Chapter 4
I take some time out of my morning to catch up with the management of Montague Group’s hotels in Hong Kong and Shanghai. Once they’re satisfied I’ve shown them sufficient attention, I pull up WhatsApp on my desktop and message the nanny.
All OK this am? LMK what events you want to book and I’ll put you in contact with Angela.
She sends a flurry of messages straight back.
Everything’s great thanks!!! We’re in The Playroom crafting a Christmas calendar
Bea would love to go to Hamleys (I would too!!)
I asked the concierge for more suggestions, and he suggested ice-skating at Somerset House or the Natural History Museum
And the Nutcracker?
Winter Wonderland
Santa at Harrods
To shut her up, I reply straight back with Angela’s contact details.
All fine. Please call Angela to book.
She has no way of knowing this, but some of these requests will need serious money thrown at them.
Allegra used to book Father Christmas at Harrods in September.
And matinee tickets to The Nutcracker at this late date will require some cash.
We’ll probably need to get a box. But no matter.
I’ve done nothing at all to make December festive for Bea, and I’m damned if it will be a repeat of last Christmas.
Saoirse replies with a photo of Bea, her head bent over a large sheet of white paper, a Pritt Stick in her hand.
That little face.
My angel.
She’s the only thing in my life that matters now. When I think of the Christmas she endured last year, the year she’s endured, for God’s sake, it makes me sick to my stomach.
Her mother—gone. And her inability, of course, because she’s four, to even remotely comprehend the depths of selfishness that drove her mother to abandon her.
And it hasn’t even broken her. I’m blown away by the grace and generosity this little girl has shown. I’m a shell, but her heart is still open for business. Wide open. Far, far too open.
Look at this woman, Saoirse. Bea embraces people so quickly. She latches on to adults, especially women, who show her attention and affection, and she does so with a raw desperation that fucking kills me.
And instead of dealing with it properly, like I should, like I will, with therapy and carefully imposed boundaries around the people we allow into our lives, I jump for the first bandage I see.
And I hope to God it will stem the flow from Bea’s huge, invisible wound, for a few days, a few weeks. Just to get us through Christmas.
It’s a lose-lose situation. Either this woman will fail to provide Bea with the maternal and emotional nourishment she’s so clearly craving, because why should she? How can she?
Or, she’ll fall for my little girl, and my little girl will fall for her, and Bea will transfer her desperation for a mother figure onto a relative stranger, and the grieving process will begin again when we bid this woman farewell and I uproot Bea to St Barths. What a fucking mess.
I leave the City at three to get back to Knightsbridge in time for this party. Being driven is the most civilised way to get around London, but it certainly isn’t the quickest. I make good use of the time, though. Emails, budgetary sign-offs, phone calls. A WhatsApp comes through from Angela.
Holding box for The Nutcracker. Royal Opera House. 1.30 matinee on the 18th. Will you join?
I shoot back a reply.
Yes. And The River Restaurant @ Savoy for after thx.
I’m not a total killjoy, and if I have to do anything festive, the ballet and an excellent fish supper are hardly intolerable. The River Restaurant is Gordon Ramsey’s new place, and I’ve heard great things. Besides, it’s always good to keep up with what dining options the competition is offering.
And it’s not like it would kill me to make Saoirse’s London Christmas a little more fun.
She’s given up Christmas with her family for me and Bea, after all.
Something tells me she won’t have crossed the Royal Opera House and the Savoy off her bucket list just yet.
She mentioned she’s only been here a month.
It will be a nice gesture to show off London’s best side. I’m just not sure why the idea of seeing London through Saoirse’s eyes gives me the first spark of something I’ve had for a long time.