Chapter 13
Ican’t resist anymore. It’s time to get Uncle Google involved. For the past few weeks, I’ve held firm on googling Miles, feeling like I’d somehow be betraying his trust if I unearthed background on him from any source but Miles himself.
But chatting with Sandra has been a turning point. She mentioned how frenzied the tabloid interest had been in their split. If the rest of the world has been privy to what’s happened, it’s stupid for me to hold off.
I don’t even know why I want to know. Morbid curiosity, if I’m honest, but also an attempt to understand this man who’s getting under my skin as much as his daughter is.
Maybe learning more about his ex-wife, Bea’s mum, will help me be more sensitive regarding these two bruised, fragile people. The more knowledge I’m armed with, the less likely I am to do yoga with Bea or other stupid stunts that will trigger Bea or upset Miles unnecessarily.
And so, when I get home that night, I make myself a bowl of pasta pesto, liberally grate parmesan on top (it smells a bit like old dishcloths but I can’t see any actual mould on it yet), and pour myself a generous glass of white wine.
Keeley’s babysitting tonight—she gets a lot of babysitting gigs through The Montague and they’re a great moneymaker—and our other three flatmates, all Kiwis, are out on the lash.
It’s nice and quiet, but I shut myself in my room just in case and sit on my bed, back against the wall. I open up my laptop as I shovel pasta into my mouth and start typing into the search bar. Miles Montague—pause—wife.
Oh, shit.
It’s a bloody avalanche.
Because I have no self-control, I click straight into the Images tab and I’m hit with a tile of photos of a woman who genuinely looks like an A-list celebrity.
Sandra wasn’t exaggerating. She’s gorgeous.
Like, Gwyneth Paltrow or Elle Macpherson-level gorgeous, with endless honey-blonde hair and an even tan that doesn’t make her look fake, just healthy and glowing.
She’s on Miles’ arm in so many of the photos.
And he’s smiling. Not smiling—he’s beaming.
Those dimples of his have come out to play in every photo.
I don’t fall down an Allegra-and-Miles rabbit hole so much as dive in headfirst. I’m unleashed. There are so many photos and articles—of them as a couple, and as a family, and of their split.
Couple time first. There are shots of them in black tie, standing in front of those logoed meet-and-greet walls, Allegra in various sequined, spray-on dresses that are incredible on her.
Her body is amazing. And Miles in tuxedos, black tie and white tie, groomed and glossy and, more often than not, smiling admiringly down at his wife. Ugh. They’re a perfect power couple.
And there are some shots of Bea. Tiny little Bea, as a toddler, with less hair, and a rounder face, and the same delicious little rosebud mouth and huge brown eyes.
The three of them stand in front of a beautiful white fireplace, in a room that’s all neutrals and complementary textures, in a spread for Ok! magazine.
Allegra’s holding baby Bea in between them, her smile dazzling, her honey-coloured hair falling perfectly over a white tweed dress that’s almost certainly Chanel. And Miles leans into them, his arm tightly around Allegra. His stance says my family.
My girls.
Relief and devastation hit me in equal measure. This woman is in a different league from me. Miles is in a different league from me. When he held my hands on the ice, he was just being protective. It wasn’t meaningful to him. He was just trying to help his daughter’s useless, Bambi-like nanny out.
Allegra Montague is the kind of woman men like Miles Montague go for, and get, and I would do well to remember that, get back in my box, and stop being a total fantasist where my poor boss is concerned.
If I feel a tidal wave of pity for him and Bea for having had and lost this magical, beautiful woman, then by far the best way to harness that emotion and help them out is to do my bloody job properly.
I can tell Miles is someone who doesn’t relinquish control easily, but he’s done me the enormous honour of letting me look after the most important person in his life, of putting Bea’s wellbeing in my hands for ten hours a day.
It’s unlikely he’s done so because he’s been so blown away by my competence, but because the poor guy is totally overwhelmed.
He’s on work calls and answering emails whenever I see him, but it’s painfully clear how seriously he takes his parenting responsibilities.
He’s split down the middle, and he’s at breaking point.
I need to focus on Bea, on preempting her needs and wants and making that little girl as happy and secure as is possible under the circumstances.
If I can excel in that, then I’ll be giving Miles the best gift possible: the ability to relax, even a little, to know that his daughter is thriving and he can give himself a break.
Because, God knows, that beautiful man needs a break.