Chapter 27
Reporting for work this week has really been quite exciting.
I dragged myself unwillingly home on Sunday afternoon, but not before Miles had stuffed me and Bea full of an excellent roast in a sweet little pub off High Street Kensington.
London is incredible if you are rolling in cash.
Or you have a handsome, generous man and his adorable, hilarious little daughter to hang out with.
On Sunday night, I confided in Keeley and Becky over a bowl of soup. It was all I could stomach after my enormous lunch.
‘Fuck me,’ Keeley said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve shagged Miles Montague.
And I can’t believe you’re in the Mail.’ The Daily Mail published a zillion photos on Saturday of the Sorrel Farm party, and among the footage of celebrities and influencers were a couple of flattering shots of Miles and me.
Mr Miles Montague and Miss Saoirse Dunleavy, the caption said.
I almost looked like I belonged there. I sent it to Mam and Da.
They’ll be dining out on that for a while.
‘Tell us everything.’ Becky clasped her hands together and shook them in front of my face. ‘You owe me, after my hair tutorial. Besides, I have no sex life and I need to live vicariously through someone who’s actually getting some action.’
I gave them a carefully edited version of events, with enough beats to keep them happy without compromising Miles’ privacy.
‘And you like him.’ This from Keeley. It wasn’t a question.
Like seemed a ridiculous word to describe my feelings for Miles.
The sense that, after two nights together, it was as if we’d known each other all our lives.
The familiarity.
The incredible sexual connection.
The fact that he seemed to be able to read my mind in bed (and in the bath, come to think of it).
The complete trust I had in him.
And the hunch that this was not normal. That the way I felt about this gruff, controlled man letting me past his walls was just the entrance to a vortex.
I stayed over on Tuesday night, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome. Going to bed alone the rest of the week would have been miserable if it wasn’t for the steady stream of WhatsApps from Miles.
I miss you.
I’m bored.
You looked so beautiful today.
I should have sent you home with one of the flannels…
When I let myself in the door of the penthouse on Thursday morning, nothing and everything has changed.
Bea and Miles are sitting at the large dining table.
Miles has his top button open and his tie hangs around his neck (oh, sweet baby Jesus).
There’s a pot of tea waiting just for me.
Bea bum-shuffles her way off her chair as usual and runs into my arms for a cuddle.
But the way Miles looks at me as I shimmy out of my coat, with naked lust in his eyes and an open mouth, is a moment so glorious that I want to wrap it up and keep it forever.
I’ve blow-dried my hair with a lot more care than usual all week (time-consuming but worth it), and today I’m wearing my little tartan mini-skirt with bottle-green tights.
His eyes drop to my legs, and he swallows.
‘Good morning!’ My voice is a sing-song.
‘Morning, Saoirse.’ His voice is even but gritty, and it suggests anything but control. ‘Beadle, d’you want to go and brush your teeth?’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
‘Okay.’ Bea scampers off. Bless her.
He’s up from his chair in a shot, rounding the table to get to me, just as he’s done every morning this week.
‘Morning, baby.’ He says the words into my mouth as he crushes me to him, and I reciprocate greedily, my hands in his silky hair. ‘Are you planning on killing me with that skirt?’
‘I thought you’d like it.’ I lean my forehead to his and take hold of both ends of his tie. ‘Can I watch you tie your tie again?’
He snorts. ‘If it really floats your boat that much, be my guest.’
‘It floats my boat big-time. In a torturous kind of way.’
His hand roams up the back of my thigh and under my skirt. He squeezes my ass. ‘This skirt is way too easy access.’
‘Hence the granny-grade tights.’
He kisses me on the mouth and backs away before Bea comes back in.
‘I’m not sure how you make even that sound alluring. And that polo neck is very, very tight.’
‘You going to be able to focus on any work today, Mr Montague?’ I smile at him and soak up the sight of him. His face. His (now dishevelled) hair. His tie. His everything.
After I’ve endured the delicious torment of watching Miles tie his tie with triumphant glances at me in the mirror, he leaves for work, throwing me a puppy-dog expression as he walks out the door.
And then it’s Project Santa time.
Because today is the day.
The high point in the run-up to Christmas.
Today, we’re off to see Santa (or Father Christmas, as the British call him) in his grotto at Harrods.
First, we compose Bea’s letter to Santa.
We head to The Playroom to take full advantage of its art supplies.
Bea is adamant she wants this letter to be special.
I take a piece of red paper and stick a smaller piece of white paper in the middle.
I’ll write Bea’s list on that, and Bea can decorate the red border.
The paper is rich with stickers of stars, bells, snowmen and candy canes. It also gets hit hard with gold glitter.
It’s fabulous.
‘Now for the important part,’ I tell Bea. ‘What are you asking Santa for?’ Dear Santa, I write in a clear print. For Christmas, I would love:
Bea knows all her letters, but she can only write a handful of words, most notably her name.
‘Right.’ Bea clears her throat and purses her lips like the little lady she is. She clasps her tiny fingers in front of her on the table. ‘Most of all, I would like an American Girl doll with yellow hair. Like the one I seed on Daddy’s iPad.’
‘Excellent. Great start.’ An American Girl doll with yellow hair. ‘What’s next?’
‘She needs some clothes. And a pony.’
I stifle a giggle. This doll is seriously high maintenance. But either Bea has already briefed Miles ad nauseam, or he’s seriously good. She’ll be one happy little elf on Christmas morning. I write a new line. Clothes and a pony for my American Girl doll.
‘Anything else, pet?’
Bea considers. She squirms a little and leans towards me, curling her hand around my ear as if to tell me a secret. ‘I want my Mummy to come back.’
For a second, my brain refuses to play ball. What did she say? That sounded like—
‘You’d like your Mummy to come back, sweetheart?’
I put my hands on Bea’s little shoulders so I can draw back from her and look her in the eye. Bea nods at me. Her brown eyes are huge, bottomless mirrors; her little face is more serious than a four-year-old’s face should ever be.
Don’t react.
Don’t let her see how devastated you are for her, how messed up it is that her mummy is alive and on the other side of the fucking world by choice. I feel sick to my stomach, but I exhale heavily and put my hands on either side of Bea’s face.
‘You know, pet, I’m not sure how good Santa is at delivering mummies. There’s no harm in asking, but I don’t want you to be disappointed. However, I happen to know for a fact that he is very good at delivering toys. And maybe we can FaceTime your mummy later and say hi to her?’
I haven’t been privy to any of Bea’s FaceTimes with her mum since I’ve looked after her.
Because of the eight-hour time difference, she tends to do it just before bedtime, on Miles’ iPad.
I know this because she always tells me the next morning when she’s spoken to her mummy.
And Miles mentioned that sometimes she lays the iPad on the pillow next to her and asks her mummy to sing her to sleep, a fact that makes my entire face ache with the pressure of unspilt tears, if I allow myself to think about it at all.
‘Okay.’ Bea says the word in a sad, soft sing-song.
I take one of her hands and squeeze it gently. ‘We’re going to write it down, all right? I’d like to see my mummy. Does that sound good? But we should remember that all these things are just wishes, and sometimes Santa has the power to grant them, and sometimes he doesn’t.’
I write the damn phrase down on the letter before Bea prints her name at the bottom, teeth biting down on her lower lip and little fingers applying immense pressure to the pencil as she makes her wobbly strokes.
The visit to Santa is a success. Bea and I are equally charmed by his wooden cabin, shelves lined with old books and wooden toys. Bea’s a little shy with him at first, but she clambers onto his lap and hands him her letter, which we’ve rolled into a scroll and tied with velvet ribbon.
‘This is a beautiful letter, Bea,’ Santa tells her. ‘I wish all children took the time to make me such a special letter. I will keep it very safe.’
He acquits himself well, even faced with the I’d like to see my mummy bombshell.
‘Mummies are a bit tricky,’ he tells Bea. ‘They aren’t really in my power, not like toys. But I know your mummy loves you very much, and I hope you get to see her soon.’
Bea seems happy enough with his answers, but she’s flagging by the time we complete the short walk down Knightsbridge to The Montague. It’s almost time for her tea.
I slide my keycard into the door and crank down the handle. As I open the door to the penthouse, my brain seems to process everything in slow motion.
An enormous pile of luggage just inside the door frame.
Miles’ voice and a woman’s voice.
A blur of golden hair and beige drapery hurling itself towards the door.
A glance at a face that’s surely familiar.
And Bea’s scream.
The most primal, desperate sound I have ever heard as she shrieks one word.
‘Mummy!’