‘Bea’s eaten, actually.’
I hesitate. ‘Stay and eat with me, then?’ Too creepy. ‘The least I can do after bawling you out is feed you.’
‘Hmm.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘For future reference, I’m a food whore. All manner of bad behaviour can be glossed over with the promise of a good meal.’
I take a step towards her. What the hell am I doing? I’m flirting with my daughter’s beautiful nanny, for God’s sake. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Hitting on employees because the only love in my life comes from a four-year-old, and I have neither the time, energy, nor most definitely the inclination to find anyone to fill the woman-sized gap in my existence?
‘Room service does excellent mash. And dauphinoise. And I can highly recommend the triple-cooked chips.’
She licks her lips. ‘You wouldn’t make potato-based cultural assumptions about me. Would you, Miles?’
I just stand there, the corner of my mouth tugging up into a grin.
She sighs. ‘You win. Get me some dauphinoise, and we’ll pretend your sub-par efforts at communication and your little hissy fit didn’t happen.’
CHAPTER 12
Saoirse: Tuesday 14 December
I’ve finally got around to tracking down Sandra Robson, the Front of House Manager, as Miles suggested. And when I meet her, I have to stifle a smile, because either Miles can see into my soul, or he’s totally reductionist: Sandra is basically me, a couple of decades on. She’s Irish, she’s warm and friendly, and she has dark, curly hair.
‘I wondered when you were going to come and see me!’ she exclaims when she finds us in the lobby. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Miles.’
It seems highly improbable that Miles would talk about me at all. ‘Have you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She smiles. ‘You’re quite the lifesaver, according to him.’
Something about Miles calling me a lifesaver makes my chest tighten: it was probably a throwaway comment, but it gives me an idea of how desperate he must have been to find a workable solution for Bea, and how tough it must be for him, being a single parent with the weight of such a huge role on him, too.
He does a really good job. He has his moments when helets it all get to him—last night being a case in point—but he’s a good man.
‘I’m lucky to get this gig,’ I tell Sandra, ruffling Bea’s hair. Bea’s not listening. She’s intently, and carefully, studying the decorations on the huge tree. ‘This little one is pretty cool. Aren’t you, pet?’
‘Of course she is,’ Sandra coos. ‘I’ve known her since she was a tiny baby. And she’s always been the best girl. A credit to her parents.’
I tense. It hasn’t occurred to me that Sandra would know Bea’s mum, but it makes perfect sense. I quickly change the subject. ‘And the best bit is that I’m getting to explore London at Christmas, which is a dream come true. Bea and I are having a great time together.’
‘I heard she threw up after Winter Wonderland! Poor little dote. Miles said it was a nightmare.’
A nightmare.
Not exactly how I think of it when I look back.
Did he tell you he pulled off his tops, Sandra? Did he tell you I got to see his gorgeous happy trail, and his arm muscles flexing when he stripped off? Did he tell you he peeled my sweater off me, and my t-shirt, and that when he saw me in my bra he gave me this look as if he wanted to reach around and unhook it, right there and then?
No.
Of course he didn’t.
Because for him it was just a ‘nightmare’, a messy incident with his sick little girl and his awkward new employee that may have triggered a momentary Pavlovian reaction when he saw a woman in her underwear, but which has been long forgotten.
So obviously I need to forget it too. I need to stop remembering the swell of his pecs and the golden sheen of his skin, and I need to stop lying in bed at night, imagining how itwould feel to touch that skin, and to brush my lips over it (ideally when it wasn’t covered in puke).
Right.
Anyway.
‘It was a nightmare, yeah.’ I give a little laugh. ‘No more burger vans for her, eh?’
