Chapter 6
What a fucking nightmare this place is. Winter Wonderland is the epitome of everything that’s gone wrong with this country, and the utter antithesis of how I’d choose to spend a dark, cold evening.
My choice would be to hole up in our—now my—Cotswolds pad by a roaring fire with a few fingers of whisky and the Bourne trilogy.
Alone.
I’d settle for the same thing at The Montague, to be honest.
Instead, I’m in Hyde Park, cursing the day I agreed to this.
That day was yesterday, in fact. It turns out Saoirse’s persuasive.
She has a similar persuasion technique to Bea—boring her victim into submission—but Saoirse uses relentless positivity as opposed to relentless whining.
The only decent call I’ve made all day was slipping back to the hotel to put on waterproof boots and my warmest jacket.
It’s been a beautiful, crisp day, and it is now fucking freezing.
I scour the crowd for my girls. The girls. The girls. Jesus.
Saoirse and I made a deal with Bea last night, that if Saoirse took her to this chaotic cesspit of commerciality turned dystopia early in the afternoon, I’d join them for an hour, and Bea could have her dream: to be there while it was dark.
It’s four o’clock now, and I can’t even tell if it’s properly dark because the eery glow of a planet’s worth of junk light illuminates the sky in a neon haze.
I can see it far too clearly from the terrace of my penthouse, half a mile away.
I could swear it didn’t use to be this diabolical.
I have hazy memories of going with Allegra donkey’s years ago, when you could stroll in and buy vin chaud and tartiflette from some chic little kiosks in the park.
It was festive and charming then. But, at some point, someone’s turned it into a money-maker, and now a perfectly good section of beautiful Hyde Park is a churned-up swamp, flashing lights and light-up toys polluting the planet as much as my view, and the air thick with a stomach-churning mixture of fried onions, hot dogs made of the most questionable ‘meat’, and sugar.
Pushing through the crowds, I keep my eyes peeled for the Grand Carousel.
A WhatsApp from Saoirse two minutes ago told me they’d meet me there.
Jesus, I wouldn’t like Bea to be here any later than this.
This evening, the teens and adults will take over, drunken and raucous, and the over-hyped atmosphere, already intolerable, will ratchet up a few notches.
I’m not even comfortable having Bea here now that it’s dark.
If a kid got separated from its parents in this place, it would be a fucking disaster.
There they are. Relief, because it means Saoirse’s done her job and looked after my little angel in this hell-hole.
And because now I can take control of the situation and keep her safe.
I steel myself for the inevitable barrage of high-pitched female excitement from the two of them and walk forward. Produce a smile.
‘Beadle!’
I squat, and she runs into my arms. She’s heaven. Her face is streaked with sticky pink candy floss remnants, and her breath is sweet.
‘Daddy!’ she cries into my ear. ‘I’m having SO MUCH FUN!’
Dear God. She’s high as a kite. I pick her up and get back up. Ouch. Quad burn.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask Saoirse. She’s glowing: a scarlet beanie is pulled low, and her dark hair clouds prettily around her face.
Her cheeks and nose are rosy, and her lips are flushed red.
She’s in that ridiculous blue duffel coat, but I’m glad to see she’s covered her legs up with jeans and boots.
Warmer for her.
Less distracting for me.
She has a revolting-looking pink cuddly toy wedged under one arm. She gives me a radiant smile. Her endless joie de vivre is exhausting, but it makes my heart hurt at the same time, in the most bizarre way.
‘It’s amazing! We’re having such a fab time! She’s been on the carousel three times already, but she wants to go on with her daddy. It’s her favourite ride.’
‘I’m game.’ I point at the toy. ‘What’s that?’
‘She won her at a kiosk. She did a great job. It took her two tries. She’s very determined.’
‘Daddy, she’s called Twinkle. Can she sleep with me tonight?’
I throw Twinkle a dirty look. I can tell without sniffing that its fur will stink of petrochemicals.
‘Of course.’ I’ll go in when she’s asleep and make sure Twinkle accidentally tumbles to the floor. I gesture to the carousel. ‘Right, princess. Your knight is here. Show me which horse is our trusty steed.’
We make it out of there after an hour. There’s no way Dave, my driver, could have got anywhere near the place, so we walk back through the park.
I have Bea in my arms, and Saoirse’s carrying the toy of doom.
Bea had a blood sugar crash, which manifested as a gigantic tantrum, so I reluctantly bought her a burger from one of the more authentic-looking kiosks, which she polished off.
She’s slumped in my arms now, exhausted from the walking and the assault on her senses.
‘That,’ I tell Saoirse, ‘was hideous.’
‘Oh.’ She gapes at me. She’s doing a good job of matching my stride through the park.
‘I loved it. I thought it was incredible. I’m going to see if I can persuade some of the girls to come back with me one evening and have a few drinks.
I want to try Hangover - that giant thing that sticks up in the sky. ’
‘You’re crazy. You’ll throw up, especially if you’ve had a few drinks.’
‘No, I won’t. I’m made of stronger stuff than that.’
She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and hunches over. It is pretty freezing now. I wrap my arms more tightly around Bea to keep her warm. Look sideways at Saoirse.
‘Did you not think it was horribly hectic, though? The lights alone gave me a thumping headache. Let alone the noise.’
‘No, I loved it. It was so Christmassy.’
‘That was not Christmassy. That was plain tacky. There’s no other word for it. Everything was fake. The lights. The food. The revolting toys they classed as prizes. Horrible.’ I shudder.
She throws back her head and laughs. It’s a heavenly sound: warm, and rich, and hearty.
‘You miserable grump. The joy wasn’t fake. The people having fun together. You know—the human connection. Something we didn’t have much of last Christmas. I’d like to go back this year just to make a point. Just because we can, thank God.’
Bea pokes me sleepily in the temple. ‘Daddy’s a grump.’
I raise my eyebrows at Saoirse, and she giggles. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean for her to pick up on that. But she might have a point…’
‘I’m not a grump. I simply object to the gross commercialisation of every holiday to the point that removes all the soul from it, and that, back there, is a case in point.’
‘Daddy’s the Grinch.’ Bea’s not letting this go. She’s obsessed by that film. It’s not the first time she’s made the connection between me and the green, anti-Christmas beast.
Saoirse mock-gasps. ‘The Grinch, or Scrooge?’
‘The Grooge!’ Bea twists around in my arms to see Saoirse. She’s got a second wind. She wriggles to be let down, and I put her on her feet.
‘The Grooge.’ Saoirse puts her finger to her mouth. ‘Hmm. Good call, young Mistress Bea. He’s a bit like grumpy Gru, in Despicable Me, too. The Grooge is a great name for him. Maybe Grooge, for short.’
Excellent. They both think I’m a miserable fucker. And neither of them has an ounce of respect for me.
We walk into the hotel, each of us holding one of Bea’s hands. An older couple makes way for us in the lobby, and the woman smiles fondly at Bea, puts her hand to her heart and then twinkles at me.
‘What a lovely picture you three make.’
I stare at her in a panic. ‘We’re not—’ But she’s gone.
Inside the penthouse, Saoirse unbuttons Bea’s coat and pulls off her cosy knitted hat.
Bea’s losing that second wind, and quickly.
Her limbs are floppy and she drags her feet as Saoirse unzips her little boots.
She holds tightly onto the toy, which she grabbed off Saoirse as soon as we got inside the hotel.
‘I feel yucky,’ she announces.
‘Stick her in the bath,’ I tell Saoirse. It’s the best thing we can do for her right now.
I pick Bea and the dratted toy up and direct Saoirse into the main bathroom, where she leans over the tub and plugs it. I try, hard but unsuccessfully, not to look at her delectable arse bent over the tub. The water rushes out of the tap with a roar.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I need to get out of here. Now. ‘I have emails to check. Okay, baby?’ I plant a soft kiss on Bea’s velvet cheek and go to hand her over to Saoirse. There’s an awkward moment where our hands and arms brush as we transfer Bea’s weight.
And then it happens: Bea retches, and her whole body convulses, and she throws up burger and candy floss and God knows what else, all over both of us.