Miles and Bea are in their suite right now, without me, rekindling their relationship with Allegra: a woman who has far more right to both of them than I do. No matter what terrible errors of judgement she’s made in the past.
She came to her senses.
She came home.
And I know, I can justtell, that Miles is the kind of guy whose loyalty, once earned, is steadfast. He’s one of the most committed fathers I’ve ever encountered. He’ll do whatever it takes to give Bea a stable, loving family. What’s more, he may be furious with Allegra for having abandoned them, but he’s definitely alluded to how devastated he was when she left. It’s always seemed to me that he’s not over it.
So two deserving, gorgeous, wonderful people whom I love have been given a second chance of happiness. I should be thrilled for them. Iamthrilled for them. I just wish I didn’thave a brief glimpse of what extraordinary happiness a life with those two would offer.
I can’t go back and work for them next week; I know that already. It’s out of the question. No matter how much I want to see Bea. No matter how much I want to see Miles. I can never go back as the nanny, wiping up crumbs and overseeing tooth-brushing while Allegra and Miles fall back in love right in front of me.
What are they doing right this second? It’s almost six. They’re probably sitting around the dining room table, Miles and Allegra sipping a celebratory glass of Dom Perignon as they supervise Bea’s teatime.
She’ll be eating her favourite room service meal: the hotel’s obscenely good pasta pomodoro, which I always finish off. Will Allegra finish it for Bea? Does she eat? She doesn’t look like she eats much except rabbit food. California must have been right up her street in that respect.
So, they’re eating. What’s the mood? Bea’s probably ecstatic: up to ninety, and her parents are trying to calm her down. The primal joy in her voice when she screamed her mum’s name will haunt me for some time. And Miles and Allegra are… cautiously happy?
Miles will be circumspect at first, unable to believe his wife is back. But I’m familiar enough with Allegra through Sandra to know that her bouncy, sunny personality will soon coax him out of his shell. They’ll drift closer to one another over the course of the evening. She’ll lay her glossy, honey-coloured head on his shoulder when they’re chilling out after dinner, and he’ll melt, draw her closer.
They won’t have a bath together, will they? Dear God, please don’t let them have a bath together. Could Miles do that to me? He couldn’t. Could he? It will kill me. It’ll finish me off if I allow myself to think about that. And I’ll neverbe able to look at a flannel again, though fuck knows, I may need one in my lonely, grotty bathtub.
I pick up my phone and open WhatsApp. Miles was last seen at four-twenty-eight. Just before Allegra arrived, presumably. Clearly they’re having far too nice a time for him to need to distract himself with WhatsApp. The last message he sent me was that jokey one about the flannel.
What a difference a day makes.
I told him I’d send the photo of Bea’s beautiful, and heartbreaking, and downrightspookyletter to Santa.
Here you go. What a magical little girl x
I add the photo. There is so, so much more to say, but there’s no point in bothering him with any of it. I hit the arrow to send.
He replies a short while after.
Thanks x
So that’s that, then.
CHAPTER 30
Miles: Thursday 23 December
Allegra and Bea sit at the dining table together, doing a Christmas colouring book Allegra brought her back from LA. She’s making an effort. A far bigger effort than she used to make with Bea before she left. She genuinely seems to be revelling in her time with her daughter. It’s almost as if the leopard has changed her spots.
I lounge sideways on the sofa, feet up, laptop on my thighs. I’ve told the office I’ll work from home this week.
Obviously.
I’m not letting Allegra out of my sight. Fuck knows what kind of stunt she’d pull. It’s not that I think she’s a flight risk, and she is Bea’s mother, after all. But her little disappearing act earned me full custody, and I’m damned if I’m going to do a single thing to put my daughter in jeopardy.
I study her, eyes narrowed. Objectively, she’s a stunningly beautiful woman. She looks younger than her thirty-four years, despite her love of sunbathing. Her dermatologist has seen to that. Her hair falls softly over her eyes, and her smile makes her face far softer. Clearly the LA lifestyle agrees withher: she’s in even better shape than she was before, if that’s possible (presumably all that yoga), and her skin glows.
It’s not enough.
Not any more.
It was at first, when she dazzled me at a charity event, and I was swept up in the alchemy of her honey-coloured limbs and incredible pale-blue eyes and, if I’m totally honest, her status. Like me, she comes from money, and her independent wealth made her a gold-digger magnet when she was on the market. I could relate.
Knowing she wasn’t after my money made her an instant candidate for my consideration. Knowing that she was widely touted by the society columns as one of the most beautiful and eligible young women in London added an undeniable edge to my interest. I was guilty of the worst form of narcissism: bagging myself a trophy girlfriend. And that lapse of judgement sure as fuck came back to bite me on the arse.
