I practically float over to the lifts. It’s easy to imagine I’m a guest and to forget why I’m really here, and that everything I’m wearing is Primark or New Look or, at best, H&M. Not really posh enough for the Montague, but nothing will dampen my spirits today. I’m on my way to the Penthouse, to hang out with a lovely little girl and get paid a bucket load for it. Life is good. The universe is a friendly place.
The Montague is old-school enough to have a lift operator. He even wears white gloves.
‘Good morning!’ I give him my biggest smile. ‘Seventh floor, please!’
He raises an eyebrow, flicks his gaze over me. His name tag readsBertie. I’m loving these old-school English names.
‘Are you sure, Madam? That’s the penthouse floor.’
I don’t take offence. His job is probably to keep grubby, Primark-clad girls away from the posh people in the penthouses.
‘I’m going to the Dickens Penthouse. I’m Miles Montague’s new nanny? Well, I’m minding his daughter. Not Mr Montague. Obviously.’
‘I see.’ A slightly warmer smile, and we’re on our way.
When the door to the Dickens Penthouse swings open, it’s not Mr Montague I see, but Bea, fully dressed as Mrs Claus but with a serious case of bed head. Her tiny red dress fits her perfectly, and I can tell it’s not some crappy high street one. When I squat down to hug her, the velvet is soft and thick. The softest white faux-fur lines her neck and wrists, and over her immaculate (so far) white tights she has on red patent shoes. She’s basically a fashion icon. How depressing. But I can’t wait to get stuck into exploring this kid’s wardrobe. Behind Bea is a world of splendour I can’t even process.
‘You came!’ Bea’s breath is hot in my ear. Her tiny arms squeeze my neck.
‘Of course I came, pet. We’re going to have the best time ever together. And I love your Christmas outfit.’
‘Thanks. We buyed it from Harrods last weekend,’ Bea says airily. ‘I love your earrings.’ She fingers my Christmas tree earrings reverently. I knew this child was worth making an effort for.
Next thing, my jaw literally drops open as Mr Montague comes into view. Oh, good Lord. I couldn’t help but notice his physical attributes in The Playroom last night—Keeley was as right about them as she was about his grumpy manner—but holy shit. He’s holding a coffee mug, and he’s dressed in a white shirt and suit trousers, but to call them that does them a disservice.
The shirt is fitted, and it follows the line of his lean torso as it tapers into the waistband of his trousers. Angels must have tailored those trousers. They’re dark grey, with the lustrous sheen of expensive wool, and they fit him so perfectly I could weep.
Best of all, the top button of his shirt is undone and his collar turned up; an icy blue silk tie hangs open around his neck.
I could help him with that tie.
I could go fullPretty Womanon him right now, given half the chance.
I scramble to my feet.
‘You came. Good.’ He nods and his eyes flick over me, but not in a good way. My blue coat and ancient red tights are definitely not having the same effect on his man parts right now as his get-up is having on my lady parts.
‘Morning, Mr Montague.’
He waves a dismissive hand. ‘Miles, please. The more informal we are, the more comfortable Bea will feel with this situation.’ It’s like he’s parroting words someone has told himto say, and his grimace suggests he doesn’t believe them any more than I do.
Bea chimes in. ‘Saoirse looks like Paddington Bear, Daddy! Doesn’t she?’
I look down at my blue duffel coat and beam. ‘That’s exactly the look I was going for!’ It really is. I saw the blue coat and had to have it. ‘And I didn’t have red wellies. So I put red tights on, instead.’
When I look up at Miles, he’s blinking at me. Clearly, he and his daughter don’t always see eye to eye sartorially. Though his style choices are working well for him.
Very well indeed.
‘Right.’ His tone is clipped. ‘I need to get going, so let me give you the rundown.’ He strides over to a console table and dumps his mug. Runs his hand through his still-damp dark hair, and I swallow. He fastens his top button and ties his tie as he talks. If I remember anything he says while watching him do that, it’ll be a miracle.
‘Coffee machine is there, in the kitchen.’ He points.
‘Don’t worry; I only drink tea.’ I have a sandwich bag full of Barry’s tea bags in my bag. PG Tips is revolting.
‘Fine. Kettle’s in there too. You have complete freedom till four o’clock. You can stay here, you can take her to The Playroom, or take her out. I’d like her to get outside once a day, if possible. I suspect you two will find lots of festive things to do.’ He grimaces as if festive is a swear word. ‘Here’s my Amex.’
Holy moly. The guy’s just put a platinum Amex on the table.
