Chapter 15
This is the dream errand. Much as I adore Bea, it’s thrilling to be unleashed on Oxford Street, child free and in possession of Miles’ Amex. I made a list on my phone on the tube of what I need for the stocking, and I’m going to be strategic:
A couple of edible things: chocolate, or sweets.
Some pyjamas.
Perhaps a fluffy hot water bottle cover.
Fun toiletries. I’ll go to Lush and buy some bath bombs. Bubble bath from Boots.
Story books.
Cute stationery: maybe glitter gel pens and a colouring book.
Accessories: hair clips, stick-on earrings, and the like.
And the obligatory Disney Store stop, where I’ll allow myself to go a little crazy on Moana and Frozen gimmicks.
Miles has asked me to get a big personalised sack that will act as a stocking.
Apparently Selfridges does personalised ones, according to Keeley.
I’ve never been to Selfridges—I haven’t targeted the swanky department stores much—so it’s exciting to have a valid reason to check it out.
Oxford Street is as busy as I would have expected with ten shopping days to go till Christmas. The Christmas lights flash jauntily, reflected in the shallow puddles dotting the road and pavement, and shoppers brush elbows good-naturedly.
There’s a busker outside Bond Street station doing an excellent version of Fairytale of New York, and the air vibrates with excitement and festivity.
It’s crazy to think that this time last year, Oxford Street was empty.
The shop fronts darkened. Perhaps just the odd bus winding its way down the traffic-free streets, carrying key workers across London.
I shudder. Doesn’t bear thinking about. But how far we’ve come.
Thank God.
The afternoon speeds by productively, and the rucksack I brought fills up quickly with things that I know Miles will call ‘plastic tat’ but that Bea will go crazy for.
I save Selfridges for last, but by the time I get in there, I’m so hot and laden down, and my feet are so tired, that I have to give myself a serious pep-talk to enjoy this outing and make the most of it.
Selfridges, to be fair, is spectacular. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted from a department store. Brown Thomas in Dublin is bijoux and exclusive, and Harrods has a great warren-like layout, but Selfridges is pure wow factor.
I readjust the straps of my rucksack, hitch my coat over my shoulder bag (I stripped as soon as I came through the doors and hot air hit me in the face) and ride the amazing central escalators up from the dazzling, endless beauty hall to the Christmas shop, past giant suspended disco balls and luxurious garlands.
I’ve just placed an order for Bea’s beautiful new Santa’s sack when my phone rings. It’s Miles. My tummy does a little dance, and I put down my excess bags, rubbing my shoulder.
‘How are you getting on?’ He’s not much for small talk.
‘Grand. I’ve got all the stocking fillers. They’re just embroidering the stocking and it’ll take half an hour—’
‘Are you in Selfridges?’ He’s walking and talking, breathing heavily.
‘Yep.’
‘Excellent. I’ll come and meet you, give you a hand with the bags.’
A flutter of panic hits me. I want to see him, but I don’t. It would be weird, being here with him, with no Bea to smooth over our mutual awkwardness. It always feels like he disapproves of me.
‘You don’t need to—I can see you back at—’
‘It’s fine. I’ve just finished a meeting in Mayfair. I’m on Davies Street. Meet me in ten in the basement, by the booze section. I have a couple of gifts to pick up.’
By the time I get myself all the way back down to the basement on the vertiginous escalators, I’m even hotter and edging towards a full personality failure. This place is rammed. At least Miles has big muscles. He can put them to good use with the bags.
I put down my stash and pull off my jumper, tying it around my waist. That’s better.
I’m pretending to peruse four-figure magnums of champagne when there’s the lightest brush of a hand on my shoulder and he’s there.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ Suddenly I’m not remotely bothered that he came to find me.
Quite the opposite.
I stare at him in wonder. His beautiful wool coat is open, his grey scarf hanging loose around his neck. Shirt and tie immaculate. He reeks of good taste and luxury, and that’s without even looking at his face. Because his face is the best part. By a mile.
He mustn’t have shaved this morning. His stubble is pushing through, just a fraction, just enough to make me want to rub my knuckles over it.
Those dimples are nowhere to be seen, but the overhead lights throw shadows from his dark eyelashes across his cheekbones.
He looks at me and licks his lips before casting his gaze at the bags at my feet.
‘You’ve been busy.’ He pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘Yep. It’s been productive. Have you had a tiring day?’
‘It’s fine. I need to grab some bits for my parents, and then we can get out of here. I owe you a drink for doing this.’
The panic returns. I don’t belong here with him.
No one, even in my wildest fantasies, would believe we were here together in the real sense.
I definitely don’t need the torture of sitting across from him and watching his Adam’s apple work as he sips a drink, while posh people judge him for being with a girl in a cheap duffle coat and ancient Zara boots.
‘You don’t need to buy me a drink. Honestly, it was fun for me to do this. I’ll just grab the sack from upstairs and then we can go.’
‘Nonsense. You’re still on the clock. I’d like to buy you a drink.’
And so I watch as he buys an eye-wateringly expensive whiskey for his dad (Scotch, of course.
No English people seem to drink Irish whiskey) and some beautiful candles for his mum, from a brand I’ve never heard of, called Cire Trudon, that makes the most incredible scents.
This gift floor is sublime. I could get lost in here forever.
Maybe I could get a job here when Miles and Bea have gone abroad.
The thought of moving on without them hurts my heart a bit, but Selfridges would soften the blow. I could—
Miles interrupts my reverie. ‘Go get the sack. I’ll stay with the bags and see you on the ground floor.’
And off I run.
The cold air is a huge relief after the stuffiness of Selfridges, as is the fact that he insists on wearing the rucksack (even though it looks grubby and awful against his smart clothes) and taking the majority of the carrier bags. I swing my arms as I walk.
‘I hate Oxford Street,’ Miles comments as we stroll.
‘I like it. It’s fun and… atmospheric. And huge.’
‘It’s garish and tacky and commercialised. Selfridges is the only reason I ever brave it.’
We cut away from Oxford Street within seconds, walking down an elegant street of glossy shop fronts and stylish restaurants. It’s a world away from the Disney Store and Primark.
‘This is pretty. What street is it?’
‘North Audley. Have you explored this area much?’
‘Not at all.’ I lengthen my strides to keep up with him. Somehow, I feel like a child when I’m with him.
‘This is Mayfair, essentially. A bit nicer than Oxford Street.’ He turns to me and winks, and the shock of it nearly makes me trip.
Wink again, please, Miles.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Claridges. I thought you might like it, given your obsession with all things Christmas.’
There’s something about the idea of Miles picking out a venue because he thinks I’d like it, combined with the allure of that iconic name, Claridges, that makes me feel as though I wouldn’t change places with a single human being on this planet right this minute.
My smile appears and stretches across my face of its own accord, and in response, his face softens from its usual impatience to something more… tender? Patient, anyway. I launch into what’s practically a skip.