‘Morning, Saoirse. You not working today?’
‘Hi, Norman. No, I’m—taking a few days off till after Christmas.’ That’s the official line, anyhow. No need to burden Norman with my problems.
‘Ah. I see.’ He nods sagely. ‘I guess now the mistress is back, you can take it easy, eh?’
So he knows. Everyone knows—of course they do. It’s probably the gossip of the year that Allegra has come back from the dead.
‘Exactly.’ I nod brightly. ‘I’m dropping some presents off for them.’
I wasn’t sure what to get Miles—what do you buy the man who has everything? But on Sunday, on my way back from The Montague and secure in the knowledge that Miles and I were building something special, I stopped off in Peter Jones in Sloane Square and bought him a scarlet cashmerescarf. I was sure he’d see the funny side. Hopefully, he still will.
And there was a particularly gorgeous photo of him and Bea together at The Savoy, grinning from ear to ear, which I printed out in Boots and put in a nice frame, also from John Lewis. I’ve wrapped them in The Grinch paper, even though I know now that Miles’ lack of festive spirit when I met him didn’t make him mean or cold: he was just hurting. He’s anything but cold when you get to know him.
For Bea, I’ve got a festive sticker book and some enormous pink fluffy slippers from Primark, made fully from petrochemicals. Miles will hate them; Bea will adore them.
I drop my parcels off at the concierge. James, who’s practically become my fixer over the past month, gives me a huge grin.
‘You all right, Saoirse? You working today?’
I repeat what I said to Norman, and wish James a very Merry Christmas, and drag my sorry self out of the heavenly, festive warmth of The Montague lobby and into the cold outside.
After a few hours of walking around London, its buzz making me and my problems feel pleasantly insignificant, I reluctantly retrace my steps back to Park Royal and my new reality.
I miss home.
I miss how small Dublin is, and how I can barely go out on the weekend without bumping into someone from college. I miss the magnificent Wicklow countryside and Avoca’s suffocatingly small, but endlessly friendly, community. If I were still living in Ireland, I’d be back in Avoca now.
I’d give anything to hang around the kitchen, drinking tea and wine with whoever popped in to see us and get the news from London. There’d be Quality Street, and mountains of Tayto crisps, and a permanently intoxicating smell in the airfrom simmering Christmas puddings or hams or brown bread or whatever else Mam had on the go. Christmas at home is always like the feeding of the five thousand, but with zero room left for miracles.
So why the hell didn’t I jump on a flight last night? Miles has paid me so well that I could have treated myself to an Aer Lingus flight. And I was so tempted. But I know why I didn’t.
I tell myself I can’t bear the gossip, and the pity, and the well-meaning questions, and the constant explaining and retelling that I’ll be roped into by Mam and Da and Clodagh and the three million visitors who’ll traipse through our kitchen over the next week.
But the real reason is more pathetic. Much more pathetic.
If I go home, I’m done. I might not even bother coming back to London. I’ll have accepted defeat, and I’ll have put distance between myself and Miles and Bea. Drawn a line under my December fairytale. Admitted that it has no part in my future.
And I’m not ready to do that.
I’d rather be a few miles away from them than a few hundred.
I’d rather know, on Christmas Day, that I’m in the same magical city as them, and not in a different country entirely.
So I’ll stay.
WTF is this?
It’s a WhatsApp from Clodagh. After theMailpublished those photos of us at Sorrel Farm, I filled my sister in on my fledgling romance with Miles. Unlike my flatmates, Clodagh got a detailed account. And she dug it.
A flurry of photos follow the message. I hit the top one with a weary finger.
Oh, fuckity fuck.
The Sun’s got photos of Miles, Allegra and Bea exiting the main rotating door of The Montague. Miles is ahead, his hand up and his face stern. He’s probably shouting obscenities at the paps.
He looks so bloody gorgeous I can hardly breathe. A few strands of hair fall over his forehead, and he has his grey scarf on. It’s tied neatly, cosily, around his neck. Didshetie it for him? It’s so weird to think that he’s out there, striding around London, shouting at people, right this second.
The money shot is next. Allegra and Bea in matching furry white coats. Bea’s must be a gift from Allegra, because I’ve never seen it before. Bea will have it filthy more quickly than you can sayhot chocolate.
