Chapter 5
My first day couldn’t be going better. It’s been dreamy, in fact.
As soon as Miles left this morning, Bea gave me a tour of the penthouse, and it was sublime.
It reminded me of the suite at the Ritz where Anna Scott stayed in Notting Hill.
The one with all the rooms, where she held those excruciatingly awkward interviews.
Bea, who is a fount of knowledge about the hotel, tells me there are only two penthouses. Which makes sense, because the footprint of this thing is insane.
There’s a gorgeous living room with a huge fireplace, and when we get back from our fancy girls’ lunch at Scalini’s on Walton Street (which is the cutest street ever, with its tiny posh shops and terraces of pastel dolls’ houses), someone has put the gas fire on, so the whole room is toasty.
There’s also a dining room, a kitchen, three bedrooms, and four bathrooms. Why anyone needs more bathrooms than bedrooms is not clear, but that doesn’t make it any less impressive.
It’s more like a very fancy apartment—flat, they call them over here—than a hotel suite.
It’s decorated so beautifully, its high ceilings dripping with creamy, curly mouldings and huge chandeliers.
The lighting system looks like something you’d need a PhD to work.
But, of course, Bea has it sussed, and between lunch and going down to the party she demonstrates it by dimming the chandeliers until they glow softly and turning on the ridiculous number of pretty lamps dotted around the room.
Although everything in here is flawless, the designers have managed to create a welcoming mood that begs you to sink down onto a well-stuffed sofa with a book and a glass of wine. It’s heaven. I can’t even imagine how much it costs per night.
We’ve stuck the festive calendar up in Bea’s room. It’s already looking great. We stole a sheet of tiny gold star stickers from The Playroom, and every time we book something up, we write it in and decorate it with stars.
Miles’ assistant, Angela, is a miracle worker.
She’s really friendly, too. She seems genuinely excited about being able to help me book up treats for Bea.
We’re kicking off tomorrow with Winter Wonderland, which is just a stroll away in Hyde Park, and we’ve booked up ice skating at Somerset House, too.
But the thing I’m most excited about is going to see The Nutcracker.
In a box. This gig is so jammy! I can’t believe my luck.
Bea has decided to stick with her Mrs Claus look for the party at the hotel, although she’s changed her white tights, which got mud-spattered in the rain, and put on red glittery slip-ons with a huge bow and a band of red elastic to hold them on.
I’ve had an absolute ball going through Bea’s wardrobe.
She’s like a little doll, with her huge brown eyes and rosebud mouth, and I get to dress her up.
I’ve even curled her glossy brown hair into ringlets and added a red grosgrain hairband.
The only painful moment in the whole day was when we were making the festive calendar. As we inked in The Nutcracker for the 18th, and I selected a ballerina sticker for good measure, Bea looked up at me, her brown eyes huge.
‘Saoirse?’
‘Yes, pet?’
A pause. It’s as if she’s weighing her words. Do four-year-olds weigh their words? I was under the impression they had no filter.
‘Will my Mummy be coming to the ballet with us?’
I searched those brown eyes as if they held the clue to whatever on earth I should say to that question, because I was damned if I had a clue either where Bea’s mum was or what the official line was where Bea was concerned.
I should have done my homework when I had the chance.
Or Miles should have equipped me to field these potential landmines.
My finger hovered over the Google icon on my phone. But whatever I found on there wouldn’t tell me what the right answer was for this little girl. I’d ask Miles as soon as I got a chance. For now, I was stuck with what I had: the truth and a massive dollop of affection for my tiny charge.
‘I’m not sure, pet,’ I told her. ‘But I’ll find out for you.’
By the time we’re ready to head down to the ballroom, Bea’s thoughts are squarely on the glittery beguilement of her Wizard of Oz shoes and the likely presence of a chocolate fountain at the party.
We pack her tiny red handbag with a cherry-flavoured lip balm and a tiny, squidgy stress toy, which is apparently called a mochi.
Because, you know, being a four-year-old is so stressful.
But I’m a fan of Bea’s attention to the smallest details of an outfit.
The party is already in full swing, and when we find the Austen Ballroom, I have a full-on Cinderella moment. This place is spectacular. In front of the entrance stands the facade of a huge wardrobe, manned by a footman in a white wig.
He bows to Bea and opens one of the wardrobe doors. ‘This way, Madam.’
The wardrobe is, in fact, backless and opens out into a real-life Narnia.
The entire room is up-lit in pale blues and whites that cast their shadows up over ornate panels, abundant white-sprayed naked branches, and snowy firs.
There are all manner of actors dressed as animals scampering about.
And on the stage at the far end of the room sits an enormous throne and, on it, the Snow Queen.
‘Wow.’ Bea’s eyes are saucers.
‘This is amazing!’ I lift her up into my arms to give her a better view.
Children are everywhere, and beautifully dressed grown-ups stand at the poser tables punctuating the room, making conversation and drinking champagne.
In front of them, a snowy signpost directs us to alluring places such as Santa’s Grotto, The Land of Chocolate, and The Magical Marquee.
They may be interpreting the Narnia theme loosely, but the kids are in heaven.
By the time Miles arrives, Bea and I have made ourselves properly at home.
Bea’s in a red cotton apron with her name embroidered in curly white letters across the front.
It’s already covered in the fallout from her encounter with the chocolate fountain.
The level of detail and effort from the organisers of this thing blows my mind.
It’s having quite a weird effect on me, actually.
Bea’s entranced too, but she’s taking it all at face value, naturally.
Whereas I’m equally mesmerised by the final effect and by the behind-the-scenes machinations that have gone into producing said effect.
Every can of spray paint that must have been used, the fact that the iridescent glitter on every tree is perfectly even, the headache of having a personalised apron for every child attending despite the fact that the guest list must have changed God knows how many times…
it makes me overwhelmed and profoundly happy in equal measure.
This is what I’d love to do as a job. Dream up magical worlds, so far removed from everyday existence, and bring them to life in the physical realm.
Could there be a more creatively indulgent career? I can’t think of one.
And then Miles arrives, and I forget everything else for a moment.
He’s more entrancing than the most glittery tree in this fantastical kingdom.
He’s lost the coat, but that scarf still hangs around his neck, and he’s holding a glass of champagne as he stalks across the room to us.
His hair is damp; he combs it back off his face with his free hand.
‘What a bloody nightmare. Hi, baby.’ He stoops and kisses Bea on her forehead as she beams up at him. I can’t blame her. Hi, baby. Lucky Bea.
Stop it.
You cannot be jealous of a four-year-old.
That’s twisted.
‘I had to walk from Piccadilly. The whole damn street was gridlocked.’ He exhales deeply and seems to collect himself. ‘How was your day?’
‘It was great!’ I’m instantly torn between a desire not to annoy him with too much wittering—he doesn’t seem big on small talk—and the pool of enthusiasm that’s threatening to spill over inside me.
Enthusiasm wins.
As always.
‘We went for lunch at Scalini’s. It was yum; I can’t believe how much this one ate! They love her there. And this is, like, the most amazing party I’ve ever been to. Isn’t it gorgeous? Look at this tent!’
I gesture over my head at the pale-blue-and-white big top that’s been erected in a room connecting to the ballroom, housing the Christmas craft tables.
Which Bea and I are loving. From the top of the tent hang millions of glittering snowflakes.
There are full-height Nutcrackers everywhere, in sugared-almond colours, with gold and silver and white frogging and bejewelled mitres. I’m in sensory heaven.
Miles follows my eyes upwards and then looks back at me blankly.
‘One of these nutcrackers just came to life!’ I continue. ‘He gave Bea such a fright. I can’t actually work out which ones are real people and which are statues. It’s a bit freaky. We’re making this advent calendar right now. Look. I can’t believe how adorable it is.’
At this table, there’s a selection of wooden chests of drawers in the shapes of gingerbread houses and festive trucks.
They’ve been pre-sprayed, and I’m now busy decorating a pale blue gingerbread-style house with stickers and jewels.
Bea’s job is to put a dinky foil-wrapped chocolate in each little drawer.
I’m fairly sure she’s taken more than twenty-four chocolates so far.
Miles humours me with a glance around the room. ‘It’s exceptional. Siobhan’s done an amazing job. As usual.’
‘Who’s Siobhan?’
‘Siobhan Quinn. She’s a very well-known event organiser. She does this party for us every year, but she’s excelled herself this year.’
‘Wow.’ My voice is dreamy. ‘I would kill for that job.’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘Would you really? I’ll introduce you, in that case.’
He’s as good as his word. He tracks Siobhan down and introduces us.
‘Are you Irish?’ is the first thing out of my mouth. Siobhan is extremely glamorous, with an immaculate scarlet mouth and a glossy black bob. She’s in a long scarlet gown I would literally sell a kidney for.
She smiles, and she’s suddenly less severe, less intimidating. She’s gorgeous.
‘Yes, but I’ve lived here since I was a baby. Hence the accent.’
She is extremely posh.
‘Miles says you’d like to get into this field, is that right?’
‘I. Um.’ I look wildly at Miles, who nods impatiently at me.
He’s bothered to introduce us, after all.
The least I can do is find my tongue. ‘I’ve thought about it.
A lot. But what you’ve done here is another level.
I can’t even imagine how much work it’s taken to make this happen.
And working with kids must make it even harder.
It’s so, so beautiful. I’m an adult—well, in theory, anyway—and I’m blown away.
I’ve never seen anything so transporting. ’
‘You’re very kind.’ Siobhan pats me on the arm.
‘I usually avoid doing kids’ events, but this one’s a lot of fun, and Miles is such a sweetie I can never say no to him.
’ She reaches over and squeezes Miles’ jaw like he’s a little kid, and he wriggles away as if she’s an annoying aunt.
Even though she can’t be much older than him.
I can’t imagine having the nerve to squish Miles’ face.
Siobhan’s still talking. ‘Think of this whole thing as a swan. It might look like it’s running smoothly, but behind the scenes, it’s a mess.
I have two girls in the back there with digital sewing machines, running up aprons because there’ve been so many last-minute additions to the guest list.’ She mock-glares at Miles.
‘But if hard work doesn’t scare you, and I’m sure it doesn’t, if you’re working for Miles, then I’m happy to have a coffee sometime.
Maybe after Christmas, when things quieten down.
I can give you some tips about getting into the industry. ’
Good Lord. This woman is divine. And even Miles seems to eat out of the palm of her hand.
‘That would be amazing.’ I’m gushing now. ‘Thank you. Thank you. I’m free from New Year’s Day, when these two jet off to the Caribbean. This is just a temp job.’
Siobhan turns to Miles for confirmation, and I can’t help but notice that the nod he gives in confirmation is grim.
He’s a weird one.