Chapter 8
Ilean my forehead against the tiles of this very nice shower. Water thunders down my back and shoulders.
Oh God oh God oh God.
What the hell was that?
Could I have conceived of a situation that was any more mortifying?
No. Definitely not. You can’t make this shit up.
Clodagh is going to howl when I tell her. And Keeley and the girls are going to die—Miles Montague took off his top in front of me and then took off my top.
I want.
To die.
When he peeled off his sweater and showed me what was underneath, I nearly lost it.
His skin was golden—how? In the middle of winter?
—and his chest and arms were so beautifully defined.
Perfect curves and swells, and a smattering of light brown hair on his chest that being dampened with vomit didn’t even spoil.
And when he leant over to test the bathwater, I got a glimpse of his stomach and his happy trail down to his jeans before I hastily looked away again.
So far, I’ve been existing on views of his gorgeous suits and coats and this evening’s casual glamour.
He has great taste in clothes, and he wears them well.
But tonight’s ruined all that.
That man should never wear clothes again.
And he saw my boobs! Sweet Jesus. Well, not all of them, but enough. He saw me in a lace bra—probably got an eyeful of nipple, too. I groan and bang my head softly against the tiles. I will never live this down.
Never.
But it’s not about me. Or him. It’s about poor darling Bea, who must be feeling rubbish and miserable. And Miles is paying me very well to look after her. I need to get it together.
I finish showering quickly, washing the traces of vomit off my body and out of my hair under the blessed torrent, and dry off.
I put my pants back on, but a sniff tells me the vomit went through to my bra.
Yuck. I grab the thick velour robe and wrap it as far around me as I can, pulling the collar up to hide my entire chest area.
They’re still in the main bathroom. For a moment I’m not sure what to do, then I shout.
‘Miles? I’m done. I can take over with Bea, if you like.’
He shouts back. ‘Okay. Give me a minute.’
And then the bathroom door opens, and there he is. He’s wet, and just has a white towel wrapped around his waist, and it’s possible I have never wanted anything in the world more than I want to press myself up against him and pull that towel off.
My eyes dart to his face, and down his chest to his happy trail, and back up before I manage to get control over them. His eyes are doing a dance too, over me.
I mentally shake myself and flip into mother hen mode. I point towards his bedroom.
‘Go. I’ve got this.’
I busy myself with the little, sick girl who needs me. Who needs to be dried off and cuddled and soothed. Because there’s nothing more miserable when you’re little than being sick. It’s the absolute worst.
And it’s even worse when your mummy’s not here.
By the time I’ve put Bea in her nightie and laid clean towels over her sheets and pillow in case of more vomit, the little dote is practically asleep in one corner of the huge bed. I emerge into the living area and hover awkwardly.
Miles is sprawled on the sofa with his laptop.
He’s dressed in a soft white t-shirt that caresses his pecs, and what look like grey flannel pyjama bottoms. He’s slicked back his damp hair, but some strands have fallen back down over his forehead.
Someone up there really has it in for me tonight. This is too much.
I clear my throat. ‘She’s basically asleep. I’ll just go and clean up the bathroom.’
He looks up briefly. ‘Don’t worry. I have the cleaners coming up to deal with it.’
‘No, don’t make them do it. Please. I’m more than capable.’
‘It’s their job.’
‘Miles, honestly. It’s not fair to these poor people who are on the minimum wage to have to clean up other people’s vomit.’
He looks at me then, properly. ‘It’s not fair to you to deal with it on your second day on the job, having been vomited on yourself.’
‘I’m a nanny to a four-year-old. Newsflash. This stuff happens. Please, let me sort it. I want to give Twinkle a good scrub, anyway.’
I put my hands on my hips, and he sighs.
‘Fine. Thank you. Now, your clothes. Put them in that bag, and Housekeeping will do a ninety-minute turnaround on them if that works. I’ll get dinner sorted while you wait, and I’ll cab you home later. That okay?’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I begin, and he cuts me off.
‘Yes. I do.’
The steak is sublime. And the red wine, which Miles says is claret, is the silkiest wine I’ve ever tasted.
We’re eating on the sofa, and it’s… nice.
Slightly awkward, but nice. I’ve demolished almost all my fries—who knows what they cooked them in, but they’re insane—but Miles has eaten only his sirloin and the green beans.
He’s getting stuck into the wine, though.
I look around at the beautiful space. The gas fire throws off heat, and all the occasional lamps glow softly. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘We’re just here for the month. I’m getting some work done to my place in Holland Park, so we moved in here the day I met you. I thought it would be more sociable for Bea, in any case. Hopefully, the house will be done by the time we get back from St Barths.’
‘It’s so gorgeous. The hotel looks so festive; it makes me feel so Christmassy, just being here. But why didn’t they decorate the penthouse for you?’
He blinks. ‘I never thought to ask. We don’t decorate the guest rooms, but I’m sure I could get them to do something in here.’
‘Bea would be thrilled.’ I chomp down my last few fries.
‘She would.’ A pause. ‘You’re welcome to do it, if you’d like. Maybe it’s something you could do together.’
‘Really?’ I sit bolt upright. ‘I would love that. And so would Bea.’
‘Knock yourselves out.’ He waves a hand. He’s losing interest in this conversation already. ‘Go to Harrods. Or the Chelsea Gardener. Use the Amex. Dave will take you—I’m staying local tomorrow, so I don’t need the car.’
‘We will. Thank you.’
He puts his cutlery together and sits in silence, swilling his wine in his glass, and I have an acutely surreal moment. Imagine if I was here with him in real life.
Like, as an actual girlfriend.
Imagine if this was our life.
Drinking wine on the sofa with him, before edging closer, and pulling up that soft, soft t-shirt, and—
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of having only a robe on. I pull it more tightly over my knees and pat the lapel to make sure I’m not gaping in the boob area. I haven’t had a chance to bring up the delicate matter of Bea asking about her mum. Now is the perfect opportunity.
I clear my throat. ‘Um. Miles?’
‘Saoirse.’ He turns to look at me. It must be the first time he’s said my name since he met me. And it actually, physically makes my spine tingle. It sounds so exotic, and languorous, and forbidden coming from that mouth.
Focus, Saoirse.
‘Bea asked about her mum yesterday. She was wondering if she would join us for the ballet. I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Ah.’ He peers into his wineglass. ‘I see.’
‘You don’t need to tell me anything,’ I say hurriedly, ‘but if there’s an official line or something that you want me to use with her…’
‘My ex-wife isn’t really in the picture. Bea hasn’t seen her in person for eighteen months.’
‘Oh, my gosh.’ My hand flies to my mouth, and I just about manage to swallow the phrase that’s terrible.
‘She left us last February. She’s “building a new life for herself” in LA.’ He does bunny ears to show precisely what he thinks of that jargon. ‘Obviously, it’s been very difficult to travel between the US and the UK during lockdown.’
‘Of course,’ I murmur to be polite. But internally, I’m screaming are you serious? What kind of mother leaves their tiny child and moves to LA? ‘Is she in contact with Bea?’
‘Yes. They FaceTime a couple of times a week. I don’t know.
’ He covers his face with his hand. ‘It’s important for her to have a relationship with her mother, of course.
Not important, critical. I know that. But it would be easier to manage if she left us the fuck alone.
Bea doesn’t understand why she can’t see her mum. It’s an impossible situation.’
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and raises his head, and meets my eyes.
When I see the hopelessness in his, I finally understand the concept of one’s heart bleeding for someone.
My heart is bleeding. For him, and for his little daughter, and for what their reality is in the wake of this desertion.
It feels like my heart is haemorrhaging itself dry for these two.
‘I’m so, so sorry, Miles.’ I whisper the words. ‘I mean—you’re doing a great job with her. She’s so resilient.’
‘That’s all her. I barely know what I’m doing with her. She is a fucking rockstar. She blows me away.’
‘I can’t believe what a happy, well-adjusted little thing she is. Losing her mum, in such a messy way… I’m in awe of her.’
‘She’s really enjoying having you around.’ He nods at me for emphasis. ‘Seriously. I know it’s only been a day or two. But I can tell you get her. You really connect with her. We’re lucky to have found you.’
He’s staring at me as if he means every word, and the heat of pain and empathy and pure emotion in my chest spreads through my whole body. So when Bea cries out from her bedroom, I bolt. As long as I’m here, this little girl won’t spend a second wanting for anything. Help. Attention. Comfort. Love.
I swear it.
Bea’s half asleep but retching again, and I sit behind her in the bed and hold up a bin so she can vomit up some residual food. I wipe her hair away from her face and rub her back while her small body convulses.
‘Good girl,’ I whisper. ‘That’s it, pet. Get it all out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.’
MILES
When I surface a couple of hours later from a number of calls with the US, during which time I’ve managed to finish the bottle of wine, I tiptoe into Bea’s room.
Housekeeping left a bag with Saoirse’s laundered clothes outside the door, and I have it in my hand.
But she’s fast asleep in her robe, curled up on top of the duvet next to Bea.
Bea’s sleeping soundly on her back, her little fist wrapped around Saoirse’s fingers.
The peaceful picture that the two of them make does things to me that I can’t quite understand.
All I know is that I don’t want to disturb them.
I grab the duvet off the spare-room bed and return to lower it carefully over Saoirse.
Put her laundry bag at the end of the bed so she’ll see it in the morning. Brush Bea’s forehead with my lips.
And reluctantly leave them to it.