‘Hi.’ Suddenly I’m not remotely bothered that he came to find me.
Quite the opposite.
I stare at him in wonder. His beautiful wool coat is open, his grey scarf hanging loose around his neck. Shirt and tie immaculate. He reeks of good taste and luxury, and that’s without even looking at his face. Because his face is the best part. By a mile.
He mustn’t have shaved this morning. His stubble is pushing through, just a fraction, just enough to make me want to rub my knuckles over it. Those dimples are nowhere to be seen, but the overhead lights throw shadows from his dark eyelashes across his cheekbones. He looks at me and licks his lips before casting his gaze at the bags at my feet.
‘You’ve been busy.’ He pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘Yep. It’s been productive. Have you had a tiring day?’
‘It’s fine. I need to grab some bits for my parents, and then we can get out of here. I owe you a drink for doing this.’
The panic returns. I don’t belong here with him. No one, even in my wildest fantasies, would believe we were here together in the real sense. I definitely don’t need the torture of sitting across from him and watching his Adam’s apple work as he sips a drink, while posh people judge him for being with a girl in a cheap duffle coat and ancient Zara boots.
‘You don’t need to buy me a drink. Honestly, it was fun for me to do this. I’ll just grab the sack from upstairs and then we can go.’
‘Nonsense. You’re still on the clock. I’d like to buy you a drink.’
And so I watch as he buys an eye-wateringly expensive whiskey for his dad (Scotch, of course. No English people seem to drink Irish whiskey) and some beautiful candles for his mum, from a brand I’ve never heard of, called Cire Trudon, that makes the most incredible scents. This gift floor is sublime. I could get lost in here forever. Maybe I could get a job here when Miles and Bea have gone abroad. The thought of moving on without them hurts my heart a bit, but Selfridges would soften the blow. I could?—
Miles interrupts my reverie. ‘Go get the sack. I’ll stay with the bags and see you on the ground floor.’
And off I run.
The cold airis a huge relief after the stuffiness of Selfridges, as is the fact that he insists on wearing the rucksack (even though it looks grubby and awful against his smart clothes) and taking the majority of the carrier bags. I swing my arms as I walk.
‘I hate Oxford Street,’ Miles comments as we stroll.
‘I like it. It’s fun and… atmospheric. And huge.’
‘It’s garish and tacky and commercialised. Selfridges is the only reason I ever brave it.’
We cut away from Oxford Street within seconds, walking down an elegant street of glossy shop fronts and stylish restaurants. It’s a world away from the Disney Store and Primark.
‘This is pretty. What street is it?’
‘North Audley. Have you explored this area much?’
‘Not at all.’ I lengthen my strides to keep up with him. Somehow, I feel like a child when I’m with him.
‘This is Mayfair, essentially. A bit nicer than Oxford Street.’ He turns to me and winks, and the shock of it nearly makes me trip.
Wink again, please, Miles.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Claridges. I thought you might like it, given your obsession with all things Christmas.’
There’s something about the idea of Miles picking out a venue because he thinks I’d like it, combined with the allure of that iconic name,Claridges, that makes me feel as though I wouldn’t change places with a single human being on this planet right this minute.
My smile appears and stretches across my face of its own accord, and in response, his face softens from its usual impatience to something more… tender? Patient, anyway. I launch into what’s practically a skip.
CHAPTER 16
Saoirse: Wednesday 15 December
Claridges is even grander than I’ve expected, its front porch bearing the weight of a cluster of Christmas trees, monochrome chequered flags waving majestically, and a lobby inside with the glossiest, dreamiest black and white chequered floor. It’s timeless, and it hums with decades of glamour and stories and fabulous guests.
