‘It floats my boat big-time. In a torturous kind of way.’
His hand roams up the back of my thigh and under my skirt. He squeezes my ass. ‘This skirt is way too easy access.’
‘Hence the granny-grade tights.’
He kisses me on the mouth and backs away before Bea comes back in.
‘I’m not sure how you make even that sound alluring. And that polo neck is very, very tight.’
‘You going to be able to focus on any work today, Mr Montague?’ I smile at him and soak up the sight of him. His face. His (now dishevelled) hair. His tie. His everything.
After I’ve endured the delicious torment of watching Miles tie his tie with triumphant glances at me in the mirror, he leaves for work, throwing me a puppy-dog expression as he walks out the door.
And then it’s Project Santa time.
Because today is the day.
The high point in the run-up to Christmas.
Today, we’re off to see Santa (or Father Christmas, as the British call him) in his grotto at Harrods.
First, we compose Bea’s letter to Santa. We head to The Playroom to take full advantage of its art supplies. Bea is adamant she wants this letter to be special. I take a piece of red paper and stick a smaller piece of white paper in the middle. I’ll write Bea’s list on that, and Bea can decorate the red border.
The paper is rich with stickers of stars, bells, snowmen and candy canes. It also gets hit hard with gold glitter.
It’s fabulous.
‘Now for the important part,’ I tell Bea. ‘What are you asking Santa for?’Dear Santa, I write in a clear print.For Christmas, I would love:
Bea knows all her letters, but she can only write a handful of words, most notably her name.
‘Right.’ Bea clears her throat and purses her lips like the little lady she is. She clasps her tiny fingers in front of her onthe table. ‘Most of all, I would like an American Girl doll with yellow hair. Like the one I seed on Daddy’s iPad.’
‘Excellent. Great start.’An American Girl doll with yellow hair.‘What’s next?’
‘She needs some clothes. And a pony.’
I stifle a giggle. This doll is seriously high maintenance. But either Bea has already briefed Miles ad nauseam, or he’s seriously good. She’ll be one happy little elf on Christmas morning. I write a new line.Clothes and a pony for my American Girl doll.
‘Anything else, pet?’
Bea considers. She squirms a little and leans towards me, curling her hand around my ear as if to tell me a secret. ‘I want my Mummy to come back.’
For a second, my brain refuses to play ball.Whatdid she say? That sounded like?—
‘You’d like your Mummy to come back, sweetheart?’
I put my hands on Bea’s little shoulders so I can draw back from her and look her in the eye. Bea nods at me. Her brown eyes are huge, bottomless mirrors; her little face is more serious than a four-year-old’s face should ever be.
Don’t react.
Don’t let her see how devastated you are for her, how messed up it is that her mummy is alive and on the other side of the fucking worldby choice. I feel sick to my stomach, but I exhale heavily and put my hands on either side of Bea’s face.
‘You know, pet, I’m not sure how good Santa is at delivering mummies. There’s no harm in asking, but I don’t want you to be disappointed. However, I happen to know for a fact that he isverygood at delivering toys. And maybe we can FaceTime your mummy later and say hi to her?’
I haven’t been privy to any of Bea’s FaceTimes with her mum since I’ve looked after her. Because of the eight-hour time difference, she tends to do it justbefore bedtime, on Miles’ iPad. I know this because she always tells me the next morning when she’s spoken to her mummy. And Miles mentioned that sometimes she lays the iPad on the pillow next to her and asks her mummy to sing her to sleep, a fact that makes my entire face ache with the pressure of unspilt tears, if I allow myself to think about it at all.
‘Okay.’ Bea says the word in a sad, soft sing-song.
