His middle brother, Theo, is a stark contrast to his siblings. He’s definitely as blessed in the looks department as Miles is, but his jokey, irreverent side is far more evident. His sense of humour is heavy on flirtation and light on political correctness. I think he’s hilarious, but Miles’ mouth is pressed in a grim line most of the time I’m talking to Theo.
If I was in the business of making generalisations, I’d diagnose Middle Child Syndrome. Theo brushes off their mum’s questions about possible girlfriends with ill-disguised impatience. I pity the women who get involved with him. He must have broken a few hearts in his time.
Bea’s just as entranced as I am by her baby cousins, so after lunch, we leave her playing Mummy and Babies with her tiny human dolls, carefully supervised by Stephen and Margot. Her new American Girl doll, Shonda, can’t hold a candle to the real thing.
‘You up for a little walk?’ Miles asks me. ‘I’d like to show you our house.’
I’d love to see his and Bea’s home. And it’s a case of walking off the turkey or lying on the sofa and never getting off it again. I wrap my enormous Astrid Carmichael coat around me (Miles procured a brand-new one, which he also stashed under the tree for me this morning), and off we go.
‘I thought your house was in Holland Park?’
‘It is. It’s right next to Notting Hill. A lot of these roads straddle the boundary.’
We stroll, hand in hand, along the prettiest crescents. Many of the houses look to have professional-grade festive lights and decorations outside. Dusk is falling, and I get some fantastic glimpses of the local residents’ at-home Christmas Day entertaining: softly twinkling trees, chandeliers dripping with crystal, mantlepieces festooned with greenery, and glamorous people drinking champagne.
This part of the world is glorious. Rarified. I can hardly believe people live like this.
‘Have you spoken to your folks yet today?’ Miles asks me.
‘I had a quick chat with Mam and Da before they went to Mass this morning. They want a FaceTime later. They’re dying to meet you—they’re so excited for me. It’s so cute.’
‘I’m happy to do a FaceTime when we get back to the hotel.’ He squeezes my hands. ‘I’d love to meet your parents.’
‘Be warned. Mam is completely mad. And God knows how many people will be in the house. And they’ll definitely all be drunk—Mam’s probably on the Bailey’s already. There’s a good chance she’ll ask you when you’re going to propose.’ I shake my head. ‘Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow morning, when everyone’s briefly sober.’
Miles leaned over and kisses my cheekbone, just below where my hat lands. ‘If she asks me that, I’ll tell her I’ll propose as soon as I think I can get away with it without you freaking out.’
I twist my head and gape at him, and he smirks. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.
Please be serious.
He doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to joke about marriage—especially not after what he’s been through—but we’ve only been back together properly for twenty-four hours. Less.
The idea of Miles actually proposing to me makes my heart ache. How the hell did I get this lucky? But all I say is:
‘That would be one way to shut her up, for sure.’
My eyes must give away my emotions, though, because he pulls me into his arms, there and then, for the most tender kiss.
His house, currently hidden behind a hoarding, is extraordinary: a huge, white villa with beautiful black iron-work. Detached, which I’ve quickly deduced is a big deal in central London. There’s lots of builders’ crap in the front garden, but the house itself seems to be in good shape, if dark and empty.
‘How finished is it?’
‘They’re working on the kitchen now. Everything else is done. The kitchen cupboards and marble tops got delayed, but they’re coming next week, so we should be good to move back in when we get back from the Caribbean.’
He opens the raised front door and hits a lighting pad, and the upper ground floor illuminates. I gasp. It’s spectacular. A wide hallway leads through an arch to an enormous double living room, which is all soft greys and whites. Brand-new sofas under plastic wrap. A gloriously ornate white fireplace.
‘There’s a lot of art to go back in here,’ Miles tells me. ‘It’s not safe to hang it while it’s a building site. The insurance company would go crazy.’
‘I didn’t know you liked art.’ I spin slowly around, looking up. The ceiling boasts divine, creamy coving and chandeliers that make the ones we passed on the way here look paltry.
‘I love art.’ His hands slide around my waist. ‘First impressions?’
‘It’s gorgeous, Miles. It is absolutely jaw-dropping. Like a dream.’
‘Better than Park Royal?’
Something about the way he asks makes my skin prick.
