Notting Hill in the Snow

Notting Hill in the Snow

JULES WAKE

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Jules Wake 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Emoji © 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

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

Acknowledgements

Footnote

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

‘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

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.