Oh, Jesus Christ.
The opulent zen of the marble bathroom has been defaced by Christmas tat of the shittiest order. These little minxes have covered the loo seat with a cheap and nasty polyester felt cover designed to look like Mrs Claus. It features a round, flesh-coloured smiling face, white puffs for hair, a red gathered nightcap and two red felt circles to denote rosy cheeks. I snort in derision, not amusement.
‘Isn’t it cool, Daddy?’ Bea lifts the seat, and the cluster of bells at Mrs Claus’ throat emit a tinny tinkle.
Dear God.
Bea puts the seat back down. Lifts it. Puts it down again. She could get hours of mileage from this.
‘And look!’ She points. Saoirse has blessed us with a complementary U-shaped mat around the base of the loo, crafted (not the right word) to look like Mrs Claus’ dress. It’s a red felt mat with white buttons and puffywhite edging. It’s a monstrous masterpiece. Who the hell comes up with shit like this?
But my daughter’s face is pure sunshine. She beams up at me as if it’s Christmas Day already. ‘Isn’t it cute, Daddy? And we found a Christmas soap!’
Over on the marble vanity, there’s a tiny green Christmas tree-shaped soap. Bea picks it up reverently and sniffs it. ‘It smells like Christmas trees, Daddy! Smell it!’
I squat, and she shoves it under my nose. It smells exactly like pine-scented Toilet Duck. But her face. Her face is killing me.
‘Wow,’ I tell her softly. ‘You ladies have done a great job. You must have been so busy this afternoon, getting all this decorating done.’ I rub her nose with mine. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Because the upshot of having a suite that’s guaranteed to give me a migraine is that my little girl is lit up. She’s busy, filled with purpose. Doing this, partaking in traditions and making the penthouse feel more like a home for herself (if less like a home for me) is important. Even if they’re purely superficial, these rituals will ground her. And more critically, we need to implement rituals of our own. Ones that aren’t tarnished with any memories of her mother, however blurry.
I twist my head and look up at Saoirse. She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, observing my reactions. There’s an unreadable expression on her face. I can’t quite square this heinous lack of taste with her rapturous reaction to the magic Siobhan Quinn worked with the decor at the family party downstairs.
As I carry Bea out of the bathroom, I gesture around the room and raise a derisive eyebrow at Saoirse. ‘So, you were unleashed at the garden centre, were you?’
She looks at Bea, and then back at me. ‘None of this was me. It was all her. She’s a young lady who knows her ownmind. I helped, but this is her vision. And I happen to think it’s beautiful.’
There’s a defiant set to her chin when she speaks, and I can’t help but think how differently it would have gone had I taken Bea decoration shopping.
We would have gone to Harrods.
Spent thousands.
I would have overruled Bea on anything I found overly tacky.
There would, without a shadow of a doubt, have been meltdowns (from both of us).
And the penthouse would look far, far classier than this, but I would have cast a shadow over my daughter’s experience of the festive season.
I squeeze Bea harder, but when I speak, I’m looking only at Saoirse. This woman, who seems to understand, with every fibre of her being, the kind of emotional sustenance my daughter needs right now.
‘I think it’s beautiful, too.’
CHAPTER 10
Saoirse: Friday 10 December
Somerset House is one of those London landmarks I’ve heard of, but it hasn’t particularly infiltrated my consciousness except as one of the options Miles’ assistant Angela serves up for ice skating, along with the Natural History Museum. Given that I’ve walked past the museums multiple times over the past month, I opt for the novelty value of Somerset House. And apparently it’s easy for Miles to get there from the City.
Because Miles is joining us. It’s Friday afternoon, and he’s promised to get out of work early and see us there. I’ve held onto this delicious prospect since Angela informed me she’d made the booking for three people at Miles’ request.
I’m not sure why I find it so delicious.
There’s obviously the reassurance of the fact that I’ll have another adult for moral support, because I can’t skate for toffee. I’ve only been skating once, in Dublin, in fact, and I didn’t let go of the rail for more than a few seconds each time. Apparently there are penguin skating aids for the little ones to hold onto, so Bea should be fine,at least.
But there’s something more. There’s something that blooms inside me at the prospect of spending dusk on Friday in a magical environment with Miles and Bea. Some part of me wants to see if he’ll come to life on the ice. If he’ll let himself go. Surely the ice is a good leveller. He’ll either be crap, and we’ll have a good laugh, or he’ll be one of those annoyingly good skaters, and being unleashed will put a twinkle in his eye. He can’t be the same as he is off the ice, all stiff and closed and tight.
Can he?
