Chapter 18
Whatever tiny shift I might have imagined as having taken place between me and Miles over drinks, he seems oblivious when I show up the next morning. It’s Groundhog Day. He greets me curtly, pours out my tea and does his best to disengage from my conversation with Bea.
Only when I grill him on this Sorrel Farm party does he warm up.
‘What’s the party for?’
‘It’s a Christmas celebration for friends of the farm—guests and members and people they know. They had to cancel it last year, but we went a couple of years ago. They put on a great show.’
Bea pipes up. ‘Did I go?’
‘Yes, we went with Mummy.’
With Mummy. I swallow.
‘Will Father Christmas be there?’
‘I’m not sure, baby, but they’ll have a choir, I think. And some fun games. And lots of yummy food. Zoe, their founder and chef, is amazing.’ He turns to me. ‘And my friend, Evelyn, who’s their Commercial Director, is the ex-wife of Seb Macleod. Know him?’
I let out a laugh. He’s kidding, right? ‘Er, yeah, he made it to Ireland.’ My mum has all of Seb Macleod’s cook books.
I didn’t click that Miles’ friend Evelyn is Evelyn Macleod, Seb’s beautiful ex-wife.
The scandal made it to Ireland, too. Seb coming out as gay in the tabloids a few years ago, and them getting divorced.
I eye Miles. I would have guessed he’d run in some swanky circles, but this is beyond exciting.
‘Seb should be there, and his husband, Gino. It’s a good laugh.’
For Miles to describe anything as a good laugh, it must be bloody amazing.
‘How do you know them?’
He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Business. Seb’s done his fair share of events here. And Allegra and I used to see them socially.’
Did they, now? ‘Will there be celebrities there, then?’
‘Probably. They have a pretty loyal fan base.’
‘Do you know what the dress code is?’ I’ve been low-level stressing about this since I looked up Sorrel Farm last night, and that stress is rapidly rising.
He frowns. ‘From memory, it’s outdoors first and then indoors for food. So a smart dress, but wrap up warm. And wear boots. That okay?’
‘That’s fine,’ I squeak. Great. That sounds like two totally different events with separate clothing requirements.
Fuck.
I’ll have to wear my old but safe black wrap dress, probably. Unless one of my flatmates has something better. I’ll figure it out.
Bea and I spend the afternoon at The Playroom, using acrylic pens and tiny star stickers on old jars to create festive tea light holders.
Bea does a great job. Her jar is so pretty.
She definitely has artistic flair. At five o’clock, just as I’m thinking about getting her upstairs to tidy up before tea, I have a text from Miles.
How soon can you get back to the room? There’s someone I want you to meet.
Hmm. I type back.
Up in five.
My curiosity is piqued. But when I open the door to the penthouse, I’m unprepared to see Miles standing in the middle of the living room, holding a glass of champagne. He looks as animated as I’ve ever seen him, probably because he’s talking to the most immaculate blonde.
She’s dressed head to toe in cream silk, and her platinum hair is coiffed to perfection. She’s like a creature from another era, and she’s stunning. Miles says something to her and she throws her head back and laughs. She’s vaguely familiar. Is Miles dating her? Is she famous?
I’m aware of a flush coming up my body. I stand there like an idiot for a second before the woman turns and throws us a dazzling smile, opening her arms.
‘Bea!’ she says. ‘Come here! Just look at you!’
And Bea runs into them for a hug.
Miles is still grinning. ‘Saoirse. Meet a very old friend of mine, Astrid Carmichael. Astrid, this is our nanny, Saoirse.’
Oh. Of course. She’s Astrid Carmichael, the fashion designer. I follow her on Instagram. She’s amazing, and right now she’s every inch the face of her luxury brand.
Another of Miles’ friends? Dear God.
But as Astrid comes to shake my hand, I’m practically blinded by the flash of diamonds on her fingers. Oh, good. They look like engagement rings. Wedding rings.
‘I asked Astrid to come over.’ Miles sticks his hand in his pocket. ‘I. Um. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want you worrying about the dress code for tomorrow. You seemed a little stressed about it earlier. I thought maybe you could borrow a sample from Astrid.’
A sample? From Astrid Carmichael’s collection of zillion-pound dresses? Oh, shit. I back away.
‘Oh, no. Oh, no. You don’t need to do that. Honestly. It sounds like it’s going to be muddy, and…’
‘Don’t stress.’ Astrid puts her glass down on the coffee table. ‘They’re samples. They hang on a rail in my studio, being ignored. It’s no hardship for me to have someone who looks like you walking around in my dresses.’
Someone who looks like me?
Astrid turns, and I become aware that there are some bulky black garment bags lying on the sofa.
‘You were so right, Miles. Scarlet is the perfect colour for her. She is gorgeous.’
Miles told Astrid that scarlet would suit me? This is getting weirder and weirder. I turn and gape at him.
He glances at me briefly and then mutters into his glass. ‘I just told Astrid you wear red a lot.’
Okay, then.
Astrid rummages in one of the garment bags while Bea peers in. ‘Miles thought you were a size ten, and it looks like he was spot on.’
Miles has been sizing me up? My flush is deepening. I can’t even look at him.
Does he know my bra size, too?
‘Be a darling, Miles, and put the clothes somewhere we can try them on?’
Miles springs into action at Astrid’s command, gathering both huge bags up flat in his arms, and carrying them into the spare room like a straight-backed butler. Astrid winks at me.
‘Come on. Let’s go have some fun. Bea? You want to come and help Saoirse pick out a party dress?’
The dresses are amazing. Astrid has brought eight different ones, in black, forest green, off-white (on a farm?
No way) and, my favourite, scarlet. She’s also brought the most enormous faux-fur black coat.
It’s so snuggly that Bea instantly bends over the bed to lay her face on it and strokes it like a pet. She has the right idea.
Astrid gets to work, unzipping the dresses as I strip down to my underwear.
‘Shall we try the scarlet first?’ she asks. ‘If Miles was right, and it is your favourite?’
‘He’s right.’ I sigh. ‘I wear red every day in winter. I feel so flat without it.’
‘If I had your colouring, I’d wear red every day too. Here you go.’ Astrid bends and holds the dress open so I can step into it, and then she zips up the back. The sensation of the silk against my skin is incredible, weighty but slinky. I swish a little, and Bea’s face lights up.
‘Saoirse’s so pretty!’
‘She is,’ Astrid agrees. ‘Miles was right.’ She winks, and my tummy does another little flip. I can’t ignore this, can’t miss this opportunity for an insight into the weird and wonderful workings of Miles’ mind. I turn my head away from Bea and whisper.
‘What did he say, exactly? About me?’
Astrid gently gathers up my hair and puts it over one shoulder so she can fasten the tiny covered buttons at the back of my neck.
‘He called me this morning and asked me to do him a favour and lend you a dress. But he said I wouldn’t regret it; that you were a knockout.’
A knockout.
Good Lord.
The flipping in my stomach moves further south to between my legs.
That phrase is so strong coming from Miles, who seems detached from everything.
The fact that he could see me every day, in my cheap clothes and old tights, and actually conclude that I’m in any way a knockout, is so odd, and so unbelievable, and so utterly captivating that I feel light-headed.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘I mean—I’m sure he was just being polite.’
‘I doubt that very much, somehow,’ Astrid says quietly and slowly, in a tone I would use with Bea if she was being obtuse. ‘Is there a mirror in here?’
I lead her into the huge marble ensuite that has so many mirrors that instantly I’m reflected back at myself to infinity: a glorious red flourish amid the white and grey and glass.
I twirl in the dress. It is beautiful. So beautiful.
It’s by far the most exquisite thing I’ve ever had on my body. It could have been made for me.
The heavy silk glides over me, miraculously skimming my boobs and hips while fitting perfectly on the waist. There’s a light, gathered bodice that disappears into the high neck, and long sleeves, also in the lighter material.
It flares out from the hips, ending just below my knee.
It’s ladylike yet festive. It’s spectacular.
I can definitely face the great and good of Sorrel Farm in this.
I finger the fabric. ‘What kind of silk is this?’
‘It’s a heavyweight crêpe de chine, lined in the same fabric for extra weight. The bodice and sleeves are georgette. It works brilliantly for winter.’ Astrid stands behind me and folds her arms. ‘It really does look fabulous on you.’
‘Thank you so much for letting me borrow it. I’ll guard it with my life, I promise.’
‘It’s my pleasure. I sponsor the winter party at Sorrel Farm, you see, so tomorrow’s a bit of a showcase for my brand. So I’m thrilled to have as many guests as possible walking around in my clothes. It’s great publicity for us. Let me fetch the coat.’
She comes back with the coat. Bea’s still attached to it, holding it against her face.
I squat down. ‘Do you like that, Beadle? Isn’t it soft?’
‘It’s so soft,’ Bea says in a tone of wonder. ‘It’s like a teddy bear.’
‘Let’s see if Saoirse looks like a teddy bear in it.’ Astrid holds it out behind me and I thread my arms through the sleeves and yank it on. It’s enormous. Dreamy.
‘I look like Cruella—in the most fabulous way.’
‘No puppies were harmed in the making of this,’ Astrid drawls. ‘You’ll need it if you’re standing outside for a few hours. Now, do you have some boots you can wear with it?’
‘I do.’ I have my black shearling-lined Dubarry boots that Mam and Da gave me last Christmas. They’ll be perfect.
I eye Astrid up in the mirror. ‘You remind me of someone so much. An old movie star. It’s driving me crazy.’ I bend my head and squeeze my eyes shut to visualise. ‘I’ve got it! Baroness Schraeder from The Sound of Music. I think it’s the outfit—you look just like her.’
‘That’s spot-on,’ Astrid says, ‘because she’s on every single mood board I create.
She’s fabulous. Now, Bea.’ She bends down.
‘I brought a big bag of clothes that Tabby’s outgrown.
There’s a coat like this in there, but in pale pink.
Maybe you can wear it tomorrow. Do you want to run and try it on? ’
‘OMG.’ Bea takes off at a sprint, as Astrid helps me off with the coat and unzips the back of the dress.
‘Do you want to show Miles?’ she asks.
‘Oh. No, God, no. He can see it tomorrow.’ I have no intention of doing some forced fashion parade for Miles. That would just be wrong.
‘Quite. Make an entrance when you’ve done your hair and makeup.’ Astrid goes to the door and shouts. ‘Miles? Can you call someone up to help me down with this stuff?’
She shuts the door and takes the dress off me. Drapes it back on its hanger and hangs it on the wardrobe door, as I pull my t-shirt back on.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Astrid pats me on the shoulder. ‘You really will be a knockout.’
MILES
I help Astrid downstairs myself.
‘Thanks for doing that.’ I manoeuvre the garment bags onto one arm and press the lift button for the lobby.
‘My pleasure.’ She checks her reflection in the lift’s mirror. ‘You were right. She’s stunning. And very sweet. Wait till you see her in it tomorrow.’
I look down at the garment bags. Say nothing.
‘I’ll tell you now,’ Astrid says conversationally, ‘if that dress ends up on your bedroom floor tomorrow night, make sure you hang it up nicely for me. Okay?’
Blood rushes to my head as I jerk it up to look at her. It’s the visual she’s painted: it’s so real.
A scarlet silk dress billowing to the floor.
And Saoirse.
In my room, in her underwear.
On my bed, naked.
I inhale harshly, my nostrils flaring as I attempt to get my flash of arousal under control.
‘Fuck’s sake, Astrid. Not going to happen. She’s my employee. I’m not planning on fucking Bea’s nanny.’
‘She’s lovely. And you two can hardly look each other in the eye, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t born yesterday. You could cut the tension in there with a knife. I saw the look on her face when she came in and saw me with you. Utter desolation.’ She nods her head for emphasis.
‘Just because you and Gray are obscenely loved-up,’ I mutter, ‘doesn’t mean you have to match-make everyone else around you.’
‘No.’ Her voice is mild. ‘But there’s no one I’d rather see happy than you, Miles.’