That is heartbreaking indeed. The poor little dote. I look over at her playing beautifully. I’m going to make sure Bea lacks for nothing while she’s in my care today. Especially not attention and cuddles.
‘Tell me what you think of Mr Montague,’ Keeley says as I turn away. ‘Fit as fuck, but don’t take it personally if he’s rude.’
I tell myself I won’t take it personally. His life sounds tragic. It’s amazing how heartbreak seems to follow the super wealthy around.
MILES
I stalk through the double doors of The Playroom at five o'clock sharp. I have a long evening of paperwork ahead of me, once Bea gets to bed, but eight hours in here is long enough for her—too long, really. She can wind down with a movie in the penthouse. A flustered-looking woman lets me in, smoothing down her hair as she greets me.
‘She's over there, Mr Montague.’ She flutters her eyelashes at me.
I roll my eyes and stride across the room. The noise level is insufferable in here, and as I weave my way through the chaos, I’m almost taken out by a tiny, sticky, snotty-looking boy, before an apologetic member of staff yanks him away.
And then I spot her. My beautiful little Bea, light of mylife. The only human being on this earth capable of touching my heart, these days.
'Daddy!' She gets up off her chubby little knees and throws herself at me, squeezing around my legs tightly, not letting go, breathing heavily against the fabric of my suit trousers. I reach down, gently disentangling her from my legs, and pull her up. Hold her against my heart.
God knows, it needs all the help it can get.
‘Beadle.’ I breathe her in. She smells delicious, as always. Apple pie. Icing sugar. Someone has painted her little face; she's a delight. Those huge brown eyes, like two chocolate pennies. Thank God she didn't get her mother's eyes. A glossy, nut-brown bob curling in under her chin, framing the perfect heart of her little face. Her eyes shine. They actually shine. Her eyelashes are long and black and delicate.
A girl—woman—clambers gracefully to her feet beside us. My first impression is of long, long legs in red and white striped tights, and a messy cloud of black hair. Ridiculous fluffy Christmas pudding earrings. She raises her face to me, and it's clear my daughter has inflicted her non-existent makeup application skills on this poor creature.
A rush of words tumbles out of her mouth, utterly unintelligible.
I stare at her. 'Excuse me?'
She giggles. Tries again. I catch a few words.Beaandgorgeousandpaintedandgrandandfestive. Otherwise, it’s a rapid jumble in a strong Irish accent, and I can’t infiltrate it. I suspect the smile I try for is more blank than polite.
She has a smear of what looks like red grease paint making its way up her cheekbone and past her hairline, so some of her delicate strands of dark hair are caked in petrochemicals. A large foil snowflake has been stuck to her other cheek; it holds a small, grimy thumb print. There’s a trail of silver pen aroundher nostrils, and Bea has applied pantomime-dame levels of sugary pink lipstick to her lips.
But there’s no disguising the fullness of those lips, the slant of her cheekbones and the creamy paleness of her skin under the grotesque greasepaint. Her eyes, crinkling with laughter at my attempts to understand her verbal diarrhoea, are huge and green.
I shift Bea’s weight on my hip so I can see her more clearly. There’s not much I can say other thanthank you, given I have no earthly idea what she just said to me.
Gushy.
She seems gushy.
I have the impression she’s gushing over Bea, in any case.
My eyes slide to her chest so I can thank her by name. Oh, Jesus. Times two. First, her breasts curve ripely under the snug scarlet sweater she’s wearing. Shouldn’t have looked at that.
Second, on what is presumably her name badge sits a random assortment of letters that none of my school Latin or Greek can help me break down phonetically. It’s as if her badge is a ledge for low-value scrabble tiles.
‘Thank you, er…’ I try. Stop. ‘I’m sorry—I have no idea how to pronounce…’ I point at her chest with my free hand.For God’s sake, man. Don’t do that.
She seems undeterred. She beams at me. ‘It’s pronounced Sur-sha. Like Saoirse Ronan. Sur-sha.’ She repeats it as if I’m one of her snivelling pre-school charges and she’s teaching me how to read C-A-T.
‘Who?’
‘Saoirse Ronan. She’s a really famous actress. Have you not seenBrooklyn?Little Women?’
‘I have not.’ I clear my throat, repeat the name she’s attempting to teach me. Glance down at her name badge again. How in the name of phonetic decency does that letter-vomit equate to what she’s telling me?
‘Sore-sha. Thank you for looking after Bea. And for the help with your name. I would have guessed… Cersai, maybe? Like?—’
‘Game of Thrones. Yep. I get that a lot. It definitely gives English people a lot of trouble.’
