Chapter 32
Iknow what Keeley’s been doing this afternoon.
She’s been keeping me occupied. Distracting me while the rest of them finish up their last day of work.
And, of course, taking advantage of the fact that my preferred mode when I’m upset is over-functioning.
We have a gang coming over for drinks tonight, and for a big Christmas dinner tomorrow, and a stack of chores to cover.
So far, I have scrubbed, peeled and par-boiled a mountain of spuds for tomorrow. Trimmed the sprouts. Cut the carrots into fine batons. Made the stuffing. Cut the parsnips. Keeley and Becky are really benefiting from my turmoil. I’ve chopped and trimmed and scrubbed like a motherfucking robot.
Don’t think about Miles.
Don’t think about Bea.
Don’t think about glossy, gorgeous Allegra cosying up to both of them.
God, I’m so stupid. I had no intention of getting serious with anyone when I came over (not that I was averse to the idea of a bit of fun. I’ve always liked a posh British accent). I didn’t really think hard about what kind of guy I might end up fancying, but come on. Miles Montague?!
I must have been insane. Talk about out of my league. Like model-grade looks, an obscenely impressive business empire, and a shit-tonne of baggage. I got comfortable, dazzled by the false intimacy of spending so much time at home with him and Bea.
Not that I don’t know he liked me. He’s a genuine guy; I doubt he’d be capable of small talk and stringing me along. The lust part was real for him, anyway. But his real life came back to give him a kick up his ass and bite me in my ass.
And now I’m back at square one, except instead of being grateful and excited about shacking up in London with a gang of girls, I’m gutted. Absolutely gutted.
Because the thing is, I may have been a nice little interlude for him. But he was the real deal for me.
Anyway, my loss is our Christmas Eve party’s gain. I have the flat immaculate. There are bowls of crisps everywhere. Sausage rolls. All the booze that doesn’t need to be chilled is laid out nicely on the table in the living room. My decorations look gorgeous, if I say so myself.
I’ve pulled on an old red dress that always serves me well at parties, mainly because it’s really stretchy and makes my boobs and ass look amazing. It’s the gift that keeps on giving and requires zero effort. Which is good, because I don’t feel like making an effort for anyone tonight.
This is definitely the least festive I’ve ever felt on Christmas Eve, but I dutifully put on my Christmas pudding dangly earrings.
Fake it till you make it, and all that. Jeez, I really should have escaped home when I had the chance.
I could be lying on the sofa right now, mainlining roasted peanuts and watching utter crap, instead of having to socialise.
As the guests arrive, a rowdy mix of Irish and Aussies and Kiwis who are stuck in London for Christmas, I paste on a smile. Nobody likes a Grinch.
People turn up at an alarming rate. Who the hell did Keeley invite? The doorbell goes for the sixth or seventh time, and I hit the front door release button again. The flat is going to be a total shambles tomorrow morning. I’ll spend Christmas morning hoovering.
Excellent.
I go to let in whoever’s coming up the stairs. Open the door to our flat wearily and hang off it. Stop dead. Because there, in front of me, is simply the best sight I’ve ever seen. A sight so gorgeous I can’t believe what my eyes are telling my brain.
It’s Miles.
With Bea in his arms.
MILES
I spent most of the car journey cursing my not-so-smart idea of having Dave drive me and Bea to Saoirse’s Christmas Eve evening. The A40 out to Park Royal is fucking grid locked. And, of course, she has to live just off the A40 in grim suburbia.
If Bea was any less excited, she’d have fallen asleep already, but she’s a woman on a mission. I sat her down this afternoon and explained that Mummy would definitely be staying in London, but that she’d be getting her own house to live in.
I had no idea how she’d take that, having had a night of being back with her mum, but she’s been surprisingly okay with it. As if having Mummy back in the same city is a win she’s willing to take after so long.
I made Allegra ram the point home to Bea too.
She took her for afternoon tea ‘alone’ in the Grand Salon while I sat in the lobby and twiddled my fingers.
We can’t start soon enough with rebuilding Bea’s sense of security, with proving to her that she can depend on the most important adults in her life to be there. Always.
And during my chat with Bea, I also told her that I wanted Saoirse to be my girlfriend. I didn’t want her to work for us, but to spend time with us both because she wanted to.
‘But I think she’s sad,’ I told Bea. ‘I think I hurt her feelings because I sent her home when Mummy arrived. And now I’m worried she thinks I don’t like her anymore. And I do. I love her.’
I’ve now told two women I love Saoirse. I just need to damn well tell her to her face.
‘I love her too!’ Bea’s eyes were wide with concern. ‘Can we go and get her?’
‘We can, baby. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
And that’s why, instead of being curled up in the penthouse together with a festive movie, we’re climbing a flight of stairs in a narrow hallway that smells of kebabs in a godawful part of London at seven o’clock on Christmas Eve.
Staring at the face of the angel who’s opened the door.
Hoping she will grant our Christmas wishes.
The reality of her takes my breath away. Her sweet, beautiful face. The lights behind her cast a halo on her dark curls. And—dear God—she’s in some kind of stretchy red dress that clings in all the right places.
She registers who we are and clamps her hand over her mouth; her eyes widen. She pulls away her hand to say a shocked, quiet hi to me before turning to Bea, her face breaking into a huge grin.
‘Mrs Claus! Come here!’ She holds out her arms.
I hand Bea over. She immediately gives Saoirse the full koala treatment.
‘I missed you, Saoirse! Is this your house? Can we come in?’
‘Of course you can come in!’ Saoirse holds my gaze over Bea’s shoulder as she squeezes my daughter. Her voice softens. ‘Of course you can. It’s a bit crazy, Beadle. We’re having a little Christmas party. But everyone is going to be so happy to see you. You remember Keeley, right?’
I put my hand on her arm as she turns. ‘You sure this is okay? I’m sorry to turn up like this. I—we needed to see you.’
She shakes her head like she can’t believe I’ve even asked. ‘Of course it’s okay. Come in.’
I follow her tentatively into the open-plan living room.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s both a surprise and a relief to see her here, surrounded by friends and laughter.
Not that I was expecting to find her alone and pining for me.
But still. She looks good. Great. A little pale. But beautiful.
And the flat is… shabby, unquestionably.
In need of some serious maintenance. But it’s cosy and beautifully decorated.
There’s a tall tree in one corner, bedecked with twinkling lights and a multitude of red ribbons and gold baubles.
Row after row of paper cut-outs run around the room.
Green Christmas trees. Red bells. White snowflakes.
The entire room sports a Fair Isle jumper pattern.
This must have taken days to do. I’d put money on it being Saoirse’s doing.
So this is how she decorates when Bea’s not calling the shots. It’s homely and thoughtful and atmospheric.
I stand awkwardly just inside the entrance, taking in the clusters of glamorous young women and bulky blokes in All Blacks and Irish rugby shirts. Suddenly, I feel old and square. Completely out of place. I get a few odd looks.
‘Mr Montague!’ Keeley from The Playroom greets me, her surprise almost comedic.
‘It’s Miles, please.’ I give her an awkward wave. ‘Merry Christmas, Keeley.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ She notices Bea. ‘Beadle! What are you doing here! What a lovely surprise! Do you want to come and see what presents we have under our tree for tomorrow? And do you like crisps, by any chance?’
‘Yes, please.’ Bea is shy but not overwhelmed. Good for her. I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed right now. That is until Keeley takes Bea and exchanges a look with Saoirse that’s impossible to miss.
I put my hands in my coat pockets and wait for Saoirse to make her way back to me.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Can we chat? Somewhere private?’
She looks almost scared, but she nods and says the words I’ve been hoping for.
‘My room. This way.’