Notting Hill in the Snow

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

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

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.’