Jules Wake - Covent Garden in the Snow - The most gorgeous and heartwarming Christmas romance of the year!

‘Hey Pietro.’ The imposing figure filling the plush chair with his broad shoulders and wide chest was waiting for me.

‘Tilly, darling.’ Under the dark bushy brows which contrasted sharply with his silver hair, his eyes glinted with merriment. On either side of him, the other opera singers chattered away together as they waited for their respective make-up artists to arrive.

‘How are you today?’ I fished out a black cape and draped it across the rich fabric of his heavily embellished costume. ‘Did your granddaughter like the zoo?’

‘She loved it darling.’

The words came out as ‘lorved eet’. Despite all his years in England, he’d never lost his Italian accent and the exaggerated vowels always made me smile.

‘Especially the snakes.’ He shuddered dramatically and winked at me in the mirror. ‘Revolting child. Next time we’re going to Selfridges. To see Santa, that will be far more civilised.’

He didn’t mean it, he positively doted on twelve-year-old Lottie and had even been into her school in Notting Hill to talk in assembly. Not something that many international superstars did in my experience.

Laying out my kit, I checked I had everything, not once but twice. It made me antsy if I had to break off half way through to go searching for a brown pencil or the right brush.

Yup, everything was where I wanted it to be. I looked at Pietro in the mirror. In front of him, on a wooden block, sat the long flowing wig which made the final transformation from favourite grandpa to Don Giovanni.

‘How was your morning?’

‘I had a run in with a virus, blinking thing,’ I said shaking my head. ‘Think I’ve spread it everywhere.’

‘ What ?’ Pietro’s face filled with concern and his hand strayed to his throat in self-concern. His precious vocal chords could be rendered useless if he caught a nasty cold.

‘No. No,’ I laughed. ‘Not a real one. A silly computer one.’ I patted his arm quickly. Infecting anyone in a principal role, especially the world’s most renowned baritone, was Make-Up Artist’s Cardinal Sin Number Three . ‘I’m germ free.’ I waved my hands to reinforce my point.

As I carried on pencilling and shadowing his face, our conversation moved on with its usual easy flow as he related scurrilous tales about his arch-rival, an up and coming American singer, naughty, libellous gossip about one of his co-stars in a previous production and the difficulties of learning an aria for his next part.

Half an hour later, I put down my pencils and make-up palette.

‘Thanks, wonderful girl.’ Pietro stood and with a wicked grin admired himself in the brightly-lit mirror. ‘God, I’m lovely.’ He patted the outsize codpiece stuffed down his buckskin trousers. ‘All ready to seduce my daily quota of virgins.’

‘Oooh, Pietro, you are wicked,’ sang Vince as he applied the finishing touches to the doe-eyes of one of said hapless virgins. A chorus of giggles erupted as Pietro strutted around the room thrusting out his pelvis. Even Jeanie, who liked the team to maintain an air of calm before a performance, managed a smile.

‘Come here you.’ Crooking a finger at him, I beckoned him back to his chair. ‘There’s no seducing anyone until I’ve checked your wig again.’ Running my fingers around his hairline, I gave the hairpiece a testing tug, this way and that. All snug. Perfect. Cardinal Sin Number Two was something coming adrift mid-performance. Jeanie’s mantra had been drummed into all of us – you can draw blood as long as the wig stays in place.

‘How does it feel?’ I stood back, studying the fit. It looked fabulous on him. All the wigs were hand-made. Most were sent out to trusted pieceworkers but the principals’ wigs were made in-house. I didn’t want to think how many finger twitching hours this particular one had taken.

Pietro tossed the long hair back over his shoulder with a leonine-shake.

‘It suits me I think. Perhaps I should keep it on when I go home.’ He winked lasciviously. ‘My wife would love it.’

‘Beginners stage left please.’ The tannoy burst into life, punching the muted quiet of the room with a spike of electricity. A sudden hush fell as everyone sobered, ready for that first step on stage. Now on count-down to curtain up, with the precision of a well-drilled army, the make-up team straightened, smoothed and stroked, giving each of their charges a final check to ready them for the vast audience out front, while the wardrobe team, like bridesmaids at a wedding, assessed, tugged and tucked.

Several floors down, two thousand people were taking their expensive red velvet seats in eager anticipation of the evening’s performance. The picture was so clear in my head; the excited hum of chattering voices, the Mexican Wave of up and down bobs as the audience squeezed past each other’s knees and people peering down through their opera glasses at the orchestra in the pit, already seated and tuning up.

As we were about to leave the make-up room, crowding into the corridor to make the journey backstage, Pietro’s hand suddenly shot to his chest. For a horrible moment, I thought he was having a heart attack, until he gave me a sheepish glance and fished out his mobile phone.

‘Pietro!’ I gasped. Mobiles were strictly forbidden backstage as they could interfere with some of the tech stuff. I’d never even seen him with one before.

His face darkened, lines of temper marking his mouth as he homed in on the caller ID.

‘I have to take this,’ he snapped and wheeled back into the empty make-up room, slamming the door.

‘Shit! What do I do?’ I hopped from one foot to the other, glancing from the closed door and back at Jeanie. This was uncharted territory. You don’t argue with a star as big as Pietro but I had to make sure he was in the wings for curtain up. No excuses. No reprieves.

‘Fuck,’ said Jeanie looking at her watch. ‘Go get him,’ whispered Jeanie, shoving me toward the door, looking anxiously at the rest of the actors hovering in the corridor. ‘Be firm. We’ll go on down but make sure you’re right behind us.’

I could clearly hear a tinny voice talking excitedly down the line but not the words. Not that I needed to. Pietro’s face said it all.

‘Porca Miseria!’ The vehement words rattled around the room as he started to pace the floor, Italian expletives exploding from his mouth periodically.

Keeping a panicked eye on my watch, I deliberately walked into his path.

‘Er Pi…’ His eyes flashed furiously at me and he shook his head, putting me in mind of an angry lion – one that would be quite happy to rip my head off there and then.

‘They’d better not print a word! Not one single word you hear me,’ he bellowed. Gone was avuncular grandpa. His anger permeated the room in shock waves. Standing so close, it felt as if I was holding a punch bag while Muhammad Ali practised his right hook.

I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. This was awful. I had to get him down to the wings.

The tinny voice started jabbering again like a rabid Dalek.

‘I don’t care about that!’ Pietro took another turn at the end of the room and stopped – an angry bull about to charge. ‘You stop it. Take out an injunction.’ Menace hissed in his voice.

His gaze came to rest on me, the steel grey eyes glinting and my heart stalled for a minute. Hell, it was The Godfather all over again.

‘You stop it! You’re my agent Max. I don’t want the story getting out.’

He listened and then turned puce. ‘You wouldn’t want your grandchildren to see pictures like that in the paper. Stop it. That’s your job! Do it!’ Pietro snapped the phone shut with a vicious clench of his hand.