Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake

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      Both he and I ploughed to a stop and put out greedy hands at the same time, fingers brushing. We laughed.

      ‘Sorry, I love a mince pie,’ I said with a happy sigh. The delicious scent epitomised the very best of Christmas.

      ‘Me too,’ he said as he bit into the pastry, the incisive bright white bite drawing my gaze to his mouth. Something in his eyes told me he’d noticed.

      Hurriedly I took a bite and winced as my cheek throbbed.

      ‘Are you all right? That looks sore.’ He lifted a hand as if he were about to touch my face and then stalled with the sudden realisation that we really didn’t know each other.

      ‘It’s OK. I really ought to get to work.’

      ‘Yes.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘And I have a meeting.’

      Leaving the girl, who had probably hoped to draw us into the shop with her wares, looking a little crestfallen we turned and resumed our route.

      We drew level by the stage door where I was headed and I stopped. ‘This is me,’ I said, pointing to the sign above the entrance. ‘And that’s you.’ I indicated the box office entrance a few yards ahead.

      ‘Right.’ He paused.

      I held my breath.

      ‘Well, nice to meet you. I hope you fare better on the journey home.’

      Damn. I let out the breath with a flat huff of disappointment.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said, slipping through the door.

      ‘Wait …’

      My heart jumped in hope.

      ‘… you didn’t say why you chose the viola.’

      I stopped on the threshold and sighed. Game over but it had been nice while it lasted.

      ‘It was inevitable.’ I laughed up at him, watching in delight as he raised his eyebrows in question. ‘My name is Viola.’

      One quick look in the mirror in the nearest Ladies was enough to send me scurrying up four flights of stairs rather than down to the rehearsal room. I had plenty of time; I had planned to replace one of the strings on my viola before today’s rehearsal but it could wait one more day.

      I peeped around the door of the wig and make-up room, hoping that Tilly might be in. Phew, there she was at her messy station, surrounded by skeins of hair and the scary pin-filled head blocks used to make wigs. They looked like something out of a horror film and always gave me the heebie-jeebies.

      I crept in, grateful that there was no sign of anyone else around.

      ‘Oh, my God – what happened to your face?’ Tilly’s voice filled the quiet room.

      I winced. ‘Can you do anything about it? Cover it up for me? Put some make-up on it? I know it looks terrible.’

      ‘I can make you look like a goddess.’ She rushed over and examined my face. ‘Although with that lump, a misshapen one. Did you get into a fight or something? When did this happen?’

      ‘On the way to work.’ I told her the sad story, although, for some reason, I omitted mentioning brown eyes, as if I wanted to keep that nice bit of the day to myself.

      ‘What a bitch.’ She squinted at my face. ‘You should probably put some ice on it to take the swelling down.’

      ‘I would if I had an ice bucket handy,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any paracetamol, have you? I’ve got a three-hour rehearsal to get through.’ And I’d have my viola tucked under my chin on that side of my face.

      Tilly beamed at me. ‘I have both. There’s a mini fridge in Jeanie’s office and we always keep supplies up here … purely for ourselves, of course.’ She winked.

      Playing nursemaid to world-famous singing and dancing principals and making sure they were calm and collected before they went on stage was as much a part of her job as doing their make-up.

      ‘Clearly, I underestimated how vile the tube would be at this time of day, but you’re in very early too.’ Our working hours were anything but regular. They varied depending on whether the production we were working on was in rehearsal or had opened.

      At the moment we were in the final rehearsal stage for the annual Christmas ballet, The Nutcracker, and Tilly was in charge of the make-up team for the production, so our hours were quite similar. The Nutcracker was a nice one to work on; I’d done it a dozen times before and, muscle memory being what it was, the music always came back easily, although it didn’t mean I could forgo practise.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ