CHAPTER 15
Saoirse: Wednesday 15 December
This is the dream errand. Much as I adore Bea, it’s thrilling to be unleashed on Oxford Street, child free and in possession of Miles’ Amex. I made a list on my phone on the tube of what I need for the stocking, and I’m going to be strategic:
A couple of edible things: chocolate, or sweets.
Some pyjamas.
Perhaps a fluffy hot water bottle cover.
Fun toiletries. I’ll go to Lush and buy some bath bombs. Bubble bath from Boots.
Story books.
Cute stationery: maybe glitter gel pens and a colouring book.
Accessories: hair clips, stick-on earrings, and the like.
And the obligatory Disney Store stop, where I’ll allow myself to go a little crazy on Moana and Frozen gimmicks. Miles has asked me to get a big personalised sack that will act as a stocking. Apparently Selfridges does personalised ones, according to Keeley. I’ve never been to Selfridges—I haven’ttargeted the swanky department stores much—so it’s exciting to have a valid reason to check it out.
Oxford Street is as busy as I would have expected with ten shopping days to go till Christmas. The Christmas lights flash jauntily, reflected in the shallow puddles dotting the road and pavement, and shoppers brush elbows good-naturedly.
There’s a busker outside Bond Street station doing an excellent version ofFairytale of New York, and the air vibrates with excitement and festivity. It’s crazy to think that this time last year, Oxford Street was empty. The shop fronts darkened. Perhaps just the odd bus winding its way down the traffic-free streets, carrying key workers across London. I shudder. Doesn’t bear thinking about. But how far we’ve come.
Thank God.
The afternoon speeds by productively, and the rucksack I brought fills up quickly with things that I know Miles will call ‘plastic tat’ but that Bea will go crazy for. I save Selfridges for last, but by the time I get in there, I’m so hot and laden down, and my feet are so tired, that I have to give myself a serious pep-talk to enjoy this outing and make the most of it.
Selfridges, to be fair, is spectacular. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted from a department store. Brown Thomas in Dublin is bijoux and exclusive, and Harrods has a great warren-like layout, but Selfridges is pure wow factor.
I readjust the straps of my rucksack, hitch my coat over my shoulder bag (I stripped as soon as I came through the doors and hot air hit me in the face) and ride the amazing central escalators up from the dazzling, endless beauty hall to the Christmas shop, past giant suspended disco balls and luxurious garlands.
I’ve just placed an order for Bea’s beautiful new Santa’s sack when my phone rings. It’s Miles. My tummy does a little dance, and I put down my excess bags, rubbing my shoulder.
‘How are you getting on?’ He’s not much for small talk.
‘Grand. I’ve got all the stocking fillers. They’re just embroidering the stocking and it’ll take half an hour?—’
‘Are you in Selfridges?’ He’s walking and talking, breathing heavily.
‘Yep.’
‘Excellent. I’ll come and meet you, give you a hand with the bags.’
A flutter of panic hits me. I want to see him, but I don’t. It would be weird, being here with him, with no Bea to smooth over our mutual awkwardness. It always feels like he disapproves of me.
‘You don’t need to—I can see you back at?—’
‘It’s fine. I’ve just finished a meeting in Mayfair. I’m on Davies Street. Meet me in ten in the basement, by the booze section. I have a couple of gifts to pick up.’
By the time I get myself all the way back down to the basement on the vertiginous escalators, I’m even hotter and edging towards a full personality failure. This place is rammed. At least Miles has big muscles. He can put them to good use with the bags.
I put down my stash and pull off my jumper, tying it around my waist. That’s better.
I’m pretending to peruse four-figure magnums of champagne when there’s the lightest brush of a hand on my shoulder and he’s there.
‘Hi.’
