So far, I have scrubbed, peeled and par-boiled a mountain of spuds for tomorrow. Trimmed the sprouts. Cut the carrots into fine batons. Made the stuffing. Cut the parsnips. Keeley and Becky are really benefiting from my turmoil. I’ve chopped and trimmed and scrubbed like a motherfucking robot.
Don’t think about Miles.
Don’t think about Bea.
Don’t think about glossy, gorgeous Allegra cosying up to both of them.
God, I’m sostupid. I had no intention of getting serious with anyone when I came over (not that I was averse to the idea of a bit of fun. I’ve always liked a posh British accent). Ididn’t really think hard about what kind of guy I might end up fancying, but come on.Miles Montague?!
I must have been insane. Talk about out of my league. Like model-grade looks, an obscenely impressive business empire, and a shit-tonne of baggage. I got comfortable, dazzled by the false intimacy of spending so much time at home with him and Bea.
Not that I don’t know he liked me. He’s a genuine guy; I doubt he’d be capable of small talk and stringing me along. The lust part was real for him, anyway. But his real life came back to give him a kick up his ass and bite me in my ass.
And now I’m back at square one, except instead of being grateful and excited about shacking up in London with a gang of girls, I’m gutted. Absolutely gutted.
Because the thing is, I may have been a nice little interlude for him. But he was the real deal for me.
Anyway, my loss is our Christmas Eve party’s gain. I have the flat immaculate. There are bowls of crisps everywhere. Sausage rolls. All the booze that doesn’t need to be chilled is laid out nicely on the table in the living room. My decorations look gorgeous, if I say so myself.
I’ve pulled on an old red dress that always serves me well at parties, mainly because it’s really stretchy and makes my boobs and ass look amazing. It’s the gift that keeps on giving and requires zero effort. Which is good, because I don’t feel like making an effort for anyone tonight.
This is definitely the least festive I’ve ever felt on Christmas Eve, but I dutifully put on my Christmas pudding dangly earrings. Fake it till you make it, and all that. Jeez, I really should have escaped home when I had the chance. I could be lying on the sofa right now, mainlining roasted peanuts and watching utter crap, instead of having to socialise.
As the guests arrive, a rowdy mix of Irish and Aussies andKiwis who are stuck in London for Christmas, I paste on a smile. Nobody likes a Grinch.
People turn up at an alarming rate. Who the hell did Keeley invite? The doorbell goes for the sixth or seventh time, and I hit the front door release button again. The flat is going to be a total shambles tomorrow morning. I’ll spend Christmas morning hoovering.
Excellent.
I go to let in whoever’s coming up the stairs. Open the door to our flat wearily and hang off it. Stop dead. Because there, in front of me, is simply the best sight I’ve ever seen. A sight so gorgeous I can’t believe what my eyes are telling my brain.
It’s Miles.
With Bea in his arms.
MILES
I spent most of the car journey cursing my not-so-smart idea of having Dave drive me and Bea to Saoirse’s Christmas Eve evening. The A40 out to Park Royal is fucking grid locked. And, of course, she has to live just off the A40 in grim suburbia.
If Bea was any less excited, she’d have fallen asleep already, but she’s a woman on a mission. I sat her down this afternoon and explained that Mummy would definitely be staying in London, but that she’d be getting her own house to live in.
I had no idea how she’d take that, having had a night of being back with her mum, but she’s been surprisingly okay with it. As if having Mummy back in the same city is a win she’s willing to take afterso long.
I made Allegra ram the point home to Bea too. She took her for afternoon tea ‘alone’ in the Grand Salon while I sat in the lobby and twiddled my fingers. We can’t start soon enough with rebuilding Bea’s sense of security, with proving to her that she can depend on the most important adults in her life to be there. Always.
And during my chat with Bea, I also told her that I wanted Saoirse to be my girlfriend. I didn’t want her to work for us, but to spend time with us both because she wanted to.
‘But I think she’s sad,’ I told Bea. ‘I think I hurt her feelings because I sent her home when Mummy arrived. And now I’m worried she thinks I don’t like her anymore. And I do. I love her.’
I’ve now told two women I love Saoirse. I just need to damn well tell her to her face.
‘I love her too!’ Bea’s eyes were wide with concern. ‘Can we go and get her?’
‘We can, baby. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
And that’s why, instead of being curled up in the penthouse together with a festive movie, we’re climbing a flight of stairs in a narrow hallway that smells of kebabs in a godawful part of London at seven o’clock on Christmas Eve.
Staring at the face of the angel who’s opened the door.
