Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

‘I’ve got a wig-fitting with Bryn Terfel in an hour and I had stuff to do.’ I loved the way she casually mentioned his name as if he were any old Tom, Dick or Harry rather than one of the opera world’s most sought-after international superstars. ‘I’ll just get you some ice.’

‘I haven’t got time. Can’t you just slap some make-up on?’

She pursed her lips and studied my face, putting her hands on her hips, suddenly very professional and a touch haughty. ‘Course I can, but if you want me to do a decent job, getting the swelling down with some ice would be best.’

Tilly could come across as ditzy sometimes, but when it came to her job she was very serious. Most of us were. It had taken me many, many hours of practise to achieve my level of expertise and getting a job here was not something I ever took for granted.

‘OK, but I’ve got a rehearsal in half an hour.’

‘Take a seat.’ She shifted a wig, which looked rather like a sleeping tabby, onto a shelf to clear a space for me and clicked across the floor in her kitten heels, her vintage-print skirt bouncing as she walked towards her boss’s office.

A minute later, her boss, Jeanie, popped her head out of the office, her mouth turned down in its usual perpetual disapproval. ‘What have you been up to?’

Dressed in a severe black tunic and leggings, she looked like a hovering black crow. She and Tilly, with her vintage clothes, long pre-Raphaelite hair and armfuls of clinking bracelets, were like the proverbial chalk and cheese but they adored each other.

‘Slight accident on the way to work. I had a run-in with my viola case.’ I smiled weakly. Tilly always said Jeanie’s bark was worse than her bite but I was yet to be convinced.

‘Hmph,’ she said and pulled her head back into her office.

Tilly reappeared with a handful of ice-cubes wrapped in a make-up streaked pink silk scarf and I put the bundle against my skin, flinching at the cold.

‘I might as well do your eyes while you’re holding that,’ said Tilly, scanning my face with a gleam in her eyes.

‘Ooh, would you?’ I said, perking up.

‘Yes, it’ll distract people from the bruise,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You’ve got great eyes, that lovely amber colour. I’ve been dying to have a go at them.’ She was already advancing on me with a smear of something on her fingers.

‘Fill your boots; I never liked to ask before.’

‘Feel free to ask any time. Next time you have a hot date, come up and see me.’

I gave her a non-committal smile. Dates had been few and far between for a while.

‘I’m just putting some primer on; this holds everything in place. You’d be amazed by how many people don’t use it.’

‘I probably wouldn’t,’ I teased. ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’

‘This one’s a professional use one, but Urban Decay do a great one.’

I lifted my head with a touch of excitement. ‘That would be the perfect Christmas present for Bella’s daughter, Laura. She’s sixteen and really into her make-up.’

Tilly’s forehead creased. ‘Bella is your younger cousin? And she’s got three girls. And Tina is the eldest and she has two girls?’

‘Well done. You’re learning.’ My extended family was a source of great curiosity to Tilly, who’d come late in life to a relationship with her sister.

Rather like I was a late addition to my parents’ marriage. Late and totally unexpected. Mum was forty-five, very nearly forty-six when she had me. Telling everyone she was sailing through the menopause apart from the bloating, not a hot sweat in sight, it was a bit of a shock to find out that she was four months pregnant.

By that time, her sister, my aunt Gabrielle, had already had two daughters, Bella and Tina, the eldest of whom was fifteen years older than me. Consequently, at family gatherings I became the awkward one that needed to be catered for. My aunt was revelling in family outings when my cousins were starting to be self-sufficient and they could go to pubs and restaurants and then, all of a sudden, I came along and ruined it all. They were back to family friendly eateries with high chairs and changing mats.

However, I made up for these disappointments when I hit puberty and grade eight on the viola at just the right time so I was able to play at both of my cousins’ weddings. Sadly, this didn’t prevent me from being bridesmaid on both occasions. As a result, I developed a deep loathing for three-quarter-length dresses and tulle, rather ironic given where I work. The London Metropolitan Opera Company puts on ballets as well as operas.

‘I can’t imagine having a family that big. Both my parents are only children. I have no cousins. Just my sister.’

‘Thank your lucky stars,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m on call all the time. Next week I need to go and help my cousin Tina and her girls, one night after school. They’re making the annual gingerbread house and it’s a two-man job holding the roof together while the icing sugar sets.’

‘Gingerbread house? Ooh, I’ve never made one of those.’ Tilly’s eyes gleamed with sudden enthusiasm as she dabbed away at my eyelids, taking a step back with an appraising look. ‘Surprisingly, Marcus has got a bit of a sweet tooth; I wonder if he’d like one.’

‘Seriously, don’t,’ I said, squinting up at her with one eye, still hanging onto the ice pack, dabbing at the chilly drips running down my face as they gradually melted. ‘They’re a right faff. If you don’t get the gingerbread just right, the walls cave in and the whole thing collapses. Last year Tina had to make two batches. And she has to do the whole boiled sweet, stained glass window thing as well.’ I groaned at the memory.

‘What’s wrong with that? It sounds really neat,’ said Tilly.

‘It is when it works. When it doesn’t …’ I shook my head. Thank God for copious quantities of gin. ‘Oh, the stress! I tell you, my cousins are so competitive. They want to be the most perfect mummy and outdo each other. And they have to drag me in too. Both of them want to be the favourite cousin.

‘And the flipping gingerbread house is just the start. From now on until Christmas, there’ll be wreath-making, Christmas cake decorating, hanging biscuit baking, Christmas pud mixing and paperchain-making. And don’t get me started on the competitive parcel-wrapping – who has the best paper, the most ribbons and the best-co-ordinating presents. And then there’s the carol concerts, Christingle and two different school nativities.’

Tilly stopped and grabbed my hands to calm them; they have a tendency to do my talking for me and they’d been semaphoring all sorts of crazy messages. ‘Are you OK?’

I huffed out a breath, realising my voice had risen and I sounded quite heated. ‘Oh, my goodness – sorry, I don’t know where all that came from. Ignore me.’

‘Hey, it’s OK. You can have your rant. I know you love your family.’

‘I do, and I love Christmas. All this.’ I pointed out of the window towards the huge Christmas tree outside on the square opposite St Mark’s Church. ‘But sometimes it all gets a bit much with my family.’

Towards the end of the rehearsal I faltered, my bow pausing for a fraction of a second, some sixth sense drawing my gaze to the doorway, where some wag had already hung a piece of drunken mistletoe.

Him again! What was he doing here?

And no sooner had the thought whizzed through my brain than I forced my concentration back to my bow, horrified at my momentary lapse during rehearsal.

Damn, I never did that. When the passage finished and we had a couple of bars’ break, I caught a surprised sidelong glance from Becky who shared the desk with me. I hadn’t missed the quick glare from the conductor.