Книга - Notting Hill in the Snow

Notting Hill in the Snow
Jules Wake


Escape to Notting Hill this Christmas… From the bestselling author of Covent Garden in the Snow, this is the most romantic and charming book you’ll read this Christmas… A Notting Hill nativity… what could go wrong? Viola Smith plays the viola in an orchestra (yes really!) but this year she's been asked to stretch her musical talents to organising Notting Hill's local nativity. Nate Williams isn't looking forward to Christmas but as his small daughter, Grace, has the starring role in the show, he's forced to stop being a Grinch and volunteer with Viola. With the sparks between them hotter than the chestnuts roasting in Portobello market, Nate and Viola can't deny their feelings. And as the snow starts to fall over London, they find themselves trapped together in more ways than one… This is a gorgeously heartwarming and uplifting Christmas romance, perfect for fans of Sue Moorcroft, Isabelle Broom or any Hugh Grant romcom… From Four Weddings and a Funeral to Notting Hill! Praise for Covent Garden in the Snow… ‘Had me laughing from the first page!’ Rachel’s Random Reads ‘Buy this book, put up a do not disturb sign and enjoy indulging in every page – you won't be disappointed!’ Gem’s Quiet Corner ‘A romantic and hilarious novel with a beautiful and snowy Christmas atmosphere’ Chicklit Club ‘Oh I absolutely loved Tilly! What a fun, festive book, and a beautiful cover’ LoveReading. com









Notting Hill in the Snow

JULES WAKE








One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Jules Wake 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Emoji © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008354817

Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008354800

Version: 2019-10-04


For my home stars, Nick, Ellie & Matt, all so talented, you never fail to inspire me. x


Table of Contents

Cover (#u2d019425-36db-5a54-a88d-9f419248ea0d)

Title Page (#u039ce807-7f09-5fdb-af98-25f3750177bc)

Copyright (#u01a9536b-311b-5202-b257-8fe29c09d200)

Dedication (#u9bf60c85-276b-5c0a-b7ae-126e0bda4afb)

Chapter 1 (#uca3eb043-9081-591c-ad2e-9d8ccc08d8f7)

Chapter 2 (#u3efd3b51-215d-547d-85c7-77a23ad58388)

Chapter 3 (#u49dbc76b-3dcf-5917-ad6c-1ad54c2cd16e)

Chapter 4 (#u05486591-3fb3-5cab-b8c7-0a79dc8d0782)

Chapter 5 (#uf75b82ed-1919-5551-bf3a-4d06aefb4703)

Chapter 6 (#u2b6aa57a-aefa-573e-93ad-69044d6e487d)

Chapter 7 (#ud14912db-35dc-50df-9c59-9ef742e81159)

Chapter 8 (#u22088ffe-0a4f-532c-9490-0cd1f38a46fb)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements

Footnote

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#ulink_85da9249-de40-5dcf-960b-abc25e307d4f)


‘Do you have to bring that thing on here at this time of day?’ snapped the woman, whipping round to look at me, her spiky, spider leg mascaraed eyes shooting sheer poison as everyone on the platform at Notting Hill Gate surged forward when the tube doors opened. ‘Bloody inconsiderate.’ I think there might have been an F-word in there as well but I didn’t quite catch it.

Taken aback by her hostility, all I could mutter was a hasty, ‘Sorry,’ as she gave me another outraged glare.

This time my apologetic smile was tinged with a hey-lady-I-have-to-get-to-work-too shrug. Travelling with a violin case (actually it’s a viola but everyone assumes) can make you unpopular in rush hour, which is why most of the time I do my best to avoid it.

Conscious of all eyes on me, almost siding with the woman who was still muttering about it being a disgrace, I clutched the case to my chest, trying to take up as little space as possible. Even though my nose was squashed up against it, she still tutted. Then she tossed her hair, saying in a loud voice, ‘This is ridiculous,’ and squeezed past with a rough shove which pushed me into one of the grab rails. The case ricocheted off the metal right back into my face, hitting my cheekbone with a crunch that brought tears to my eyes. The shock of the pain, and that she’d do something like that, temporarily stunned me and, rather than say anything, I just stood there like a complete idiot.

By the time I’d gathered my dazed wits together she’d gone, swallowed up by the crowd, working her way down the carriage. My cheek throbbed but it was too difficult to manoeuvre an arm up out of the crush and hang onto my viola to give it the there-there rub it desperately needed. I blinked hard, keeping my eyes closed, aware that some people had seen what had happened. When I opened them, I caught sight of a pair of warm brown eyes softening in sympathy. He mouthed, ‘You OK?’

I swallowed, feeling another rush of tears, hating the unwelcome feeling of being vulnerable and pathetic. I nodded. Don’t be nice, please don’t be nice. You really will make me cry. Despite everything, the warm smile and genuine concern made me feel a little better, a single ally in the hostile crowd, all desperate to get to work. I gave him a wan, grateful smile back. Nice man. Very nice man indeed. I’m a sucker for brown eyes. And smiles, for that matter. Smiles make a difference in life. They cost nothing and they can make a big difference to your day. Like his had done to mine. Mrs Scowly Over-made-up Face was probably destined to be miserable all day.

As he looked away, I sneaked a second look. He looked all business, buttoned-up and Mr Nine-to-Five, but nice – OK, gorgeous – and in that smart suit, with very shiny brogues and short, neat cropped hair, way out of my league. This morning I was rocking the Mafia moll look, an occupational hazard when you spend half your life toting a viola case around London. The look was completed by my long swingy bob, because it was easy to keep and suited my straight conker-brown, glossy – thank you, God – hair and Mac’s finest Lady Danger bright red lipstick because my make-up artist friend Tilly had talked me into it and a severe black dress, because I was performing later.

Travelling this early sucked but the conductor on this show was flying out to Austria later this afternoon so had called a morning rehearsal.

I noticed my smiling man for a second time among the tide of people that changed at Holborn; he was several people ahead, striding with purpose, navigating his way through the crowd with shark-like ease, unlike me, bobbing along like a little piece of flotsam trying to stay afloat and keep my viola case to myself.

And there he was again in the same lift as me at Covent Garden underground station. As we walked out of the tube he fell into step beside me. ‘Is your face all right? You took a bit of a whack.’ He looked at my cheekbone and winced. ‘Sorry, I should have said something to that woman, but I didn’t realise what had happened until she’d gone. And she got off at Bond Street.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get the chance to say anything either.’ During the rest of the journey I’d had time to get cross with myself about that. He probably thought I was a bit spineless.

I lifted my hand to my face; my cheekbone still throbbed and I could feel it was a little swollen. Great, nine o’clock on a Monday morning and I was modelling the Quasimodo look. Embarrassment turned to annoyance. A gorgeous man and here I was being a pathetic wimp. This was not me.

‘I’m guessing we might be heading the same way,’ he said, letting me go first through the tube barriers, indicating my case with a jerk of his thumb that seemed oddly out of character with his suited and booted form.

‘The Opera House?’ I asked.

‘Yes. You look like a musician.’

I gasped with wide eyes. ‘What gave it away?’

For a moment I didn’t think he was going to laugh and then his eyes crinkled, his mouth curved and a rich deep laugh rumbled out. ‘I’m psychic,’ he said.

‘Of course you are.’

‘Violin?’

‘Ah, not as psychic as you thought. Viola, actually.’

‘Ah, rumbled. What’s the difference?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘You really want to know?’

He nodded, his smile a little impish now. I grinned back at him. Well, why not? What’s not to like about flirting with a handsome stranger, even with an outsize lump on your face, especially when you know that there’s absolutely no way he’s going to ask for your number or suggest an after work drink. He was the sort of man who would be more likely to have a cool, elegant blonde on his arm. I’m no fashion expert but that suit had a sniff of the designer about it and probably cost more than I spent on little black dresses in a year.

‘A viola is slightly bigger than a violin, its strings are a little thicker and –’ I paused, adding in a dreamy tone that I just couldn’t help ‘– it has a completely different tone. Mellower and deeper.’

We continued side by side down the cobbled street.

‘You think it’s far superior?’ he asked with a knowing smile as we hit the throng of people wrapped up against the vicious wind that had sprung up just this morning.

‘You really are psychic,’ I said with a quick sidelong look at the decorations that seemed to have sprung up in the last few days, even though November had another week to run. Covent Garden was decked out in all its Christmas finery, with lots of pots and containers all around the Piazza spilling over with scarlet poinsettia and garlands of evergreens, all interspersed with tiny white lights, finished off with big gold bows.

‘I think you might have given it away.’

I laughed. ‘I’m probably biased.’

‘Have you been playing long?’

‘Most of my life.’

‘So why the viola and not the violin?’

I laughed and waited a beat. ‘Most people start with the violin but …’ my mouth twitched ‘… I was destined to play the viola.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Picking up any psychic vibes now?’

He frowned, pretending to concentrate before shaking his head. ‘No, psychic transmission seems to have hit a block. The network’s down.’

Before I could answer, a girl stepped out in our path from one of the shops already playing Christmas carols. She held out a tray of mince pies, enticing us with the smell of rich buttery pastry and fruity mincemeat. Automatically, I licked my lips at the sight of the sugar glistening on top of the egg-brushed pastry.

‘Mince pie?’ she offered.

Both he and I ploughed to a stop and put out greedy hands at the same time, fingers brushing. We laughed.

‘Sorry, I love a mince pie,’ I said with a happy sigh. The delicious scent epitomised the very best of Christmas.

‘Me too,’ he said as he bit into the pastry, the incisive bright white bite drawing my gaze to his mouth. Something in his eyes told me he’d noticed.

Hurriedly I took a bite and winced as my cheek throbbed.

‘Are you all right? That looks sore.’ He lifted a hand as if he were about to touch my face and then stalled with the sudden realisation that we really didn’t know each other.

‘It’s OK. I really ought to get to work.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘And I have a meeting.’

Leaving the girl, who had probably hoped to draw us into the shop with her wares, looking a little crestfallen we turned and resumed our route.

We drew level by the stage door where I was headed and I stopped. ‘This is me,’ I said, pointing to the sign above the entrance. ‘And that’s you.’ I indicated the box office entrance a few yards ahead.

‘Right.’ He paused.

I held my breath.

‘Well, nice to meet you. I hope you fare better on the journey home.’

Damn. I let out the breath with a flat huff of disappointment.

‘Thank you,’ I said, slipping through the door.

‘Wait …’

My heart jumped in hope.

‘… you didn’t say why you chose the viola.’

I stopped on the threshold and sighed. Game over but it had been nice while it lasted.

‘It was inevitable.’ I laughed up at him, watching in delight as he raised his eyebrows in question. ‘My name is Viola.’

One quick look in the mirror in the nearest Ladies was enough to send me scurrying up four flights of stairs rather than down to the rehearsal room. I had plenty of time; I had planned to replace one of the strings on my viola before today’s rehearsal but it could wait one more day.

I peeped around the door of the wig and make-up room, hoping that Tilly might be in. Phew, there she was at her messy station, surrounded by skeins of hair and the scary pin-filled head blocks used to make wigs. They looked like something out of a horror film and always gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I crept in, grateful that there was no sign of anyone else around.

‘Oh, my God – what happened to your face?’ Tilly’s voice filled the quiet room.

I winced. ‘Can you do anything about it? Cover it up for me? Put some make-up on it? I know it looks terrible.’

‘I can make you look like a goddess.’ She rushed over and examined my face. ‘Although with that lump, a misshapen one. Did you get into a fight or something? When did this happen?’

‘On the way to work.’ I told her the sad story, although, for some reason, I omitted mentioning brown eyes, as if I wanted to keep that nice bit of the day to myself.

‘What a bitch.’ She squinted at my face. ‘You should probably put some ice on it to take the swelling down.’

‘I would if I had an ice bucket handy,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any paracetamol, have you? I’ve got a three-hour rehearsal to get through.’ And I’d have my viola tucked under my chin on that side of my face.

Tilly beamed at me. ‘I have both. There’s a mini fridge in Jeanie’s office and we always keep supplies up here … purely for ourselves, of course.’ She winked.

Playing nursemaid to world-famous singing and dancing principals and making sure they were calm and collected before they went on stage was as much a part of her job as doing their make-up.

‘Clearly, I underestimated how vile the tube would be at this time of day, but you’re in very early too.’ Our working hours were anything but regular. They varied depending on whether the production we were working on was in rehearsal or had opened.

At the moment we were in the final rehearsal stage for the annual Christmas ballet, The Nutcracker, and Tilly was in charge of the make-up team for the production, so our hours were quite similar. The Nutcracker was a nice one to work on; I’d done it a dozen times before and, muscle memory being what it was, the music always came back easily, although it didn’t mean I could forgo practise.

‘I’ve got a wig-fitting with Bryn Terfel in an hour and I had stuff to do.’ I loved the way she casually mentioned his name as if he were any old Tom, Dick or Harry rather than one of the opera world’s most sought-after international superstars. ‘I’ll just get you some ice.’

‘I haven’t got time. Can’t you just slap some make-up on?’

She pursed her lips and studied my face, putting her hands on her hips, suddenly very professional and a touch haughty. ‘Course I can, but if you want me to do a decent job, getting the swelling down with some ice would be best.’

Tilly could come across as ditzy sometimes, but when it came to her job she was very serious. Most of us were. It had taken me many, many hours of practise to achieve my level of expertise and getting a job here was not something I ever took for granted.

‘OK, but I’ve got a rehearsal in half an hour.’

‘Take a seat.’ She shifted a wig, which looked rather like a sleeping tabby, onto a shelf to clear a space for me and clicked across the floor in her kitten heels, her vintage-print skirt bouncing as she walked towards her boss’s office.

A minute later, her boss, Jeanie, popped her head out of the office, her mouth turned down in its usual perpetual disapproval. ‘What have you been up to?’

Dressed in a severe black tunic and leggings, she looked like a hovering black crow. She and Tilly, with her vintage clothes, long pre-Raphaelite hair and armfuls of clinking bracelets, were like the proverbial chalk and cheese but they adored each other.

‘Slight accident on the way to work. I had a run-in with my viola case.’ I smiled weakly. Tilly always said Jeanie’s bark was worse than her bite but I was yet to be convinced.

‘Hmph,’ she said and pulled her head back into her office.

Tilly reappeared with a handful of ice-cubes wrapped in a make-up streaked pink silk scarf and I put the bundle against my skin, flinching at the cold.

‘I might as well do your eyes while you’re holding that,’ said Tilly, scanning my face with a gleam in her eyes.

‘Ooh, would you?’ I said, perking up.

‘Yes, it’ll distract people from the bruise,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You’ve got great eyes, that lovely amber colour. I’ve been dying to have a go at them.’ She was already advancing on me with a smear of something on her fingers.

‘Fill your boots; I never liked to ask before.’

‘Feel free to ask any time. Next time you have a hot date, come up and see me.’

I gave her a non-committal smile. Dates had been few and far between for a while.

‘I’m just putting some primer on; this holds everything in place. You’d be amazed by how many people don’t use it.’

‘I probably wouldn’t,’ I teased. ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’

‘This one’s a professional use one, but Urban Decay do a great one.’

I lifted my head with a touch of excitement. ‘That would be the perfect Christmas present for Bella’s daughter, Laura. She’s sixteen and really into her make-up.’

Tilly’s forehead creased. ‘Bella is your younger cousin? And she’s got three girls. And Tina is the eldest and she has two girls?’

‘Well done. You’re learning.’ My extended family was a source of great curiosity to Tilly, who’d come late in life to a relationship with her sister.

Rather like I was a late addition to my parents’ marriage. Late and totally unexpected. Mum was forty-five, very nearly forty-six when she had me. Telling everyone she was sailing through the menopause apart from the bloating, not a hot sweat in sight, it was a bit of a shock to find out that she was four months pregnant.

By that time, her sister, my aunt Gabrielle, had already had two daughters, Bella and Tina, the eldest of whom was fifteen years older than me. Consequently, at family gatherings I became the awkward one that needed to be catered for. My aunt was revelling in family outings when my cousins were starting to be self-sufficient and they could go to pubs and restaurants and then, all of a sudden, I came along and ruined it all. They were back to family friendly eateries with high chairs and changing mats.

However, I made up for these disappointments when I hit puberty and grade eight on the viola at just the right time so I was able to play at both of my cousins’ weddings. Sadly, this didn’t prevent me from being bridesmaid on both occasions. As a result, I developed a deep loathing for three-quarter-length dresses and tulle, rather ironic given where I work. The London Metropolitan Opera Company puts on ballets as well as operas.

‘I can’t imagine having a family that big. Both my parents are only children. I have no cousins. Just my sister.’

‘Thank your lucky stars,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m on call all the time. Next week I need to go and help my cousin Tina and her girls, one night after school. They’re making the annual gingerbread house and it’s a two-man job holding the roof together while the icing sugar sets.’

‘Gingerbread house? Ooh, I’ve never made one of those.’ Tilly’s eyes gleamed with sudden enthusiasm as she dabbed away at my eyelids, taking a step back with an appraising look. ‘Surprisingly, Marcus has got a bit of a sweet tooth; I wonder if he’d like one.’

‘Seriously, don’t,’ I said, squinting up at her with one eye, still hanging onto the ice pack, dabbing at the chilly drips running down my face as they gradually melted. ‘They’re a right faff. If you don’t get the gingerbread just right, the walls cave in and the whole thing collapses. Last year Tina had to make two batches. And she has to do the whole boiled sweet, stained glass window thing as well.’ I groaned at the memory.

‘What’s wrong with that? It sounds really neat,’ said Tilly.

‘It is when it works. When it doesn’t …’ I shook my head. Thank God for copious quantities of gin. ‘Oh, the stress! I tell you, my cousins are so competitive. They want to be the most perfect mummy and outdo each other. And they have to drag me in too. Both of them want to be the favourite cousin.

‘And the flipping gingerbread house is just the start. From now on until Christmas, there’ll be wreath-making, Christmas cake decorating, hanging biscuit baking, Christmas pud mixing and paperchain-making. And don’t get me started on the competitive parcel-wrapping – who has the best paper, the most ribbons and the best-co-ordinating presents. And then there’s the carol concerts, Christingle and two different school nativities.’

Tilly stopped and grabbed my hands to calm them; they have a tendency to do my talking for me and they’d been semaphoring all sorts of crazy messages. ‘Are you OK?’

I huffed out a breath, realising my voice had risen and I sounded quite heated. ‘Oh, my goodness – sorry, I don’t know where all that came from. Ignore me.’

‘Hey, it’s OK. You can have your rant. I know you love your family.’

‘I do, and I love Christmas. All this.’ I pointed out of the window towards the huge Christmas tree outside on the square opposite St Mark’s Church. ‘But sometimes it all gets a bit much with my family.’




Chapter 2 (#ulink_bc278b30-5da8-5ca9-bf83-85f4e8adaf31)


Towards the end of the rehearsal I faltered, my bow pausing for a fraction of a second, some sixth sense drawing my gaze to the doorway, where some wag had already hung a piece of drunken mistletoe.

Him again! What was he doing here?

And no sooner had the thought whizzed through my brain than I forced my concentration back to my bow, horrified at my momentary lapse during rehearsal.

Damn, I never did that. When the passage finished and we had a couple of bars’ break, I caught a surprised sidelong glance from Becky who shared the desk with me. I hadn’t missed the quick glare from the conductor.

When time was called I allowed myself to look towards the door. Mr Nine-to-Five was standing by the wall with Alison Kreufeld, Artistic Director and all-round scary head honcho. What was she doing down here? She dealt with a production’s staging rather than the music. We rarely saw her down here in the warren of rehearsal rooms in the vast basement of the building. And who was he? What was he doing here?

They were still there, chatting quietly as we all began packing away. After the sublime sounds of Tchaikovsky and the soaring notes of The Nutcracker Suite, the everyday noise of chairs scraping, music stands clattering, instrument case catches being snapped open and the dull thud of instruments being nestled back into their padded homes always brought me back to earth rather suddenly.

The immense level of concentration required of a three-hour rehearsal left me wrung out and exhausted, pretty much like everyone else in the room. We’re a bit like zombies when we first finish.

‘Coffee?’ asked one of the other strings players, as I picked up my music and carefully arranged it back into my little black portfolio case.

‘Yes, meet you up there.’ As I headed towards the exit, the man from the tube nodded.

‘Hello again, Viola the viola player.’ Lively amusement danced in his eyes.

‘We must stop meeting like this.’ My mouth curved in an involuntary smile.

When his gaze settled on my cheek, he frowned. ‘That looks better already.’

‘I have a friend in Make-up,’ I said, gingerly touching my cheek.

‘You two know each other?’ asked Alison, her face narrowing with suspicious interest.

We looked at each other, a little bemused, holding each other’s gaze for a second too long like a pair of co-conspirators.

‘No,’ I denied, protesting too loudly and too quickly in that I’m-innocent-before-you-think-I’ve-done-anything-wrong sort of way.

‘We travelled the same route this morning,’ explained the man with a glimmer of a smile. ‘We both started out on the same platform at Notting Hill Gate and ended up walking the same way from the tube station.’ The quirk in his mouth suggested he was remembering our conversation. ‘I guessed from the case that Viola probably worked here.’

‘Really?’ asked Alison, as if it were terribly interesting, and while there weren’t quite dollar signs in her eyes there was definitely a flare of avaricious interest.

I nodded. ‘Never met before.’

‘What were you doing at Notting Hill Gate?’ she asked, whipping her head my way in blunt, direct detective tones that immediately made me feel guilty. Stupid really because I had nothing to hide, unless living in that particular area of London had been outlawed in recent weeks and someone had forgotten to let me know.

‘I live there. In Notting Hill. Have done for a while.’ I bristled in defence of my beloved London borough. The estate agents could probably employ me to wax poetical about how fantastic it was – good schools, fantastic transport links, great shops, et cetera, et cetera and if there had been a Notting Hill tourist office I’d be their poster girl.

‘Do you?’ Her brows knitted together and she glanced at the man again. ‘Interesting,’ she said before turning her back on me in dismissal and tilting her head his way. ‘Would you like to see the backstage area?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an order and with that she led him away.

I drooped a little, watching their progress down the long corridor, and then he turned and looked over his shoulder, lifting his hand in a brief goodbye and giving me one last smile. Mmm, nice broad shoulders. Nice suit. Nice smile. Nice walk. Really, get a grip Viola. But it was a nice walk, long-legged, lean-hipped, confident, upright. Can you fancy someone for their walk? No matter, for the first time in ages I felt a flicker of interest. A little bird’s wing of a flutter in my chest, either that or the start of a heart attack.

I mused for a second. I wasn’t sure if it was his conspiratorial smile on the tube or the quickfire exchange on the walk from Covent Garden station, but something inside me was sitting up and taking notice. And here I was, watching him walk away, walk out of my life. A sudden start of alarm buzzed. I might never see him again.

That electric cattle prod of a thought made me start down the corridor after them with long rapid strides, instinct powering my legs. A slight sense of panic bubbled when they rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

I might never see him again.

I picked up my pace. Was I crazy, chasing after a complete stranger? For goodness’ sake, I didn’t know him. He was probably married. If not he was bound to have a girlfriend. How had I gone from a smile on the tube and a few lines of flirty banter to romcom, he-could-be-the-one territory? Was I mad or just desperate?

Taking the corner at a fast trot, I flew around it and then pulled up sharply, skidding to a windmill-style halt, but not quickly enough. My viola case torpedoed straight into his lower stomach, narrowly missing his crotch, and he let out a loud, ‘Oof.’

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

Oh, pants, pants, pants. They’d clearly stopped to look at one of the many black and white photos of previous productions on the wall.

Alison raised startled eyebrows. Oh, boy. A witness to my humiliation. What was I doing? I was like some crazy woman.

I lowered my viola case to the floor and, without thinking, grabbed his arm, my fingers slipping slightly on the silky fine wool of his suit jacket. ‘Are you OK? I’m really sorry. I was …’ Was what? Chasing him down like a hound on the scent of a fox?

I ducked down towards him, our heads brushing, as my other hand had reached towards his stomach with an automatic rub-it-better instinct. As soon as my fingers made contact with the smooth, soft cotton of his shirt, I could feel the warmth of his skin burning through. What was I doing? I snatched my hand away.

He lifted his head and looked up from underneath his floppy fringe. Our eyes met for a frisson-filled second before he slowly straightened, dredging up a pained smile. ‘That thing’s a lethal weapon. No one needs to worry about you in a dark alley, do they?’

The romcom moment withered and died as Alison shot me a furious glare and turned to him. ‘I am very sorry about this. Are you all right? I can only apologise for Miss Smith’s clumsiness.’

‘It was an accident.’ He rubbed at his stomach in a tentative way that suggested that he was in a lot more pain than he was prepared to admit. Trying to be polite.

‘Can I get you a glass of water or something?’ I asked. Because that was really going to help. My brain appeared to have taken temporary leave of absence.

‘I think I’ll be all right,’ he said gravely, although there was that slight twitch to his mouth.

I must have looked pretty mad, standing there with my mouth open, saying nothing.

His eyes twinkled, with amusement or pity – I couldn’t tell which. It was the one time in my life that I really did pray for a large hole to open up at my feet and swallow me down whole.

He was still smiling and my heart was doing some kind of hippity-hoppity dance in my chest like a demented rabbit.

‘Where were you going in such a hurry?’ snapped Alison. Honestly, I felt like I was back at school.

‘Er … just … er … heading to the Ladies. Occupational hazard.’

Oh, dear God, where had that come from? Seriously, that was the best I could come up with? And occupational hazard? Too much information, Viola! He did not need to know how long I’d sat cross-legged in a rehearsal.

Now Alison did stare. Hardly surprising; she knew as well as I did that the nearest Ladies was back the other way.

‘Right, must be off,’ I said in ridiculously jolly hockey stick tones. ‘Again, I’m really sorry. I hope I haven’t done too much damage.’ And then I looked down at his stomach and crotch.

Oops. I raised my head, catching the quick amused lift of his eyebrow.

‘I think I’ll survive. I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you again but …’ He winced.

‘OK, then.’ I walked off down the corridor in completely the wrong direction, clutching my viola case, and slipped through the fire doors to the back stairs and sank onto the fifth step – hoping they didn’t decide to take the stairs. I was going to have to wait until they’d gone to double back to the Ladies and my locker. What had I been thinking?

‘Hey,’ I said, collapsing into a chair Tilly had saved me at a table in the canteen, along with Leonie, who worked in Wardrobe.

‘How’s your cheek?’ asked Tilly, reaching out and grabbing my chin. ‘The swelling has definitely gone down and the foundation has held. Eye make-up still looks good too.’

‘Yeah, I thought you were looking glam today,’ chipped in Leonie. ‘Apart from the lump on the side of your face.’

‘Thanks. Tilly told me you could barely see it.’

‘Tilly tells lies,’ said Leonie calmly.

‘It doesn’t look as bad as it did,’ said Tilly, shooting an evil glare at Leonie, who simply grinned; she had a habit of saying what she thought. ‘Besides, everyone will be too busy looking at her eyes; don’t they look great?’

Leonie tilted her head. ‘Actually, they do.’

I batted my eyelashes at both of them.

‘It made me feel better. How did your wig-fitting go?’ I asked, reluctant to volunteer any information about my morning. The embarrassment of charging into a man who’d come closest to pricking my interest in a long time was still making me cringe.

‘The wig-fitting went really well,’ said Tilly, a little too enthusiastically. ‘Hardly any adjustments and I took lots of photos.’

Leonie and I exchanged amused looks.

‘So what went wrong?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’ Tilly’s high pitched denial countered her claim.

‘What did she do?’ I asked Leonie with a laugh. Tilly was hopeless with anything technological.

Leonie rolled her eyes. ‘This time it’s what she didn’t do. I had to upload the pictures on the system.’

‘I’m getting better.’ Tilly grinned.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Leonie.

I laughed at both of them. ‘What does Marcus think?’

‘He’s given up. He loves me just the way I am,’ said Tilly with a touch of smugness as she picked up her coffee. The story of how she and Marcus had got together was legendary in the building. We weren’t particular friends at the time but the story, with its elements of scandal – Tilly had been suspended for a time – had rocked the Opera House last December.

Leonie scowled at her. ‘You know you make the rest of us a bit sick.’

‘I know. Jeanie keeps telling me,’ said Tilly, pushing her hair back, her bangles jingling as she gave us both another totally self-satisfied grin. ‘But I think Fred’s pretty keen, isn’t he?’

Leonie beamed. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh, shut up the pair of you,’ I muttered, tutting. ‘I haven’t had so much as a sniff of a date in ages. And the last one was such a disaster I’m thinking about declaring myself a date-free zone.’

Tilly laughed. ‘What about that solicitor who wanted to know if you’d had any injuries at work? And how much your hands were worth?’

I shuddered. ‘Yes. I am never going out with a solicitor again.’

They both laughed and then I noticed someone stalking her way through the tables. ‘Oh, God.’ I ducked my head. ‘Don’t let her see me.’

Tilly looked over her shoulder and then turned back. ‘She loves me,’ she said with all the smug self-righteousness of someone who had been wronged and subsequently exonerated and now had the upper hand.

‘Ah, Viola, isn’t it? I wanted to catch up with you.’ Alison Kreufeld pulled up a chair, to everyone’s astonishment, and sat down.

‘Look, I’m really sorry. Was he OK? He’s not going to sue or anything, is he?’

‘I’m sure he won’t.’ She smiled as if I’d just played right into her hands. ‘Although you might be able to help there. I wanted to talk to you about our outreach programmes.’

I relaxed a little.

‘You know that in order to qualify for some of our funding there are a number of projects where we work within the community, to make what we do here more accessible to those in all walks of life.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. I’d done a few school visits, playing in assemblies and talking to gifted music students.

‘Well, the gentleman I was showing around …’

Gentleman. Didn’t he have a name? James, I decided. There was a touch of Andrei Bolkonsky from War and Peace, as played by James Norton.

‘Viola!’

I looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Williams,’ Alison said with emphasis, ‘is a governor at a primary school in Notting Hill. His mother-in-law is a friend of the Opera House.’

So, Mr Nine-to-Five had a name and a wife.

‘We’ve been asked to help the school with its annual nativity.’ She pulled a face. ‘Although it’s very short notice, it does fulfil our outreach criteria and she is a very significant benefactor.’

I nodded, ignoring the barely contained sniggers of Tilly and Leonie.

‘It will be mainly mornings and possibly the odd afternoon. And you’re in Notting Hill.’

‘OK,’ I agreed, thinking that it didn’t sound terribly arduous. How hard could playing a few carols for the local school be?




Chapter 3 (#ulink_d040ceff-39b2-5b54-a34d-ff0e808ec8b6)


‘Tell them you’re busy,’ said my cousin Bella, waving a wooden spoon at me as she took a quick rest from stirring the cake mix.

I hadn’t intended to mention my new outreach role but she’d asked if I was free the next day as she was expecting an Amazon delivery. ‘I need you to wait in for a parcel tomorrow afternoon for me. I promised Tina I’d meet her at Westfield to go Christmas shopping.’

She lived just around the corner from me in one those sherbet, pastel-coloured houses made famous in the film Notting Hill. Hers was painted a pretty pale powder-blue and was sandwiched between a sunshine-yellow house and a pale rose-pink house. Just walking along her street always made my heart lift and it was one of the reasons I loved living in this area. It was never a hardship coming here and I occasionally used her front room to practise while waiting in for her parcels. Her house was even more gorgeous inside, with its big high-ceilinged rooms decorated to within an inch of their lives with John Lewis furnishings and accessories. The extremely stylish kitchen, where I was currently sitting, had featured in several style magazines and at least one Sunday supplement.

‘What time’s your parcel arriving?’

‘Any time between twelve and four.’

‘I don’t think I can fit it in. I might be able to get here for three-thirty.’

‘Three-thirty, no earlier?’

‘I’m taking Dad to the airport and then I’ve just got time to come straight back home, drop the car back at Mum’s and get to the school for two.’

‘What are you going to be doing?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. Probably just helping with the musical arrangements and the singing. I’ve been invited to meet the class tomorrow because they’re starting rehearsals. I’d said I’d go.’

‘Oh, God, poor you.’ Bella cringed. ‘Cue crying tots because they all wanted to be Mary. And a dozen disgruntled shepherds because who wants to wear a tea towel on their head?’

‘Thanks, Bel, because that’s really cheered me up.’

‘Oh, well, it will be light relief after a trip to Heathrow.’ Bella shook her head. ‘Couldn’t he have got the tube or the Express from Paddington?’

I pulled a face. ‘Mum said she needed me to take him. She wasn’t happy about him travelling on his own with luggage.’ I shrugged. ‘He is seventy-five.’

Bella snorted. ‘He’s travelling long haul and jaunting about the States at the other end. I think he would have managed just fine.’

So did I. My dad still runs a mile every day and you’ve never met a fitter, healthier seventy-five year old – he actually looks more like sixty-five – but Mum had used the magic word on me: need.

‘Oh, well, I said I’d do it. And I’ll time it so that I pick him up to give myself enough time to get to the school.’

‘Well, I think the school thing is taking the piss. Surely they can’t make you … Sorry, Laura –’ she turned to her sixteen-year-old daughter ‘– forget I said that. Taking the Michael.’

‘It’s work. I can’t say no,’ I said.

‘Extracting the urine,’ said Laura, suddenly interrupting with a cool stare at her mother before going back to her book, despite having earphones in. She sat at the opposite end of the huge island counter, perched on one of the white stools. Despite the seeming impracticality, what with having three children and a dog, everything was white: the cabinets, the composite material worktop with its touch of glitter and the tiled floors.

Bella went to say something to her eldest daughter and realised it was a waste of time. Laura, with teenage flippancy, now held the book in front of her face, while her two younger sisters, Rosa, eight, and Ella, five going on ninety-five, were both darting around the kitchen in matching lurid pink fairy costumes, throwing pinches of flour into the air and making wishes with fairy dust. At least it wouldn’t show on the floor.

She turned to me. ‘You can say no. Is it part of your contract?’

‘I don’t know but I’m sure there’ll be something in there about reasonable requests to appear on behalf of the LMOC. Like I said, I don’t really have much choice.’

‘You always have a choice,’ said Bella, groaning and rubbing her shoulders. ‘Here, you have a go. Rosa, Ella, stop that now.’ Her mock glare just brought giggles.

I took the mixing bowl from her while she continued. ‘Tell them you’ve got family commitments. We all need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She looked over at the calendar. ‘Thank God Dave will be home for Christmas; this latest contract feels like it’s been forever.’

Her husband, Dave, was a civil engineer who worked on big overseas projects and was currently in Finland building a new bridge.

‘Keep going.’ She nodded at the bowl. ‘I’m really hoping I’ve got it right this year and all the fruit doesn’t sink to the bottom,’ she said, rolling her shoulders as I manfully stirred the thick cake mix.

I looked with longing over at the Kenwood Chef on the side.

‘It’s not the same,’ said Bella, catching me. ‘Christmas cake should always be hand stirred. It’s tradition. And you’re doing a great job.’

‘I thought it should always be baked at the end of October,’ I said, my shoulder twinging with a sharp pinch of pain. We were at the end of November. I pushed the bowl back over the table towards her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be feeding it with brandy by now? Here, you’ll have to take over; my shoulder hurts and I’ve got a performance tomorrow.’ I wasn’t going to push it for the sake of bloody Christmas cake, especially when I knew from experience that on Christmas Day both sisters would turn up with a cake each, because the recipe made enough mixture for two cakes (and no one in the entire family seemed to have the power to divide by two) which, added to the extra one Mum always gave me, meant I would end up with three un-iced cakes. I wouldn’t mind but the icing was my favourite bit and I’d still be eating it by Easter.

We always had Christmas at Mum’s, even though my Aunt Gabrielle’s place was definitely bigger.

Bella took the bowl back and, with a calculating expression, turned to her daughter. ‘Laura, do you want to have a go? You can make a wish.’

Laura sighed and shook her head. She wasn’t stupid either. ‘Nah, I’m all good.’

‘I thought that was Christmas puddings,’ I said.

‘Was worth a try.’ Bella grinned shamelessly at me. ‘You can make yourself useful and pour us a glass of wine.’

‘OK, but I can only stay for one.’

‘Really? But the girls wanted you to read them a bedtime story, didn’t you, girls?’

I shot her a quick cross look. Low blow, Bel.

‘Yes. Yes. Yes, Aunty Vila,’ said Ella. ‘Jesus’s Christmas Party.’ She was already waving the book in the air and had come around the island to nudge at me in my black dress with her flour-coated tutu.

Then Bella added in a quiet voice, ‘I could really do with half an hour or so to myself.’

‘All right then,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Bella, taking the battered book from Ella.

‘You’ve only got yourself to blame,’ she said. ‘You bought them the book; they love it.’

‘I know,’ I said with a rueful smile as I opened the front page.

I finally escaped from Bella’s at half past eight, having been conned into reading several other stories while, funnily enough, Bella holed herself up in the lounge with another glass of wine to crack through her Christmas card list. I hadn’t even bought mine, let alone started writing them.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_912cb646-097e-50e1-93a3-1c8c9be434c4)


‘Which terminal is it, Dad?’ I asked as I spotted the sign for the slip road for Terminals One, Two and Three.

He began fumbling through the travel folder on his knees. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure,’ he said in a chatty, conversational way, completely unmoved by the fact that I needed to make a major directional decision in the next thirty seconds.

‘Do you think you could find out quickly, because if it’s Terminals One, Two or Three I need to come off the motorway in a minute.’

I heard the shuffle of paperwork and tried to breathe slowly – in, out, in, out.

‘Any time soon,’ I said, looking in my mirror, taking preparatory action by indicating and trying to get into the left lane, just in case.

‘I think it might be Four. Or it might be Five. It was Four last time.’

Damn, the Range Rover in the lane next to me was speeding up; he wasn’t going to let me in and the car behind me was getting closer and flashing its lights. I floored the accelerator and, to the accompaniment of the angry blare of the horn of the Range Rover, I nipped into the almost non-existent space between him and an articulated lorry as we reached the first countdown sign to the slip road.

‘Dad! I need a decision.’

‘Four,’ he said. ‘We definitely flew from Four last time. Oh, no, it was Five. It was the new one. Do you know, it’s the largest building in the UK and is big enough to hold fifty football pitches?’

‘That’s interesting,’ I said with a sigh as I put my foot down on the accelerator and sailed past the slip road.

‘Well, I’ll be there in perfect time,’ he said, checking his watch, oblivious to the sharp manoeuvre of the Range Rover, which wheeled out from behind me to overtake and when the driver drew alongside he made his displeasure quite clear with a few choice hand gestures. ‘My flight’s not until three-thirty and I’m checked in.’

‘Great,’ I said through gritted teeth, looking at the traffic on the other side of the M4 already starting to back up. I’d planned to drop him at twelve-thirty, which would leave me plenty of time to battle the traffic back into central London, but he’d faffed about trying to decide whether to take a front door key with him and then decided that he ought to have another book on the flight, which he’d packed in his suitcase. By the time we’d left my parents’ apartment, just ten minutes from my flat, it was half an hour later than I would have liked. And then the traffic was horrendous on the M4 because a lane was closed.

Just as we approached the slip road – I’d moved over in plenty of time – my dad suddenly said, ‘Of course, last time I went to Atlanta I flew British Airways.’

I risked a quick glance at him as he turned an apologetic face my way. ‘We’ve still got plenty of time. I’ve checked in online. I only have to drop my case.’

I gritted my teeth. I had to get back to Notting Hill, drop the car and get to the school in time for two and it was already ten past one.

‘I’m flying Virgin Atlantic this time,’ Dad announced, apropos of nothing. There was a silence in the car. ‘Not British Airways.’

‘Does that mean that it might not be Terminal Five?’ I asked, my fingers almost strangling the steering wheel.

‘I think –’ Dad drew out the syllables as I negotiated a roundabout, following the signs to Terminal Five ‘– that’s for British Airways flights only.’

‘Oh, for … sake,’ I ground out under my breath as I did a hasty left signal and pulled back into the main stream of traffic going around the roundabout. ‘Are you definitely flying Virgin?’

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘See here.’ He held up the paperwork just under my nose as if I could calmly take my eyes off the road and peruse the details at my leisure.

‘Dad, do you have any idea where Virgin fly from?’

‘Terminal Four?’

‘Do you know that or is it a guess?’

‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If BA flies from Five, Virgin would fly from Four.’

‘Not necessarily,’ I said, driving for the second time around the roundabout, past the turning for Terminal Five. ‘Is there any way you could look it up on your phone quickly? I can’t keep driving round and round this roundabout.’

When I started the third circuit, I took an executive decision and took the turning for Terminal Four.

‘I might have got it wrong, you know. I think Terminal Five is for all flights to America, so that would mean Virgin do fly from there,’ said Dad, looking back over his shoulder at the roundabout as he lifted his phone to his ear.

‘Who are you calling? I asked, glancing over at him.

‘Your mother; she might know.’

I raised my eyes heavenward before I spoke. Dad was a gentle soul; getting cross with him would be counter-productive … but seriously.

‘Mum isn’t going to know. You’re the frequent flyer. Just look it up on your phone.’

‘Phyllis, it’s Douglas. No, I just had a cup of coffee. They’ll give us lunch on the plane. I know, but I didn’t like to bother you.’

‘Dad …’ I ground out through gritted teeth.

‘Yes, Viola’s fine. Driving a little too fast.’ I shot him a furious look but he was oblivious, picking at the twill on his tweedy trousers. ‘No, we’re not there yet. I don’t suppose you know which terminal the flight will go from? No, I thought Five but then I’m flying Virgin Atlantic … Yes, I know, I always go BA; I’m not sure why they changed it this time.’

‘Dad!’ I yelled. My shoulders were level with my ears and any second steam was going to hiss out of my ears. When he jumped and gave me a mild-mannered look of reproach I felt doubly guilty, but seriously, he was driving me mad. ‘Clues would be good here; otherwise we’re going to be driving round and round in circles.’

‘Viola needs to know which terminal it is. We thought possibly Four, but then it might be Five … You think it’s Three? Gosh, never thought of that.’ He leaned my way, any sense of urgency completely lacking. ‘Mum thinks it might be Three. I don’t think that’s very likely, do you? It doesn’t sound right to me.’

I closed my eyes for a very brief second, wheeled the car into the left lane and followed the signs to Terminal Five, my hands gripping the steering wheel like claws. I pulled up in the drop off zone and hauled the car into a space, slamming the brakes on, almost sending Dad through the windscreen, and yanked my phone out of my pocket.

‘Well, we’ve just arrived at Terminal Five … I’ve no idea.’ He unbuckled his seat belt and went to open the door as I stabbed at my phone, typing into Google.

‘Dad!’ I yelled, grabbing his arm as he started to get out. ‘Wait, I’m looking it up.’

He turned back to me, all mild-mannered and totally reasonable, as if I were the crazy person. ‘It’s all right dear; I’ll just go and ask someone.’

I looked through the windscreen at several stern-faced police officers, their hands resting on large black guns. ‘We’re not allowed to stop here; it’s just dropping off.’

‘They won’t mind. I’ll just …’ I leaned over and tried to grab at his seat belt, catching the eye of one of the police officers who was looking at the registration plate and talking into the radio just below his shoulder.

‘But,’ said Dad, opening the car door and putting one foot out as the policeman advanced. God, he was going to get us arrested.

‘It’s Terminal Three,’ I hissed as the answer magically appeared on my screen. ‘Virgin Atlantic fly from Terminal Three.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Dad, hauling himself back into the car. ‘It must be just next door.’

‘As the crow flies and if we were allowed to drive across the runway, yes. But by road it’s twenty minutes back round.’ Holding my phone up, I shoved it towards him to show him the map on the screen.

‘You seem a bit tense, Viola. It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of time. In fact, I could have got the tube, you know, or the Express from Paddington. You didn’t need to drive me.’

I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t say a word.

‘You’re very late,’ observed the receptionist, once I’d spent another five minutes on the laborious sign-in process, waiting for my escaped prisoner photo printed badge. When had schools become like Fort Knox?

‘Traffic,’ I said tightly.

‘I understood you were local,’ she said, reading the address on the DBS certificate I’d handed over. She didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to let me through the big glass maglock doors.

Finally I breached Security and was led into the big assembly hall. The wall bars and ropes, the parquet wood floor and the blue carpeted stage with the piano in the corner immediately brought back memories of my own primary school days.

‘That’s Mr Williams,’ said the school secretary, gesturing towards a familiar figure standing on the stage surrounded by small children. At the sight of him, my heart did its funny flutter thing again.

‘M-Mr Williams?’ I stuttered. I certainly hadn’t expected to see him here today.

‘He’s our parent volunteer, also helping with the nativity. And there’s Mrs Roberts, our head. I’ll introduce you.’

He glanced over, just as handsome as ever, my imaginings over the last week had not let me down, but there were no smiles this morning; he was too busy gripping a clipboard with grim determination. Even so my heart did another one of those salmon leaps of recognition and stupidly I suddenly felt a lot better about this whole nativity project.

‘Miss Smith.’ Mrs Roberts strode over on long thin legs, looking a lot more glamorous than any headteacher I remembered, to pump my hand. ‘What a result. We’re so delighted the London Metropolitan Opera Company –’ she pronounced the name with great delight ‘– is helping us like this. Our nativity is one of our biggest and best events of the year. And when our usual teacher, Mrs Davies, went down with appendicitis, we thought it was all going to be a disaster but now you’re on board and can take charge …’ She clapped her hands and beamed at me.

‘Er … um. Right.’ Take charge? Me? That wasn’t quite what I’d signed up for.

‘Of course, Mr Williams here, one of our dads and a governor, will be here to assist you. And Mrs Davies had made a good start. She’s allocated most of the parts already and started the script. This morning Mr Williams is taking the children through the opening scene with the armadillo, Joseph, Mary and the flamingos.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a meeting.’ And with that she hurried off.

Armadillo, Joseph and flamingos? What the …?

I went over to stand near the stage, feeling a touch like Alice in Wonderland. Who needed Mad Hatters when you had armadillos and flamingos?

‘You’re late.’ He barely looked up from the clipboard at me. ‘Right. Can I have Jack, the flamingos and Mary and Joseph to run through the first scene?’

The five children, two of whom were identical twins, shuffled on stage, four of them in school uniform grey shorts and skirts and green sweatshirts sporting the school logo, a golden tree. They all carried a single sheet of A4 paper which I assumed was the script. The fifth child wore a Buzz Lightyear outfit stretched lumpily over his school uniform.

‘OK, do you want to start?’

The five of them looked at one another and inched closer to each other, ducking their heads down behind the sheets of paper. A reluctance of children.

‘Jack, off you go.’

Jack looked up from under his eyebrows, his face full of surly suspicion. ‘I am the Christmas armadillo,’ he declared with stout, if stolid, wooden authority. I bit back a snigger; that sounded horribly familiar. ‘I am here. To guide. You. Across the far. Vast desert. It is a very long journey.’

I looked at the floor. Friends, that was it. The holiday armadillo. Ross in fancy dress. I swallowed the smile because Mr Williams definitely wasn’t seeing the funny side of anything this afternoon.

‘Joseph, you must follow me,’ continued Jack. ‘Our good friends, the flamingos …’ The twins looked at each other and immediately, with Midwich Cuckoos’ style telepathy, both stood on one leg, the other bent at the knee. They wobbled precariously. ‘… Will accompany us on this perry … perry louse journey where we will face many challenges. We have to cross the river of a thousand crocodiles …’ There was a pregnant pause and he looked meaningfully at several children seated on the edge of the stage, who looked towards Mr Williams and then one child began to clap her hands together and the others followed suit. ‘Climb the mountains of a hundred bears …’ Cue a group on the other side of the stage to start growling. ‘And navigate the shifting sands full of snakes …’ A storm of hissing broke out which went on for a good few seconds until Jack glared at the offending group and raised his voice. ‘Come. Follow. Me.’ He began to march around in a circle, the flamingos hopping after him.

The boy in the Buzz outfit stood there, looking down at the floor, while Mary, less of the virgin and more of the exhibitionist, had her skirt hoicked up and was flashing her knickers quite happily at the front row.

‘Come follow me,’ said Jack again, doing another circuit of the stage.

Still the boy didn’t move. On his third circuit, Jack gave him a sharp nudge. ‘Come follow me.’

The boy started. ‘To affinity and …’ he frowned and raised one arm in classic Lightyear pose ‘… to affinity and Bethlehem.’ With that he and Mary followed Jack and the flamingos, the five of them marching and hopping off stage.

‘Sir, sir …’ One of the boys in the audience had shot his hand up straight in the air. ‘You forgot the song.’

‘Yes,’ piped up another voice. ‘The crocodiles sing the song.’

Mr Williams – still no first name – peered down at his clipboard and winced. If I’m honest he looked slightly sick. Then he looked up and over at me with pure panic and desperation written all over his face.

‘Miss Smith, perhaps you might be able to help with this one?’

I crossed to his side, almost immediately aware of his masculinity. His business uniform, the jacket and tie, had been abandoned, tossed casually over the back of one of the wooden chairs on the other side of the hall, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms covered in dark hairs, something I’d never considered the least bit sexy before. I could smell the faint scent of cologne and I was horribly conscious of the fineness of his cotton shirt, the broadness of his chest and the shadow of warm skin beneath the fabric.

I gave him a professional ‘of course, I’ve got this’ smile. I could play the piano and I had a pretty good repertoire of Christmas carols, although I was intrigued as to which it might be. I read the words on the page.

Crocodile Rock

‘OKaaaaay,’ I said. ‘Interesting choice.’

‘Mmm.’ His mouth twitched and I thought he was going to smile but then he went and spoiled it by saying, ‘Do you think you could play it?’

I gave him the look and rolled my eyes. ‘I think I can just about manage it.’ What did he think I was, some amateur? I could sight-read music from the age of eight. ‘If I had the sheet music.’ I looked at the clipboard in his hand hopefully. He shook his head.

‘Right, well, I suggest we practise the songs another time,’ I said in a bright, loud, this-is-so-much-fun voice for the benefit of the children before lowering it to say to him, ‘I’ll try and get the music for this for another day. Why don’t you carry on with the next scene?’

‘I can’t,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Why not?’

‘The teacher only wrote the first scene. She was rushed into hospital with appendicitis last week and has been signed off for six weeks. The only other thing I’ve got is a cast list.’ He ripped a sheet from the clipboard. ‘Mrs Roberts has left the rest up to us.’

‘Oh, sh … shoot.’

‘Exactly. Shoot creek. Paddle-free.’ He handed me the sheet of paper. ‘It gets worse – read that. There are sixty kids.’

I scanned the sheet.

Armadillo – Jack

Bears – Sophie, Emily, Theo, Charlie, Oliver

And so it went on, every letter of the alphabet was covered; there were dolphins and elephants and marmosets and narwhals through to unicorns, yaks and zebus.

‘Oh, dear God and who organises the costumes?’

He looked at me. ‘We do.’

The end of the rehearsal couldn’t come quick enough. We managed to hook up my iPhone to the school sound system and had the children singing along very badly to Crocodile Rock. Thankfully, according to the snapshot of script we had, the crocodiles only had to sing one verse but even so I cringed. The words didn’t even come close to relating to Christmas.

As the children of Oak and Apple classes trooped back to their respective classrooms, I heaved a sigh. Mr Williams had slipped his jacket back on, tucked his tie in his pocket and was now shouldering into a heavy wool pea coat.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I blurted out.

He nodded warily.

‘What is your name?’

Relief blossomed bright and sudden. ‘It’s Nate. God, I thought you were about to throw in the towel.’

‘Not sure I’m allowed to,’ I said with a disconsolate smile. ‘I’m stuck with it. Thanks to your mother-in-law, I believe.’

‘I’m stuck with it too. I’m a governor and … I promised my daughter I’d help with something. I assumed I’d be on crowd control duty.’

‘I assumed I’d be on Christmas carol duty.’

‘Looks like we’ve both been dropped in it from a bloody great height.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I could murder a coffee. Fancy one? Strategy meeting?’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘We’re going to need more than a plan. We’re going to need a Christmas miracle.’

All week the papers had been threatening a cold snap from the east with night-time temperatures expected to be sub-zero. They hadn’t been exaggerating; the light was dimming and the cold air bit sharply at my face with cruel icy teeth as we stepped onto the street. Like a swarm of ants, everyone funnelled out of the school gate and the pavement was now full of small children bobbing along next to adults, their features hidden by hats and scarves and bowed like turtles by the outsize school-logoed backpacks on their backs.

‘Sorry, do you have to work later? I just realised,’ he said, scanning the pavement quickly.

‘I do, but I don’t have to be at the theatre until seven; it’s only three-fifteen … although I’m paranoid about being late.’ Just like the first time we met, we fell into step easily, although there was none of that initial easy flirty banter. Now I knew he had a wife and child.

Your job must be so fascinating. Doing something that you love …’ He let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m assuming you love it and that it was a passion that has become your job, but maybe not.’

‘Music is my passion and I am incredibly lucky that I do something I love, but it can still be hard work.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that plays in an orchestra before.’

‘It’s still a job at the—’

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

A little girl in a sparkly bobble hat that came down to the bridge of her nose, and bundled up in a dark pink down coat like a little wriggling caterpillar, came hurtling towards us and launched herself at Nate, throwing her arms around his hips, almost knocking him over before throwing her head up to look at him. ‘You’re still here! Can you take me home?’

He scooped her up and kissed her on the nose, her legs, in grey tights, hung around his waist, her little black Mary Jane shoes swinging in delight as she clung to his neck, a huge beam on her face.

‘Not just now. I need to speak with Miss Smith, pumpkin.’

Her lower lip poked out in a perfect pout, which Nate ignored.

‘Did you eat all your Weetabix this morning?’ he asked, tapping her scrunched-up nose.

‘Yes –’ she gave a long-suffering eye roll and Nate caught my eye and winked ‘– and my badnana. I was very good today,’ she said with an imperious lift of her head as she patted her father’s face with her wool-gloved hands.

‘Glad to hear it; then you’ll grow big and strong.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do I have to? I don’t want to be strong –’ she pulled a bleurgh nasty medicine face ‘– but I do want to be big, like you.’

He ruffled her hair affectionately and kissed her on the cheek before sliding her down. ‘I think you’re a bit too big to be picked up like this, these days. You weigh as much as a … a camel, I think.’

‘A camel!’ she shrieked in disgust. ‘No, a crocodile,’ she shouted, snapping her teeth in exaggerated bites before collapsing against her dad’s hip, giggling, and then I realised she’d been one of the group on stage.

A small, rather dumpy woman with an unexpectedly plain face came bustling up.

‘Grace, don’t run off like that,’ she scolded in a heavy Eastern European accent.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nate, ‘she’s safe.’ But he turned to the little girl and shook his head. ‘She’s right – you shouldn’t go running off, even if you do see someone you know. It’s not fair to whoever’s looking after you, is it?’

‘Sorry,’ said Grace, looking suitably contrite, and she leaned towards the woman and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

The woman’s face lit up and she patted Grace on the head with a gentle, familiar touch. ‘No worries, little one.’

‘Can I come with you?’ asked Grace, turning back to her dad and latching onto his hand, looking up at him with the most hopeful, irresistible pleading look.

I laughed and Grace looked my way, her eyes wide in innocent enquiry.

‘Svetlana, this is Viola; she’s helping with the nativity play. And we really need to go and talk about it.’

That was the understatement of the century.

Svetlana nodded and gave me a wide friendly smile. ‘Hello.’

With her straggly blonde hair and clumpy mascara, she wasn’t the cool, svelte blonde that I’d envisioned Nate with. Wife? She was quite young. Nanny? There were certainly plenty of those in this postcode.

‘Can I ride the donkey this year?’ asked Grace, looking between me and her father with a guileless expression.

I lifted my shoulder. Did she mean a real donkey? I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. Whatever happened to having Mary, Joseph, an angel or two, three kings and a couple of shepherds?

‘Last year I was a sheep and I didn’t like the cotton wool.’ Grace pulled a face and wiped her eyes, clearly re-enacting the problems she’d had last year. ‘And Mummy was cross –’ she said this with childish delight, the sort inspired by having overheard something she shouldn’t ‘– because where do you expect to find white leggings this time of year?’

‘Right,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘No cotton wool sheep.’ And here I was, already worrying about sodding armadillo scales or whatever they had.

‘And Joseph was Joseph,’ said Grace conversationally now. ‘We don’t have no one called Mary but my friend Cassie would be a good mummy for Jesus. She’s got white hair and it’s really, really long but she was an angel last year, except she wasn’t allowed to bring her sparkly wand. If I was an angel I’d have wings with fairy lights and a wand with sparkles that glows in the dark.’

I tilted my head to one side. ‘I think if I were an angel I’d want wings too, although I’m not sure they had wands then.’

‘Oh, they did,’ said Grace, nodding with great confidence. ‘God gave them to them.’

Nate raised a discreet eyebrow my way, as if to say, And now get out of that!

Good old God. Him and his sparkly wands. Another thing for me to contend with. Wings and wands. All of a sudden there was an awful lot to think about. Kitting out all those animals was going to be a huge ask. If only we could stick to flocks of shepherds like every other nativity I’d ever seen. Tea towels and toy sheep everywhere.

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Nate, tapping her nose. ‘After I’ve met with Miss Smith.’

‘I could come with you,’ suggested Grace with a decided tilt of her chin, putting her hand into his. ‘I know all about the tivity.’ Then she added with a sudden random tangent, ‘Do you think Mummy can buy me a crocodile costume?’




Chapter 5 (#ulink_3b534823-83f7-55d3-b078-86b94c8031af)


The Daily Grind was a smallish independent coffee shop that had opened not long after I’d moved to the area and had once been a regular haunt. This was the first time I’d been in here in months.

I was grateful that Nate had stopped outside to take a call as I ignored the small elastic ping in the vicinity of my heart when I looked over at the small table in the corner. Instead I hurried towards a table on the opposite side of the room, unwrapping myself from my layers as I went to hang my coat up at one of a bank of fancy cast iron coat hooks on the rustic panelled walls. This was posh Borrowers territory. The walls and floors were made from reclaimed scaffolding planks, the furniture had been upcycled and given a stylish, polished gleam, shining under the new hipster bare lightbulb lighting. A distinct retro feel had been achieved with the wooden tables and chairs, all of which were slightly different Ercol designs from over the years, so bore enough similarity to create a cohesive, homogenous overall look.

‘Viola! Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ Sally called, wiping her hands on her barista apron. I approached the counter with a little skip in my step, feeling more than welcome.

‘Hello you. What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Back for a visit?’

I bit my lip, a little ashamed. When Paul had left, I couldn’t bear to come back but I should have done because Sally was lovely and I should have told her what had happened. Did I confess now I’d never left or lie and say I’d moved back? Now I’d walked in, I remembered how much I’d loved the place. Time to make new memories here. The ones with Paul had scabbed over a long time ago and the scars were almost gone.

‘I still live here. Sorry, Paul and I split up and …’ I lifted my shoulders in a helpless shrug.

Paul had been gone for eight months. We’d lived together for the grand total of sixteen months; it struck me, under Sally’s sympathetic gaze, there seemed some symmetry in that. The short story, he had an affair with someone else; the long story, more complicated, picked over too many times during gin-fuelled evenings of rage and despair until one day I woke up, not so very long ago, and it didn’t hurt any more.

‘Oh, hon, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, I’m glad to see you today,’ said Sally. ‘What can I get you? Flat Americano? Or a cappuccino?’

‘You still remember.’

‘Of course I do; you were one of our favourite customers. I still have that little book of poetry you gave me, the Carol Ann Duffy one about the wives. Gosh, how many Christmases ago? Two? Three?’

‘At least three, but I do know I’ve missed your cappuccinos. I’ll have one of those.’

‘And anything to eat? We’ve got the most gorgeous lime and courgette cake.’ Despite her cheery words, there was a mournful twist to her mouth.

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘And very healthy.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Should cake be healthy? Don’t you have any of that delicious coffee and walnut cake you used to make?’

‘A girl after my own heart,’ she said, immediately straightening up. ‘And yes, we do … bloody fat-free muffins. Get yourself a table and I’ll bring it over.’ Sally’s eyes slid to the old table.

‘I’ll go over there,’ I said, pointing to where I’d already hung my coat up. ‘And someone’s coming to join me.’

Nate ambled in ten minutes later, after I’d exhausted reading my Facebook feed, just ahead of the scrum of mums that trailed in behind him. I tried to look at his handsome features dispassionately. Married and with a child. I needed to quash those silly fluttery feelings hard and fast. Difficult when some stubborn part of me insisted on taking surreptitious peeps at those warm brown eyes and the wide, generous mouth with the slight twist of one lip.

‘Hey, Nate,’ said Sally, as soon as he stepped over the threshold as she passed by him on her way to my table with my order. ‘Your usual?’

‘Yes, please.’ He spotted me in the corner.

‘In or out?’

He tilted his head my way, indicating my table. ‘In, today.’

Sally’s eyes widened with sudden smiling interest. ‘You two know each other?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not really.’

We both spoke at the same time in quick denial.

‘But we keep bumping into each other,’ said Nate cheerfully. ‘Viola’s just been handed the dubious honour of doing this year’s nativity play.’

‘Er … shouldn’t that be the dubious honour of helping you do the nativity play?’ I was determined to keep it businesslike. No flirty banter.

‘Well, there’s—’

‘Holy fuck,’ breathed Sally, looking horrified.

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than it already was?

‘Nothing. Nothing,’ she said, pulling a ‘God help you’ face.

‘Thanks, Sally,’ said Nate dryly.

‘Good luck,’ said Sally. ‘It’s a wonderful school and Mrs Roberts is an amazing head. She’s transformed the place. She has very … high standards.’

From behind the counter, Sally’s small blonde assistant snorted. ‘She’s a crazy woman. One of those super-heads that’s determined to make her school the best one in the area. Talk about competitive.’

‘And that’s a good thing for the children,’ said Sally a touch defensively. ‘My daughter’s there.’

‘That’s not what you said when she sent the chair of the PTA in, demanding that we provide all the coffee for the summer fete last year.’

‘It was for a good cause,’ said Sally.

‘So are our profits,’ retorted the other woman.

I glanced at Nate, my eyes widening with apprehension. ‘You were about to say?’

He grimaced. ‘I said I’d help because Grace wanted me to come into school and I –’ his lips curved in a rueful smile ‘– and I thought this would be a nice easy gig. A couple of hours once a week, but that was when Mrs Davies was in charge. I didn’t sign up for full-on producing and directing.’

‘Neither did I. I thought I’d be helping with some musical arrangements.’

We both lapsed into silence.

‘Have you told her about the star of Bethlehem, the year before?’ Sally butted in, bringing Nate’s coffee over. ‘Full-on pyrotechnics. Looked incredible. Although I did worry when I saw the caretaker on standby with two fire extinguishers.’

We both glared at her and she backed away hurriedly.

‘What are we going to do?’ I broke the silence, putting my elbow on the table and resting my chin in my palm.

‘Isn’t there anyone else at the Opera House that could help … someone –’ he lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at tact ‘– you know, with the script or something?’

‘I don’t think anyone could help with that script.’

He shot me a quick amused smile before tapping his steepled fingers against his lower lip, drawing my gaze to his mouth. Very sexy mouth.

I waved my hands, cross with myself for noticing that totally inappropriate fact, as if to push the thought away. But of course, like a particularly pernicious thorn, it had embedded itself. He has a wife, Viola.

‘I’m going to be tied up all weekend … Do you think you could have a go at writing the next scene? You’re the artistic one and we need something by Monday.’

I eyed him, feeling less than charitable towards him. ‘What with me only working on Saturday night, you mean?’

He frowned. ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’ll help with other things but I’m not a writer; believe me, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I rely on facts, logic and what I can see and touch. Music is artistic, creative, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, no, it’s quite mathematical, actually. But, like you say, we need something by Monday. I’ll have a go … but I’m not promising miracles.’

‘I’ll see if I can round up some more parent helpers and I’ll help where I can. Why don’t I give you my mobile number? You can call me if there’s a problem. I am a governor, so –’ he gave a self-deprecating laugh ‘– I have some clout, apparently.’

We swapped numbers, in a grown-up, businesslike fashion. I didn’t think I’d be swapping any flirty texts with him any time soon. The little tentative butterfly wing quivers of excitement that had fluttered earlier in my stomach had been well and truly swatted by his businesslike attitude.

‘One thing we do need to do, and quickly, is to let the parents know what they need to provide, costume-wise, as soon as possible. Everyone is very busy at this time of year and, as Grace mentioned, it really is a faff for parents to have to go out hunting for things. Elaine, my wife, was extremely stressed last year at having to find the right colour leggings and T-shirt.’ He winced. ‘You’ve seen the cast list.’

I had indeed, although my mind was otherwise distracted. At last the wife had a name. Elaine sounded like a cool blonde.

‘Grace is a crocodile; I’m guessing that’s green leggings and T-shirt,’ said Nate with a frown. He looked at his watch, again with a little shake of his head. ‘I, for one, certainly won’t have time to go and buy that sort of thing, and neither will her mother. Work is full-on at the moment.’

I looked at his smart suit and the expensive watch on his wrist, the one that he’d looked at for a third time. Wife. Nanny. Suddenly I felt a little bit sorry for Grace.

‘And I guess that is very important,’ I said with sudden bite. ‘What is it you do?’

If he said brain-surgeon I’d give him a pass.

‘I’m a lawyer.’

Of all the jobs he could have said.

Paul was a lawyer and I still had the sour taste of the cold, precise way he’d drawn up lists of our possessions, allocating ownership where it was due before dismantling our relationship once and for all. He gave me a six-page document … right before he dumped me.




Chapter 6 (#ulink_cfd7d052-a08c-5106-b68a-b2385d46a611)


I threw another piece of crumpled paper across the room. This was impossible. I wasn’t a scriptwriter. How the hell was I supposed to shoehorn the Noah’s ark of animals into the story of Jesus’ birth?

Bella walked into her kitchen clutching a large glass of white wine and topped my glass up. ‘Not made any progress?’ she asked with a smirk.

‘No, I bloody have not.’

She sniggered, much like she’d been doing ever since I arrived for our usual Sunday evening get-together. For once she’d left me to it while she bathed the girls.

I came most weeks to escape the silence of my flat and the heavy quiet of solo living, which I still hadn’t quite got used to. On good days when I’d been busy and out working, I told myself that I was embracing the silence and the independence of single life. The paint colours on the walls were all mine, the chocolate and crisps stayed put unless I’d eaten them and no one hammered on the door when I took an hour-long bath.

But on Sundays the quiet was overpowering, almost suffocating, especially when everyone else seemed to embrace that night before school need to stay home.

‘It really isn’t funny,’ I said, sitting back and looking at the cast list and the only existing page of script.

‘I think “to affinity and Bethlehem” is inspired,’ she snorted again.

‘You would; you don’t have to finish the rest of the story. I mean, seriously, how do I get a unicorn and a narwhal into the story? I’m pretty sure there’s not much sea between Nazareth and Bethlehem.’

Bella had all but spat her wine all over the pristine white surfaces in her kitchen when I’d arrived and first told her about the rocking crocodiles, hissing snakes and the armadillos and flamingos. Like Nate, she had grave reservations about the costumes.

‘I’m going into school tomorrow; I’ve got to have something,’ I said, despair starting to grip. ‘I can’t think of any dolphin songs or yak songs or unicorn songs for that matter. I’ve been racking my brains all weekend for anything suitable.’

‘I might be a tad old-fashioned but what’s wrong with Christmas carols?’ asked Bella.

She had a good point.

‘Why don’t you take a break?’ she suggested. ‘While I shove the pizzas in the oven and knock up a quick salad. You could go and read the girls a story.’ The latter was added with a sly smile.

I threw my pen down. ‘I think I will. Where are they? In the lounge?’

‘I said they could watch ten minutes of Blue Planet.’

Ella and Rosa were rosy-cheeked and smelled of lavender when I sat down between them on the sofa. I felt a tug at my heart at the sight of them in their matching dressing gowns and little fluffy slippers.

‘Who wants a bedtime story?’

‘Jesus’s Christmas Party,’ said Rosa, suddenly producing it from underneath a cushion.

‘I read that last time.’

‘Read it again,’ piped up Ella. ‘It’s our favourite.’

Picking up the book, I read it, the three of us joining in with great gusto at the innkeeper’s roared refrain, advising his never-ending stream of visitors to go to the stable.

Halfway through the story, it hit me. As soon as I reached the words ‘The End’ I bundled the two girls upstairs, calling to Bella to put them to bed, and dashed into the kitchen to pick up my pencil.

By the time Bella came back downstairs, I’d completed a very rough script.

For some reason, even though not one of them was over five foot tall, a surge of fear shot through me and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. They were all looking up at me with wide-eyed interest as I stood at the front of the large hall.

There was absolutely no sign of Nate Williams, even though when he’d texted back last night he’d said he planned to be here. We’d had a brief text exchange and when I’d told him of my executive decision, he’d agreed that it was for the best and that he would back me a hundred per cent.

‘Oak and Apple class, say good morning to Miss Smith,’ said the teaching assistant in a high-pitched, here kitty, kitty sort of voice. She’d been allocated to help me, for which I was very grateful, otherwise I’d have been completely on my own.

‘Good. Morning. Miss Smith,’ intoned the class in a deadened robotic rhythm that threatened to suck all of the life out of me. Honestly, it was like facing a crowd of Dementors. I had no idea how they were going to respond to the news that Noah’s Christmas Ark was no more. The children, all in their green and grey uniforms, were sitting cross-legged in front of me on the polished parquet floor, which had probably had thousands of children’s feet pass across its surface over its lifetime.

I took in a breath and said in a voice designed to counteract their joyless greeting, ‘Good morning, Oak class. Good morning, Apple class.’ I beamed at them like Mary Poppins on acid. ‘Shall we try that again? Good morning, Oak class,’ I bellowed in a loud voice. ‘Good morning, Apple class.’

‘Good morning, Miss Smith,’ they bellowed back with a lot more energy.

Energy was good. I could work with that. I checked my watch. Where was Nate?

‘That’s better. I’m looking for people with good loud voices. Do I have any here?’

A sea of hands shot up, waving like little sea anemones. Better and better. Things were looking up. I could do this.

I was on the hoof, making things up as I went along. Actually, that wasn’t true at all. I’d planned today with meticulous attention to detail, dividing up the duties between myself and Nate. It was vital we made a good impression as we had to sell them a complete change of plan. I’d decided it was best to be honest and explain that Mrs Davies was too poorly to finish the script, so we were going to start afresh with a new lot of auditions. I’d hoped to palm that job off on Nate but as he still wasn’t here and I couldn’t stand in front of the children looking like a complete lemon, I got on with it.

Despite a few minor groans most of the children looked interested when I explained that we were going to have new parts and that there’d be fresh auditions today.

‘But I still want to be an armadillo,’ said Jack, a touch of belligerence in his square plump face.

‘There isn’t an armadillo in this story.’

‘I want to be an armadillo,’ he repeated, folding his arms, giving me an implacable stare.

‘There’ll be other parts. New ones.’ I smiled gamely at him as he continued to stare at me.

‘I’m not happy. I’m not happy.’ He shook his head and I was pretty sure that he was parroting someone else’s words.

I gave him a vague smile and moved on. Today I had to get my cast together and teach them the new songs I’d chosen. I needed a loud confident boy to play the innkeeper. A bossy know-it-all to play his wife. A serene Mary. A careful, thoughtful Joseph. Three bouncy kings. As many rustic shepherds as I could get away with. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, oh, and an angel.

If I could hand all that over to Nate, I could get on and start teaching the children the Christmas carols.

I looked at the door again. Where was he? I looked back at the children, watching me with expectant interest. I was on my own.

‘Does anyone know any Christmas carols?’ I’d already decided on most of them but I was hoping this little bit of democracy would make the children feel more involved and hopefully forget about marmosets, narwhals and flipping unicorns.

Again the hands shot up, several with that me-me-me fervour you only find in little children. Right under my nose, one little boy waved his hand madly, almost bouncing up and down on the spot trying to get my attention. It would have taken someone with a heart of cold, hard stone to ignore him.

‘You there, young man?’

‘Do you like football, miss?’

His mate next to him nudged him and giggled.

‘George,’ the teaching assistant shadowing me cut in, ‘if you can’t be sensible, you’ll have to go and sit in Mrs Roberts’ office.’

George looked as if he might have spent a fair bit of time there before because he gave an irrepressible grin and carried on staring at me.

‘Anyone else?’ The forest of hands shot up again and this time I picked another child, a demure-looking girl with plaits and a green headband which matched her regulation green sweatshirt with the logo of a brown and green tree on the right breast.

‘Away in a Manger,’ she said in a proud little voice.

‘Excellent,’ I said in the sort of voice that suggested she’d just discovered how to sequence the genome. Actually it was perfect and, unbeknownst to her, already on my list. I turned and wrote it on the whiteboard behind me. I’d already decided I needed five carols to break up the action and to extend the performance.

I picked another waving hand and then realised it was Grace, Nate’s daughter.

‘You’re Daddy’s friend,’ she said in an accusing voice. The teaching assistant coughed and put her hand over her face. And for some ridiculous reason I blushed bright red, which probably confirmed her assumption.

‘I’ve met your daddy,’ I agreed evenly, with a carefully blank face, ‘when we talked about the nativity. Do you have a carol for me?’

She shook her head. ‘My daddy’s very handsome. Don’t you want to be his friend?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really know him. I only met him that day.’

And there, as if by magic, he was standing at the back of the hall, a look of unholy amusement on his ‘very handsome’ face.

‘He’s very nice,’ pressed Grace

Aware of the pinkness of my cheeks, I gave her a perfunctory, ‘I’m sure he is.’ I could see his shoulders shaking even from this distance, the dratted man. I ignored him and turned to the teaching assistant, who had managed to recover from her fit of coughing and thankfully intervened. ‘Perhaps we can stick to the Christmas carols, thank you, Grace?’

Grace huffed, folded her arms and pinched her mouth together in an expression of too-adult disgust which had me trying not to laugh as she watched me with continued suspicion.

‘Anyone else?’ God, how did teachers do it – keep up this bright, sparkly, I’m so excited voice? I pointed to another boy whose hand had shot up dead straight like an arrow in flight.

‘Hark the Harold Angels.’

I bit back a smile. ‘Perfect. Because we’re going to need an angel.’

Several eager little girls looked excitedly at each other and started whispering. I looked towards the back of the hall, waiting for Nate to join me, but he was finishing a conversation with Mrs Roberts. Hopefully, he was explaining to her why we’d decided to rewrite the script. I’d emailed it to him the previous evening and he’d agreed to speak to her to let her know we’d decided to take a new direction. He’d also agreed he’d be here to help me this morning.

When I looked up a second later Mrs Roberts had disappeared. I gave Nate an expectant look, waiting for him to cross the hall floor and join me. Instead he waved his phone, mouthed, ‘Text you,’ and bloody disappeared!

I glared at the empty doorway. This was not what I’d signed up for.

Resigned but with low simmering anger, I turned back to the task at hand. It took some time but eventually I had five carols, all of which would fit perfectly within the story and included O Little Town of Bethlehem, We Three Kings and Silent Night. I was starting to feel a slight sense of euphoria.

‘OK, now I need some characters for the nativity. Some really good actors. Could you put your hand up if you would like to say a few lines?’

Jack’s hand shot up. ‘I want to be the armadillo.’

I gave him another smile – there was no way I was putting an armadillo into my nice traditional script – and turned to some of the other children. I could have predicted that George would be one of them, although I could already see quite a few children sinking back into their little bodies, trying to make themselves invisible and as unobtrusive as possible. ‘No one has to say lines if they don’t want to,’ I added more gently, smiling at some of the anxious faces. ‘You can sing the carols with everyone else.’

I had a good thirty children keen to show their stuff. I gave the doorway one last look. It really did look like I was on my own. Thankfully, the teaching assistant, who was pretty capable, agreed to take half the children over to the other side of the hall and she started practising the words to Away in a Manger with them, while I tried to get the measure of the children who wanted parts. I looked enviously at the piano. Teaching carols was much more in my comfort zone.

Come on, Viola, you’ve just got to get on with it. At least I had a script that made some sense now.

I’d shamelessly stolen the story of Jesus’s Christmas Party, writing the script with a fair bit of padding of my own, while taking complete advantage of Bella’s hospitality as she’d put the girls to bed and cooked pizza. During that time I’d created what I hoped was a half hour play and then used her printer to print out the lines for the innkeeper and his wife and other key parts for audition.

When the break bell rang the children all scattered like marbles, racing off at varying speeds towards the long corridor down to their classrooms.

‘Well handled,’ said the teaching assistant. ‘They can be a tricky bunch.’

She didn’t know how close I’d come to giving one of the boys a Chinese burn, but I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.

‘I’m more worried about whether Mrs Roberts will approve. This isn’t quite as flamboyant … and I’ve heard the previous productions have been …’ I waved my hands to illustrate all-singing, all-dancing.

She snorted. ‘Yes. They have.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Load of crap. It’s all Emperor’s New Clothes. Crocodile Rock! For Pete’s sake, what’s that about? Whatever happened to good old Christmas carols?’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘Don’t you fret, pet. The parents are going to love it. I’ve read the script. It’s funny, although you’re going to have to put an armadillo in it.’

‘There isn’t going to be an armadillo,’ I said firmly with a grin, but her face was deadly serious.

‘You don’t know Jack.’

‘You look like you need a large slice of cake,’ said Sally, when I marched with quick, jerky strides into the Daily Grind at eleven o’clock, my coat flapping behind me. I’d just picked up Nate’s text.

Meet you later. Coffee. Couldn’t make rehearsal. Had a call I had to deal with.

‘And the rest,’ I snapped, feeling the tension riding in my jaw. ‘I don’t suppose you do gin at this time of the day?’ I glanced around the room, a frown on my face. Where was he?

The morning mums crowd were long gone and there were only a few people dotted about at tables, most hiding behind laptop screens, absorbed in what they were doing.

‘Bad morning?’

I heaved out a juddering sigh, feeling my furious pulse finally starting to slow. ‘It started well but I was let down.’

‘Ah, one of those,’ sympathised Sally, snatching up a white china cup and saucer. ‘Cappuccino?’

‘Oh, God, yes, please. And cake.’

‘Coffee and walnut?’

‘Perfect.’

‘And where would you like it?’ she asked, her eyes sliding over my shoulder with definite meaning.

I looked over at the same time that Nate Williams lifted his head from his laptop. I glared at him.

As I approached his table, he pushed his laptop to one side. ‘Morning, you got my text then.’

‘About two minutes ago,’ I snapped.

‘Ah, sorry.’ At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish.

‘It’s fine … What could be better than managing sixty children on your own?’

He winced. ‘How did it go? I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I’ve had a couple of …’ he rubbed at one of his eyes ‘… things to sort out this morning.’ Studying him properly, I realised he looked tired. One eye was quite bloodshot and there was a grim set to his mouth. ‘How was this morning? You did a great job on the new script … for someone who’s not very artistic. I love that you’re telling the story from the innkeeper’s point of view.’

‘Thank you … not my idea, though. I pinched it from a book. Jesus’s Christmas Party.’

‘Well pinched, though. So how did it go down with the children?’

‘Good.’ I softened. He did look a bit crap. ‘And I got through quite a bit this morning. Recast everyone. Your daughter is now the very bossy innkeeper’s wife.’

He laughed. ‘Typecasting. She can be quite bossy.’ Then he sobered, his expression pensive. ‘Some of the time.’

‘And I’ve found the most perfect innkeeper.’

‘That’s great. Sounds like you’ve made good progress.’

‘I’d make more with some help,’ I said pointedly.

He winced. ‘That might be problematic, this week. Svetlana, she’s our nanny, her mum’s very ill. She had to catch a train home this morning.’

‘A train?’ I’d assumed, with her name and accent, home would be a flight away.

Nate let out a mirthless laugh. ‘She comes from Wigan. Been here since she was seven. But I’m really stuck without any childcare. I can work from home … while Grace is at school but it’s almost impossible when she gets home. I’m going to have to maximise those hours when she’s at school to get stuff done.’

‘Great,’ I groaned.

‘It’s not exactly a picnic for me, trying to juggle everything, but Svetlana says she’ll be back in a couple of days.’ He glanced back at his computer screen.

‘Sorry I interrupted you. You’re working.’

He let out a short laugh and turned the screen around to reveal a webpage with the heading, Simple Gingerbread House Recipe – BBC Good Food.

‘Interesting; I didn’t have you down as a baker.’

‘I’m not.’ He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nothing like. I’m realising just how far from it I am. I was just trying to get ahead of myself. Elaine was a total perfectionist. Christmas in our house has always been the magazine perfect Christmas. I don’t want to let Grace down but … there’s so much to do. She’s had a lot of change in her life and she’s desperate for Christmas to be just like it was before. She’s already fretting about this.’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Elaine made one every year and it’s Grace’s abiding memory of Christmas. But it won’t be the same if we don’t make it.’ His mouth twisted and his eyes clouded, lost in memories.

Oh, God, I hadn’t considered that he might be a widower and the shock of the idea made me ask, without proper preparation or tact, ‘Is your wife … erm … dead?’

Nate looked up sharply. ‘No. Not dead. Just er … she’s erm … taking some time out from family life.’

My rubbish poker face semaphored startled surprise. What the hell did that mean?

‘That must be tough,’ I said, trying not to sound the least bit judgmental, but who takes time out from family life when they have a seven-year old?

‘Yeah, it is, especially on Grace.’ And on him. Now I could see it. Those deep groves on either side of his mouth, not so much chiselled features but worn down, weary features. A weariness around the eyes.

He rubbed at his cheek. ‘But we just have to get on with it.’ Like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I saw Nate in a different light. What came across as upright and confident hid a brittleness about him. A stiffness, like someone holding themselves back, retreating from human touch, for fear of a bruise being inadvertently touched again. He held himself aloof. Shutting down quickly when emotion escaped him. Hence the mixed messages that first day I’d met him.

I wanted to ask more questions about his wife but it seemed far too intrusive.

‘Maybe Svetlana could make the gingerbread house,’ I suggested. ‘When she gets back.’

Nate laughed. ‘Svetlana is great at many things, but she’s no baker. I think asking her to make this –’ he looked at the picture on the screen ‘– would be an ask too much. But Grace is desperate to make one; apparently Cassie De Marco has one every year. I feel like I’m failing her.’

He looked so disconsolate I wanted to help.

‘I’ve had quite a bit of experience with gingerbread houses,’ I suddenly blurted out.

‘That’s not something you hear every day.’ There was cool appraisal in his face and I could almost see the barriers going up.

‘I have two cousins and between them they have five daughters. I’m dragged in on a regular basis to adjudicate as to who is winning in the best mummy stakes … and to help. I blame Martha Stewart or Aldi. I don’t remember gingerbread houses being a thing when I was a child. Do you?’

He relaxed slightly. ‘You’re right. They weren’t. Why Aldi?’

‘Because they started doing those kits one year, but of course no self-respecting domestic goddess would use a kit. They have to make their own from scratch. And my cousins are experts.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Forget houses, think palaces, and I’m already signed up to help one of my cousins after school this week. And I’ve already stirred two Christmas cakes.’

He looked confused, so I quickly explained the situation, finishing with, ‘Basically I’m like the family fairy godmother, parachuted in to help whenever they need me.’

‘I wish I had one of those. My parents live in Portugal and … Elaine’s mother, Friend of the Opera House, is not the doting granny type.’

Before I knew it, I’d opened my mouth. ‘I could help you.’

To my slight chagrin, Nate didn’t immediately accept my offer. Instead he sat there, toying with his coffee cup, weighing up the off-the-cuff offer.

‘That’s very kind of you …’

Turning pink, I batted the air with my hands. ‘Don’t worry. That was probably a bit forward. I’m sure you’ve got it covered.’

‘No … it’s not that.’ He gave me a pained smile. ‘I’m … I’m a bit wary, I guess. I don’t like making promises to Grace and then having to let her down. Elaine used to do that a lot. Say she’d do something and then she’d have an important meeting or something would crop up and she’d have to take a conference call in the study for an hour. Grace got used to being disappointed. I don’t want that to happen to her again. I’ve worked hard this year to avoid it.’ His smile was sad. ‘That’s why I said I’d help with the nativity originally and now I can’t even do that. I feel like she’s always being let down.’

‘I can understand that,’ I said, feeling for Grace. My parents’ jobs had always taken priority when I was a child. There were plenty of times when I’d felt as if I was an inconvenience. I came into my own when I was old enough to manage things by myself.

‘And … well, you’ve got a high-powered job too.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think of it as high-powered. But my hours are set in stone. I know pretty much from month to month what they’ll be,’ I said, but I wasn’t about to beg him for the job.

‘If you want some help, I don’t work on Sundays. And, apart from performances on Saturday evenings and the odd matinee, I’m free most Saturdays during the day.’

‘Sorry. You’re offering to help and I’m being pretty churlish. Grace would love it if you could come and teach us how to make a gingerbread house. Could you come over this Saturday morning?’

‘We’ll need supplies,’ I said.

‘What sort of supplies?’ he asked, getting out his phone to open up the notes app.

‘Sweets, boiled for the windows, chocolate buttons, chocolate fingers, icing sugar decorating tube, icing sugar.’

His face dropped with dismay.

‘Would you like me to bring the supplies? I can probably raid one of my cousins’ cupboards.’

‘Would you? I’ll pay you for any expenses.’

‘It’s probably easier that way. OK, text me your address and I’ll see you on Saturday at about nine-thirty … or is that too early?’

‘I have a seven-year-old. It’s quite usual for me to have a six o’clock wake-up call complete with cold feet on a Saturday morning.’




Chapter 7 (#ulink_b967dd61-da8a-54a0-8d06-76474648f522)


The house lights went up and I blinked as the faces in the audience came into focus. Without exception, I feel the same magical thrill at the end of every performance, as the last notes die out and there’s that brief pin-drop silence before the tumultuous applause begins. Every time, it makes my heart beat faster and my spirits soar right up to the gilt-painted ceiling.

I’m so incredibly lucky to work in this amazing building. The London Metropolitan Opera House has been in residence here since 1956 but the theatre was built in 1822 and, while not quite as posh or as big (but only 256 seats less) as the Royal Opera House, it can give it a good run for its money.

As always, I stood for a moment in the black painted pit, the lights glowing over the music stands, and listened to the hum of a well and truly satisfied audience as they filed out of the plush red velvet seats. There was no better feeling but now I had a whole two days off and, much as I loved my job, I was ready for some ‘me’ time. A little frisson ran through me at the thought that that included seeing Nate on Saturday and I pushed away the other busy Christmas preparation agenda I’d been co-opted into. Sunday was cake decorating at my eldest cousin Tina’s.

I gathered up my viola and packed it away quickly. None of us hung around on a Friday night, especially not at this time of year. We had a packed schedule; there were four more performances of Tales of Hoffmann, a quirky operatic piece by Offenbach that was actually one of my favourites, before The Nutcracker opened.

Grabbing my bag from my locker, I headed for the stage door, grateful for the protection in numbers in the busy streets of Covent Garden at this late hour. I switched on my mobile and was surprised to see that I’d missed six calls from my mother in the last fifteen minutes.

‘Mum – are you OK?’

‘Viola, at last. I’ve been calling and calling. Your phone was switched off.’ Her peevish voice filled my ear.

‘Mum, I was at work.’

‘This late?’ she snapped, so I refrained from making the obvious comment. While Mum did know what I did for a living, she never seemed to be able to equate it with real work. When it was more convenient to her, she liked to assume it was part-time and I just popped in and out of the theatre when I felt like it and had plenty of time on my hands, which needed filling. Actually, most of my family were of a similar view.

‘Yes, Mum. Are you all right?’ But she wasn’t listening.

‘You should keep your phone with you for emergencies. Honestly, why would you switch it off?’

Yeah, right, Mum. While I’m playing a complex piece in front of an audience of two thousand people, I’ll just down my bow and take your call. I could just imagine the conductor’s reaction to that.

‘Our phones have to stay in our lockers.’ I was sure I’d told her this before.

‘Hmph,’ she said, her disdainful tone loud and clear down the line. ‘Luckily, Ursula next door answered her phone. She wasn’t too busy to come and help me.’ There was a distinct ring of triumph in her words and of course the guilt kicked in.

‘Oh, Mum – what’s happened? Are you all right?’

‘She had to call an ambulance.’

Despite being nearly midnight, St Mary’s Hospital buzzed with purpose and activity as I half-walked and half-ran to find the entrance to Accident and Emergency. I’d spent the cab ride fiddling with my phone but not actually contacting anyone. It was too late to call either of my cousins and Dad was five hours behind us, so probably still holding court to a packed lecture theatre; besides, until I’d seen Mum, there was no point worrying him.

I sighed, following the signs to A&E, some of which were hung with hopeful strings of tinsel and plastic holly, going over the sketchy information she’d told me on the phone. Apparently she’d fallen in the library; in most homes it would be called the study but this book-lined room in my parents’ apartment was most definitely the library. She’d avoided saying how but I could bet it was from falling off the ladder while stretching up to reach a book. She’d hurt her leg so badly she couldn’t get up off the floor. Thankfully, she’d been able to crawl to reach her mobile from the table on the other side of the room.

At the busy reception desk, manned by two dancing penguins, a bear dressed as Santa and an elf, I had to wait a while to get anyone’s attention, anxiously scanning the packed waiting room for Mum. The soft toys on the desk weren’t the only homage to the festive season. Even though it was a few minutes into the fourth of December, it seemed as if the local Christmas elves had been determined to cheer everyone up, no matter how poorly they were feeling, with a wealth of Christmas bling. Silver foil decorations and paper chains obscured the grey ceiling tiles and there were not one but two Christmas trees, one of which was a fibre optic tree which eased its way through a rainbow of colours in a surprisingly soothing way. It was so over the top that you couldn’t help but smile.

I couldn’t see Mum anywhere, which hopefully meant that she was being seen. When I’d spoken to her, forty minutes ago, she’d already been here for an hour.

At last a harried-looking nurse at the desk gave me a tired smile.

‘I’m looking for my mother, Dr … Mrs Smith – she came in an ambulance.’

‘Ah, yes, Dr Smith.’ She gave me a quick measuring glance, the sort that made me wonder if she’d already had some sort of run-in with Mum and she was trying to decide whether she needed to take cover. I responded with a reassuring friendly smile. I am nothing like my mother.

There were a few muttered conversations before another nurse appeared at my side. ‘Your mother’s in triage. Would you like to follow me?’

She led me back through a set of double doors at the very end of the waiting room, through which many of the waiting patients looked hopefully. This was obviously the medical equivalent of Nirvana in A&E.

‘Here you go.’ The nurse opened the curtain around the cubicle and then beat a hasty retreat.

‘Mum …’ I darted forward through the curtain and then stopped, not sure what to do. She’s not big on physical displays of affection.

‘Well, you took your time – I’ve been here for hours.’

I studied her for a moment; no doubt she’d been giving the nurses hell already. Judging from the nurse at the reception, she’d already made an impression. Mum’s a striking-looking woman, tall and broad, who likes to make her thoughts known. No one would accuse her of being a delicate wallflower and she doesn’t know the meaning of the word humility. I do, and I seem to have spent an awful lot of time being embarrassed on her behalf over the years. She has a head of curly hair that as a child I desperately envied, which was once a rich auburn colour but is now in the throes of turning grey.

She was sitting in a wheelchair with her leg propped out in front of her, dressed in her work clothes, a cream shirt, one of her usual tweedy skirts and the perennial American tan tights, the left leg of which was laddered below the knee. She had no shoes on. I stared at her feet. It made her look uncharacteristically unfinished. Where were her sensible brown courts, the Russell & Bromley pair she’d had for at least six years? The sight of her unshod feet unsettled me.

‘Have you been seen yet? What’s happening?’

‘I’ve been triaged,’ said Mum with disdain, ‘which translates as being seen by a nurse and offered some painkillers. And that’s all. The place is a shambles. No one seems to know what’s going on. The place is full of drunken idiots. I’d throw them all out on their ear.’

I crossed the room and took one of her hands. My mother is normally indefatigable. Dad and I call her Boudicca, which she pretends to be irritated by but secretly she’s rather pleased about it. She’s a professor of history, so I guess that makes sense. Boudicca is one of her heroines.

‘Are you all right?’ I squeezed her hand, my heart aching a little when I saw the brief sheen of tears in her eyes.

‘I wish your dad was here,’ she whispered, squeezing my hand back as I crouched down next to her. She leaned back into the wheelchair and closed her eyes as if her get up and go had got up and gone. Up close I could see the lines in her cheeks. She was seventy-one, not much younger than some of my friends’ grandparents. As a child I’d always been conscious of having older parents but that was because they were slightly stuffy and set in their ways rather than lacking in energy or drive. They’d have been the same if they’d become parents in their twenties rather than their forties. Today, for the first time, I realised that my mum was getting old. There was a vulnerability about her I’d not seen before.

‘Do you want me to call him?’ I asked gently, pulling over a chair so that I could sit next to her and hold her hand.

‘No, he’ll only worry and there’s nothing he can do.’ She opened her eyes and gave me a determined smile, which suggested logic had just bested emotion.

‘He could book a flight back.’

‘That would be ridiculous.’ She lifted her head and with her haughty tone I saw some of her usual indomitable force reassert itself. ‘I’ve probably just twisted my ankle or something. Let’s see what the doctor says. To be honest, I wouldn’t have called an ambulance; it was just Ursula fussing.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I don’t think I’m allowed anything until I’ve been seen by a doctor. All a load of nonsense. You could pass me my bag. I’ve got a couple of essays I could be marking. This lot of undergrads are actually quite intelligent for a change.’

‘Blimey, Mum. That’s high praise.’ I stood up to collect her leather laptop bag from the end of the bed.

‘I said quite.’ She raised an imperious eyebrow as I handed it to her. ‘Although a couple of them do seem to have genuinely enquiring minds.’

I laughed at her. ‘By the middle of next term you’ll have knocked them into shape.’

‘Well, of course.’ Although Mum put the fear of God into her students in their first term, by the end of the year they all respected and admired her and she always got the top marks when students graded the faculty teachers.

She fiddled with the zip of the case for a minute and then pushed it away. ‘Actually, I think I might just rest my eyes for a little while. My leg … it’s starting to ache a bit.’ Then, with a quiet sigh, she added, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

Outside, beyond the curtain, as Mum dozed, I became aware of the groans of another patient a few cubicles down, a crying baby and a slurring drunk refusing to take off his trousers. I’d exhausted the entertainment offered by my phone; I didn’t think the current scenery would make a particularly fetching Instagram story.

At last, as I was starting to doze off, a doctor appeared, a young tired-looking woman with a clipboard and a stethoscope around her neck. She introduced herself and asked lots of questions before even looking at Mum’s leg.

‘We’ll have to send you to X-ray. There’s a bit of a backlog, I’m afraid. It could be a while.’




Chapter 8 (#ulink_d794adff-c771-521e-b0fa-97ea73f65e23)


What had happened to my alarm? I woke up knowing it was later than I wanted it to be, sitting bolt upright and fumbling for my phone. The screen was blank. Instead I grabbed my watch from the bedside table.

‘Holy shit!’ It was ten o’clock.

I shook my phone as if that might help. Ridiculous, it was completely dead. Damn, I was so tired last night … no, this morning, by the time I’d got home from the hospital at five o’clock I’d completely forgotten to plug it in to charge.

And where was the charger? Oh, no, I’d left it at work. In my locker. I normally had two but one had broken last week.

What an idiot! And I was expected at Nate’s half an hour ago. Damn, after his specific warning about not letting Grace down. I looked at my watch again. At least I knew Mum had an appointment in the fracture clinic at twelve and wasn’t expecting me before then. I jumped out of bed. Was I too late to salvage this, if I got dressed now and went straight round to Nate’s? I’d still be an hour and a bit late but I would be there.

Outside, the sky had an ominous heavy grey cast to it, plump fat clouds billowing over the skyline. Snow was forecast for further north but I wondered if we might get a light dusting and, with that in mind, put my heavy boots on, just in case. It only took three snowflakes to fall in London and the whole place ground to a halt.

Making a snap decision, I dived into the shower and dressed at lightning speed. Still damp, I grabbed my coat, shoving my phone in the pocket, hoping I could borrow a charger at Nate’s house, pushing my arms through the sleeves even as I was opening the front door and charging up the steps to street level. Running headlong into icy cold air, I quickly remembered I’d forgotten both hat and gloves but I didn’t want to waste time going back for them; instead I strode at a fast pace down the street, not even pausing to do my coat up. Just as well that, when Nate had invited me to his house, I’d checked out the route and I could mentally picture the roads I needed to take to get there. It wasn’t a street I was familiar with.

Despite the icy temperature and the cars which were covered in heavy frost, I cut through Denbigh Terrace, admiring the colours of the houses, which brightened up the dull day, especially those with festive window baskets of bright red poinsettia and white cyclamen. I dodged a few hardy tourists taking pictures and hit Portobello Road in full Saturday morning throng. Weaving my way through the crowded pavements, I whizzed past the famous landmark of Alice’s, its bright red shop front already teeming with shoppers who were keen to peruse the eclectic selection of vintage and antique goodies or just take a snap to remind them of the Paddington films. There were families wandering along, their children like small padded Michelin men bundled up in buggies, and lots of trendy hipster couples wandering hand in hand wearing bobble hats and pea coats. Most of the shops and market stalls had already got their Christmas decorations up and it reminded me that I was co-opted for tree decoration at Bella’s and Tina’s in the next two weeks. Bella liked hers to go up in the second week of December, so she could maximise its value, and Tina’s went up anywhere between, depending on when there was time between the children’s ballet lessons, taekwondo, English tuition, football practice and French classes – and when I could make it as well.

Two streets and my pace began to slow.

Blimey, this street was posh. No coloured houses here; everything was staid white and Regency rather than Victorian and protected by grand steps up to the houses and bounded by wrought iron railings. There were lots of extremely expensive cars parked in the permit-only bays. The houses were all proper houses, not broken down into flats like in my road. My flat was one of five in what had once been a house.

And look at that glossy, shiny front door with its lion’s head brass knocker and the perfectly manicured bay trees on either side. I stopped at the bottom of the imposing set of steps leading up to the door, my fingers crossing in my pockets. This was a proper grown-up, married person’s house.

I lifted the heavy knocker and let it drop, hearing the sound echo in the hall beyond. I could feel the beat of my heart thudding a little harder and faster than normal. Breathe, I told myself.

The door opened and Grace stood there looking very small next to its solid glossiness. She was dressed in a cute pink sweatshirt with a sparkly love heart, in which was written Loves to dance, lives to dance and a pair of slightly darker pink leggings. The co-ordinated look was completed by matching little pink sheepskin moccasin slippers. With her hair bundled up in a pineapple-style ponytail, she looked cute and savvy in a slightly terrifying way.

‘You’re late,’ she said.

‘Yes, I’m sorry.

‘Who is it, Grace?’ Nate came hurrying into view looking a little harassed and then his mouth drew in a taut, displeased line. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Hi, sorry I’m late. My phone died. I couldn’t call because I left my charger at work.’ I pulled it out of my pocket and waved it in the air for want of something to do in the face of his gimlet stare.

‘I see,’ he said with a terse nod. Hard-face Nate was definitely intimidating; he did it rather well. Unfortunately for him, all I could think was that it added to his overall sexiness. At last he said, his mouth turning down in displeasure, ‘Grace, do you want to pop into the kitchen?’ It was said with calm nonchalance but I could see the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

‘No, Daddy,’ she said, looking up at him with an innocent expression.

I almost laughed but a quick glance at Nate’s stern expression made me pinch my lips together to suppress the quick burst of misplaced amusement. I could tell from the annoyed glint in his eye I was not helping my case.

‘I’d like you to go into the kitchen while I talk to Miss Smith.’

‘Are you going to tell her off? For being late. You could take a house point away.’

‘Grace, would you do as you’re told?’ Nate’s tone had changed and her mouth squashed into a mutinous line, making her look like a smaller, crosser version of her father.

‘OK,’ she said and then looked up at me. ‘Daddy’s very cross with you.’ Then she whispered to me, ‘But it’s OK if you admit you made a mistake and you tell the truth about it and then you apologise properly and say you’re sorry.’

‘That’s good advice, thank you,’ I said as gravely as I could manage.

‘Grace.’ Nate’s warning tone had her turning away but she gave me one last almost reassuring look over her shoulder, as if to say, Don’t worry you’ll be fine, before she disappeared through a door at the very end of the rather large entrance hall.

Nate came to stand in the doorway, keeping it half closed. A guard at the gate and I wasn’t getting through. I could see that I wasn’t about to be invited in, no matter how cold it was.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late but—’

‘I thought I’d made it quite clear. I’m not in a place where I can let Grace be messed around.’ He raised a single eyebrow that spoke volumes.

‘I know. You did. But I couldn’t phone because my phone’s dead and my charger is at work. And that’s why I had to come. To explain. I feel really bad about it.’ Although, of the two of them, Grace seemed the more forgiving. ‘I’ve come to apologise and explain.’

‘Well, thank you for coming and don’t worry, I don’t need your excuses. If it was important enough for you to come, you’d have been here. Clearly you’re a very busy person. Unlike you, I have responsibilities.’

‘My mother had an accident,’ I blurted out. ‘She’s in St Mary’s. I was there till five o’clock this morning. I slept through my alarm this morning.’

‘Oh,’ said Nate and I felt a flash of satisfaction at seeing the uptight, snotty front deflate almost immediately. ‘My goodness, is she OK? What happened? Has she been in an accident?’

‘She had a fall. She’s OK but it was a long night. Hence me oversleeping, for which I’m genuinely very sorry. Despite going to bed at five, I wasn’t going to let you down. I had every intention of coming but my phone died and I didn’t wake up until –’ I looked down at my watch ‘– thirty-five minutes ago.’

‘It should be me apologising for being such a dick. I’m sorry, you’ve had a rough night and you still came here. Have you had breakfast?’ he asked suddenly, his eyes running down my body.

‘I came straight here.’

‘Now you mention it, I can tell,’ he said with a twitch of his lips, looking at my coat and stepping back to open the door. ‘Come in. You look cold.’

‘Forgot my hat and my scarf. And my gloves. I was in a bit of a hurry.’

As soon as I stepped inside, I saw myself in the big gilt mirror. My coat was inside out and my hair was sticking up on one side where I hadn’t brushed it. I looked an absolute sight with my bed head hair, flushed cheeks and scarecrow wardrobe.

‘Oh, God, I look a sight.’

‘It’s an interesting look,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened to your mother.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘She fell off a ladder.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s seventy-one.’

‘I’m surprised she’s climbing ladders at that age. What was she doing?’

‘You don’t know my mother. She’s an academic; my parents have a lot of books … a lot of bookshelves. Some you need a ladder to reach. And apparently some books you just have to have when there’s no one else around to help you.’

‘Ah, stubborn?’

‘You do know my mother.’

He smiled at me, his eyes kinder now and running over my face. ‘You look tired. Come on, I’ll make you some breakfast. You look like you could do with a nice fry-up.’

‘That sounds bliss, thank you. I didn’t get much sleep last night but –’ I looked at my watch ‘– I’m sorry I can’t stay too long. I’ve got to go back to the hospital to pick her up.’

‘Will you stop apologising?’

‘But I’m letting you down. The gingerbread house.’

‘The gingerbread house can wait. What time do you need to be at the hospital?’

‘She’s got an appointment at the fracture clinic at twelve and, dependent on how that goes, we’ll get a taxi back to her place.’ I frowned. ‘And then I’m not sure what. My dad’s away in the States at the moment, although I’m hoping he’s going to get a flight home later today.’

‘That is bad luck, especially when your dad’s not there.’

‘Yes, and of course I was at work, so uncontactable. Mum was not best pleased when I finally rocked up at the hospital at midnight.’

Nate led me through the corridor, down some steps to a big square basement kitchen as I surreptitiously took in the beautiful house. I thought Bella’s house was all World of Interiors; this was even grander. ‘Shades of Pemberley,’ I murmured to myself. This house was gorgeous. The hall had an octagonal wooden table with an enormous glass vase, which I suspected when his wife was in residence would have always had a large arrangement of tall-stemmed, lush flowers. A rather grand staircase curled away from the hall with a rich chestnut banister that curved elegantly around to the next floor. Its white treads were punctuated by a striped carpet runner in shades of teal and beige which was held in place by shiny brass stair rods.

Off to the left, double glass doors opened into an elegant lounge with deep velvet sofas in pale eau de nil and white-painted furniture including another big mirror over the white plasterworked fireplace. Stylish lamps with overblown shades in pastel colours and big clear glass bases were arranged around the room. It looked light and bright and almost too neat and tidy to venture into. I’d have banned anyone from taking red wine in there.

The kitchen, while echoing those designer statements, felt a lot more homely and it looked as if this was where Grace and Nate spent most of their time. It opened out into an L-shape; to the right a long glass-roofed dining area and to the left a small cosy seating area with a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a television, a DVD player and a stack of Disney DVDs. Grace was sitting at a bar stool at the long wooden breakfast bar that ran the whole length of the kitchen area, surrounded by colouring pencils and bits of paper.

‘Tea, coffee?’ asked Nate. ‘Take a seat.’ He waved to the bar stool next to Grace. ‘Sorry, I should have taken your coat.’

He seemed a little bit flustered, as if me turning up at the wrong time had thrown the script. I got the impression that if I’d been on time he would have had a script.

‘Have you said sorry?’ asked Grace, not looking up from the drawing she was colouring in with fierce concentration as I took the stool next to her.

‘Yes, and I’d like to say sorry to you too.’

She shrugged and carried on carefully nudging at the lines of the unicorn on the paper with her pink pencil. ‘It’s OK.’

Her indifference tugged at my heart and I glanced over at Nate and saw his mouth tighten.

‘No, Grace, it’s not OK. I said I was coming and I really was, but my mum had an accident last night. So she had to go to hospital.’

Grace’s mouth pressed in a firm line. But she didn’t say anything.

‘She broke her leg and she had to stay the night.’

At that the little girl did look up. ‘Has she got crutches?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to see her later, when they put the cast on her leg.’

‘Maddie at school got a broken arm. She had a blue cast. I’d have a purple one.’

‘Can you choose?’

‘Oh, yes, because Edward Palmer had a red one. Because of football. Do you like football?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Me neither. I do gymnastics and dancing.’

‘What sort of dancing do you do?’

‘Ballet, jazz and tap. I like the tap dancing. But ballet –’ she pulled a face ‘– it’s boring but Mummy likes me to do it.’ She sighed. ‘When I’m grown up I’m never doing anything boring.’

‘That’s a good plan,’ I said.

Nate rolled his eyes as he poured two cups of coffee and handed one my way. ‘I’d offer you a biscuit … but the biscuit burglar has been to visit this week and all the chocolate ones have gone.’

Grace was suddenly very studious with her drawing, nodding in agreement.

‘I hate it when that happens,’ I said. ‘And why do they always steal the good biscuits and leave the custard creams behind?’

Nate laughed. ‘You have the same burglar.’

‘Only when I remember to buy biscuits.’ My shopping habits were erratic to say the least.

‘We do have custard creams,’ said Nate, ‘although they’re a bit broken and some of them look a bit nibbled around the edges.’

Grace tucked her head in a little like a turtle trying to take cover and over her blonde curls Nate shot me a quick conspiratorial smile.

‘But if you can bear to wait, I can knock up bacon and eggs. I’ll just get them going.’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

He crossed to the big American-style fridge, shooting me another wide and warm smile. It was the first time since we’d first met that I felt a touch of that original spark. I got the impression that the guards around his emotions had been reinforced and that he’d deliberately put up the barriers.

I turned back to Grace. ‘I’m sorry there won’t be any gingerbread today. I wondered if you might be free tomorrow.’

Grace’s head bobbed up and she looked at her dad with pleading eyes.

His face was sombre. ‘I’m not sure; maybe we should leave it for this weekend.’

I’d been afraid he was going to say that.

‘Please, Daddy,’ said Grace as Nate tossed rashers of bacon in a frying pan, having just cut a large sourdough loaf into slices.

Concern lined his face and I could see his dilemma. Was he prepared to give me a second chance? I could understand his reservations.

‘I have no plans for tomorrow.’ But I was scared of over-promising and letting him down again. ‘And Dad should be back tomorrow morning.’ Behind my back I crossed my fingers. ‘Although I might have to pick him up from the airport, but that won’t take all day. What if we said tomorrow afternoon?’

He still had that not-sure look on his face. I watched as Grace carefully schooled hers, the brief flare of hope replaced with a bland impassive expression that was far too grown-up for a seven-year old. She picked up a pencil and went back to her determined colouring. I watched as guilt, sadness, regret and worry warred with each other across Nate’s face.

He looked down at his daughter, his mouth crimping at one corner, and then he looked my way, studying me as if trying to measure my trustworthiness. I looked back at him. There was no point saying any more; the decision had to come from him.

‘OK,’ he said eventually, making it sound like a business meeting, before turning back to the frying pan. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Two?’

Grace didn’t look up but her busy pencil paused for a minute, held above one of the lines. I looked down at her bent head, filled with the urge to wrap my arms around her and give her a big hug. When I looked up at Nate he was watching me, wariness in his eyes.

‘Two’s perfect. That’ll give me time to do some shopping.’ I copied his businesslike attitude. This was a transaction; I was going to have to start over to earn his trust. ‘Can I assume you have the basics, like flour, sugar, butter or should I just bring everything?’

‘I think we’d better have a quick look now.’ Nate’s mouth twisted in a quick lopsided smile and I relaxed a bit. ‘I don’t think you can assume anything. Baking is not exactly my thing.’

‘You do very good cheese on toast, Daddy.’

Nate moved to her side and ruffled her hair. ‘I do.’

‘That’s because you’ve had lots of practice. And what does practice make?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nate with a rueful laugh, catching my eye. ‘I’m not much of a cook, apart from breakfast.’

‘And you were going to attempt a gingerbread house?’

He lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug.

While he cooked breakfast I borrowed a charger and called Mum but her phone was switched off after all that, so I phoned the hospital to find out how she was. I was put through to the ward and apparently she’d had a good night and was due to go down to the fracture clinic some time soon. I looked at my watch. I’d better make breakfast a quick one. I sent Mum a text to let her know I’d see her in the clinic as soon as possible.

‘Here you go, William’s finest breakfast,’ said Nate, pushing a plate towards me.

We’d moved to sit at the dining table in the long end of the L-shaped extension off the kitchen.

‘Mmm,’ I said, realising I was hungry, which was probably just as well.

‘You don’t need to be polite,’ said Grace. ‘Daddy’s a terrible cook.’ She poked at the white of the fried egg on her plate; it had a bubbly, plasticky consistency and the pale yellow yolk looked extremely dry.

Nate sighed. ‘She’s right … I can never seem to get the timing right.’

‘When someone else has cooked for me, I’m not complaining. And the bacon looks delicious.’

‘That’s cos Daddy threw the first lot away.’

There were little burnt bits all over the second batch of bacon.

‘Can I make a suggestion?’

Nate looked suspicious but nodded.

‘You might find it easier if there was less multitasking.’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘You got me. I was checking work emails. Bad habit. I really ought to switch my phone off at the weekends.’

‘You should, Daddy. It’s boring.’ She sounded very grown-up.

He grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘Point taken, pumpkin.’

Despite the food not being Cordon Bleu standard, it wasn’t that bad and there were three clean plates.

When I rose to help clear up, Nate shook his head. ‘No, you stay there. You’re the guest.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s all going in the dish—’ He was interrupted by his phone and he glanced down at the screen.

‘Daddy …’ Grace’s warning tone made me smile.

He tilted an eyebrow. ‘What if it’s one of your friend’s mummies?’

‘You can answer it.’ Her regal nod made me duck my head to hide my amusement.

‘Hi. Yes, we’re fine. I’m not sure. Let me check with her.’ He broke off the conversation and spoke to Grace. ‘It’s Sophie’s mummy. Do you want to go round there for lunch and to play?’

Grace jumped off her chair. ‘Yes, please. Can I take my LOL dolls? Sophie has the house.’ Grace turned to me with shining eyes. ‘The real house. It’s awesome.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Awesome sauce.’

‘Really?’ I widened my eyes to match. Thanks to my cousins’ daughters, I knew what LOL dolls were and had bought a fair few over the last couple of years for birthdays and Christmases, which reminded me, I needed to make a start on my shopping. Christmas was creeping up and I’d done nothing yet.

Nate finished making the arrangements while Grace darted off to round up her dolls.

I sat back in my seat, tiredness catching up with me, and couldn’t hold back a yawn.

‘More coffee?’ asked Nate, bringing the cafetière to the table.

‘I think I’m going to need it.’

‘Would you like me to take you to the hospital? You look knackered.’

I laughed at him. ‘Luckily, you prefaced that well; otherwise I might be insulted.’

‘Sorry, what I meant was, You look a little tired – would it help if I gave you a lift to the hospital?’

‘That’s really kind of you.’ I hesitated for a moment out of some misplaced politeness. ‘I’d be really grateful.’

‘If you like, I could wait and take your mum home, save you getting a taxi.’

‘Now that really is above and beyond. I don’t think I could ask you to do that. You know what hospitals are like; there’s probably going to be a lot of hanging around.’





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