Chapter 7 Mia
MIA
PLAYLIST: ROYALTY – EGZOD, MAESTRO CHIVES, NEONI
“Stupid, stupid, idiot,” I tell myself as I walk up and down in front of the door of Victoria Fitzroy’s house with its white poles, waiting for the driver, or whatever else he is to her, to return.
I have no fricking clue why I am here, and I regret the chain of stupid decisions that has led me here more with every second. Well, I do know, because stupid, stupid Bella made me.
The door opens, and I stop in my tracks as my heart sinks onto the floor.
“Please, come in,” he says, gesturing for me to enter.
I carefully step onto marble flooring into an entrance hall.
A round mahogany table stands in the middle of it, a bouquet of what would be at least fifty yellow lilies on it; above it, a golden crystal chandelier.
I stare at it because, coming from a lower-middle-class household, this is an entirely different world.
Never, ever in my life have I felt misplaced like this.
This was a mistake, a huge, huge mistake.
Why am I even here? I curse at myself in my mind.
Now, I look at a painting with a frame that alone must cost what I earn in a year.
Just leave, the voice in my head tells me. But how impolite would that be? Disturbing someone on a Sunday, and then disappearing.
I am so stupid to listen to stupid Bella, and now I am standing in a stupid house where I should not be, in a different world where stupid me does not belong.
I should leave—
“Miss Phillips.”
My mind turns off the moment I see her. Up on a massive staircase stands Victoria, dressed in grey wide-plisèe trousers, a black high-neck shirt, and a patterned jacket with golden buttons.
She looks like she's just stepped off a catwalk, and I feel even more displaced in my knitted sweater and secondhand market coat.
Her mouth is tugged into a small smirk, with curious eyes that gaze directly into my soul.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she says as she walks down the stairs with a royal graciousness, not breaking the gaze into my eyes. I would’ve stumbled down the stairs and broken my neck if I attempted to walk down stairs without looking at them.
She reaches me, and I realise I have my mouth open the whole time. Humiliation spreads through me, and I close it shut.
“How did you find where I live?” she asks me. Her voice rumbles warmly through my chest.
Words, form words.
“Bella,” I say. “Everyone has that friend who can find out almost anything.”
“Indeed,” she says and laughs. “What brought you here?”
I almost blurted out Bella, too, but I catch me last minute.
“I wanted to return the book,” I say. “It was an illuminating read.” I hold out the box with the book in it for her to take.
“That was fast,” she says. “Feel free to keep it longer.”
“I’d rather not. It seems important to you, and I don’t want a cat or anything to accidentally chew on it.”
“I am certain I could get a replacement in case that unlikely event happens,” she says with a laugh.
“But you said it’s borrowed, so I thought you wanted it back because it’s important—“
“No, dearest, I wrote that because otherwise you never would’ve accepted it, wouldn’t you?”
My mouth opens and closes again, as if steered by an external force.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks me. “I just got up after yesterday’s event. I am famished.”
“I—I don’t know, I really have to get back home—“ I say and mumble, “Have to feed my cats—“
“Your cats will survive being fed a little later, I am certain. If not, I might order Henry to do so for you.”
“Alright, alright,” I say. Nothing would be worse than having an unknown human being in the flat.
“Please,” she says and walks me to a room with double doors. I am flabbergasted the moment the doors open. I feel as if I stepped into a different century in a mansion of royal calibre.
I enter what is best described as a drawing room, which is held in yellow-gold.
A flower-pattern tapestry, golden curtains jump aggressively into my eyes.
To my left is a massive fireplace, with yellowish, golden-corded sofas and armchairs set around it.
To the right, bookshelves and a table set for tea.
I feel like I stepped into the nest of a canary. A very wealthy one.
“Please, sit down,” says Victoria, but I am distracted as I gaze outside through Victorian windows into a tiled, closed courtyard with ornamental grilles, trees and bushes. A house of this size, with a courtyard like this, in Belgravia of all places, must be worth millions and millions of pounds.
And I am in here. I shouldn’t. This is not my world. This is the world that made my mother the way she is now.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” says Victoria. “You should see it in spring when the first sun warms the tiles and awakens the flowers.”
“I love nature,” I say like an idiot. “I tend a small plot in a community garden.” How awkward that sounds in comparison.
“What are your favourite flowers?” she asks me.
“Daisies,” I say. “They are beautifully subtle.”
Victoria chuckles before she walks to the table and sits down. I glance at her feet; they somehow draw my attention because she wears no shoes. I glance at my feet because I am still wearing shoes—how impolite of me!
I attempt to slip out of them—
“Not necessary,” she says.
“But you are wearing none, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.”
“As I said, it's not necessary to put them off. Everyone wears shoes down here. I don’t wear any, because I just got out of bed.”
“Okay,” I say, but slip out of them anyway.
She sighs as I walk over to the table. I don’t know where to sit. Next to her? Opposite her? My eyes wander back and forth as I try to decide. I hate decisions, especially when I’m under stress. My brain feels like glitching.
Victoria gets up and pulls the chair next to her from the table. “Sit down,” she says, and I feel like the biggest idiot of the lot. Who needs someone to tell her where to sit?
Yet, I sit. Gladly. Where she told me to sit.
“What tea would you like?” she asks me.
“Whatever you take,” I say. I can’t make decisions right now. I also don’t want to make a fuss.
She sighs. “What tea would you like?” she asks me again, sternly.
“I really don’t care,” I say. “I like every tea. I don’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Victoria shakes her head in disbelief.
“We will try that again,” she says. “I’ll ask you what tea you like, and you’ll tell me exactly what sort of tea you like, understood?”
I breathe out heavily, regretting my appearance even more. I don’t know what tea I want right now. I’d rather be home without any tea. Victoria stares at me with her blue eyes, piercing me,
“Yes,” I say and add with my eyes wandering to the floor, “I am not stupid, I—I just don’t like decisions.”
“Would you like me to decide for you?” she asks.
I nod, still staring at the floor. How embarrassing. Pathetic. Stupid.
“Henry,” she calls, and the man who I believed to be a driver appears. Apparently, he is a valet. Whatever.
“Assam, loose-leaf for me, and the wonderful green tea we brought from France for Miss Phillips, please.”
“Very well,” says Henry and disappears.
I stare back at the floor. I don’t know what to say, nor what to talk to her about. I shouldn’t have come.
“So, you read the book?” she asks me, and I look up.
“Yes,” I say. “Immediately. I wanted to read it for a long time. I love Brené Brown. I once went to see a talk of hers—“ Suddenly, words fall from my mouth.
Victoria smiles at me.
“Did you like it?” she asks.
Of course I did. I loved it. But I also know that I will apply none of it to my life. A fact I can’t have her know.
“Yes,” I say carefully.
“Yes, but?”
“But I feel it is more for the people who walk the path of self-improvement as a life purpose.”
“And you do not self-improve?”
“I—“ I stutter. It sounds so bad framed like this. “I am happy the way everything is right now.”
“Huh,” she says. “Are you really?”
And there we are again. She is making me question myself, pushing me into inner turmoil. I want to run. Far away.
Tea arrives. It smells wonderful, but I don't want it. I want to leave.
An awkward silence passes because I don’t want to answer her question. I fumble with my teacup to ease the growing discomfort within me.
“I’m not asking to make you uncomfortable,” she finally says, leans forward, and her hand touches my arm. I gasp in and roll my shoulders back as a jittery feeling rushes through me. I have never felt anything like it before, and my eyes widen.
“I’m asking because I am curious,” she says. I look from her hand on my arm up into her eyes.
I swallow hard.
“What are you so scared of?” she asks me.
I rub my fingers together to calm the waves of emotion that are surfacing in me. Why does she affect me so?
She looks at me, waiting patiently for an answer.
“I guess, I’m okay the way things are. I don’t have any ambitions, because peace is what I want.”
“Hmmm,” she says and removes her hand to take a sip of her tea. “Or could it be you are scared of disappointment?”
I stare at her as my chest tightens.
“Could it be that you have been disappointed so many times in life that you protect yourself now by pushing everything away?”
“I—um—maybe,“ I stutter, unable to form a word. Blimey, what is wrong with me!
“Let’s start with an easier question,” she says. “Mia, are you a lesbian?”
My cheeks flush, and I want to hide my face in my hands. Easier question?
She looks at me with drawn-up eyebrows. Judgement.
“I don’t think I feel comfortable talking about my—um—orientation or activities with someone I don’t know,” I say and fumble with my sleeve.
“Is that so?” she asks. She is so self-assured and confident, I am almost envious of her. “Maybe talking to a stranger could be very much…relieving.”
“Or it causes judgment and embarrassment,” I say.
“Do you believe I judge you?”
“Yes,” I blurt out.
“Well, I do not. I am actually quite curious. You assume, and I would bet none of what I truly think will have occurred to you.”