Notting Hill in the Snow Page 2

  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

  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 i
nside 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.