‘Oh, my gosh.’ My hand flies to my mouth, and I just about manage to swallow the phrasethat’s terrible.
‘She left us last February. She’s “building a new life for herself” in LA.’ He does bunny ears to show precisely what he thinks of that jargon. ‘Obviously, it’s been very difficult to travel between the US and the UK during lockdown.’
‘Of course,’ I murmur to be polite. But internally, I’m screamingare you serious? What kind of mother leaves their tiny child and moves to LA?‘Is she in contact with Bea?’
‘Yes. They FaceTime a couple of times a week. I don’t know.’ He covers his face with his hand. ‘It’s important for her to have a relationship with her mother, of course. Not important, critical. I know that. But it would be easier to manage if she left us the fuck alone. Bea doesn’t understand why she can’t see her mum. It’s an impossible situation.’
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and raises his head, and meets my eyes. When I see the hopelessness in his, I finally understand the concept of one’s heart bleeding for someone. My heart is bleeding. For him, and for his little daughter, and for what their reality is in the wake of this desertion. It feels like my heart is haemorrhaging itself dry for these two.
‘I’m so, so sorry, Miles.’ I whisper the words. ‘I mean—you’re doing a great job with her. She’s so resilient.’
‘That’s all her. I barely know what I’m doing with her. She is a fucking rockstar. She blows me away.’
‘I can’t believe what a happy, well-adjusted little thing she is. Losing her mum, in such a messy way… I’m in awe of her.’
‘She’s really enjoying having you around.’ He nods at me for emphasis. ‘Seriously. I know it’s only been a day or two. But I can tell you get her. You really connect with her. We’re lucky to have found you.’
He’s staring at me as if he means every word, and the heatof pain and empathy and pure emotion in my chest spreads through my whole body. So when Bea cries out from her bedroom, I bolt. As long as I’m here, this little girl won’t spend a second wanting for anything. Help. Attention. Comfort. Love.
I swear it.
Bea’s half asleep but retching again, and I sit behind her in the bed and hold up a bin so she can vomit up some residual food. I wipe her hair away from her face and rub her back while her small body convulses.
‘Good girl,’ I whisper. ‘That’s it, pet. Get it all out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.’
MILES
When I surface a couple of hours later from a number of calls with the US, during which time I’ve managed to finish the bottle of wine, I tiptoe into Bea’s room. Housekeeping left a bag with Saoirse’s laundered clothes outside the door, and I have it in my hand. But she’s fast asleep in her robe, curled up on top of the duvet next to Bea. Bea’s sleeping soundly on her back, her little fist wrapped around Saoirse’s fingers.
The peaceful picture that the two of them make does things to me that I can’t quite understand. All I know is that I don’t want to disturb them. I grab the duvet off the spare-room bed and return to lower it carefully over Saoirse. Put her laundry bag at the end of the bed so she’ll see it in the morning. Brush Bea’s forehead with my lips.
And reluctantly leave them to it.
CHAPTER 9
Saoirse: Thursday 9 December
Bea is back on fine form this morning, which is a relief, because we have work to do. She demands porridge and pancakes from room service. I sit next to her and watch in amusement as she proceeds to systematically devour them both.
Waking this morning next to Bea, in a massive cloud of duvet in this gorgeous place, was surreal. My brain helpfully served me up some visuals once I remembered where I was.
Miles stripping off his top.
The expression I caught in his eyes as I moved my hands away from my face to cover my chest, right before he chucked a towel at me.
There was something in the air at that moment. As if the heat between us could have ignited. Something I shouldn’t revisit too closely. Best to focus on Bea’s enormous smile when she woke up to find me next to her. By the time we emerged, fully dressed, from Bea’s room, Miles was in his shirt and tie again. Coffee cup in hand.
I sit through the particular torture that is watching Miles put on his tie while Bea stuffs her face. GroundhogDay. He’s back to his usual shut-off self after last night’s confidences (and soft porno moments). He’s curt with me. Offhand. Bea’s put Shakin’ Stevens on the sound system (it’s incredible how a preschooler can be so proficient with technology) and he grouchily tells her to turn it down. Says he’s got a headache.
Grooge is back, for sure.
In any case, Bea and I are on a mission. Miles’ driver, Dave, who’s as smiley and cheerful as Miles is gruff and miserable, drives us the ridiculously short distance to Harrods and tells us he’ll wait for us out the back, in Hans Crescent.
Inside, Harrods. Is. Amazing. I haven’t braved it before, but having Miles’ Amex in my pocket fortifies me. Bea and I are unleashed. We stroll through the jaw-dropping beauty hall and try out Dior lip glosses on each other, before a kind assistant directs us to the basement, where the Christmas shop is.
‘Teddies!’ Bea cries. Enormous teddies, dressed as Harrods doormen, guard the basement, and I snap some photos of Bea with them. But when I step into the Christmas Shop, it’s like I’ve found my spiritual home. This place is nirvana.
There are huge displays with theme names like St Moritz (all cosy reds and whites and needlepoint) and Holland Park (glitzier, more metallic, but still tasteful. Obviously. This is Harrods). The way the themed displays have been merchandised makes me positively tingle with creative joy.
