Chapter 9
Bea is back on fine form this morning, which is a relief, because we have work to do. She demands porridge and pancakes from room service. I sit next to her and watch in amusement as she proceeds to systematically devour them both.
Waking this morning next to Bea, in a massive cloud of duvet in this gorgeous place, was surreal. My brain helpfully served me up some visuals once I remembered where I was.
Miles stripping off his top.
The expression I caught in his eyes as I moved my hands away from my face to cover my chest, right before he chucked a towel at me.
There was something in the air at that moment.
As if the heat between us could have ignited.
Something I shouldn’t revisit too closely.
Best to focus on Bea’s enormous smile when she woke up to find me next to her.
By the time we emerged, fully dressed, from Bea’s room, Miles was in his shirt and tie again. Coffee cup in hand.
I sit through the particular torture that is watching Miles put on his tie while Bea stuffs her face.
Groundhog Day. He’s back to his usual shut-off self after last night’s confidences (and soft porno moments).
He’s curt with me. Offhand. Bea’s put Shakin’ Stevens on the sound system (it’s incredible how a preschooler can be so proficient with technology) and he grouchily tells her to turn it down. Says he’s got a headache.
Grooge is back, for sure.
In any case, Bea and I are on a mission. Miles’ driver, Dave, who’s as smiley and cheerful as Miles is gruff and miserable, drives us the ridiculously short distance to Harrods and tells us he’ll wait for us out the back, in Hans Crescent.
Inside, Harrods. Is. Amazing. I haven’t braved it before, but having Miles’ Amex in my pocket fortifies me.
Bea and I are unleashed. We stroll through the jaw-dropping beauty hall and try out Dior lip glosses on each other, before a kind assistant directs us to the basement, where the Christmas shop is.
‘Teddies!’ Bea cries. Enormous teddies, dressed as Harrods doormen, guard the basement, and I snap some photos of Bea with them. But when I step into the Christmas Shop, it’s like I’ve found my spiritual home. This place is nirvana.
There are huge displays with theme names like St Moritz (all cosy reds and whites and needlepoint) and Holland Park (glitzier, more metallic, but still tasteful. Obviously. This is Harrods). The way the themed displays have been merchandised makes me positively tingle with creative joy.
There’s only one problem. Everything is extortionate.
Miles told me there was no budget, to buy what we needed to buy, but this is insane.
Each bauble is around twenty pounds. I’d spend thousands and thousands in here to kit out the penthouse.
I decide the best plan is to let Bea choose one special Harrods decoration and call The Montague’s concierge for help with where else I should go.
Miles works far too hard for me to splurge all his money on something he’s not even into.
MILES
I don’t consider myself a man easily blindsided. I’ve been in business long enough that very little surprises me. But when I insert my keycard into the door of the penthouse that evening and push, I am utterly gobsmacked.
It’s as if the hideous tackiness of Winter Wonderland has infiltrated my precious sanctuary in this beautiful hotel.
Everywhere I look: flashing lights. Tack.
One of those revolting fibre-optic garlands hangs on the mantlepiece, its ends morphing slowly from green to blue to purple.
And is that an inflatable snowman through the French doors to the terrace?
Eighties Christmas music blares so loudly through the sound system that I can barely think straight.
My first thought: what the fuck has happened to my penthouse?
My second thought: why the fuck is Dave sitting on my sofa, tucking into tea and biscuits?
Dave jumps to his feet as soon as he sees me. ‘Hiya, boss. Sorry.’
‘Daddy!’ Bea launches herself at me. Her mouth is smeared with chocolate and her little face is flushed. ‘We decorated! We buyed loads of things for you!’
‘I can see that.’ I bend to give her a smacker, but my tone is dry.
Saoirse appears from the bathroom. She’s in the same clothes as yesterday, which makes sense. Skinny jeans, and that clingy white t-shirt I remember all too clearly peeling off her. No makeup, and her hair is pulled back, a messy cloud of baby curls framing her face. She’s beautiful.
‘Hi.’ She looks at me and then around the room self-consciously. Almost as if she’s scared of my reaction.
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘You have no idea!’ Her natural enthusiasm takes over, and she comes towards me, hands going, speaking speed ratcheting up at a scary pace. I focus hard on processing her accent.
‘We went to Harrods, and it was absolutely gorgeous, but everything was so dear, and I felt guilty spending so much of your money on things that really were a crazy price, so I called the concierge and asked if there were any garden centres we could drive to that might be cheaper than Harrods, and she suggested one in Hounslow, so Dave took us, and we—’
‘Hounslow?’
‘Osterley, boss,’ Dave chips in. ‘There’s a pretty decent garden centre out there. Nice trees, too.’
What looks like a real tree stands over in the corner, in front of the French doors. It’s a fine tree. Shame it’s covered in all manner of tack and flashing coloured lights. Revolting.
‘How the hell did you get that up here?’ It must be eight feet.
‘Dave helped. And there was a nice porter downstairs—Carl.’ She giggles. ‘He was very muscly. He and Dave got it in the stand.’
Was he, now. It’s unclear why the mention of muscular Carl makes me want to act churlishly. I’m feeling usurped in my own hotel suite.
‘You can get going, Dave.’ My tone is gruff. ‘I don’t need you this evening.’
A flash of annoyance crosses Saoirse’s face and she rolls her eyes at me. ‘Thank you, Dave.’ She skips over and gives him a bear hug, and the surprised delight is clear on his face. ‘You’ve been an absolute rockstar. We couldn’t have done it without you. Sorry for trashing your car.’
Wait, what? ‘The car is trashed?’
‘Only a few pine needles, Grooge. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’
‘It’s fine, boss,’ Dave says hurriedly. ‘I’ve been charging the cordless vac over by the door. See? I’ll get it all cleaned up right now.’
I’m planning on laying into her once Dave shuts the door behind him, to tell her she shouldn’t speak to me like that, especially not in front of my other employees, but then Bea kisses my face.
‘You’ve got to see the bathroom, Daddy. It’s sooo beautiful.’
She can’t say th properly yet, so it comes out as barf-room, which is appropriate, considering last night’s shenanigans.
I put her down. ‘Okay, squirt. Show me.’
She bolts into the main bathroom, which I noticed last night Saoirse cleaned up impeccably, and I follow her. I can sense Saoirse trailing behind us.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
The opulent zen of the marble bathroom has been defaced by Christmas tat of the shittiest order.
These little minxes have covered the loo seat with a cheap and nasty polyester felt cover designed to look like Mrs Claus.
It features a round, flesh-coloured smiling face, white puffs for hair, a red gathered nightcap and two red felt circles to denote rosy cheeks. I snort in derision, not amusement.
‘Isn’t it cool, Daddy?’ Bea lifts the seat, and the cluster of bells at Mrs Claus’ throat emit a tinny tinkle.
Dear God.
Bea puts the seat back down. Lifts it. Puts it down again. She could get hours of mileage from this.
‘And look!’ She points. Saoirse has blessed us with a complementary U-shaped mat around the base of the loo, crafted (not the right word) to look like Mrs Claus’ dress.
It’s a red felt mat with white buttons and puffy white edging.
It’s a monstrous masterpiece. Who the hell comes up with shit like this?
But my daughter’s face is pure sunshine. She beams up at me as if it’s Christmas Day already. ‘Isn’t it cute, Daddy? And we found a Christmas soap!’
Over on the marble vanity, there’s a tiny green Christmas tree-shaped soap. Bea picks it up reverently and sniffs it. ‘It smells like Christmas trees, Daddy! Smell it!’
I squat, and she shoves it under my nose. It smells exactly like pine-scented Toilet Duck. But her face. Her face is killing me.
‘Wow,’ I tell her softly. ‘You ladies have done a great job. You must have been so busy this afternoon, getting all this decorating done.’ I rub her nose with mine. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Because the upshot of having a suite that’s guaranteed to give me a migraine is that my little girl is lit up.
She’s busy, filled with purpose. Doing this, partaking in traditions and making the penthouse feel more like a home for herself (if less like a home for me) is important.
Even if they’re purely superficial, these rituals will ground her.
And more critically, we need to implement rituals of our own.
Ones that aren’t tarnished with any memories of her mother, however blurry.
I twist my head and look up at Saoirse. She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, observing my reactions.
There’s an unreadable expression on her face.
I can’t quite square this heinous lack of taste with her rapturous reaction to the magic Siobhan Quinn worked with the decor at the family party downstairs.
As I carry Bea out of the bathroom, I gesture around the room and raise a derisive eyebrow at Saoirse. ‘So, you were unleashed at the garden centre, were you?’
She looks at Bea, and then back at me. ‘None of this was me. It was all her. She’s a young lady who knows her own mind. I helped, but this is her vision. And I happen to think it’s beautiful.’
There’s a defiant set to her chin when she speaks, and I can’t help but think how differently it would have gone had I taken Bea decoration shopping.
We would have gone to Harrods.
Spent thousands.
I would have overruled Bea on anything I found overly tacky.
There would, without a shadow of a doubt, have been meltdowns (from both of us).
And the penthouse would look far, far classier than this, but I would have cast a shadow over my daughter’s experience of the festive season.
I squeeze Bea harder, but when I speak, I’m looking only at Saoirse. This woman, who seems to understand, with every fibre of her being, the kind of emotional sustenance my daughter needs right now.
‘I think it’s beautiful, too.’