Notting Hill in the Snow
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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
‘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
‘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.