children. I have no cousins. Just my sister.’
‘Thank your lucky stars,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m on call all the time. Next week I need to go and help my cousin Tina and her girls, one night after school. They’re making the annual gingerbread house and it’s a two-man job holding the roof together while the icing sugar sets.’
‘Gingerbread house? Ooh, I’ve never made one of those.’ Tilly’s eyes gleamed with sudden enthusiasm as she dabbed away at my eyelids, taking a step back with an appraising look. ‘Surprisingly, Marcus has got a bit of a sweet tooth; I wonder if he’d like one.’
‘Seriously, don’t,’ I said, squinting up at her with one eye, still hanging onto the ice pack, dabbing at the chilly drips running down my face as they gradually melted. ‘They’re a right faff. If you don’t get the gingerbread just right, the walls cave in and the whole thing collapses. Last year Tina had to make two batches. And she has to do the whole boiled sweet, stained glass window thing as well.’ I groaned at the memory.
‘What’s wrong with that? It sounds really neat,’ said Tilly.
‘It is when it works. When it doesn’t …’ I shook my head. Thank God for copious quantities of gin. ‘Oh, the stress! I tell you, my cousins are so competitive. They want to be the most perfect mummy and outdo each other. And they have to drag me in too. Both of them want to be the favourite cousin.
‘And the flipping gingerbread house is just the start. From now on until Christmas, there’ll be wreath-making, Christmas cake decorating, hanging biscuit baking, Christmas pud mixing and paperchain-making. And don’t get me started on the competitive parcel-wrapping – who has the best paper, the most ribbons and the best-co-ordinating presents. And then there’s the carol concerts, Christingle and two different school nativities.’
Tilly stopped and grabbed my hands to calm them; they have a tendency to do my talking for me and they’d been semaphoring all sorts of crazy messages. ‘Are you OK?’
I huffed out a breath, realising my voice had risen and I sounded quite heated. ‘Oh, my goodness – sorry, I don’t know where all that came from. Ignore me.’
‘Hey, it’s OK. You can have your rant. I know you love your family.’
‘I do, and I love Christmas. All this.’ I pointed out of the window towards the huge Christmas tree outside on the square opposite St Mark’s Church. ‘But sometimes it all gets a bit much with my family.’
Towards the end of the rehearsal I faltered, my bow pausing for a fraction of a second, some sixth sense drawing my gaze to the doorway, where some wag had already hung a piece of drunken mistletoe.
Him again! What was he doing here?
And no sooner had the thought whizzed through my brain than I forced my concentration back to my bow, horrified at my momentary lapse during rehearsal.
Damn, I never did that. When the passage finished and we had a couple of bars’ break, I caught a surprised sidelong glance from Becky who shared the desk with me. I hadn’t missed the quick glare from the conductor.
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