Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get the chance to say anything either.’ During the rest of the journey I’d had time to get cross with myself about that. He probably thought I was a bit spineless.

I lifted my hand to my face; my cheekbone still throbbed and I could feel it was a little swollen. Great, nine o’clock on a Monday morning and I was modelling the Quasimodo look. Embarrassment turned to annoyance. A gorgeous man and here I was being a pathetic wimp. This was not me.

‘I’m guessing we might be heading the same way,’ he said, letting me go first through the tube barriers, indicating my case with a jerk of his thumb that seemed oddly out of character with his suited and booted form.

‘The Opera House?’ I asked.

‘Yes. You look like a musician.’

I gasped with wide eyes. ‘What gave it away?’

For a moment I didn’t think he was going to laugh and then his eyes crinkled, his mouth curved and a rich deep laugh rumbled out. ‘I’m psychic,’ he said.

‘Of course you are.’

‘Violin?’

‘Ah, not as psychic as you thought. Viola, actually.’

‘Ah, rumbled. What’s the difference?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘You really want to know?’

He nodded, his smile a little impish now. I grinned back at him. Well, why not? What’s not to like about flirting with a handsome stranger, even with an outsize lump on your face, especially when you know that there’s absolutely no way he’s going to ask for your number or suggest an after work drink. He was the sort of man who would be more likely to have a cool, elegant blonde on his arm. I’m no fashion expert but that suit had a sniff of the designer about it and probably cost more than I spent on little black dresses in a year.

‘A viola is slightly bigger than a violin, its strings are a little thicker and –’ I paused, adding in a dreamy tone that I just couldn’t help ‘– it has a completely different tone. Mellower and deeper.’

We continued side by side down the cobbled street.

‘You think it’s far superior?’ he asked with a knowing smile as we hit the throng of people wrapped up against the vicious wind that had sprung up just this morning.

‘You really are psychic,’ I said with a quick sidelong look at the decorations that seemed to have sprung up in the last few days, even though November had another week to run. Covent Garden was decked out in all its Christmas finery, with lots of pots and containers all around the Piazza spilling over with scarlet poinsettia and garlands of evergreens, all interspersed with tiny white lights, finished off with big gold bows.

‘I think you might have given it away.’

I laughed. ‘I’m probably biased.’

‘Have you been playing long?’

‘Most of my life.’

‘So why the viola and not the violin?’

I laughed and waited a beat. ‘Most people start with the violin but …’ my mouth twitched ‘… I was destined to play the viola.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Picking up any psychic vibes now?’

He frowned, pretending to concentrate before shaking his head. ‘No, psychic transmission seems to have hit a block. The network’s down.’

Before I could answer, a girl stepped out in our path from one of the shops already playing Christmas carols. She held out a tray of mince pies, enticing us with the smell of rich buttery pastry and fruity mincemeat. Automatically, I licked my lips at the sight of the sugar glistening on top of the egg-brushed pastry.

‘Mince pie?’ she offered.

Both he and I ploughed to a stop and put out greedy hands at the same time, fingers brushing. We laughed.

‘Sorry, I love a mince pie,’ I said with a happy sigh. The delicious scent epitomised the very best of Christmas.

‘Me too,’ he said as he bit into the pastry, the incisive bright white bite drawing my gaze to his mouth. Something in his eyes told me he’d noticed.

Hurriedly I took a bite and winced as my cheek throbbed.

‘Are you all right? That looks sore.’ He lifted a hand as if he were about to touch my face and then stalled with the sudden realisation that we really didn’t know each other.

‘It’s OK. I really ought to get to work.’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘And I have a meeting.’

Leaving the girl, who had probably hoped to draw us into the shop with her wares, looking a little crestfallen we turned and resumed our route.

We drew level by the stage door where I was headed and I stopped. ‘This is me,’ I said, pointing to the sign above the entrance. ‘And that’s you.’ I indicated the box office entrance a few yards ahead.

‘Right.’ He paused.

I held my breath.

‘Well, nice to meet you. I hope you fare better on the journey home.’

Damn. I let out the breath with a flat huff of disappointment.

‘Thank you,’ I said, slipping through the door.

‘Wait …’

My heart jumped in hope.

‘… you didn’t say why you chose the viola.’

I stopped on the threshold and sighed. Game over but it had been nice while it lasted.

‘It was inevitable.’ I laughed up at him, watching in delight as he raised his eyebrows in question. ‘My name is Viola.’

One quick look in the mirror in the nearest Ladies was enough to send me scurrying up four flights of stairs rather than down to the rehearsal room. I had plenty of time; I had planned to replace one of the strings on my viola before today’s rehearsal but it could wait one more day.

I peeped around the door of the wig and make-up room, hoping that Tilly might be in. Phew, there she was at her messy station, surrounded by skeins of hair and the scary pin-filled head blocks used to make wigs. They looked like something out of a horror film and always gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I crept in, grateful that there was no sign of anyone else around.

‘Oh, my God – what happened to your face?’ Tilly’s voice filled the quiet room.

I winced. ‘Can you do anything about it? Cover it up for me? Put some make-up on it? I know it looks terrible.’

‘I can make you look like a goddess.’ She rushed over and examined my face. ‘Although with that lump, a misshapen one. Did you get into a fight or something? When did this happen?’

‘On the way to work.’ I told her the sad story, although, for some reason, I omitted mentioning brown eyes, as if I wanted to keep that nice bit of the day to myself.

‘What a bitch.’ She squinted at my face. ‘You should probably put some ice on it to take the swelling down.’

‘I would if I had an ice bucket handy,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any paracetamol, have you? I’ve got a three-hour rehearsal to get through.’ And I’d have my viola tucked under my chin on that side of my face.

Tilly beamed at me. ‘I have both. There’s a mini fridge in Jeanie’s office and we always keep supplies up here … purely for ourselves, of course.’ She winked.

Playing nursemaid to world-famous singing and dancing principals and making sure they were calm and collected before they went on stage was as much a part of her job as doing their make-up.

‘Clearly, I underestimated how vile the tube would be at this time of day, but you’re in very early too.’ Our working hours were anything but regular. They varied depending on whether the production we were working on was in rehearsal or had opened.

At the moment we were in the final rehearsal stage for the annual Christmas ballet, The Nutcracker , and Tilly was in charge of the make-up team for the production, so our hours were quite similar. The Nutcracker was a nice one to work on; I’d done it a dozen times before and, muscle memory being what it was, the music always came back easily, although it didn’t mean I could forgo practise.