Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

When time was called I allowed myself to look towards the door. Mr Nine-to-Five was standing by the wall with Alison Kreufeld, Artistic Director and all-round scary head honcho. What was she doing down here? She dealt with a production’s staging rather than the music. We rarely saw her down here in the warren of rehearsal rooms in the vast basement of the building. And who was he? What was he doing here?

They were still there, chatting quietly as we all began packing away. After the sublime sounds of Tchaikovsky and the soaring notes of The Nutcracker Suite , the everyday noise of chairs scraping, music stands clattering, instrument case catches being snapped open and the dull thud of instruments being nestled back into their padded homes always brought me back to earth rather suddenly.

The immense level of concentration required of a three-hour rehearsal left me wrung out and exhausted, pretty much like everyone else in the room. We’re a bit like zombies when we first finish.

‘Coffee?’ asked one of the other strings players, as I picked up my music and carefully arranged it back into my little black portfolio case.

‘Yes, meet you up there.’ As I headed towards the exit, the man from the tube nodded.

‘Hello again, Viola the viola player.’ Lively amusement danced in his eyes.

‘We must stop meeting like this.’ My mouth curved in an involuntary smile.

When his gaze settled on my cheek, he frowned. ‘That looks better already.’

‘I have a friend in Make-up,’ I said, gingerly touching my cheek.

‘You two know each other?’ asked Alison, her face narrowing with suspicious interest.

We looked at each other, a little bemused, holding each other’s gaze for a second too long like a pair of co-conspirators.

‘No,’ I denied, protesting too loudly and too quickly in that I’m-innocent-before-you-think-I’ve-done-anything-wrong sort of way.

‘We travelled the same route this morning,’ explained the man with a glimmer of a smile. ‘We both started out on the same platform at Notting Hill Gate and ended up walking the same way from the tube station.’ The quirk in his mouth suggested he was remembering our conversation. ‘I guessed from the case that Viola probably worked here.’

‘Really?’ asked Alison, as if it were terribly interesting, and while there weren’t quite dollar signs in her eyes there was definitely a flare of avaricious interest.

I nodded. ‘Never met before.’

‘What were you doing at Notting Hill Gate?’ she asked, whipping her head my way in blunt, direct detective tones that immediately made me feel guilty. Stupid really because I had nothing to hide, unless living in that particular area of London had been outlawed in recent weeks and someone had forgotten to let me know.

‘I live there. In Notting Hill. Have done for a while.’ I bristled in defence of my beloved London borough. The estate agents could probably employ me to wax poetical about how fantastic it was – good schools, fantastic transport links, great shops, et cetera, et cetera and if there had been a Notting Hill tourist office I’d be their poster girl.

‘Do you?’ Her brows knitted together and she glanced at the man again. ‘Interesting,’ she said before turning her back on me in dismissal and tilting her head his way. ‘Would you like to see the backstage area?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an order and with that she led him away.

I drooped a little, watching their progress down the long corridor, and then he turned and looked over his shoulder, lifting his hand in a brief goodbye and giving me one last smile. Mmm, nice broad shoulders. Nice suit. Nice smile. Nice walk. Really, get a grip Viola. But it was a nice walk, long-legged, lean-hipped, confident, upright. Can you fancy someone for their walk? No matter, for the first time in ages I felt a flicker of interest. A little bird’s wing of a flutter in my chest, either that or the start of a heart attack.

I mused for a second. I wasn’t sure if it was his conspiratorial smile on the tube or the quickfire exchange on the walk from Covent Garden station, but something inside me was sitting up and taking notice. And here I was, watching him walk away, walk out of my life. A sudden start of alarm buzzed. I might never see him again.

That electric cattle prod of a thought made me start down the corridor after them with long rapid strides, instinct powering my legs. A slight sense of panic bubbled when they rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

I might never see him again.

I picked up my pace. Was I crazy, chasing after a complete stranger? For goodness’ sake, I didn’t know him. He was probably married. If not he was bound to have a girlfriend. How had I gone from a smile on the tube and a few lines of flirty banter to romcom, he-could-be-the-one territory? Was I mad or just desperate?

Taking the corner at a fast trot, I flew around it and then pulled up sharply, skidding to a windmill-style halt, but not quickly enough. My viola case torpedoed straight into his lower stomach, narrowly missing his crotch, and he let out a loud, ‘Oof.’

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

Oh, pants, pants, pants. They’d clearly stopped to look at one of the many black and white photos of previous productions on the wall.

Alison raised startled eyebrows. Oh, boy. A witness to my humiliation. What was I doing? I was like some crazy woman.

I lowered my viola case to the floor and, without thinking, grabbed his arm, my fingers slipping slightly on the silky fine wool of his suit jacket. ‘Are you OK? I’m really sorry. I was …’ Was what? Chasing him down like a hound on the scent of a fox?

I ducked down towards him, our heads brushing, as my other hand had reached towards his stomach with an automatic rub-it-better instinct. As soon as my fingers made contact with the smooth, soft cotton of his shirt, I could feel the warmth of his skin burning through. What was I doing? I snatched my hand away.

He lifted his head and looked up from underneath his floppy fringe. Our eyes met for a frisson-filled second before he slowly straightened, dredging up a pained smile. ‘That thing’s a lethal weapon. No one needs to worry about you in a dark alley, do they?’

The romcom moment withered and died as Alison shot me a furious glare and turned to him. ‘I am very sorry about this. Are you all right? I can only apologise for Miss Smith’s clumsiness.’

‘It was an accident.’ He rubbed at his stomach in a tentative way that suggested that he was in a lot more pain than he was prepared to admit. Trying to be polite.

‘Can I get you a glass of water or something?’ I asked. Because that was really going to help. My brain appeared to have taken temporary leave of absence.

‘I think I’ll be all right,’ he said gravely, although there was that slight twitch to his mouth.

I must have looked pretty mad, standing there with my mouth open, saying nothing.

His eyes twinkled, with amusement or pity – I couldn’t tell which. It was the one time in my life that I really did pray for a large hole to open up at my feet and swallow me down whole.

He was still smiling and my heart was doing some kind of hippity-hoppity dance in my chest like a demented rabbit.

‘Where were you going in such a hurry?’ snapped Alison. Honestly, I felt like I was back at school.

‘Er … just … er … heading to the Ladies. Occupational hazard.’

Oh, dear God, where had that come from? Seriously, that was the best I could come up with? And occupational hazard? Too much information, Viola! He did not need to know how long I’d sat cross-legged in a rehearsal.

Now Alison did stare. Hardly surprising; she knew as well as I did that the nearest Ladies was back the other way.