Chapter 31
Ilie in bed until ten the next morning, even though I’ve been awake since six. My body clock is relentless. Lying and wallowing in bed doesn’t do it for me like it does for some people. It’s killing me to toss and turn. I’m much better suited to action.
The bathroom is looking even more grim than usual.
I grab the cleaning pail and give it a good scrub.
It still looks grim afterwards (I’ve definitely been spoilt by Miles’ marble bathroom) but at least it’s immaculately clean.
This Christmas will be miserable enough without adding a grimy bathroom to the mix.
Still nothing from Miles. I check his WhatsApp status. Last seen at seven-thirteen this morning. Has he gone off to work? Or is he shirking from home so he can hang out with his girls?
I drum my fingers on the kitchen counter. I am going to explode. I expected the sadness to weigh me down and pin me to the sofa, but instead I’m restless. Twitchy as hell. It doesn’t help that I’ve lost my man and my temporary job in one fell swoop. I have literally nothing to do.
Except, of course, hang out in London. I may as well get out of this godforsaken suburb for a few hours and enjoy London’s beauty before our house party tonight. My instinct to wallow in the appropriately depressing surroundings of Park Royal has worn off. Quickly.
I have Christmas presents to deliver to Miles and Bea. I intended to leave them under their tree on Christmas eve. Now I’ll have to use an intermediary, but at least it gives me an excuse to be back in their orbit for a short while.
The Montague looks particularly shiny and twinkly today, its window dressings especially lavish.
I know why: it’s because I’m no longer seeing it as an insider.
I got used to it. It was my turf, and now I’m back to being a girl from a small town in County Wicklow, who can only marvel from afar at its festive splendour. Its gorgeousness.
Norman, bless him, is on the door as usual. He doffs his top hat at me and gives me a warm smile, the sincerity of which hurts my fragile heart.
‘Morning, Saoirse. You not working today?’
‘Hi, Norman. No, I’m—taking a few days off till after Christmas.’ That’s the official line, anyhow. No need to burden Norman with my problems.
‘Ah. I see.’ He nods sagely. ‘I guess now the mistress is back, you can take it easy, eh?’
So he knows. Everyone knows—of course they do. It’s probably the gossip of the year that Allegra has come back from the dead.
‘Exactly.’ I nod brightly. ‘I’m dropping some presents off for them.’
I wasn’t sure what to get Miles—what do you buy the man who has everything?
But on Sunday, on my way back from The Montague and secure in the knowledge that Miles and I were building something special, I stopped off in Peter Jones in Sloane Square and bought him a scarlet cashmere scarf.
I was sure he’d see the funny side. Hopefully, he still will.
And there was a particularly gorgeous photo of him and Bea together at The Savoy, grinning from ear to ear, which I printed out in Boots and put in a nice frame, also from John Lewis.
I’ve wrapped them in The Grinch paper, even though I know now that Miles’ lack of festive spirit when I met him didn’t make him mean or cold: he was just hurting.
He’s anything but cold when you get to know him.
For Bea, I’ve got a festive sticker book and some enormous pink fluffy slippers from Primark, made fully from petrochemicals. Miles will hate them; Bea will adore them.
I drop my parcels off at the concierge. James, who’s practically become my fixer over the past month, gives me a huge grin.
‘You all right, Saoirse? You working today?’
I repeat what I said to Norman, and wish James a very Merry Christmas, and drag my sorry self out of the heavenly, festive warmth of The Montague lobby and into the cold outside.
After a few hours of walking around London, its buzz making me and my problems feel pleasantly insignificant, I reluctantly retrace my steps back to Park Royal and my new reality.
I miss home.
I miss how small Dublin is, and how I can barely go out on the weekend without bumping into someone from college. I miss the magnificent Wicklow countryside and Avoca’s suffocatingly small, but endlessly friendly, community. If I were still living in Ireland, I’d be back in Avoca now.
I’d give anything to hang around the kitchen, drinking tea and wine with whoever popped in to see us and get the news from London.
There’d be Quality Street, and mountains of Tayto crisps, and a permanently intoxicating smell in the air from simmering Christmas puddings or hams or brown bread or whatever else Mam had on the go.
Christmas at home is always like the feeding of the five thousand, but with zero room left for miracles.
So why the hell didn’t I jump on a flight last night? Miles has paid me so well that I could have treated myself to an Aer Lingus flight. And I was so tempted. But I know why I didn’t.
I tell myself I can’t bear the gossip, and the pity, and the well-meaning questions, and the constant explaining and retelling that I’ll be roped into by Mam and Da and Clodagh and the three million visitors who’ll traipse through our kitchen over the next week.
But the real reason is more pathetic. Much more pathetic.
If I go home, I’m done. I might not even bother coming back to London. I’ll have accepted defeat, and I’ll have put distance between myself and Miles and Bea. Drawn a line under my December fairytale. Admitted that it has no part in my future.
And I’m not ready to do that.
I’d rather be a few miles away from them than a few hundred.
I’d rather know, on Christmas Day, that I’m in the same magical city as them, and not in a different country entirely.
So I’ll stay.
WTF is this?
It’s a WhatsApp from Clodagh. After the Mail published those photos of us at Sorrel Farm, I filled my sister in on my fledgling romance with Miles. Unlike my flatmates, Clodagh got a detailed account. And she dug it.
A flurry of photos follow the message. I hit the top one with a weary finger.
Oh, fuckity fuck.
The Sun’s got photos of Miles, Allegra and Bea exiting the main rotating door of The Montague. Miles is ahead, his hand up and his face stern. He’s probably shouting obscenities at the paps.
He looks so bloody gorgeous I can hardly breathe. A few strands of hair fall over his forehead, and he has his grey scarf on. It’s tied neatly, cosily, around his neck. Did she tie it for him? It’s so weird to think that he’s out there, striding around London, shouting at people, right this second.
The money shot is next. Allegra and Bea in matching furry white coats. Bea’s must be a gift from Allegra, because I’ve never seen it before. Bea will have it filthy more quickly than you can say hot chocolate.
But they’re hand in hand, beaming at each other, and the happiness on Bea’s face—on both their faces—makes my eyes prick.
Just in case I was in danger of getting drunk on my pity party for one, here’s the perfect reminder that Allegra’s return has made one of my favourite human beings perfectly happy.
Another message pops up from Clodagh.
The wife is back???
I sigh and hit the Call icon. Clodagh answers immediately.
‘What the fuck is going on? Is that seriously the wife?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What? I can hardly hear you. Speak up. What’s going on, Sorsh?’
Ugh. ‘She turned up yesterday. She was there when Bea and I got home from seeing Santa. And listen to how freaky this is. Bea wrote her letter to Santa yesterday and asked for her mummy. Isn’t that weird?’
‘That’s seriously weird. So she just turned up out of the blue? What did Miles say?’
‘Not a huge amount. I could tell he was pretty tense about the whole thing.’ Pressure builds behind my eyes. ‘Um. He told me I should take a few days off and he’d call me after Christmas. Said he needed time to work through stuff with Allegra, that he owed it to Bea.’
‘Fuuuuuuck.’ There’s a groan in Clodagh’s voice. ‘That stupid bitch. I can’t believe she had the nerve to show her face after what she did. Why the hell has she come sniffing around again—why can’t she just leave them the fuck alone?’
‘The thing is. You should have seen Bea’s face when she saw her mum.’ I don’t trust my voice to rise above a whisper. ‘She was so happy, Clo. This is a dream come true for her. Her Christmas has been made.’
‘That’s very cute. She sounds like a little dote. But where does this leave you? Did he say?’
‘Not really, no. He just kissed me on the cheek before he went back upstairs and wished me Merry Christmas.’
‘Ugh. Fuck’s sake. The cheek peck of doom. I’m so sorry, Sorsh. Jesus, this is beyond shite for you.’
‘Thanks.’ I drop my head into my free hand. My shoulders begin to shake with sobs. I could really use a hug from my youngest sister right now.
‘She looks gorgeous. Is she?’
‘She is.’ I sniff. ‘I mean, she’s stunning.
But she’s very glossy. High maintenance.
It’s funny; Miles said he didn’t date because he only attracted high maintenance women.
I got the impression he wasn’t so keen on that.
But this one stepped off a plane looking like a supermodel. She’s definitely not low maintenance.’
‘Well, it sounds like he’s a glutton for punishment. If he doesn’t know what he has in you, Sorsh, he doesn’t deserve you.’
‘Very helpful, thanks. Come here, will you tell Mam and Dad? Tell them I’ll give them a call in a few days? I just can’t face the inquisition right now.’
‘I will, but why wouldn’t you hop on a plane and come home? You know we’d all look after you. It won’t be the same without you tomorrow—I’ll die of boredom.’
I tense. ‘I can’t do it, Clo. It’s too depressing.
I’d be like this Bridget Jones cliché, lying in my childhood bed, eating Quality Street.
It feels too much like failure. I’d rather stay here.
Honestly. I was always going to spend Christmas Day with the girls, and we have a party tonight, and tomorrow’s menu all planned, and we went big on the Lidl prosecco offer last week, so we’re grand. I’ll be grand.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm what?’
‘You just want to be close to him, don’t you? In case he changes his mind.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
That’s the thing about my sister. She knows me far too well.