraser Page B

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.’
    For a change, his kind laughter does nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. ‘That’s the spirit.’ I imagine him lifting his glass of scotch, or maybe his pipe, in approval. If he’s feeling very jolly, he might even give George the thumbs up. ‘Now, what else is going on?’
    ‘Um.’ Honestly, I’m still floored by his quasi-support of the matchmaker proposition, but I have to tell him about the other thing. There’s no dancing around it. ‘Mother hired a butler for her stay here. Did you know?’
    His response is cutting. ‘I may or may not have told her that any help employed on this holiday of hers is to be paid from out of her own pocket.’
    ‘You actually put your foot down and said that?’ I ask, incredulously.
    ‘I did. She still has funds from her inheritance. Not the greatest amount, but enough.’
    I tread carefully, wary of his mood when it comes to Mother and money. ‘Well, here’s the thing. The butler is living here. I haven’t had a chance to ask how much he’s being paid and how much he’s being charged for board.’
    There’s a long pause. ‘Living there, in my house?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And what is your impression of this man?’ he asks, his voice lowering in the same way it does when he’s forced to comment on Al’s escapades.
    ‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that,’ I reply, panicking a little. ‘He’s my age – a year older, to