She’s still beaming at me, and I’m aware I’m frowning at her. It’s the strain of trying to decipher what she’s saying in real time. She seems excitable. Maybe it’s an Irish thing. In any case, it’s time to put this strange conversation to bed. And my grubby little daughter straight in the bath. She needs to wind down and clean up in equal measure.
‘Beadle.’ I bump her gently in my arms. She’s already flagging. Her head hangs limply against my chest, and she’s sucking her thumb. ‘Say thank you to… Saoirse. We’ll see you tomorrow at nine.’
‘Oh no, you won’t, sadly.’ The young woman cocks her head and strokes Bea’s cheek with her finger. ‘Isn’t she a little dote? You won’t see me tomorrow, my darling.’ This to Bea. Obviously. ‘It’s my last day today. I was just covering for Sheila for a few weeks. She had a terrible ankle fracture. She fell down the steps of Hyde Park Corner tube station, would you believe? But she’s back tomorrow. So Sheila will look after you tomorrow, love.’
Bea’s telltale stiffening precedes the inevitable. She sits bolt upright in my arms and screams. Her chubby little hands reach out for Saoirse.
‘Nooooo! I want Saoirse! I want Saoirse!’ I have to hand it to her: her pronunciation is impeccable. Though she has the benefit of being four and therefore not thrown off her game by the phonetic head-fuck that is the name badge. Sur-sha on its own is quite catchy. Melodic, even.
Stop it.
Focus on the imminent crisis at hand.
Bea is about to go nuclear.
Unfortunately, Bea’s definition of nuclear is so hideous that my first instinct is always to give her whatever the hell she wants, just to shut her up. Terrible parenting, yes. But we’re in survival mode. Have been since Allegra left. I eye the woman. Assess the variables. Make an instant decision.
‘Are you available to be her nanny for the next month? Up until New Year’s Eve, in any case? We’re staying at the hotel for the next four weeks.’
‘Bea mentioned you were staying—but four weeks?’
‘Yes. I own this place.’
It sounds wankier than normal, saying that out loud. Normally, of course, I don’t have to spell it out. Miles Montague and The Montague Hotel are synonymous in certain circles.
‘Right.’ She doesn’t bat an eyelid. She must already know who we are.
‘So. As I said: nannying. I require help with Beatrice over the next four weeks.’
‘But not including Christmas?’ She recoils as if I’ve suggested cancelling Christmas altogether. ‘I’ll be at home for Christmas. In Ireland.’
‘Ah.’ I scratch my chin. ‘Yes, it would include Christmas, I’m afraid. We’ll be here, in the hotel.’
She really needs to work on her poker face. Her huge green eyes dart from me to Bea, and around The Playroom. The horror from a moment ago transforms into wonder. Childlike excitement.
‘Is it very Christmassy here?’
‘I can assure you, it will be this year.’ My tone is dry. ‘We owe it to our team and our guests after the disaster that was last year. The hotel has a full Christmas schedule. Carols in the Grand Salon every afternoon. Even adult crafting.’
Last Christmas was a fucking nightmare. Millions in lostrevenues. The hotel under dust covers. The whole bloody holiday, cancelled for most of the world.
And my little girl motherless and stuck with her devastated, furious, useless father.
Right on cue, Saoirse’s eyes light up. She looks positively thrilled at the concept ofadult crafting.
‘I’ll make it worth your while, of course. Financially.’
‘But don’t you need to check me out first? You can’t offer me a job looking after this little one just like that.’
‘Our background checks are rigorous here. Believe me, if you’ve made it through The Playroom doors, you pass muster.’ I turn to Bea. ‘Queen Bea, what do you think? Would you like Saoirse here to be your nanny for the next few weeks?’
My daughter’s face transforms and the tears that have been wobbling precariously miraculously disappear. She leans out of my arms, and Saoirse grabs her under her armpits and takes her. It’s fucking unreal, how quickly kids can turn it on and off as necessary.
But the solution is a huge win for me. I can work solidly through December without feeling guilty that I’m neglecting Bea. And these two can go Christmas-crazy together in peace. It doesn’t take a psychic to see that Bea will have more fun with this giggly, enchanting (in her own weird way) elf, with her candy-cane tights and Christmas pudding earrings and general joyfulness, than she will with me.
And the instant, undeniable attraction that assaulted me as soon as I laid eyes on her is, of course, a non-issue.
She’s pretty.
