And the Nutcracker?
Winter Wonderland
Santa at Harrods
To shut her up, I reply straight back with Angela’s contact details.
All fine. Please call Angela to book.
She has no way of knowing this, but some of these requests will need serious money thrown at them. Allegra used to book Father Christmas at Harrods in September. And matinee tickets to The Nutcracker at this late date will require some cash. We’ll probably need to get a box. But no matter. I’ve done nothing at all to make December festive for Bea, and I’m damned if it will be a repeat of last Christmas.
Saoirse replies with a photo of Bea, her head bent over a large sheet of white paper, a Pritt Stick in her hand.
That little face.
My angel.
She’s the only thing in my life that matters now. When I think of the Christmas she endured last year, theyearshe’s endured, for God’s sake, it makes me sick to my stomach.
Her mother—gone. And her inability, of course, because she’sfour, to even remotely comprehend the depths of selfishness that drove her mother to abandon her.
And it hasn’t even broken her. I’m blown away by the grace and generosity this little girl has shown. I’m a shell, but her heart is still open for business. Wide open. Far, far too open.
Look at this woman, Saoirse. Bea embraces people so quickly. She latches on to adults, especially women, who show her attention and affection, and she does so with a raw desperation that fucking kills me.
And instead of dealing with it properly, like I should, like I will, with therapy and carefully imposed boundaries around the people we allow into our lives, I jump for the first bandage I see. And I hope to God it will stem the flow from Bea’s huge, invisible wound, for a few days, a few weeks. Just to get us through Christmas.
It’s a lose-lose situation. Either this woman will fail to provide Bea with the maternal and emotional nourishment she’s so clearly craving, because why should she? How can she?
Or, she’ll fall for my little girl, and my little girl will fall for her, and Bea will transfer her desperation for a mother figure onto a relative stranger, and the grieving process will begin again when we bid this woman farewell and I uproot Bea to St Barths. What a fucking mess.
I leave the City at three to get back to Knightsbridge in time for this party. Being driven is the most civilised way to get around London, but it certainly isn’t the quickest. I make good use of the time, though. Emails, budgetary sign-offs, phone calls. A WhatsApp comes through from Angela.
Holding box for The Nutcracker. Royal Opera House. 1.30 matinee on the 18th. Will you join?
I shoot back a reply.
Yes. And The River Restaurant @ Savoy for after thx.
I’m not a total killjoy, and if I have to do anything festive, the ballet and an excellent fish supper are hardly intolerable. The River Restaurant is Gordon Ramsey’s new place, and I’ve heard great things. Besides, it’s always good to keep up with what dining options the competition is offering.
And it’s not like it would kill me to make Saoirse’s London Christmas a little more fun. She’s given up Christmas with her family for me and Bea, after all. Something tells me she won’t have crossed the Royal Opera House and the Savoy off her bucket list just yet. She mentioned she’s only been here a month.
It will be a nice gesture to show off London’s best side. I’m just not sure why the idea of seeing London through Saoirse’s eyes gives me the first spark ofsomethingI’ve had for a long time.
CHAPTER 5
Saoirse: Friday 3 December
My first day couldn’t be going better. It’s been dreamy, in fact. As soon as Miles left this morning, Bea gave me a tour of the penthouse, and it was sublime. It reminded me of the suite at the Ritz where Anna Scott stayed inNotting Hill. The one with all the rooms, where she held those excruciatingly awkward interviews.
Bea, who is a fount of knowledge about the hotel, tells me there are only two penthouses. Which makes sense, because the footprint of this thing is insane.
There’s a gorgeous living room with a huge fireplace, and when we get back from our fancy girls’ lunch at Scalini’s on Walton Street (which is the cutest street ever, with its tiny posh shops and terraces of pastel dolls’ houses), someone has put the gas fire on, so the whole room is toasty. There’s also a dining room, a kitchen, three bedrooms, and four bathrooms. Why anyone needs more bathrooms than bedrooms is not clear, but that doesn’t make it any less impressive.
It’s more like a very fancy apartment—flat, they call them over here—than a hotel suite. It’s decorated so beautifully, its high ceilings dripping with creamy, curly mouldings and hugechandeliers. The lighting system looks like something you’d need a PhD to work. But, of course, Bea has it sussed, and between lunch and going down to the party she demonstrates it by dimming the chandeliers until they glow softly and turning on the ridiculous number of pretty lamps dotted around the room.
Although everything in here is flawless, the designers have managed to create a welcoming mood that begs you to sink down onto a well-stuffed sofa with a book and a glass of wine. It’s heaven. I can’t even imagine how much it costs per night.
