A Very London Christmas (Love in London #2)

Chapter 1

The weather outside is frightful. Horizontal rain and slate-grey skies. And inside it is, actually, delightful: in the creche of The Montague Hotel, at least. Less delightfully, it’s my final day working here. It’s been a fantastic temping gig for the past month, but now it’s up.

And that means no job.

No money.

I only left Ireland a month ago and here I am, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, with no bloody clue what I’ll do for cash. The prospect of slinking back home, my tail between my legs, is becoming alarmingly likely.

I’ll miss this place. You’d think in a hotel as posh as The Montague, smack bang in the middle of Knightsbridge, that the creche for the guests’ children would be stuffed into a basement corner.

But no, The Playroom is a glorious square room, with huge windows looking out over Knightsbridge on one side and Hyde Park Corner on the other.

It’s particularly glorious at this time of year.

Over the past month, The Playroom’s team of nannies, myself included, have been sweating glitter and sniffing far more glue than is appropriate in what should be a safe environment for children.

Our efforts have paid off, and The Playroom is a festive utopia. All the parents say so.

Well, most of them.

I’ve found myself sitting here late at night, long after the nannies have handed over to the cleaners.

While the vacuum whirrs, I sit on a sofa, listening to Now That’s What I Call Christmas!

and building endless paper chains, snipping at fold-out snowflakes with some nice sharp scissors I keep safely tucked away in my bag.

It’s lovely here. Just lovely. Far nicer than my bedsit in Park Royal that smells of the kebab shop downstairs.

My flatmate, Keeley, is a nanny here and got me this job.

Keeley’s Irish too, just with a more English-friendly name.

The Playroom may be the kids’ turf, but everything about it screams luxury.

I nearly fell over in excitement when I first saw the stationery press (they call presses cupboards over here. I can’t get used to that).

But the month has passed. I’m trying very hard to ignore this fact, and to focus instead on the delights of playing with my new little friend, Bea.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her in here, but she certainly knows her way around, and she’s making it very easy for me to forget my financial woes.

We’re both covered in glitter and are sticky from PVA glue.

Bea has a few tendrils of hair sticking out at a right angle just above her ear, hardened from the glue.

Now we’re happily playing with dolls. The wonderful aroma of gingerbread still hangs in the warm air, and Michael Bublé punches out his take on the Christmas classics.

'My dolly is going to the party now.’ Bea smiles her adorable, crooked little smile. 'She needs some red shoes to wear with her red dress.'

'How about two pairs of shoes?' I ask. 'One pair for the party, and one pair of flats to wear on the tube?'

'My dolly doesn't take the tube! She has a driver.' Bea furrows her brow and gives me a stern look as if to say come on! Have some self respect.

That single sentence tells me all I need to know.

Bea can’t be more than four, and yet her version of reality is quite obviously vastly different from my reality of the past twenty-eight years.

This tiny girl has interlocking Gs on the soles of her black patent shoes.

Gucci shoes on a four-year-old! How long will they last before she outgrows them? Four, five months, tops?

‘What’s Bea’s gig?’ I ask Keeley when Bea is momentarily distracted by dressing her doll. ‘She says she has a driver. And she seems to know this place better than me.’

Keeley speaks out of the side of her mouth. ‘Her dad owns the hotel.’

‘The hotel?’

‘Miles Montague. Like, Montague. Come on, I’ve told you about this guy.’

She has mentioned the owner of the hotel, but I haven’t absorbed much or made the connection that he has a little girl.

‘It rings a vague bell.’

‘Believe me, if you saw him, you’d find him impossible to forget. He. Is. A. Ride. Grumpy as fuck, but so hot, I can’t even… But maybe I’m being unfair. His wife did bugger off to the States, so he has a pretty good reason to be grumpy.’

‘She left? Him and Bea?’

‘Yep. It was a massive scandal over here. She’s gone to LA, I think. Ran off with some yoga entrepreneur just before lockdown.’

‘Oh my God. That’s terrible. Poor Bea!’

‘Seriously. That kid is a rockstar. I wish I had a tenth of the grit she has.’

‘She’s such a lovely little girl. So cute. And she seems a happy little thing.’

Keeley deftly sorts the dolls’ clothes into plastic bins. ‘He’s done a grand job with her, to be fair. But she’s very clingy to the nannies here. I noticed that over the summer; she was in here a fair bit. I think she craves female attention. So heartbreaking.’

That is heartbreaking indeed. The poor little dote. I look over at her playing beautifully. I’m going to make sure Bea lacks for nothing while she’s in my care today. Especially not attention and cuddles.

‘Tell me what you think of Mr Montague,’ Keeley says as I turn away. ‘Fit as fuck, but don’t take it personally if he’s rude.’

I tell myself I won’t take it personally. His life sounds tragic. It’s amazing how heartbreak seems to follow the super wealthy around.

MILES

I stalk through the double doors of The Playroom at five o'clock sharp.

I have a long evening of paperwork ahead of me, once Bea gets to bed, but eight hours in here is long enough for her—too long, really.

She can wind down with a movie in the penthouse.

A flustered-looking woman lets me in, smoothing down her hair as she greets me.

‘She's over there, Mr Montague.’ She flutters her eyelashes at me.

I roll my eyes and stride across the room. The noise level is insufferable in here, and as I weave my way through the chaos, I’m almost taken out by a tiny, sticky, snotty-looking boy, before an apologetic member of staff yanks him away.

And then I spot her. My beautiful little Bea, light of my life. The only human being on this earth capable of touching my heart, these days.

'Daddy!' She gets up off her chubby little knees and throws herself at me, squeezing around my legs tightly, not letting go, breathing heavily against the fabric of my suit trousers. I reach down, gently disentangling her from my legs, and pull her up. Hold her against my heart.

God knows, it needs all the help it can get.

‘Beadle.’ I breathe her in. She smells delicious, as always.

Apple pie. Icing sugar. Someone has painted her little face; she's a delight.

Those huge brown eyes, like two chocolate pennies.

Thank God she didn't get her mother's eyes.

A glossy, nut-brown bob curling in under her chin, framing the perfect heart of her little face.

Her eyes shine. They actually shine. Her eyelashes are long and black and delicate.

A girl—woman—clambers gracefully to her feet beside us.

My first impression is of long, long legs in red and white striped tights, and a messy cloud of black hair.

Ridiculous fluffy Christmas pudding earrings.

She raises her face to me, and it's clear my daughter has inflicted her non-existent makeup application skills on this poor creature.

A rush of words tumbles out of her mouth, utterly unintelligible.

I stare at her. 'Excuse me?'

She giggles. Tries again. I catch a few words. Bea and gorgeous and painted and grand and festive. Otherwise, it’s a rapid jumble in a strong Irish accent, and I can’t infiltrate it. I suspect the smile I try for is more blank than polite.

She has a smear of what looks like red grease paint making its way up her cheekbone and past her hairline, so some of her delicate strands of dark hair are caked in petrochemicals.

A large foil snowflake has been stuck to her other cheek; it holds a small, grimy thumb print.

There’s a trail of silver pen around her nostrils, and Bea has applied pantomime-dame levels of sugary pink lipstick to her lips.

But there’s no disguising the fullness of those lips, the slant of her cheekbones and the creamy paleness of her skin under the grotesque greasepaint. Her eyes, crinkling with laughter at my attempts to understand her verbal diarrhoea, are huge and green.

I shift Bea’s weight on my hip so I can see her more clearly. There’s not much I can say other than thank you, given I have no earthly idea what she just said to me.

Gushy.

She seems gushy.

I have the impression she’s gushing over Bea, in any case.

My eyes slide to her chest so I can thank her by name. Oh, Jesus. Times two. First, her breasts curve ripely under the snug scarlet sweater she’s wearing. Shouldn’t have looked at that.

Second, on what is presumably her name badge sits a random assortment of letters that none of my school Latin or Greek can help me break down phonetically. It’s as if her badge is a ledge for low-value scrabble tiles.

‘Thank you, er…’ I try. Stop. ‘I’m sorry—I have no idea how to pronounce…’ I point at her chest with my free hand. For God’s sake, man. Don’t do that.

She seems undeterred. She beams at me. ‘It’s pronounced Sur-sha. Like Saoirse Ronan. Sur-sha.’ She repeats it as if I’m one of her snivelling pre-school charges and she’s teaching me how to read C-A-T.

‘Who?’

‘Saoirse Ronan. She’s a really famous actress. Have you not seen Brooklyn? Little Women?’

‘I have not.’ I clear my throat, repeat the name she’s attempting to teach me. Glance down at her name badge again. How in the name of phonetic decency does that letter-vomit equate to what she’s telling me?

‘Sore-sha. Thank you for looking after Bea. And for the help with your name. I would have guessed… Cersai, maybe? Like—’

‘Game of Thrones. Yep. I get that a lot. It definitely gives English people a lot of trouble.’

She’s still beaming at me, and I’m aware I’m frowning at her.

It’s the strain of trying to decipher what she’s saying in real time.

She seems excitable. Maybe it’s an Irish thing.

In any case, it’s time to put this strange conversation to bed.

And my grubby little daughter straight in the bath.

She needs to wind down and clean up in equal measure.

‘Beadle.’ I bump her gently in my arms. She’s already flagging. Her head hangs limply against my chest, and she’s sucking her thumb. ‘Say thank you to… Saoirse. We’ll see you tomorrow at nine.’

‘Oh no, you won’t, sadly.’ The young woman cocks her head and strokes Bea’s cheek with her finger.

‘Isn’t she a little dote? You won’t see me tomorrow, my darling.

’ This to Bea. Obviously. ‘It’s my last day today.

I was just covering for Sheila for a few weeks.

She had a terrible ankle fracture. She fell down the steps of Hyde Park Corner tube station, would you believe?

But she’s back tomorrow. So Sheila will look after you tomorrow, love. ’

Bea’s telltale stiffening precedes the inevitable. She sits bolt upright in my arms and screams. Her chubby little hands reach out for Saoirse.

‘Nooooo! I want Saoirse! I want Saoirse!’ I have to hand it to her: her pronunciation is impeccable. Though she has the benefit of being four and therefore not thrown off her game by the phonetic head-fuck that is the name badge. Sur-sha on its own is quite catchy. Melodic, even.

Stop it.

Focus on the imminent crisis at hand.

Bea is about to go nuclear.

Unfortunately, Bea’s definition of nuclear is so hideous that my first instinct is always to give her whatever the hell she wants, just to shut her up. Terrible parenting, yes. But we’re in survival mode. Have been since Allegra left. I eye the woman. Assess the variables. Make an instant decision.

‘Are you available to be her nanny for the next month? Up until New Year’s Eve, in any case? We’re staying at the hotel for the next four weeks.’

‘Bea mentioned you were staying—but four weeks?’

‘Yes. I own this place.’

It sounds wankier than normal, saying that out loud. Normally, of course, I don’t have to spell it out. Miles Montague and The Montague Hotel are synonymous in certain circles.

‘Right.’ She doesn’t bat an eyelid. She must already know who we are.

‘So. As I said: nannying. I require help with Beatrice over the next four weeks.’

‘But not including Christmas?’ She recoils as if I’ve suggested cancelling Christmas altogether. ‘I’ll be at home for Christmas. In Ireland.’

‘Ah.’ I scratch my chin. ‘Yes, it would include Christmas, I’m afraid. We’ll be here, in the hotel.’

She really needs to work on her poker face. Her huge green eyes dart from me to Bea, and around The Playroom. The horror from a moment ago transforms into wonder. Childlike excitement.

‘Is it very Christmassy here?’

‘I can assure you, it will be this year.’ My tone is dry. ‘We owe it to our team and our guests after the disaster that was last year. The hotel has a full Christmas schedule. Carols in the Grand Salon every afternoon. Even adult crafting.’

Last Christmas was a fucking nightmare. Millions in lost revenues. The hotel under dust covers. The whole bloody holiday, cancelled for most of the world.

And my little girl motherless and stuck with her devastated, furious, useless father.

Right on cue, Saoirse’s eyes light up. She looks positively thrilled at the concept of adult crafting.

‘I’ll make it worth your while, of course. Financially.’

‘But don’t you need to check me out first? You can’t offer me a job looking after this little one just like that.’

‘Our background checks are rigorous here. Believe me, if you’ve made it through The Playroom doors, you pass muster.’ I turn to Bea. ‘Queen Bea, what do you think? Would you like Saoirse here to be your nanny for the next few weeks?’

My daughter’s face transforms and the tears that have been wobbling precariously miraculously disappear. She leans out of my arms, and Saoirse grabs her under her armpits and takes her. It’s fucking unreal, how quickly kids can turn it on and off as necessary.

But the solution is a huge win for me. I can work solidly through December without feeling guilty that I’m neglecting Bea.

And these two can go Christmas-crazy together in peace.

It doesn’t take a psychic to see that Bea will have more fun with this giggly, enchanting (in her own weird way) elf, with her candy-cane tights and Christmas pudding earrings and general joyfulness, than she will with me.

And the instant, undeniable attraction that assaulted me as soon as I laid eyes on her is, of course, a non-issue.

She’s pretty.

Beautiful, really.

Great rack.

Endless legs.

I’m an adult.

I’ll deal with it.