‘It certainly does. What’s his name? Frank. Give me your phone. Is he paying you a decent wage? These billionaires can be cheap as sin.’
‘He’s not a billionaire. And yes. He’s paying me about four times more than I was getting in the creche. And he’ll still pay me weekly.’ That clinched the deal last night. There’s no way I can turn down that kind of money. It’s just one Christmas. Christmas was cancelled last year and we all survived. I can do another low-key Christmas Day. And besides, the mere idea of spending Christmas in London (even with a man who seems unfriendly if not downright hostile) is a dream come true.
I have serious plans. Most of them will have to wait until the evenings, when I’ve clocked off duty, but that’s okay. Hot chocolate in Covent Garden. Hot chocolate on the Embankment, looking across at the London Eye. Hot chocolate at Liberty’s. And Harrods. A lot of hot chocolate, basically.
It’ll be like living inLove, Actually. Minus Hugh Grant, or Colin Firth, sadly (although my new grumpy boss does look weirdly like Theo James. Which is definitely anenjoyable bonus). But still. London at Christmas. The magic of how it will be already creeps over my skin like goosebumps. I. Cannot. Wait.
Which brings me to the point of my call.
‘Nice work, love.’ Mam whistles approvingly. ‘That’ll come in very handy for you. So will you have to put your flight back? Or is he letting you come home on the 17th? You’d better get it checked out now. You know Ryanair aren’t the most flexible.’
‘That’s the thing, Mam. He wants me to work over Christmas. Till the 31st. Apparently, they’re flying to the Caribbean on New Year’s Eve.’
‘He can’t have you working over Christmas! Tell her, Frank. Doesn’t he know we all missed Christmas last year? Surely he and his wife can bother themselves to look after their own daughter and let you have a few days with your family, for God’s sake?’
‘I’m not sure there is a wife.’ I have a weird desire to keep Mr Montague’s private life private. Even if Mam can find out everything she needs to know online in an instant. ‘I’m sure he’s very busy with all his businesses. He’s giving me Christmas Day itself off, and I’ll spend it with the girls.’
Mam has put her phone flat on the table, so all I can see are the spotlights on the ceiling.
‘Right. What’s his name?’
‘Miles Montague. But?—’
‘Miles. Montague. Wife. Oooh.’
I grit my teeth as Mum inhales sharply at the other end.
‘Oh, it’s not good. Oh, Jesus, really? That poor little dote.’
‘Mam, do you know what? I don’t want to know. I purposely avoided googling him last night. I just feel weird. You knock yourself out, okay? But don’t tell me anything—I’m aware of the basics. I’m sure he’ll tell me in his own time.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Mam’s voice is airy. She will most definitelybe spending the rest of the morning googling Mr Montague and discussing him with her colleagues. God help the poor man. Not that he cares what a bunch of randoms in Wicklow think of him.
‘Listen to me, Saoirse. You have to stand up to people like this. Never accept their opening offer, or they’ll walk all over you. Ask him if you can come back, even for two or three days over Christmas. It won’t be the same without you, love. We miss you.’
My eyes prick. A large part of me does feel shitty. I got close to my parents again after being locked down with them for so long. Far better to have been in lockdown in beautiful Avoca than in my bedsit in Dublin.
‘Don’t listen to her, pet.’ Dad’s voice is firm. ‘Do what you need to do.’
‘Thanks, Da. Listen, I have to go. I’ll chat to you later. Love you.’
I pull the phone from my ear, double click and hold it to the tube station scanner. The Piccadilly Line never fails to seem like a magical portal to me. I get on at Park Royal, which has to be one of the most depressing places I’ve ever been, let alone lived in, and I ‘alight’ (as the robot tube voices say) at Hyde Park corner and emerge into open space and utter splendour.
The Lanesborough, a delicious ice cream of a hotel perched right on the corner. The Wellington Arch, Piccadilly stretching ahead of me to the east, the park laid out to the north, and the Montague’s regency symmetry a couple of hundred metres to the west, on the way to Knightsbridge. This is the London I came to immerse myself in. Definitely not Park Royal. No wonder I never want to leave the hotel in the evenings.
CHAPTER 3
Saoirse: Friday 3 December
The Montague feels different today. A large part of it is being able to give the employee entrance around the back a wide berth and make a beeline for that beautiful, iconic entrance, flanked by plump garlands, plumper Christmas trees, and not at all plump, but very smiley doormen, clad in festive red and gold. One of them, an older gentleman who reminds me a bit of Da, tips his red top hat and grins at me as he pulls open the door to the side of the main rotating door.
I beam back at him. ‘Thank you,’—I peek at his badge—‘Norman.’
‘Most welcome, Madam. You have a good day, now.’
‘Thank you. You too.’
Oh, it’s pure magic, sauntering through the opulent lobby with its huge tree literally stuffed full of baubles, so there’s very little green left on show. The air smells of oranges and cloves, and on all the central tables through the lobby sit enormous festive flower displays, heavy on the eucalyptus and poinsettia and gold-sprayed pine cones. It’s simply gorgeous. Someone old—Bing Crosby, probably, croons over the speakers.
