Notting Hill in the Snow

by Jules Wake

‘Well handled,’ said the teaching assistant. ‘They can be a tricky bunch.’

  She didn’t know how close I’d come to giving one of the boys a Chinese burn, but I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.

  ‘I’m more worried about whether Mrs Roberts will approve. This isn’t quite as flamboyant … and I’ve heard the previous productions have been …’ I waved my hands to illustrate all-singing, all-dancing.

  She snorted. ‘Yes. They have.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Load of crap. It’s all Emperor’s New Clothes. Crocodile Rock! For Pete’s sake, what’s that about? Whatever happened to good old Christmas carols?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘Don’t you fret, pet. The parents are going to love it. I’ve read the script. It’s funny, although you’re going to have to put an armadillo in it.’

  ‘There isn’t going to be an armadillo,’ I said firmly with a grin, but her face was deadly serious.

  ‘You don’t know Jack.’

  ‘You look like you need a large slice of cake,’ said Sally, when I marched with quick, jerky strides into the Daily Grind at eleven o’clock, my coat flapping behind me. I’d just picked up Nate’s text.

  Meet you later. Coffee. Couldn’t make rehearsal. Had a call I had to deal with.

  ‘And the rest,’ I snapped, feeling the tension riding in my jaw. ‘I don’t suppose you do gin at this time of the day?’ I glanced around the room, a frown on my face. Where was he?

  The morning mums crowd were long gone and there were only a few people dotted about at tables, most hiding behind laptop screens, absorbed in what they were doing.

  ‘Bad morning?’

  I heaved out a juddering sigh, feeling my furious pulse finally starting to slow. ‘It started well but I was let down.’

  ‘Ah, one of those,’ sympathised Sally, snatching up a white china cup and saucer. ‘Cappuccino?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes, please. And cake.’

  ‘Coffee and walnut?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And where would you like it?’ she asked, her eyes sliding over my shoulder with definite meaning.

  I looked over at the same time that Nate Williams lifted his head from his laptop. I glared at him.

  As I approached his table, he pushed his laptop to one side. ‘Morning, you got my text then.’

  ‘About two minutes ago,’ I snapped.

  ‘Ah, sorry.’ At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish.

  ‘It’s fine … What could be better than managing sixty children on your own?’

  He winced. ‘How did it go? I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I’ve had a couple of …’ he rubbed at one of his eyes ‘… things to sort out this morning.’ Studying him properly, I realised he looked tired. One eye was quite bloodshot and there was a grim set to his mouth. ‘How was this morning? You did a great job on the new script … for someone who’s not very artistic. I love that you’re telling the story from the innkeeper’s point of view.’

  ‘Thank you … not my idea, though. I pinched it from a book. Jesus’s Christmas Party.’

  ‘Well pinched, though. So how did it go down with the children?’

  ‘Good.’ I softened. He did look a bit crap. ‘And I got through quite a bit this morning. Recast everyone. Your daughter is now the very bossy innkeeper’s wife.’

  He laughed. ‘Typecasting. She can be quite bossy.’ Then he sobered, his expression pensive. ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘And I’ve found the most perfect innkeeper.’

  ‘That’s great. Sounds like you’ve made good progress.’

  ‘I’d make more with some help,’ I said pointedly.

  He winced. ‘That might be problematic, this week. Svetlana, she’s our nanny, her mum’s very ill. She had to catch a train home this morning.’

  ‘A train?’ I’d assumed, with her name and accent, home would be a flight away.

  Nate let out a mirthless laugh. ‘She comes from Wigan. Been here since she was seven. But I’m really stuck without any childcare. I can work from home … while Grace is at school but it’s almost impossible when she gets home. I’m going to have to maximise those hours when she’s at school to get stuff done.’

  ‘Great,’ I groaned.

  ‘It’s not exactly a picnic for me, trying to juggle everything, but Svetlana says she’ll be back in a couple of days.’ He glanced back at his computer screen.

  ‘Sorry I interrupted you. You’re working.’

  He let out a short laugh and turned the screen around to reveal a webpage with the heading, Simple Gingerbread House Recipe – BBC Good Food.

  ‘Interesting; I didn’t have you down as a baker.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nothing like. I’m realising just how far from it I am. I was just trying to get ahead of myself. Elaine was a total perfectionist. Christmas in our house has always been the magazine perfect Christmas. I don’t want to let Grace down but … there’s so much to do. She’s had a lot of change in her life and she’s desperate for Christmas to be just like it was before. She’s already fretting about this.’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Elaine made one every year and it’s Grace’s abiding memory of Christmas. But it won’t be the same if we don’t make it.’ His mouth twisted and his eyes clouded, lost in memories.

  Oh, God, I hadn’t considered that he might be a widower and the shock of the idea made me ask, without proper preparation or tact, ‘Is your wife … erm … dead?’

  Nate looked up sharply. ‘No. Not dead. Just er … she’s erm … taking some time out from family life.’

  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 explai
ned 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 nur
se 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?’