Notting Hill in the Snow

by Jules Wake

‘Don’t … it’s fine. The snow. It makes everything … well, you know. It was the heat …’ I tried to lighten things ‘… or rather the cool of the moment.’

  He nodded, studying the wine in his glass, saying without looking up, ‘Yes … but I shouldn’t have … especially not when Grace could have seen us.’

  A flush of shame washed over my face as I remembered that in that moment I’d completely forgotten her.

  Worse, now I remembered parting my lips and gazing up at him. I’d pretty much thrown myself at him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have … It was …’ he blushed ‘… lovely but … I shouldn’t have.’ With a swallow he looked down at his hands before lifting his eyes, a look of guilt clouding them.

  ‘Let’s just put it down to a Frozen moment,’ I said with a glib smile before adding briskly, ‘Give me that pen and I’ll start making my lists. You’re right, dividing everything up into manageable bits will help. I don’t know why I got myself into such a state. Sorry for breaking down on you like that. Stupid really. It’s only a school nativity play. Everything will be all right on the night.’ I was babbling.

  Nate stared at me for a moment, his eyes grave and thoughtful, before he nodded and handed over the pen in a movement that closed off the brief moment between us as effectively as a pair of scissors snipping at a thread.

  ‘Sounds like you’re feeling better already,’ he said, glancing towards some papers on the coffee table. ‘Do you mind if I do a bit of work? With this snow, I think tomorrow might be a write-off.’

  ‘No, no problem.’ I nodded towards the pad of paper. ‘I’ve got plenty to think about.’

  Despite that brief awkwardness, the rest of the evening passed in companionable silence, which would have been nice if I hadn’t been so aware of him sitting quietly next to me, turning the odd page, his brow creased in concentration. Every now and then I sneaked a glance at his handsome profile, almost unable to help myself. And every time I did the annoying insistent memory of that kiss popped back into my head and I could almost feel the soft graze of his lips and the gentle sandpaper brush of bristles on my skin. I was relieved that he seemed completely absorbed and didn’t catch my frequent sidelong glances.

  This was a friendship of sorts, I told myself, and that was all Nate wanted and I had to remember it, instead of letting my wayward hormones take the lead. And there was Grace to consider. She needed a friend, someone who cared about her wants and needs and not about their own inappropriate fantasies about her too-handsome-for-his-own-good father.

  With a small internal sigh I forced myself to focus on my list and all the things I needed to do over the next week, determined not to give in and look at Nate again.

  Chapter 19

  I woke to a small cold pair of feet poking into my thighs. Groggily, I turned over and opened bleary eyes. It was still dark, although the snow-reflected light crept through the curtains and I could just make out Grace, bright-eyed and extremely bushy-tailed, beaming at me from the pillow next to me.

  ‘Viola! It’s still snowing outside. Do you want some breakfast? Do you want some Weetabix?’ Her cold feet wriggled against my legs. Seriously? This bed was huge. You could get a coachload of people in here.

  ‘What time is it?’ I mumbled, still sleep-befuddled.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Mmm.’ My eyelids were still too heavy; they refused to stay open. I reached out and patted her arm and she wriggled closer. With a sigh, I put my arm around her. ‘It’s still early, Grace.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy told me to go back to sleep. But I was bored. Do you want to watch Frozen with me?’

  Daddy had the right idea.

  ‘Not right now, sweetie,’ I said, yawning, not wanting to disappoint her, but my body clock was telling me it was still the middle of the night. ‘Your feet are cold.’

  ‘Daddy said that too.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ I grumbled. ‘You need bed socks or some slippers.’

  ‘Hmph,’ she said. ‘Do you want to read me some more Harry Potter?’

  ‘Not right now. How about later? Tell you what, if you let me sleep a bit longer I’ll make pancakes for breakfast.’

  ‘Pancakes! With Nutella!’

  ‘Mmm.’ At that moment I think I’d have promised her anything if she’d just let me sleep. Thankfully, with a wriggle and a bounce, she was gone and I fell asleep again, thinking I’d make a terrible mother.

  The next time I woke it was to see the light streaming in from the landing and Grace creeping on exaggerated tiptoes with a cup of tea towards the bed.

  ‘Good morning. Are you the tea lady?’

  ‘Daddy made it.’ She placed it very carefully on a coaster on the bedside table. ‘We didn’t know if you liked tea or coffee, but you only have to ask if you’d rather have the coffee.’

  I could hear Nate’s words in her carefully constructed sentence. Putting on the bedside lamp, I reached for my phone. Ten past eight. That felt a lot more acceptable.

  Grace saw my face. ‘Sorry I woked you up before. Daddy says five o’clock is far too early.’

  ‘Daddy’s right,’ I said.

  ‘And he said I mustn’t get into your bed unless you say it’s all right. Can I?’ I suspected Nate’s wording might have been a little different to that but I pulled back the cover.

  ‘Hop in. But –’ I paused and gave her a mock look of threat ‘– but you keep your cold feet to yourself, missy.’

  She giggled and planted them straight on my stomach. I howled in protest and lunged for her and began tickling her and that was how Nate found us a few minutes later, rolling around the enormous bed, shrieking and laughing.

  ‘I thought someone was being murdered,’ he said, standing in the doorway.

  Grace took the opportunity of me being diverted to jump on me and start tickling my ribs.

  I laughed again. ‘You’re a monster.’ I reared up and tickled her back.

  She shrieked again, jumped off the bed and ran to hide behind her dad’s legs.

  ‘Yup, you’ve definitely bred a monster, with the coldest feet on the planet,’ I said, pushing my hair out of my face, feeling a little hot and sticky. ‘You just wait, Grace.’ I pretended to make a move to get out of bed to chase her and she squealed and clung to Nate’s legs.

  ‘Save me, Daddy!’

  Nate’s eyes shone and I was shocked to realise that they were alight with unshed tears.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think I should throw you and your cold feet to the hungry lions. Five o’clock, Grace Williams. Five o’clock and then you went and woke poor Viola.’

  Grace hung her head.

  ‘I think lions are too good for her,’ I said. ‘I think it’s death by tickling.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Nate, bending quickly and scooping her up to throw her back on the bed and advanced, waggling his fingers. ‘Death by tickling.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ she squealed in between giggles as I pretended to hold her down.

  Nate leaned over and managed to avoid her flailing legs and a kick to the jaw, to tickle her ribs, his face creased in laughter.

  I had an idea that this definitely wasn’t the sort of bedroom activity that whoever had designed this room had envisioned.

  ‘Why don’t we do that online shop later?’ I asked as I stood in front of the fridge. ‘Sorry, Grace, I’m going to have to renege on my pancake promise this morning; there aren’t any eggs.’ There wasn’t much of anything in there.

  ‘How about I take you ladies out for brunch?’ suggested Nate.

  ‘Can we go to Bluebelles?’ pleaded Grace.

  ‘That OK with you?’ Nate asked me with a casual, easy smile as his daughter tugged on his hand, dancing around him as if he were her own personal maypole.

  ‘As long as they have poached eggs, I’m easy,’ I said, following his lead, laughing at Grace’s antics.

  ‘And while we’re out we can stock up on some supplies for the short term.’ Nate gave the pathetic contents of the fr
idge a rueful shake of his head. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come back for dinner? Grace and I can cook you a roast chicken, although I might ask if you could do Yorkshires.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Grace chanted, abandoning Nate’s hand and grabbing mine. ‘Please, Viola.’ She shot her dad a look. ‘Although you make the best roast chicken in the whole wide world.’

  I cocked my head at her, shooting Nate an eye roll. ‘And is that based on your considerable roast chicken tasting experience? I’m sure Daddy’s roast chicken is pretty good.’

  She pulled a face and darted to the patio doors, pressing her nose against the glass. ‘Can we make another snowman today?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nate in a low undertone. ‘I’ve put you on the spot. You’ve probably got lots of other things you should be doing. That was a bit unfair.’ He paused and gave me another one of his sweet, contrite smiles that always punched their way into my heart. ‘I’m being selfish but it’s … it’s just so nice having you here. And you’ve done so much for us. I’d really like to make a meal for you.’

  I lifted my head and stared at the corner of his mouth, wanting to kiss him for saying it. The truth was I didn’t want to leave.

  ‘I’d like that but … I do need to go back to my flat. I need to change and … I need to practise.’ I waggled my fingers. ‘I missed a day yesterday.’

  ‘You could practise here.’

  The idea was so tempting. My little music room was dark at the best of times and this house was so light and bright. It must have showed on my face.

  ‘We could pick up your viola while we’re out –’ his eyes crinkled suddenly ‘– although I need to ask whether it will be safe. I hear they can be dangerous in the wrong hands.’

  Everyone seemed to have had the same idea and Bluebelles was packed, with a festive air as if Christmas had already arrived. According to the news, nearly every school in London was shut and most offices were closed, with the advice not to travel unless absolutely necessary. More snow was predicted over the next twenty-four hours with temperatures dropping to minus four, so icy conditions were also anticipated.

  The walk here had been strangely quiet with the cars piled with soft pillows of snow.

  ‘Julia Roberts would have sorted that out,’ Nate had said with a quick smile as we passed one of the private gated gardens, still pristine with a virgin blanket of snow begging for a stray footprint or a random snow angel.

  Kensington Park Road was almost bereft of traffic, the few cars driving at a snail’s pace in the heavy slush and the gorgeous stylish shops were for once sluggish and quiet, some still closed, as if the snow had spread its calming influence and decreed that today was worth taking things slow and easy. It was a little busier when we turned right onto Westbourne Park Road and there was a delighted gaggle of tourists taking pictures of the famous blue door immortalised in Notting Hill. Turning onto Portobello Road, we hurried on up the street and under a strangely quiet Westway, just starting to feel the cold when we arrived at Bluebelles.

  ‘I’m going to have French toast, the Chocky Road,’ announced Grace before I’d even picked up the menu. ‘It’s really yummy here. I don’t like the other place.’ She waved a dismissive arm, narrowly missing the back of the head of a woman sitting directly behind her. It was definitely cosy this morning. The three of us were wedged into a corner at a small square table.

  When I looked at the menu, I could see why it was so busy in here and I realised how hungry I was. ‘Ooh, the Bangers Breakfast sounds delicious, I adore caramelised onions, but then so does the Royale, I love smoked salmon.’ Which put another thought into my head. I pulled out my phone and opened up the notes app. ‘That’s another thing I mustn’t forget. Smoked salmon – we always have it on Christmas Day with cream cheese and bagels for breakfast with bucks fizz.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘We have yukky green stuff,’ muttered Grace, pulling a yuk face. ‘And smelly stuff.’

  ‘We had smashed avocado, smoked salmon and poached eggs on sourdough last year,’ explained Nate. ‘Elaine’s parents were with us.’

  ‘It was horrible,’ said Grace. ‘But Granny liked it and Mummy told a fib. She said she made—’

  ‘Grace …’ Nate’s tone held a warning note.

  ‘Well, she did.’ Grace’s indignation was written all over her face. ‘I saw the box – the green stuff came fr—’

  ‘I don’t think Viola needs to know.’

  Grace gave him a mutinous look but at his firm tone shut her mouth in a straight flat line, glaring up at him from under her lashes.

  ‘I’m going to have a stack,’ said Nate, pointing to the variation on a classic English breakfast, which sounded equally appealing.

  ‘Hmm, now I’m torn. I’d missed that,’ I said with a sudden hankering for crispy bacon and sausage.

  Grace was picking at the table with her fingernail, injustice still burning in her eyes.

  ‘What are you going to have to drink, Grace?’ I asked with a kind smile. I understood how she was feeling but Nate was her dad and he was in charge. Children needed boundaries and he was responsible for setting them, not me. ‘Hot chocolate, orange juice?’

  ‘Please can I have a hot chocolate?’ she asked with a sidelong glance at Nate.

  ‘Course you can,’ he said. ‘I bet it won’t be as good as Viola’s.’

  ‘No.’ Grace beamed and all was forgotten, or so I thought until she added with a sly glance at Nate, ‘You’re really good at hot chocolate and cooking and everything.’

  ‘Mmm, I’m not so sure about that,’ I said. ‘I can do the basics. So, what do you fancy eating next week?’ I pulled out a piece of paper and together the three of us planned the following week’s menu, ready for our online shopping expedition.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said to Grace as I went down, step by careful step, to my basement flat. The stairs were steep at the best of times but with the addition of a good ten inches of snow they were even more treacherous.

  Although Nate had done his best to dissuade her, Grace had insisted on accompanying me back to my flat, so all three of us were now inching down the stairs.

  ‘It’s like a little cave,’ said Grace delightedly, as I pushed open the front door and flicked on the light switch. The door opened straight into my front room and as I stepped in my breath puffed out in a big icy steam that immediately filled me with foreboding.

  ‘Come in, I won’t be a minute.’

  Grace immediately stepped inside and, without any sense of inhibition, crossed to the mantelpiece to study the photos in the frames I had arranged there.

  Nate was far more circumspect. He stood with his arms behind his back, an almost respectful pose, and gave the room a polite once-over. Following his quick gaze, I looked at the room with fresh eyes. There was nothing to be ashamed of; he might have a beautiful home but it wasn’t as if I were broke or anything. I had some lovely pieces of furniture; the sofa was a particular possession of pride – I’d got it in Heal’s in the sale after hankering after it for months. It was upholstered in deep teal silk velvet and piled with gorgeous appliquéd cushions featuring a peacock design with fabulous iridescent sequins that mirrored the teal colour. They’d cost a fortune but were worth every penny. On the pale cream walls, because white felt too stark, I had a couple of gorgeous pictures, painted by a friend of mine who’d gone to St Martin’s and was now a set designer for the Old Vic.

  ‘It’s freezing in here,’ said Grace, stamping her feet. ‘Oh, aren’t they pretty.’ She darted to the peacock cushions, drawn by the sequins, which she began to stroke.

  I frowned; it was like an icebox and it shouldn’t be. ‘I think the heating must have gone off.’ That was bad news, especially for my viola. The extreme cold wasn’t good for the wood or the strings.

  Nate crossed to the radiator under the window. ‘Not on.’

  ‘Oh, he … heck. I hope the pilot light hasn’t gone out or anything.’

  ‘Want m
e to take a look?’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What? I do have some practical skills, you know. I’m not a complete dilettante.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t …’ But I had. I’d assumed that Nate was a suited and booted professional who wouldn’t know one end of a hammer from the other.

  ‘When I had my first flat I had a very temperamental boiler. Gertie. Cantankerous creature she was.’

  I stared. This again was not a side to Nate I’d suspected.

  ‘Let’s take a look. Where’s your boiler?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’ I led him through to the open-plan kitchen diner. It was a lovely room and I was pleased with the new units that I’d had put in a couple of years ago, but because it was in the central part of the flat the only natural light came in from the window at the very end, so it was always quite dark.

  Nate looked at the boiler while I went to my music room. My viola case was icy cold and when I opened the case the glossy body was very cold. I closed it again, latching the case and hugging it to my body as if that might warm it up, before picking up my sheet music case and my folding stand which I kept on standby because I never knew when it might come in handy. Today being a case in point.

  ‘This is where the magic happens, is it?’ asked Nate, poking his head through the doorway.

  ‘I’m not sure about magic. But I’ve put quite a few hours in here.’

  ‘It’s compact.’

  ‘It is … for a second bedroom.’

  ‘Seriously, the agents tried to sell it on that?’

  ‘They tried. But luckily it put a lot of people off. But it was perfect for me.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Just over five years. I occasionally think about moving but this room doesn’t back onto any neighbours and for some reason it’s exceptionally well sound-proofed between floors, so I can practise whenever I want without disturbing anyone.

  ‘So what’s the verdict on the boiler?’

  ‘The pilot light has gone out and I’m afraid I can’t get it back on. You’re going to have to call a heating engineer. Do you have a tame plumber on tap?’