After a few minutes of serious flair, he glides back over to us, stopping with a dramatic flourish, and winks. ‘Ladies.’ His nose and cheeks are flushed, and his scarf has come loose from his coat. I could swear he’s just taken ten years off his age. His face is unguarded and clear. And if there was ever a time to grab that bloody scarf, and pull him in for a kiss, and feel the flush of his cold skin and warm mouth on me, this is it.
‘That was very impressive.’ I keep my tone light.
He shrugs. ‘Skiing holidays for New Year, every year as a kid. There was always an ice rink. My brothers and I were very competitive. I’d forgotten how much fun it was, though.’
This is news. ‘You have brothers?’
‘Two. I’m the oldest. I bet you could never have guessed that.’
We hand back our boots, and Miles buys a hot chocolate for Bea and mini bottles of Moët & Chandon, who are sponsoring the ice-skating, for himself and me. I sip the deliciouschampagne through a clever gold mini-funnel thingy and revel in the glow the alcohol gives me. Although, if I’m honest, the alcohol is probably not the cause of the warmth that’s spreading through my body.
It’s the memory of Miles leading me, his hands on mine, his eyes on me, that does that all on its own.
CHAPTER 11
Saoirse: Monday 13 December
‘What do you mean, you can’t make it? It’s her ballet recital, for God’s sake.’
It’s no way to talk to my boss, but I. Am. Fuming. I’m standing in a church hall in Westbourne Grove with Bea, who is the sweetest ballerina I could ever hope to see. She’s kitted out in the palest pink leotard, tights, a wisp of a ballet skirt, and satin ballet shoes. A soft cropped cardigan crosses over her chest and is tied behind her. I’ve put her hair into a neat bun, and she has a little pink headband on to keep the baby hair off her sweet face. And she’s looking up at me while her bloody father blows us off at the last minute.
‘I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I have an emergency to deal with here.’ His voice is clipped. ‘I have to go. Give her my love and send my apologies to her, please. I’ll see you later—I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.’
‘Don’t you want to tell her yourself? She’s not some client you can “send your apologies” to.’
‘I don’t have time. I can’t talk now, Saoirse. Later.’
He’s hung up. Un-bloody-believable. I stare at the phone before squatting down to Bea. He didn’t even have thedecency to let his daughter down himself; he’s left the nanny to do his dirty work.
He should be here.
Her fucking mother should be here.
‘Hey, pet.’ I stroke Bea’s soft cheek. ‘Your Daddy is so sorry, but he’s got an emergency, and he’s not going to make it to your show. But he’s asked me to take loads of videos, okay? And we’re going to do something special after.’
My phone pings, and I look down. It’s from Miles.
Take her to The Biscuiteers after on Ken Park Rd. She loves it.
‘What’s a ‘mergency?’
I roll my eyes at the phone and turn back to Bea, whose eyes are getting bigger by the second.
‘It’s when something really important happens that you have to deal with quickly. Otherwise, he would definitely be here. He was so excited about it at breakfast this morning.’
‘But I want Daddy to be here.’ A giant tear rolls down her cheek. Her tiny mouth quivers. ‘I have to show him my snowflake dance.’
‘I know, pet. I know. Let’s put the same music on for him later, all right? I’ll ask your teacher for the playlist. And then you can do a recital for him later. He’ll love that.’
The recital is a delight. If I wasn’t so heartbroken on Bea’s behalf that no parent was here to see her, I’d be on cloud nine. Seeing twelve tiny girls, their faces grave with focus, executing wobbly pliés and bunny hops, is a rare treat. It’s a privilege to witness such a display of innocence.
I find my eyes pricking with tears as they pick up baskets of white confetti and do a little snow dance, fluttering around the room to Swan Lake and throwing their ‘snow’ in the air with wild abandon as they get deeper into their roles.
I’m biased, but Bea’s the best, even though she’s one of theyounger members. Her pointy feet are the straightest. Her stillness when they sit in a circle is commendable. She has a lovely line, a natural grace. She is such a special little girl, and she deserves all the blessings that life holds. At the very least, parents who actually show up for her.
That’s unfair, because Miles is clearly doing a great job with her despite all the work pressures he’s juggling, but I want to shake him for missing this. It’s his loss. Half an hour of this is the kind of quiet, profound joy that his millions can’t buy him. It’s like therapy.
After it’s finished, and I’ve showered Bea with kisses and praise, I do indeed take her to The Biscuiteers, which is a delightful, monochrome shop serving biscuits so beautifully iced that it’s a sacrilege to eat them. But eat them we do, on the bus home, and they taste as good as they look. Bea devours her nutcracker biscuit mercilessly.
