Sandra has promised us a tour of the kitchens, and this is genuinely exciting. Bea leads the way through the vast expanse of the main restaurant, where we’ve had a yummy breakfast a couple of times before going on our outings. The Montague knows how to serve up a breakfast of champions.
Breakfast service is over, and servers are clearing away dirty dishes and entire table settings, but a few guests linger over coffee. It’s a wonderful space in the front left corner of the building, with vast bay windows lining the walls and making the most of the watery winter sunshine.
‘Have you done this before?’ I ask Bea, who seems to know exactly where we’re headed.
‘Lots of times, silly!’ she says, and Sandra laughs.
‘She’s quite the favourite in the kitchens. She used to come in a lot with her mummy before lockdown.’
There it is again, and the discomfort of discussing Bea’s mum, who is clearlypersona non gratawhere Miles is concerned, jostles for position in my conscience against curiosity. The closer I get to Bea, and the more this weird, inappropriate and addictive attraction to Miles consumes me, the more desperate I’ve found myself to learn more about Allegra.
I blurt it out. ‘What was she like?’
‘Oh, she was gorgeous.’ Sandra pulls open the kitchen door. ‘Just stunning. We all adored her. Let’s get this little one set up, and I’ll tell you all about her, if you’re curious.’ She winks. ‘Why would you not be?’
The kitchen is vast, with white-tiled floors and gleaming steel surfaces everywhere, and it’s teeming with chefsand kitchen porters carrying huge metal trays of food and dishes. It has that unmistakable industrial kitchen smell: a mixture of cooked food and steam and disinfectant.
‘This is the main kitchen,’ Sandra tells us, ‘that serves the restaurant. We have two big service kitchens for the function rooms behind this one. But over there’—she points—‘is where little Miss Bea is headed. The pastry kitchen.’
The pastry kitchen is separated from the main kitchen by a heavy fire door, and as soon as we pass through, the intensity level of the atmosphere drops and the smell improves. The heavenly smell of baking and sugar hits my nostrils. There are four chefs in the space, and they’re not racing around. One man, who’s cutting tiny star shapes out of a perfectly flat piece of dough, gives us a huge smile.
‘Bonjour, Bea! You’re just in time to make some Christmas cookies!’ He wipes his hands on his apron, holds one up and stoops so Bea can high-five him.
‘Can I help Xavier?’ she asks me. ‘I helped him before, and we made chocolate chip cookies.’
‘Go for it, pet.’ I throw Xavier a grateful smile. Miles’ decision to come back to The Montague for Christmas is growing more understandable. It’s clear the Montagues have a community around them at the hotel—a kind of found family—which must be exactly what they need at this point in their lives. It’s not just Miles and Bea here, in a vacuum. These lovely people have known Bea for a good chunk of her little life, and they can hopefully provide much-needed support and continuity.
Xavier finds Bea an apron, which swamps her, puts her kneeling on a stool, and rolls out a piece of dough for her at lightning speed. He hands her a selection of cutters. ‘What’s it going to be, Bea? Stars, like me? Or angels?’
‘Starsandangels.’ Bea wastes no time getting cutting.
‘Fantastique.We will cook them, and then we will dip them in white chocolate,’ Xavier tells her.
‘Mind if I take Saoirse off for a coffee?’ Sandra asks him.
He waves us both off. ‘Go. I want some time with my Bea.’
‘Xavier has let her help since she was two,’ Sandra confides as we walk back through the main kitchen to the restaurant. ‘He has three kids; he’s great with her.’
‘You have a lovely team,’ I say.
‘We do. We’re very lucky; the turnover overall is a lot lower than most hotels. But the Montagues are good people, and they inspire loyalty. Miles looked after everyone far better than he needed to, when the hotels closed and we got furloughed. He broke his neck to make sure everyone was okay, even though he was going through an unimaginably tough time himself.’
We take a seat in the far corner of the restaurant, at a small table in the window. The window boxes outside are studded with topiary covered in fairy lights, and beyond them, the streets of Knightsbridge are a hive of activity.
This is it. It’s my chance to ask what I want to know, and I can’t help but feel disgusted with myself, like I’m snooping into someone’s private business. Even though Google would tell me a lot of what I want to know.
When we’ve ordered our teas, I lean forward. ‘It isn’t really any of my business. But I have to admit, I’m curious about what went down with Bea’s mum. I mean—she’s such a gorgeous little girl. I’ve looked after a lot of kids, and Bea’s amazing. But even if she wasn’t—how can a mother up and leave her child and move to the other side of the world?’
Sandra settles her hands in her lap. ‘None of us really understand it. None of us know for sure. There was a lot of speculation in the tabloids that she left for a guy—that man she’s set up the yoga thing with—and that the guy didn’t want kids. But other papers said Miles wouldn’t let her take Bea.Whatever the truth is, there’s a little girl in there who’s without her mother, and there’s a parent who’s hurting.’
I haven’t thought of this—it hasn’t occurred to me that Allegra might miss Bea as much as Bea misses her. God, it’s excruciating to think of. It’s horrific to imagine the pain Bea must have been in for the past year or two.
‘But she was a good mum, when she was here?’
‘She was devoted. They were so girly together. Miles used to laugh at them.My girls, he always called them.My girls.They were always off shopping together, and scheming, and doing each other’s hair. Bea was like a little mini-me of her mum. She looks more like Miles, mind you. She has his colouring. Allegra’s very fair. Have you seen photos of her?’
‘No.’ I haven’t dared.
