We’ve stuck the festive calendar up in Bea’s room. It’s already looking great. We stole a sheet of tiny gold star stickers from The Playroom, and every time we book something up, we write it in and decorate it with stars.
Miles’ assistant, Angela, is a miracle worker. She’s really friendly, too. She seems genuinely excited about being able to help me book up treats for Bea. We’re kicking off tomorrow with Winter Wonderland, which is just a stroll away in Hyde Park, and we’ve booked up ice skating at Somerset House, too. But the thing I’m most excited about is going to see The Nutcracker. In a box. This gig is so jammy! I can’t believe my luck.
Bea has decided to stick with her Mrs Claus look for the party at the hotel, although she’s changed her white tights, which got mud-spattered in the rain, and put on red glittery slip-ons with a huge bow and a band of red elastic to hold them on. I’ve had an absolute ball going through Bea’s wardrobe. She’s like a little doll, with her huge brown eyes and rosebud mouth, and I get to dress her up. I’ve even curled her glossy brown hair into ringlets and added a red grosgrain hairband.
The only painful moment in the whole day was when we were making the festive calendar. As we inked inTheNutcrackerfor the 18th, and I selected a ballerina sticker for good measure, Bea looked up at me, her brown eyes huge.
‘Saoirse?’
‘Yes, pet?’
A pause. It’s as if she’s weighing her words. Do four-year-olds weigh their words? I was under the impression they had no filter.
‘Will my Mummy be coming to the ballet with us?’
I searched those brown eyes as if they held the clue to whatever on earth I should say to that question, because I was damned if I had a clue either where Bea’s mum was or what the official line was where Bea was concerned. I should have done my homework when I had the chance. Or Miles should have equipped me to field these potential landmines.
My finger hovered over the Google icon on my phone. But whatever I found on there wouldn’t tell me what the right answer was for this little girl. I’d ask Miles as soon as I got a chance. For now, I was stuck with what I had: the truth and a massive dollop of affection for my tiny charge.
‘I’m not sure, pet,’ I told her. ‘But I’ll find out for you.’
By the time we’re ready to head down to the ballroom, Bea’s thoughts are squarely on the glittery beguilement of her Wizard of Oz shoes and the likely presence of a chocolate fountain at the party. We pack her tiny red handbag with a cherry-flavoured lip balm and a tiny, squidgy stress toy, which is apparently called a mochi. Because, you know, being a four-year-old is so stressful. But I’m a fan of Bea’s attention to the smallest details of an outfit.
The party is already in full swing, and when we find the Austen Ballroom, I have a full-on Cinderella moment. This place is spectacular. In front of the entrance stands the facade of a huge wardrobe, manned by a footman in a white wig.
He bows to Bea and opens one of the wardrobe doors. ‘This way, Madam.’
The wardrobe is, in fact, backless and opens out into a real-life Narnia. The entire room is up-lit in pale blues and whites that cast their shadows up over ornate panels, abundant white-sprayed naked branches, and snowy firs. There are all manner of actors dressed as animals scampering about. And on the stage at the far end of the room sits an enormous throne and, on it, the Snow Queen.
‘Wow.’ Bea’s eyes are saucers.
‘This is amazing!’ I lift her up into my arms to give her a better view. Children are everywhere, and beautifully dressed grown-ups stand at the poser tables punctuating the room, making conversation and drinking champagne. In front of them, a snowy signpost directs us to alluring places such as Santa’s Grotto, The Land of Chocolate, and The Magical Marquee. They may be interpreting the Narnia theme loosely, but the kids are in heaven.
By the time Miles arrives, Bea and I have made ourselves properly at home. Bea’s in a red cotton apron with her name embroidered in curly white letters across the front. It’s already covered in the fallout from her encounter with the chocolate fountain. The level of detail and effort from the organisers of this thing blows my mind. It’s having quite a weird effect on me, actually. Bea’s entranced too, but she’s taking it all at face value, naturally. Whereas I’m equally mesmerised by the final effect and by the behind-the-scenes machinations that have gone into producing said effect.
Every can of spray paint that must have been used, the fact that the iridescent glitter on every tree is perfectly even, the headache of having a personalised apron for every child attending despite the fact that the guest list must have changed God knows how many times… it makes me overwhelmed and profoundly happy in equal measure.Thisis what I’d love to do as a job. Dream up magical worlds, so far removed from everyday existence, and bring them to life in the physicalrealm. Could there be a more creatively indulgent career? I can’t think of one.
And then Miles arrives, and I forget everything else for a moment. He’s more entrancing than the most glittery tree in this fantastical kingdom. He’s lost the coat, but that scarf still hangs around his neck, and he’s holding a glass of champagne as he stalks across the room to us. His hair is damp; he combs it back off his face with his free hand.
‘What a bloody nightmare. Hi, baby.’ He stoops and kisses Bea on her forehead as she beams up at him. I can’t blame her.Hi, baby.Lucky Bea.
Stop it.
You cannot be jealous of a four-year-old.
That’s twisted.
‘I had to walk from Piccadilly. The whole damn street was gridlocked.’ He exhales deeply and seems to collect himself. ‘How was your day?’
‘It was great!’ I’m instantly torn between a desire not to annoy him with too much wittering—he doesn’t seem big on small talk—and the pool of enthusiasm that’s threatening to spill over inside me.
Enthusiasm wins.
As always.
‘We went for lunch at Scalini’s. It was yum; I can’t believe how much this one ate! They love her there. And this is, like, the most amazing party I’ve ever been to. Isn’t it gorgeous? Look at this tent!’
I gesture over my head at the pale-blue-and-white big top that’s been erected in a room connecting to the ballroom, housing the Christmas craft tables. Which Bea and I are loving. From the top of the tent hang millions of glittering snowflakes. There are full-height Nutcrackers everywhere, in sugared-almond colours, with gold and silver and white frogging and bejewelled mitres. I’m in sensory heaven.
