‘It’s their job.’
‘Miles, honestly. It’s not fair to these poor people who are on the minimum wage to have to clean up other people’s vomit.’
He looks at me then, properly. ‘It’s not fair to you to deal with it on your second day on the job, having been vomited on yourself.’
‘I’m a nanny to a four-year-old. Newsflash. This stuff happens. Please, let mesort it. I want to give Twinkle a good scrub, anyway.’
I put my hands on my hips, and he sighs.
‘Fine. Thank you. Now, your clothes. Put them in that bag, and Housekeeping will do a ninety-minute turnaround on them if that works. I’ll get dinner sorted while you wait, and I’ll cab you home later. That okay?’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I begin, and he cuts me off.
‘Yes. I do.’
The steak is sublime. And the red wine, which Miles says is claret, is the silkiest wine I’ve ever tasted. We’re eating on the sofa, and it’s… nice. Slightly awkward, but nice. I’ve demolished almost all my fries—who knows what they cooked them in, but they’re insane—but Miles has eaten only his sirloin and the green beans. He’s getting stuck into the wine, though.
I look around at the beautiful space. The gas fire throws off heat, and all the occasional lamps glow softly. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘We’re just here for the month. I’m getting some work done to my place in Holland Park, so we moved in here the day I met you. I thought it would be more sociable for Bea, in any case. Hopefully, the house will be done by the time we get back from St Barths.’
‘It’s so gorgeous. The hotel looks so festive; it makes me feel so Christmassy, just being here. But why didn’t they decorate the penthouse for you?’
He blinks. ‘I never thought to ask. We don’t decorate the guest rooms, but I’m sure I could get them to do something in here.’
‘Bea would be thrilled.’ I chompdown my last few fries.
‘She would.’ A pause. ‘You’re welcome to do it, if you’d like. Maybe it’s something you could do together.’
‘Really?’ I sit bolt upright. ‘I would love that. And so would Bea.’
‘Knock yourselves out.’ He waves a hand. He’s losing interest in this conversation already. ‘Go to Harrods. Or the Chelsea Gardener. Use the Amex. Dave will take you—I’m staying local tomorrow, so I don’t need the car.’
‘We will. Thank you.’
He puts his cutlery together and sits in silence, swilling his wine in his glass, and I have an acutely surreal moment. Imagine if I was here with him in real life.
Like, as an actual girlfriend.
Imagine if this was our life.
Drinking wine on the sofa with him, before edging closer, and pulling up that soft, soft t-shirt, and?—
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of having only a robe on. I pull it more tightly over my knees and pat the lapel to make sure I’m not gaping in the boob area. I haven’t had a chance to bring up the delicate matter of Bea asking about her mum. Now is the perfect opportunity.
I clear my throat. ‘Um. Miles?’
‘Saoirse.’ He turns to look at me. It must be the first time he’s said my name since he met me. And it actually, physically makes my spine tingle. It sounds so exotic, and languorous, and forbidden coming from that mouth.
Focus, Saoirse.
‘Bea asked about her mum yesterday. She was wondering if she would join us for the ballet. I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Ah.’ He peers into his wineglass. ‘I see.’
‘You don’t need to tell me anything,’ I say hurriedly, ‘but if there’s an official line or something that you want me to use withher…’
‘My ex-wife isn’t really in the picture. Bea hasn’t seen her in person for eighteen months.’
