Covent Garden in the Snow Read online

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  HarperImpulse

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

  Copyright © Jules Wake 2017

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com | Cover design by Books Covered

  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: 9780008221973

  Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008221966

  Version: 2017-09-28

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading…

  About the Author

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  For my Mum, Di, the real make-up artist and my children, Ellie & Matt, whose love of theatre has been infectious.

  Chapter 1

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  URGENT – Possible loo roll crisis

  Working late tonight, pls record the Arsenal game and don’t forget loo rolls!!! Can you get some when you go shopping tonight – and remember no gummy bears or chocolate peanuts, we need food we can actually cook with!

  And have you seen my book, The Rosie Project, I’ve got a horrible feeling I might have left it on the train.

  Tilly x

  No! No! Stop! Despite knowing it was probably completely hopeless, I stabbed at the keys on the keyboard, bracelets clinking like maracas as I watched the computer screen. It was the Sorcerer’s Apprentice all over again. With horrifying speed, the number of emails leaving the outbox increased.

  Five!

  Then ten!

  Twelve, eighteen, twenty-one, thirty-three.

  ‘Oh hell.’ This couldn’t be happening. Emails with the title Urgent – Possible loo roll crisis which should have gone to Felix were busy whizzing off to goodness only knows where.

  Jeanie, my boss, glanced up from the wig she was working on.

  ‘What have you done now?’ she asked, rolling her heavily kohl-lined eyes as she came over to stand behind me. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve sent another email to Alison instead of Felix? Attached a picture of Dr Who instead of our leading man and sent it to the head of costume at La Scala?’

  Give me a make-up palette, a couple of pencils and the right hair-piece, and with a deft touch of shading and brushing, I can transform a sixty-year-old granddad into an irresistible Lothario. Give me a computer and there’s more chance of me splitting the atom in my own kitchen with an egg whisk.

  I blame my biospheres; apparently, I have dodgy ones. Mobile phones give up the ghost on a regular basis and I can’t wear a watch without it losing time. Me and technology are a disaster. I just don’t have the patience. Even so, I thought I’d cracked email.

  Unfortunately, once you’ve clicked that mouse, there’s no going back. It’s Pandora’s Box all over again. And just like Pandora, how could I resist. After all, what’s a girl, on the wrong side of twenty-nine, to do, when it’s coming up to Christmas and her fiancé seems to be spending more time potting snooker balls than checking out her erogenous zones, and some random person sends her an attachment called ‘Santa Baby’.

  It sounded cute and harmless. When I opened the attachment up, it was even cuter still – a very handsome Santa danced across my screen to the tune of jingle bells before dropping his trousers to reveal a full moon of pert buns, flashing a very naughty grin over his shoulders. The moment I moved the cursor to try and close the picture, Santa started zinging about, bashing the edges of the screen with the speed of a demented bluebottle.

  Although amusing at first, after the initial dancing, his frozen image didn’t do much but ricochet off the sides of the screen as erratically as a pinball on speed. It was only when I tried to close the thing down that everything went haywire.

  Now, as I watched the identical subject lines of the emails racing, like armed and dangerous carrier pigeons from the inbox, regarding the imminent loo roll crisis at home, I guessed something more sinister had been going on.

  Flipping dip, the numbers in the outbox were still going up.

  Fifty-six, sixty-nine …

  Did I even know that many people?

  The whirring from the hard-drive under the desk was getting louder and faster, with the intensity of a plane revving up. I didn’t think kicking it was going to help. Any moment now it might take off.

  Jeanie pointed one of her neat, shortly trimmed nails at the screen. ‘It’s six weeks until Christmas. What’s that?’

  ‘Santa baby apparently, except I can’t get him to go away.’

  She shook her head. ‘You didn’t open an attaché, did you?’

  Now was not the time to correct her casual misuse of the English language.

  ‘Who? Me?’ I gave her a big smile and a shrug of my shoulders. ‘Might have done. Oops.’

  ‘What are you like, Tilly?’

  The two of us stood there staring at the computer and I vaguely registered the squeak of the studio door.

  ‘Only one thing for it.’ I dived down onto my knees, bum high in the air and took the most obvious course of action.

  I pulled the plug.

  I heard a gasp from Jeanie.

  ‘What?’ I wiggled out, feeling my skirt riding up. ‘It can’t do it any harm, can it?’

  There was silence and somehow, I just knew someone else was there. Someone else getting a bird’s eye view of my favourite lilac silk and lace cami-knickers which were
more lace than anything else, if you get my drift.

  Still on all fours, I managed to manoeuvre around to find Mr drop-dead-gorgeous glaring down at me, although the expression on his face was decidedly Sir-seriously-pissed-off.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeaked like an over-sized guinea pig. My heart stuttered as I stared at him. Someone had been more than generous when handing out the good-looking genes.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  How bloody unfair. Even his voice – melted sodding chocolate with a very faint trace of an accent. Talk about being front of the queue for sex appeal. He must have snagged an entire birth year’s quota.

  Cool eyes studied me intently.

  Oh God, he seriously expected an answer? Any moment now I’d start drooling. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a happily engaged woman for heaven’s sake.

  The thing was those green eyes, high cheekbones and the short dark hair sparked a dart of instant sexual attraction, sending my heart rate into intensive care levels. Lust at first sight. Nothing more. My libido sitting up and taking notice. After all, it wasn’t as if my lady parts were getting an awful lot of attention at home at the moment. Yes, just lust.

  I realised he was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘I just thought it needed rebooting.’ I plucked the phrase out of the air, knowing I’d heard Felix use it once or twice.

  His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened. I swallowed. Even scary, he looked damn attractive.

  ‘Rebooting,’ he spat the word with enough venom to strike down the entire make-up team.

  I nodded with a hopeful smile.

  He closed his eyes, a look of pain crossing his features. I could see tension in his jawline as if he were clenching his teeth really hard.

  When he opened them, I leaned over and patted his arm. Getting stressed like that wasn’t good for you. ‘Hey, it’s only a computer. It’ll be fine. We don’t use it that much anyway.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jeanie shaking her head ever so slightly.

  ‘Give me pen and paper any day.’ I smiled encouragingly at him.

  Jeanie looked horrified.

  Green-eyes took in a strangled sort of breath but couldn’t hide the slight twitch of his mouth as if he wanted to smile.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  I didn’t but he seemed to expect I did. In that suit, which added to the overall heart-socking attractive package, (and I don’t normally do corporate types), he didn’t look as if he worked here. The fine wool jacket emphasised broad shoulders and the sharply creased trousers hinted at long lean legs. Visiting sponsor? Interview candidate? Contractor?

  Then I spotted the staff badge tucked under his suit jacket. He must be new … oh minims and crotchets. Sweet hallelujahs. The new guy. There’d been a department note circulated last week about the spanky new appointment to whizz up our computer systems. I’d filed it under irrelevant, i.e. straight in the bin. My heart plummeted stone-like and I stepped in front of the computer as if I could hide my recent misdemeanours.

  ‘Mr Memo, I mean erm … Mr er… er.’ Could this get any worse?

  ‘Walker. Director of IT.’ The way he said it, he might as well have said ‘defender of the faith’ or something else weighty.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, Miss, Mrs …?’

  Jeanie jumped in, ‘This is Matilde Hunter. She’s one of our team.’ She’d pronounced it in the French way, which I thought might be deliberate as if to suggest that English wasn’t my first language, so how on earth could I possibly be trusted with a computer.

  ‘And this is exactly what I was talking about in the management meeting,’ he glared at Jeanie.

  She nodded. ‘And as I explained at the meeting, we don’t have much call for computers up here. We’re more hands on, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s the twenty-first century. How do you manage your inventory?’ He glanced around at the untidy room, over to the shelf with rows of head blocks, some with complete wigs, others pinned in grid patterns ready to start making a new one and others partially made. Like a rather odd rainbow, hair in every shade spilled from the shelf. From the white of yaks’ hair used for seventeenth century Rococo wigs and the golden blonde of Brunhilde’s tresses through to an intricate plaited Titian hairpiece and a dark black coronet of ringlets.

  ‘Surely you need to keep track of how many wigs you’ve got and the materials you use.’

  Jeanie and I both glanced over at the antiquated filing cabinet hiding the tattered card index system we used.

  ‘Not only,’ his eyes bored into mine, ‘does this place need a thorough overhaul but you …’

  For the briefest of seconds something flashed in his eyes.

  ‘… need to learn how to deal with a computer properly. You do not yank out the plug … ever. You shut it down. You don’t …’ There it was again, that little twitch of his mouth. ‘Reboot it.’ His face softened but we’re talking degrees here. He still seemed pretty fearsome. ‘Leave that to the experts please.’

  ‘Okey-doke,’ I said with a cheery smile. Thank goodness he hadn’t walked in two minutes earlier, when all those emails were flying the nest. At least I’d got away with that much.

  To: All Departments

  Please join me in welcoming our first Director of IT, Mr M Walker, who joins us from a significant financial institution in the City.

  This is a new appointment for the London Metropolitan Opera Company. I therefore hope you will make him feel welcome and offer your co-operation as he gets to grips with our wonderful work here.

  Julian Spencer

  Chief Executive

  London Metropolitan Opera Company

  Chapter 2

  After the cluttered mayhem of the wig room, the calm, clinical atmosphere of the make-up department was like stepping into an operating theatre.

  Harsh white light from a bank of bulb-lit mirrors filled the room. Underneath them, a spotless white counter ran the full length of one wall, in front of which sat a row of cream leather swivel chairs as impressive as thrones awaiting royalty.

  ‘Hey Pietro.’ The imposing figure filling the plush chair with his broad shoulders and wide chest was waiting for me.

  ‘Tilly, darling.’ Under the dark bushy brows which contrasted sharply with his silver hair, his eyes glinted with merriment. On either side of him, the other opera singers chattered away together as they waited for their respective make-up artists to arrive.

  ‘How are you today?’ I fished out a black cape and draped it across the rich fabric of his heavily embellished costume. ‘Did your granddaughter like the zoo?’

  ‘She loved it darling.’

  The words came out as ‘lorved eet’. Despite all his years in England, he’d never lost his Italian accent and the exaggerated vowels always made me smile.

  ‘Especially the snakes.’ He shuddered dramatically and winked at me in the mirror. ‘Revolting child. Next time we’re going to Selfridges. To see Santa, that will be far more civilised.’

  He didn’t mean it, he positively doted on twelve-year-old Lottie and had even been into her school in Notting Hill to talk in assembly. Not something that many international superstars did in my experience.

  Laying out my kit, I checked I had everything, not once but twice. It made me antsy if I had to break off half way through to go searching for a brown pencil or the right brush.

  Yup, everything was where I wanted it to be. I looked at Pietro in the mirror. In front of him, on a wooden block, sat the long flowing wig which made the final transformation from favourite grandpa to Don Giovanni.

  ‘How was your morning?’

  ‘I had a run in with a virus, blinking thing,’ I said shaking my head. ‘Think I’ve spread it everywhere.’

  ‘What?’ Pietro’s face filled with concern and his hand strayed to his throat in self-concern. His precious vocal chords could be rendered useless if he caught a nasty cold.

  ‘No
. No,’ I laughed. ‘Not a real one. A silly computer one.’ I patted his arm quickly. Infecting anyone in a principal role, especially the world’s most renowned baritone, was Make-Up Artist’s Cardinal Sin Number Three. ‘I’m germ free.’ I waved my hands to reinforce my point.

  As I carried on pencilling and shadowing his face, our conversation moved on with its usual easy flow as he related scurrilous tales about his arch-rival, an up and coming American singer, naughty, libellous gossip about one of his co-stars in a previous production and the difficulties of learning an aria for his next part.

  Half an hour later, I put down my pencils and make-up palette.

  ‘Thanks, wonderful girl.’ Pietro stood and with a wicked grin admired himself in the brightly-lit mirror. ‘God, I’m lovely.’ He patted the outsize codpiece stuffed down his buckskin trousers. ‘All ready to seduce my daily quota of virgins.’

  ‘Oooh, Pietro, you are wicked,’ sang Vince as he applied the finishing touches to the doe-eyes of one of said hapless virgins. A chorus of giggles erupted as Pietro strutted around the room thrusting out his pelvis. Even Jeanie, who liked the team to maintain an air of calm before a performance, managed a smile.

  ‘Come here you.’ Crooking a finger at him, I beckoned him back to his chair. ‘There’s no seducing anyone until I’ve checked your wig again.’ Running my fingers around his hairline, I gave the hairpiece a testing tug, this way and that. All snug. Perfect. Cardinal Sin Number Two was something coming adrift mid-performance. Jeanie’s mantra had been drummed into all of us – you can draw blood as long as the wig stays in place.

  ‘How does it feel?’ I stood back, studying the fit. It looked fabulous on him. All the wigs were hand-made. Most were sent out to trusted pieceworkers but the principals’ wigs were made in-house. I didn’t want to think how many finger twitching hours this particular one had taken.