Christmas on Primrose Hill

by Karen Swan

  Already?

  She looked around the cab again, wanting to catch Jules’s eye, but she was absorbed in her press release, no one paying her the slightest bit of attention and completely oblivious to the fact that a bona fide star was – technologically, at least – in the taxi with them.

  She clicked it open.

  ‘You’re a lot braver in the suit.’

  Nettie frowned. Well, just what did he mean by that? ‘Braver than what?’ she typed back, forgetting to try to be cool.

  She pressed ‘send’ again, chewing on her thumbnail anxiously as she waited for the reply. Oh, please let him be online right now. She couldn’t bear to wait. What on earth had he meant?

  But his reply was almost instant. ‘Than in the flesh.’

  She stopped short at the words and their implied meaning, her heart at a gallop as the taxi chuntered down Tottenham Court Road, only a few minutes now from their office in Golden Square, and she prayed for a line of red buses to hold them up, as ever. She wasn’t getting out of this taxi until this conversation was fully ended and she knew what he meant – and how. There was no way he could have guessed who she was.

  ‘How would you know?’ she replied.

  ‘We’ve met. Remember?’ He was so quick she knew he had to be doing nothing else, right at this very moment – just chatting to her.

  A nervous laugh escaped her and she slapped a hand over her mouth, just as the others looked up.

  ‘What?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘N-nothing,’ Nettie said, shaking her head. ‘Just, uh . . . some of these comments on Twitter. Ridiculous.’

  Caro rolled her eyes. ‘Take them with a pinch of salt. There’s some real nutjobs out there.’

  ‘Right, yes, thanks,’ Nettie murmured, her eyes falling back down to Jamie’s words again. Jamie Westlake’s words. To her. Their private conversation.

  She was about to reply when she saw there was another message from him. She’d been too slow off the mark.

  ‘Personally would have liked to see more flesh. You’re too pretty to be all covered up like that.’

  Oh God! He was flirting with her? Now she really didn’t know what to say. Her hands hovered above the screen, rigid with nerves.

  ‘You there?’ he typed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say something.’

  ‘You’ve got me confused with someone else.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  This time he was the one who hesitated and for a minute she thought he’d broken off, been called away, lost interest.

  ‘The dame wasn’t at the prem. I checked.’

  He’d made the connection! She ran her hands over her face. How could she have been rumbled already? White Tiger would freak if this leaked now that they wanted to tease the press with it. Jamie had six million followers!

  ‘You there?’ he typed again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never told me your name.’

  ‘You never told me yours.’ Oh, eek! She’d fired that off too quickly. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course she knew his name. Even if he wasn’t one of the most famous men in the Western world, his Twitter account was in his name, unlike hers.

  ‘LMAO. You going to tell me?’

  ‘No.’ Crap. Too hasty again. Why had she said that?

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Confidentiality contract.’ Yes, better.

  ‘Snap. I got one of those.’

  ‘We’re even, then.’ No, no, no. Don’t encourage games with him.

  ‘Let’s have dinner.’

  She stared at the words – hard evidence in black-and-white type, proof that Jamie Westlake wanted to eat. With her. Should she photograph them? she wondered. The grandchildren would never believe this bit. They’d think she was exaggerating, taking the story too far.

  ‘Nettie, you got any change?’

  ‘What?’ She looked up, astonished to find that the cab had stopped outside their office and everyone was getting out. Jules was looking at her in the manner of someone who had just spoken and was awaiting a reply.

  ‘I need a couple of quid and Mike’s already scarpered. Bloody typical, and don’t we just know he’ll question it when I put the expenses claim in?’ She leaned against the door.

  ‘Oh yes, right.’ Nettie rummaged in her coat pocket before having to give up and look in her bag instead. ‘Sorry, sorry, just bear with me . . . I know I’ve got some somewhere in here.’

  By the time she’d scraped enough coins together, Jules in full flow about a proposed change to today’s meme in light of the hastily convened press conference, the screen had automatically gone into sleep mode. He was out of sight again. But not out of mind.

  Chapter Ten

  The Savoy came up trumps, offering one of their conference rooms for strictly two hours between a Christmas lunch that ended at 2 p.m. and a drinks reception that was kicking off at 6 p.m. It was far tighter than they would have liked, they said, but Daisy had done a ski season with the head of front of house and had given her word, pinky-promise, that there would be no sign of the eighty members of the press, photographers or indeed the bunny come 4.30 p.m.

  It was hard to believe that at this precise moment in time. Inside the conference room, all was chaos. Jules was micro-managing Mike, who was offloading his stress from Scott as Daisy and Caro raced to get the branding and marketing materials up in time, including blowing up 150 white balloons that had to be arranged in an arch for Nettie and the White Tiger ambassador to stand under.

  Nettie herself had been given a rare reprieve from the action – seemingly Jeremy had been alarmed by her readiness to quit and orders had come from on high to Mike to keep her sweet – and was sitting in the lounge beside the vast pagoda that was positioned beneath the glass-domed roof. It looked like a giant green birdcage, more suited to the gardens in The Sound of Music than a London hotel, a beautiful curiosity that kept people entranced but aloof. A grand piano was set up in the middle, but Nettie kept wondering if anyone ever went and stood in the pagoda, if anyone had ever dared to sit down and play on the ivories. It seemed such a waste, to her, that something so beautiful and inherently joyful should be just for show.

  She sat, still and unnoticed, amid the chatter and bustle of the hotel, the china tea set untouched on the table before her. In the lobby, photographers dashed past in jeans and boots, their black hard cases banging against their knees as they flashed their press passes and raced for the best position to set up. All the tables and chairs around her were taken with couples and small groups talking intently, peals of laughter curling up to the domed roof intermittently as glasses clinked and silver was laid against china – but nothing anyone else had to say could possibly compete with the reruns of the earlier conversation in her head: Jamie Westlake had made contact with her. Direct contact. Private. And she had given him the runaround, racing off like a startled rabbit.

  OK, so it meant nothing in real terms. She wasn’t a fool; she knew he was only one step away from sexting her. No doubt he did this with fans all the time – it was the digital age, after all. Even groupiedom had changed – a quick, easy, impersonal way to get his kicks before moving on to the next girl. But still, she had it on her page in black and white, something to show her grandchildren fifty years from now: Jamie Westlake had asked her out to dinner.

  ‘Hey, Nets!’ The crisp shout jolted her out of her reverie and she caught sight of Em darting through the lobby towards her, one hand raised in a wave, long jean-clad legs flashing like switchblades as she expertly dodged the crowds with an unimpressed expression.

  ‘Jesus, what’s going on?’ she gasped, kissing Nettie quickly on the cheek and collapsing prettily on the chair. ‘It’s a bloody bun fight out there.’

  ‘We’re hosting a press conference for one of our clients in half an hour,’ Nettie said, immediately clicking into gear and pouring some now-lukewarm tea.

  Em grimaced as she took a sip. As a stalwart of t
he graveyard shifts, she liked her tea burning hot, all the better for keeping her awake. ‘Sorry. I ordered when I got here,’ Nettie said apologetically. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.’

  ‘Well, I nearly didn’t. A placental abruption almost scuppered my escape,’ Em sighed, raking her hands through her ponytailed hair. Even without make-up on, she wiped the floor with the other, made-up women in the room. ‘But an offer of afternoon tea, here, after I’ve worked eleven hours straight? I wasn’t giving that up without a fight,’ she grinned, squeezing Nettie affectionately on the arm.

  ‘So what did you do? How did you get away, then?’

  ‘Agreed to go for a drink with one of the other registrars if he covered for me.’

  ‘Wow. You must have been thirsty.’ Nettie could just imagine her throwing off her white coat and making the dash from Tommy’s Hospital to get here when she’d seen the text.

  Em smiled, kicking Nettie’s foot lightly under the table with her own. ‘I wanted to see you, dummy. I haven’t seen more than the inside of the hospital for seventy-two hours. I need some outside stimulus.’ She reached for two of the eclairs on the porcelain plate and wolfed them down with the unselfconsciousness that comes with true hunger. Nettie supposed her friend had pulled another all-nighter again. No wonder she was as slim as a stem. She, on the other hand, had to almost sit on her hands to suppress the urge to join her in having one; that cream cake would be sitting on her hips in twenty minutes if she indulged.

  ‘So tell me your news,’ Em said, her mouth full and a charming dot of cream on the end of her nose. ‘Anything. Something to remind me of the world I’m missing out on.’

  Nettie hesitated, wondering whether to share her secret. For once, there was so much going on in her life. The campaign had introduced an entirely new dimension – all the crazy stunts, the online following, Jamie’s virtual acquaintance . . . Nettie tried to predict how Em would react to the fact that Jamie was not just following her but had DM-ed her too. Delivering babies and saving mothers was important and crucial and noble and everything, but even life-saving doctors had to get their kicks, and this was properly exciting by anyone’s standards, most of all hers. After years of stagnation, suddenly her life had become jet-propelled.

  Only, she couldn’t tell just half the story – the glamorous bit. To explain the campaign, she would have to reveal that she was dressing up as a giant blue bunny for a living, that she’d been spending her days getting arrested, being terrified, generally embarrassing herself . . . There was no way to tell her one part of the equation and not the other. She bit her lip and sat back in the chair, her eyes returning to the pretty, empty pagoda, feeling her excitement fizzle out because the problem they had – the big problem – was that Em still persisted in thinking of her as she was before, the girl she’d been when her life had still been a perfect promise and she had potential, not pathos in her destiny. Em couldn’t accept that possibilities had closed down for her now, that just coping was the furthest reach of her ambition, and while she was rocketing up the career ladder, Nettie’s job was plumbing new depths of the bizarre.

  ‘Not much, really.’

  Em didn’t blink. ‘Any news on the flat hunt?’

  ‘No, not yet. Everything’s out of reach. Prices keep rising, so just when I think I’ve got enough . . .’ She shrugged, knowing that Em – whose parents had forked out the deposit for her place in Bloomsbury – was blissfully out of touch with the hardships of getting onto the property ladder.

  ‘Nightmare,’ Em tutted, shaking her head sympathetically.

  Nettie thought guiltily of the look on Lee’s face when she’d told him she wouldn’t stretch to that final two and a half thousand. ‘What’s the latest on that complaint against you?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  Em rolled her eyes. ‘Dropped, thank God. Shock, grief. It makes people crazy.’

  Nettie nodded – didn’t it just? – and a small, strangely awkward silence bloomed between them. Nettie felt Em’s eyes on her and she averted her gaze to the pagoda again.

  Em leaned forward in the chair, reaching her hand out to Nettie’s knee. ‘What is it, Nets?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I feel like you’re keeping something from me.’

  Nettie shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ Em cocked her head to the side. ‘Have you heard anything from Gwen lately?’

  Nettie swallowed. ‘Just the usual monthly check-in.’

  ‘Still nothing?’

  Nettie shook her head again.

  Em leaned forward, her hand reaching for Nettie’s. ‘Do you feel she’s supporting you properly, Nets? Because you know you’re entitled to change your liaison officer if you want? If she’s not—’

  ‘Really, she’s great. There’s nothing more she can do than what she’s doing.’

  Concern furrowed Em’s unwrinkled brow. ‘It’s just that you seem so . . . withdrawn lately. It’s like you’re here but not here.’ Em gave a wan smile at the irony of her words. ‘You know I can refer you to some support services? Grief counsellors . . .’

  Nettie nodded. ‘I know. Thanks. But we’re fine, really.’

  Em sat back in the chair, man-spreading her legs, fingers interlaced as she looked back at her thoughtfully. ‘Just don’t push me away, OK? I worry about you.’

  Neither one of them noticed Jules approaching, weaving through the chairs with bright eyes. ‘Hey!’ she said, clasping the back of the empty chair opposite. ‘Did someone die?’

  Em groaned. ‘Seriously?’

  Jules just laughed. ‘Come on, missus, you’re up. We need to get you ready.’

  ‘Ready?’ Em enquired.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got this press conference in ten minutes. Nettie’s co-hosting.’

  ‘Really?’ Em said, impressed. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘It’s no big deal. It’s hardly the same as stopping a woman from bleeding to death.’

  Both Jules and Em swapped looks.

  ‘Right, well, I guess I’d better get back too,’ Em said, standing up and giving them both hugs. ‘You guys around this weekend?’

  ‘Yeah, kicking about. It’s the Christmas Market tonight, and we’re going to check out the new Bond film tomorrow. Want to join us?’

  ‘Would love to, but I’m on call.’ Em shrugged.

  Jules pulled a sad face.

  They kissed goodbye, both watching as Em darted through the crowds like a kingfisher in the leaves – bright and vital.

  ‘You still haven’t told her, then?’ Jules asked as Nettie signed for the bill.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think she’d keep the secret?’

  ‘Of course she would. It’s just—’

  ‘Your inferiority complex getting the better of you again,’ Jules grinned, shaking her head and slapping Nettie on the back. ‘When are you going to realize she’s not judging you? She’s your friend. She just wants you to be happy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Nettie pretended to fuss with her bag as she looked away. Jules, as ever, had hit the nail on the head – being with Em made her feel left behind, reminded her of how far her life had strayed from the path she had intended. Living at home, trapped in a directionless job she’d never wanted in the first place, hanging out only with people she’d known most of her life? She was trapped, stuck, stultified.

  They made their way to the small side room where the bunny costume, which had been discreetly delivered earlier in a huge box, was on a hanging rail. Only Mike and the girls were allowed in here, and no one at White Tiger, outside of Jeremy and Scott, knew the identity of the girl in the blue bunny suit.

  Nettie looked at the bunny head sitting on the table beside it – the black mesh that covered the eyes but allowed her to see out, vacant and dull, the long ears fallen over the head. How could that thing be the source of a popularity boost that now saw her with over 500,000 Twitter followers a
nd 750,000 views on YouTube? It was farcical. Banal.

  She climbed into it resignedly. At least she didn’t need to do anything other than pose for photos this afternoon. She’d even texted Dan to let him know she could probably meet him earlier at the Christmas Market. Every year it was the same – he never knew what to buy his mum and Nettie factored it in now when thinking about what presents she had to buy.

  In the next room, the conference room, the steady hum of conversation vibrated through the walls, interrupting her distracted thoughts. This was a hot ticket, anything to do with the campaign was, and she could physically feel the excitement in the air. It was all because of her – and yet nothing to do with her at the same time. White Tiger had really ratcheted things up today, immediately after this morning’s meeting placing a full-page ad in tonight’s Evening Standard, asking outright, ‘Who’s the Blue Bunny Girl? And what will she do next? #ballzup #twelvedaresofchristmas #Tested.’

  Nettie stood by the door and watched everyone talking intently, heads bobbing, hands gesticulating; loads of them were pointing to and looking at their tablets, smiles on their faces. She knew what they were looking at. The timing wasn’t coincidental, the shot having been uploaded exactly ten minutes earlier to show her #moneyfacing. Caro had gone to the bank especially and withdrawn a hundred pounds in every denomination of notes, asking for new ones where possible, including the rare red fifty-pound note, and they’d spent the afternoon folding the notes in half and trying out which illustrated figures could best match to her face.

  They’d tried using the lower half of her face with Sir Isaac Newton on the five-pound note, but his wig made it too tricky, and they’d tried Abraham Lincoln on the US bills that Mike had in his wallet from a recent trip to New York. But they’d finally used Her Majesty’s image on the twenty, folding it so that just Nettie’s eyes were visible. Jules had had to stand at the far end of the office to get enough distance so that Nettie’s head was the same size, perspective-wise, as the Queen’s on the note. Nettie had been sceptical about the gag at first, but it had looked surprisingly good on the photo, and as Jules kept insisting, it was a tease, that tied in with White Tiger’s ad and gave the public a little of what they wanted: a flash of Blue Bunny Girl.