Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

‘Sorry, do you have to work later? I just realised,’ he said, scanning the pavement quickly.

‘I do, but I don’t have to be at the theatre until seven; it’s only three-fifteen … although I’m paranoid about being late.’ Just like the first time we met, we fell into step easily, although there was none of that initial easy flirty banter. Now I knew he had a wife and child.

Your job must be so fascinating. Doing something that you love …’ He let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m assuming you love it and that it was a passion that has become your job, but maybe not.’

‘Music is my passion and I am incredibly lucky that I do something I love, but it can still be hard work.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that plays in an orchestra before.’

‘It’s still a job at the—’

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

A little girl in a sparkly bobble hat that came down to the bridge of her nose, and bundled up in a dark pink down coat like a little wriggling caterpillar, came hurtling towards us and launched herself at Nate, throwing her arms around his hips, almost knocking him over before throwing her head up to look at him. ‘You’re still here! Can you take me home?’

He scooped her up and kissed her on the nose, her legs, in grey tights, hung around his waist, her little black Mary Jane shoes swinging in delight as she clung to his neck, a huge beam on her face.

‘Not just now. I need to speak with Miss Smith, pumpkin.’

Her lower lip poked out in a perfect pout, which Nate ignored.

‘Did you eat all your Weetabix this morning?’ he asked, tapping her scrunched-up nose.

‘Yes –’ she gave a long-suffering eye roll and Nate caught my eye and winked ‘– and my badnana. I was very good today,’ she said with an imperious lift of her head as she patted her father’s face with her wool-gloved hands.

‘Glad to hear it; then you’ll grow big and strong.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do I have to? I don’t want to be strong –’ she pulled a bleurgh nasty medicine face ‘– but I do want to be big, like you.’

He ruffled her hair affectionately and kissed her on the cheek before sliding her down. ‘I think you’re a bit too big to be picked up like this, these days. You weigh as much as a … a camel, I think.’

‘A camel!’ she shrieked in disgust. ‘No, a crocodile,’ she shouted, snapping her teeth in exaggerated bites before collapsing against her dad’s hip, giggling, and then I realised she’d been one of the group on stage.

A small, rather dumpy woman with an unexpectedly plain face came bustling up.

‘Grace, don’t run off like that,’ she scolded in a heavy Eastern European accent.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nate, ‘she’s safe.’ But he turned to the little girl and shook his head. ‘She’s right – you shouldn’t go running off, even if you do see someone you know. It’s not fair to whoever’s looking after you, is it?’

‘Sorry,’ said Grace, looking suitably contrite, and she leaned towards the woman and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

The woman’s face lit up and she patted Grace on the head with a gentle, familiar touch. ‘No worries, little one.’

‘Can I come with you?’ asked Grace, turning back to her dad and latching onto his hand, looking up at him with the most hopeful, irresistible pleading look.

I laughed and Grace looked my way, her eyes wide in innocent enquiry.

‘Svetlana, this is Viola; she’s helping with the nativity play. And we really need to go and talk about it.’

That was the understatement of the century.

Svetlana nodded and gave me a wide friendly smile. ‘Hello.’

With her straggly blonde hair and clumpy mascara, she wasn’t the cool, svelte blonde that I’d envisioned Nate with. Wife? She was quite young. Nanny? There were certainly plenty of those in this postcode.

‘Can I ride the donkey this year?’ asked Grace, looking between me and her father with a guileless expression.

I lifted my shoulder. Did she mean a real donkey? I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. Whatever happened to having Mary, Joseph, an angel or two, three kings and a couple of shepherds?

‘Last year I was a sheep and I didn’t like the cotton wool.’ Grace pulled a face and wiped her eyes, clearly re-enacting the problems she’d had last year. ‘And Mummy was cross –’ she said this with childish delight, the sort inspired by having overheard something she shouldn’t ‘– because where do you expect to find white leggings this time of year?’

‘Right,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘No cotton wool sheep.’ And here I was, already worrying about sodding armadillo scales or whatever they had.

‘And Joseph was Joseph,’ said Grace conversationally now. ‘We don’t have no one called Mary but my friend Cassie would be a good mummy for Jesus. She’s got white hair and it’s really, really long but she was an angel last year, except she wasn’t allowed to bring her sparkly wand. If I was an angel I’d have wings with fairy lights and a wand with sparkles that glows in the dark.’

I tilted my head to one side. ‘I think if I were an angel I’d want wings too, although I’m not sure they had wands then.’

‘Oh, they did,’ said Grace, nodding with great confidence. ‘God gave them to them.’

Nate raised a discreet eyebrow my way, as if to say, And now get out of that!

Good old God. Him and his sparkly wands. Another thing for me to contend with. Wings and wands. All of a sudden there was an awful lot to think about. Kitting out all those animals was going to be a huge ask. If only we could stick to flocks of shepherds like every other nativity I’d ever seen. Tea towels and toy sheep everywhere.

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Nate, tapping her nose. ‘After I’ve met with Miss Smith.’

‘I could come with you,’ suggested Grace with a decided tilt of her chin, putting her hand into his. ‘I know all about the tivity.’ Then she added with a sudden random tangent, ‘Do you think Mummy can buy me a crocodile costume?’

The Daily Grind was a smallish independent coffee shop that had opened not long after I’d moved to the area and had once been a regular haunt. This was the first time I’d been in here in months.

I was grateful that Nate had stopped outside to take a call as I ignored the small elastic ping in the vicinity of my heart when I looked over at the small table in the corner. Instead I hurried towards a table on the opposite side of the room, unwrapping myself from my layers as I went to hang my coat up at one of a bank of fancy cast iron coat hooks on the rustic panelled walls. This was posh Borrowers territory. The walls and floors were made from reclaimed scaffolding planks, the furniture had been upcycled and given a stylish, polished gleam, shining under the new hipster bare lightbulb lighting. A distinct retro feel had been achieved with the wooden tables and chairs, all of which were slightly different Ercol designs from over the years, so bore enough similarity to create a cohesive, homogenous overall look.

‘Viola! Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ Sally called, wiping her hands on her barista apron. I approached the counter with a little skip in my step, feeling more than welcome.

‘Hello you. What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Back for a visit?’

I bit my lip, a little ashamed. When Paul had left, I couldn’t bear to come back but I should have done because Sally was lovely and I should have told her what had happened. Did I confess now I’d never left or lie and say I’d moved back? Now I’d walked in, I remembered how much I’d loved the place. Time to make new memories here. The ones with Paul had scabbed over a long time ago and the scars were almost gone.