‘Daddy’s the Grinch.’ Bea’s not letting this go. She’s obsessed by that film. It’s not the first time she’s made the connection between me and the green, anti-Christmas beast.
Saoirse mock-gasps. ‘The Grinch, or Scrooge?’
‘The Grooge!’ Bea twists around in my arms to see Saoirse. She’s got a second wind. She wriggles to be let down, and I put her on her feet.
‘The Grooge.’ Saoirse puts her finger to her mouth. ‘Hmm. Good call, young Mistress Bea. He’s a bit like grumpy Gru, inDespicable Me, too. The Grooge is a great name for him. Maybe Grooge, for short.’
Excellent. They both think I’m a miserable fucker. And neither of them has an ounce of respect for me.
We walk into the hotel, each of us holding one of Bea’s hands. An older couple makes way for us in the lobby, and the woman smiles fondly at Bea, puts her hand to her heart and then twinkles at me.
‘What a lovely picture you three make.’
I stare at her in a panic. ‘We’re not—’ But she’s gone.
Inside the penthouse, Saoirse unbuttons Bea’s coat and pulls off her cosy knitted hat. Bea’s losing that second wind, and quickly. Her limbs are floppy and she drags her feet as Saoirse unzips her little boots. She holds tightly onto the toy, which she grabbed off Saoirse as soon as we got insidethe hotel.
‘I feel yucky,’ she announces.
‘Stick her in the bath,’ I tell Saoirse. It’s the best thing we can do for her right now.
I pick Bea and the dratted toy up and direct Saoirse into the main bathroom, where she leans over the tub and plugs it. I try, hard but unsuccessfully, not to look at her delectable arse bent over the tub. The water rushes out of the tap with a roar.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I need to get out of here. Now. ‘I have emails to check. Okay, baby?’ I plant a soft kiss on Bea’s velvet cheek and go to hand her over to Saoirse. There’s an awkward moment where our hands and arms brush as we transfer Bea’s weight.
And then it happens: Bea retches, and her whole body convulses, and she throws up burger and candy floss and God knows what else, all over both of us.
CHAPTER 7
Miles: Wednesday 8 December
Bea immediately starts wailing. Huge, distressed sobs wrack her tiny body as Saoirse and I freeze.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘It’s okay, sweetie.’ I smooth Bea’s hair off her face. She has vomit all down the front of her jumper and leggings and it fucking stinks. It’s that smell from the fair again, mixed with bile and regurgitated. Shit. I have no bloody idea what to do. We’re both still holding her.
‘Daddy!’ Bea screams. ‘I’m YUCKY!’
‘I know, darling, I know. We’re going to get you cleaned up.’ I lean my head around to see Saoirse. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Here, let me take her. You run the bath.’
Saoirse takes Bea’s weight off me and I’m free to get a good luck at the carnage. She’s covered in Bea’s vomit too. It’s all down her sweatshirt.
‘Oh, Christ. Are you sure?’
‘Yep. I’ve got her.’ She rocks Bea very gently and croons in her ear. ‘It’s okay, pet. It’s okay. You poor little dote. Do you feel like being sick again?’
‘No. But Twinkle has sick on her!’ She howls, a huge mournful lament.
There’s a silver lining.
Hopefully, the fucking toy is ruined.
‘Don’t worry,’ Saoirse tells her. ‘We’ll get Twinkle all cleaned up, too. We’ll get you lovely and clean in the bath and then we’ll wrap you up in a big, cosy towel, okay pet?’
She’s handling it brilliantly. Meanwhile, I’m flapping. I turn the tap up to full volume to fill the bath more quickly. The vomit has soaked through my sweater to my t-shirt and it clings wetly to my chest, chilling rapidly. It’s revolting. Thankfully, it mostly missed my jeans. There’s only one thing for it. I need to take my damn tops off. How mortifying.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I have to get these off me.’ I roll my t-shirt and sweater up together and hold them as far away from my body as I can. Even so, a slick of wet smears my cheek as I pull them over my head. Ugh. I’ll never, ever get used to other people’s vomit. Even if it’s my beloved daughter’s.
