Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

Off to the left, double glass doors opened into an elegant lounge with deep velvet sofas in pale eau de nil and white-painted furniture including another big mirror over the white plasterworked fireplace. Stylish lamps with overblown shades in pastel colours and big clear glass bases were arranged around the room. It looked light and bright and almost too neat and tidy to venture into. I’d have banned anyone from taking red wine in there.

The kitchen, while echoing those designer statements, felt a lot more homely and it looked as if this was where Grace and Nate spent most of their time. It opened out into an L-shape; to the right a long glass-roofed dining area and to the left a small cosy seating area with a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a television, a DVD player and a stack of Disney DVDs. Grace was sitting at a bar stool at the long wooden breakfast bar that ran the whole length of the kitchen area, surrounded by colouring pencils and bits of paper.

‘Tea, coffee?’ asked Nate. ‘Take a seat.’ He waved to the bar stool next to Grace. ‘Sorry, I should have taken your coat.’

He seemed a little bit flustered, as if me turning up at the wrong time had thrown the script. I got the impression that if I’d been on time he would have had a script.

‘Have you said sorry?’ asked Grace, not looking up from the drawing she was colouring in with fierce concentration as I took the stool next to her.

‘Yes, and I’d like to say sorry to you too.’

She shrugged and carried on carefully nudging at the lines of the unicorn on the paper with her pink pencil. ‘It’s OK.’

Her indifference tugged at my heart and I glanced over at Nate and saw his mouth tighten.

‘No, Grace, it’s not OK. I said I was coming and I really was, but my mum had an accident last night. So she had to go to hospital.’

Grace’s mouth pressed in a firm line. But she didn’t say anything.

‘She broke her leg and she had to stay the night.’

At that the little girl did look up. ‘Has she got crutches?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to see her later, when they put the cast on her leg.’

‘Maddie at school got a broken arm. She had a blue cast. I’d have a purple one.’

‘Can you choose?’

‘Oh, yes, because Edward Palmer had a red one. Because of football. Do you like football?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Me neither. I do gymnastics and dancing.’

‘What sort of dancing do you do?’

‘Ballet, jazz and tap. I like the tap dancing. But ballet –’ she pulled a face ‘– it’s boring but Mummy likes me to do it.’ She sighed. ‘When I’m grown up I’m never doing anything boring.’

‘That’s a good plan,’ I said.

Nate rolled his eyes as he poured two cups of coffee and handed one my way. ‘I’d offer you a biscuit … but the biscuit burglar has been to visit this week and all the chocolate ones have gone.’

Grace was suddenly very studious with her drawing, nodding in agreement.

‘I hate it when that happens,’ I said. ‘And why do they always steal the good biscuits and leave the custard creams behind?’

Nate laughed. ‘You have the same burglar.’

‘Only when I remember to buy biscuits.’ My shopping habits were erratic to say the least.

‘We do have custard creams,’ said Nate, ‘although they’re a bit broken and some of them look a bit nibbled around the edges.’

Grace tucked her head in a little like a turtle trying to take cover and over her blonde curls Nate shot me a quick conspiratorial smile.

‘But if you can bear to wait, I can knock up bacon and eggs. I’ll just get them going.’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

He crossed to the big American-style fridge, shooting me another wide and warm smile. It was the first time since we’d first met that I felt a touch of that original spark. I got the impression that the guards around his emotions had been reinforced and that he’d deliberately put up the barriers.

I turned back to Grace. ‘I’m sorry there won’t be any gingerbread today. I wondered if you might be free tomorrow.’

Grace’s head bobbed up and she looked at her dad with pleading eyes.

His face was sombre. ‘I’m not sure; maybe we should leave it for this weekend.’

I’d been afraid he was going to say that.

‘Please, Daddy,’ said Grace as Nate tossed rashers of bacon in a frying pan, having just cut a large sourdough loaf into slices.

Concern lined his face and I could see his dilemma. Was he prepared to give me a second chance? I could understand his reservations.

‘I have no plans for tomorrow.’ But I was scared of over-promising and letting him down again. ‘And Dad should be back tomorrow morning.’ Behind my back I crossed my fingers. ‘Although I might have to pick him up from the airport, but that won’t take all day. What if we said tomorrow afternoon?’

He still had that not-sure look on his face. I watched as Grace carefully schooled hers, the brief flare of hope replaced with a bland impassive expression that was far too grown-up for a seven-year old. She picked up a pencil and went back to her determined colouring. I watched as guilt, sadness, regret and worry warred with each other across Nate’s face.

He looked down at his daughter, his mouth crimping at one corner, and then he looked my way, studying me as if trying to measure my trustworthiness. I looked back at him. There was no point saying any more; the decision had to come from him.

‘OK,’ he said eventually, making it sound like a business meeting, before turning back to the frying pan. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Two?’

Grace didn’t look up but her busy pencil paused for a minute, held above one of the lines. I looked down at her bent head, filled with the urge to wrap my arms around her and give her a big hug. When I looked up at Nate he was watching me, wariness in his eyes.

‘Two’s perfect. That’ll give me time to do some shopping.’ I copied his businesslike attitude. This was a transaction; I was going to have to start over to earn his trust. ‘Can I assume you have the basics, like flour, sugar, butter or should I just bring everything?’

‘I think we’d better have a quick look now.’ Nate’s mouth twisted in a quick lopsided smile and I relaxed a bit. ‘I don’t think you can assume anything. Baking is not exactly my thing.’

‘You do very good cheese on toast, Daddy.’

Nate moved to her side and ruffled her hair. ‘I do.’

‘That’s because you’ve had lots of practice. And what does practice make?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nate with a rueful laugh, catching my eye. ‘I’m not much of a cook, apart from breakfast.’

‘And you were going to attempt a gingerbread house?’

He lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug.

While he cooked breakfast I borrowed a charger and called Mum but her phone was switched off after all that, so I phoned the hospital to find out how she was. I was put through to the ward and apparently she’d had a good night and was due to go down to the fracture clinic some time soon. I looked at my watch. I’d better make breakfast a quick one. I sent Mum a text to let her know I’d see her in the clinic as soon as possible.

‘Here you go, William’s finest breakfast,’ said Nate, pushing a plate towards me.

We’d moved to sit at the dining table in the long end of the L-shaped extension off the kitchen.

‘Mmm,’ I said, realising I was hungry, which was probably just as well.

‘You don’t need to be polite,’ said Grace. ‘Daddy’s a terrible cook.’ She poked at the white of the fried egg on her plate; it had a bubbly, plasticky consistency and the pale yellow yolk looked extremely dry.

Nate sighed. ‘She’s right … I can never seem to get the timing right.’