Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

One More Chapter

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Copyright © Jules Wake 2019

Cover design by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Emoji © Shutterstock.com

Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008354817

Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008354800

Version: 2019-10-04

For my home stars, Nick, Ellie & Matt, all so talented, you never fail to inspire me. x

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Notting Hill in the Snow JULES WAKE

Copyright One More Chapter a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019 Copyright © Jules Wake 2019 Cover design by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Emoji © Shutterstock.com Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008354817 Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008354800 Version: 2019-10-04

Dedication For my home stars, Nick, Ellie & Matt, all so talented, you never fail to inspire me. x

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgements

Footnote

About the Publisher

‘Do you have to bring that thing on here at this time of day?’ snapped the woman, whipping round to look at me, her spiky, spider leg mascaraed eyes shooting sheer poison as everyone on the platform at Notting Hill Gate surged forward when the tube doors opened. ‘Bloody inconsiderate.’ I think there might have been an F-word in there as well but I didn’t quite catch it.

Taken aback by her hostility, all I could mutter was a hasty, ‘Sorry,’ as she gave me another outraged glare.

This time my apologetic smile was tinged with a hey-lady-I-have-to-get-to-work-too shrug. Travelling with a violin case (actually it’s a viola but everyone assumes) can make you unpopular in rush hour, which is why most of the time I do my best to avoid it.

Conscious of all eyes on me, almost siding with the woman who was still muttering about it being a disgrace, I clutched the case to my chest, trying to take up as little space as possible. Even though my nose was squashed up against it, she still tutted. Then she tossed her hair, saying in a loud voice, ‘This is ridiculous,’ and squeezed past with a rough shove which pushed me into one of the grab rails. The case ricocheted off the metal right back into my face, hitting my cheekbone with a crunch that brought tears to my eyes. The shock of the pain, and that she’d do something like that, temporarily stunned me and, rather than say anything, I just stood there like a complete idiot.

By the time I’d gathered my dazed wits together she’d gone, swallowed up by the crowd, working her way down the carriage. My cheek throbbed but it was too difficult to manoeuvre an arm up out of the crush and hang onto my viola to give it the there-there rub it desperately needed. I blinked hard, keeping my eyes closed, aware that some people had seen what had happened. When I opened them, I caught sight of a pair of warm brown eyes softening in sympathy. He mouthed, ‘You OK?’

I swallowed, feeling another rush of tears, hating the unwelcome feeling of being vulnerable and pathetic. I nodded. Don’t be nice , please don’t be nice. You really will make me cry. Despite everything, the warm smile and genuine concern made me feel a little better, a single ally in the hostile crowd, all desperate to get to work. I gave him a wan, grateful smile back. Nice man. Very nice man indeed. I’m a sucker for brown eyes. And smiles, for that matter. Smiles make a difference in life. They cost nothing and they can make a big difference to your day. Like his had done to mine. Mrs Scowly Over-made-up Face was probably destined to be miserable all day.

As he looked away, I sneaked a second look. He looked all business, buttoned-up and Mr Nine-to-Five, but nice – OK, gorgeous – and in that smart suit, with very shiny brogues and short, neat cropped hair, way out of my league. This morning I was rocking the Mafia moll look, an occupational hazard when you spend half your life toting a viola case around London. The look was completed by my long swingy bob, because it was easy to keep and suited my straight conker-brown, glossy – thank you, God – hair and Mac’s finest Lady Danger bright red lipstick because my make-up artist friend Tilly had talked me into it and a severe black dress, because I was performing later.

Travelling this early sucked but the conductor on this show was flying out to Austria later this afternoon so had called a morning rehearsal.

I noticed my smiling man for a second time among the tide of people that changed at Holborn; he was several people ahead, striding with purpose, navigating his way through the crowd with shark-like ease, unlike me, bobbing along like a little piece of flotsam trying to stay afloat and keep my viola case to myself.

And there he was again in the same lift as me at Covent Garden underground station. As we walked out of the tube he fell into step beside me. ‘Is your face all right? You took a bit of a whack.’ He looked at my cheekbone and winced. ‘Sorry, I should have said something to that woman, but I didn’t realise what had happened until she’d gone. And she got off at Bond Street.’