Covent Garden in the Snow

by Jules Wake

  Pietro normally prepared with painstaking thoroughness. Last time the phone call had interrupted but he’d already been in character. This zombie-like stillness and sense of brooding made me very nervous.

  I approached with extreme caution, taking my lead from him. He clearly didn’t want to talk.

  Without making eye contact, I busied myself with my kit and then got straight down to work without any further preamble, brushing his face with quick, nimble strokes, blending the foundation to create my blank canvas, working my way right into the roots of his hair. Next I brushed his hair, applying a light coat of wax before pinning it away from his face in readiness for the long wig.

  He grunted as I tugged it into place and then firmly pushed hairpins through the mesh to ensure that it didn’t slip.

  He closed his eyes and kept them closed as I started work, shading the lids and outlining them with eyeliner.

  When he opened them, my heart contracted in pity. Despair shadowed them.

  ‘Oh Pietro, are you OK?’ I asked unable to stop myself. I’d never seen him look so down.

  ‘No, my bastardo brother-in-law just asked for more money,’ he whispered. ‘And my agent says that he can’t get an injunction. I’m going to have to pay the little shit again.’

  Once Pietro strode onto stage, I joined Jeanie and Vince in the wings and let out a huge sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders release. I’d got him there, although I wasn’t convinced I’d done him any favours. As the curtain rose, I caught Alison’s eye and she gave me an approving nod. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  I watched anxiously as Pietro took centre stage and began to sing.

  ‘God, that was awful,’ I muttered in Jeanie’s ear.

  ‘What was wrong with him?’ Her low voice was barely audible. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite like that before.’

  I just shook my head, unable to take my eyes from him. We watched as he moved about the stage. The voice was off, and his movements stiff. He missed a couple of cues that the audience would probably never know but a frisson of alarm ran around the wings.

  After ten minutes, Pietro’s consummate professionalism and innate talent rescued him.

  When we left the backstage area at the end of the performance to go to the canteen for a cup of tea, I was able to heave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Shit.’ Jeanie turned to me. ‘That was a bit hairy.’

  ‘He’s had some bad news,’ I hedged. ‘You know I told you about the porn film.’

  I filled her in on his latest fears.

  ‘Bastard. His own family,’ said Jeanie as we queued up. ‘But better to keep it out of the papers. Something like that would spread faster than wildfire on the internet.’

  ‘That’s what he’s worried about. Never getting the genie back in the bottle.’

  ‘You got him on.’ Jeanie clapped me on the back. ‘That’s the most important thing. All part of our job. You handled him well. Didn’t press him. I think if anyone else had, he would have detonated.’

  ‘Think you can tell Alison Kreufeld that?’

  ‘She saw it for herself.’

  ‘Yeah and she probably saw how crap he was for the first ten minutes and I’ll get the blame for that too.’

  ‘She’s not so bad you know. She rates you.’

  ‘Yeah right. So maybe you could have a word with her?’

  She didn’t even turn and look at me.

  ‘You don’t even know what I was going to ask?’ I wailed.

  ‘Tilly, you are doing the computer stuff and that’s the end of it.’ Darn it, I could have been asking anything. How the hell did she know that was what I was trying to wiggle out of?’

  ‘But it’s not my thing and it’s going to take ages and it’s going to be dead boring … I don’t want to do it.’

  She gave me the look. I winced. ‘The virus was a one off. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘No, you won’t because you’re getting some training and support from the IT lot.’

  ‘Why can’t Vince do it?’ I turned to him. ‘You’d quite enjoy it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not really, I get by just fine as I do.’ Tight-lipped, he concentrated on the floor.

  ‘Hmph.’ I crossed my arms.

  ‘Come on the pair of you. We’ve got some tidying up to do.’

  ‘But it’s our early night,’ protested Vince. ‘Well … it’s …’ his voice dried up, withered no doubt by Jeanie’s arctic gaze. ‘I’ve … it’s …’

  Turning on her heel with a distinct majestic toss of the head, Jeanie marched off down the corridor ahead of us, her feet clipping the floor with military purpose.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ I whispered to Vince. Jeanie affronted was not conducive to a quick getaway.

  ‘Just because she hasn’t seen any action in fifty million years, doesn’t mean she should begrudge me some fun.’

  ‘Oooh, where are you off to?’

  He paused, suddenly shifty.

  ‘You’ve got a date,’ I accused him.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ His lips pursed into the giveaway pout that always told me he was lying.

  ‘Yes, you have. I can tell.’

  ‘No. I. Have. Not.’ He folded his arms and glared at me before adding with a snarl, ‘I’m just meeting a friend. Sometimes Tilly, you just don’t know when to stop.’ He paused and I saw the flash of pain in his eyes. ‘I’m seeing a friend. OK. That’s all it is.’

  I stepped back as if he’d hit me. ‘I’m … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well you should be,’ he spat. ‘It’s easy for you. You don’t know how bloody lucky you are. You’ve got it all.’

  I waited a moment as he marched off down the corridor following Jeanie to the lift, almost tempted to give in and burst into tears.

  To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  Subject: Defeat

  Hi Tilly

  Oh dear, you might be wishing you were buried in the basement.

  Disastrous result for your boys yesterday.

  Was it miserable down your street in Camden?

  Chapter 8

  I stretched, the longing for a cup of tea outweighing the urge to go back to sleep. It would have been so nice to have one of those teas-made thingies.

  I nudged Felix who was pretending to be asleep.

  ‘It’s not even seven o’clock, missus,’ he groaned and burrowed back under the duvet.

  I nudged him again. It wasn’t my fault he’d come home sometime in the wee small hours of the morning.

  ‘You know what day it is, don’t you?’ Every once in a while, on a Sunday, we blitzed the flat usually when Felix’s mother, Judith, was due but occasionally for the good of our health and today was for the latter.

  ‘Yes, it means you go all mental on me and get an obsession with rubber gloves,’ he gave a sleepy laugh, ‘that sounds more exciting than it is.’

  ‘Seriously Felix, we have to tidy up. The cobwebs in here pre-date last Christmas.’

  The whole flat was starting to look a little tired and in need of some serious DIY. The tap in the kitchen was leaking, one ring on the oven had stopped working and the window in the lounge had a large crack down one pane.

  ‘Chuck a bit of glitter in them and they can be our decorations.’

  I brightened. ‘I love that idea but it’s a bit early.’ Christmas was a month away, which seemed like ages but it would soon race by.

  ‘Then we can stay in bed and not worry.’ He made a move to turn over and wriggle back under the duvet.

  ‘Felix, there are dust bunnies in the lounge the size of small elephants, the kitchen sink has defied the concept of stainless steel and the hall floor is so sticky that the people from superglue will be round to find out the secret of our formula.’

  He pulled the duvet tighter over his head.

  ‘If we’re not careful we’ll get nominated for one of those awful, How Clean is Your House? TV programmes.’

  �
��Alright. Alright. You’ve made your point. I’m getting up.’

  ‘I’ll make a start on the hoovering, you do the kitchen and…’ I took a quick peek at the time on my phone on the bedside table, ‘I’ll do the lounge while you clean the shower. It’s your turn.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘What with Match of the Day to accompany you?’

  I tried to look innocent and scooted out of bed quickly. Busted. The repeats were calling.

  ‘Multi-tasking,’ I shrugged, pulling on a ratty T-shirt and leggings. ‘I set the thingy to record it so I can catch the highlights as I round up the marauding elephants.’

  ‘I thought Arsenal lost.’

  ‘They did but …’ I was one of those sad people that needed to see the train wreck.

  By the time, I got to the lounge, feeling slightly sweaty and grimy, I felt I deserved the treat of football.

  I switched on the telly as I set up the hoover with all the right attachments ready to attack the huge cobweb draped across the corner of the room, hugging the picture-rail.

  The football depressed me further, although Redsman’s crowing email did make me smile. Liverpool had won their match yesterday. Three nil at home, as opposed to Arsenal who’d managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the eighty-ninth minute.

  To: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  From: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Defeat

  Watching MOTD by any chance?

  You know what they say, you only sing when you’re winning.

  Camden? I live in Clapham, not quite so hipsterish.

  Tilly

  To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Re: Defeat

  Would love to be watching MOTD but have hot date with Harry Potter DVD and niece and nephew who have been up since 6.30am.

  Clapham? Posh bird then.

  To: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  From: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Defeat

  Love a bit of Harry Potter, I’ve read all the books … and can’t even claim to have nephews and nieces as an excuse.

  Clapham North, the less posh bit. Trewgowan Road, decidedly unposh.

  Tilly

  To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  Subject: Harry Potter

  Confession time. I was one of the army of disapprovers, rolling my eyes on the tube at grown-ups, until I had to read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban to said nephew. Course I had no idea what was going on but was so hooked on the whole Hogwarts thing that I had to go out and buy the first two books in the series. The rest of that weekend got lost (good job I live on my own – I didn’t move off the sofa for two days). Ever since then, I have been a fan (even queued at Waterstones the night Deathly Hallows came out – although that might have had something to do with the fact that I also happened to be staggering out of the pub at that time).

  I’d giggled as I read. Just as Jeanie had surmised, he lived alone. But he didn’t sound quite so dull any more, not that he had to me. I read on, ignoring the call of housework. This was more fun.

  Have a good weekend – got to be better than mine. Earlier mentioned nephew and excessively precocious four-year-old niece aren’t being collected until this afternoon. By six pm I will be a mere shadow of my former self. Last time Meg (niece) came, she used my entire stock of reject Christmas present aftershave to create her own unique blend (potential to market it as Gigolo’s Boudoir) which she then doused my bedroom in because, ‘Mummy said it smelt of old socks and knickers.’ (It doesn’t by the way)

  How funny I’ve got a friend who lives on that street. Number 16, what number are you?

  The kitchen could wait a while longer. I pulled up the chair and sent him one back.

  To: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  From: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  Subject: Harry Potter

  Just about to do my housework, hazmat suits may be required. No old socks or knickers lurking, just a year’s worth of blood and sweat from an army of spiders. Would far rather be reading. Hope the day with the small relatives goes well.

  What a small world, I live the other side of the street, 21, who knows I might pass your friend every day on my way to work.

  Mx

  I stopped. Without thinking I’d added the x. To x or not to x?

  I deleted it. And then typed it back in again. Then deleted it again.

  For God’s sake, it’s an email to a friend. Nothing wrong with a friendly x. I stuck it back in and pressed send before I could change my mind.

  I wandered into the kitchen to find Felix texting on his phone. He quickly stuffed it in his back pocket, trying to look innocent. I could hardly say anything, I’d been slacking too.

  I grinned at him. ‘How you doing?’ I nudged one of the crumbs dusting the kitchen table. ‘I’m bored now.’

  He gave me an impish smile. ‘What happened to, Missus we’ve-got-to-clean-for-the-Olympics?’

  ‘I qualified for bronze, that’s good enough. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Twenty minutes later, when the kitchen had been tidied, I straightened up and rubbed my aching back. The floor was clean. The sink cleared and the counter tops wiped.

  ‘Can we go to the pub now?’ Felix wheedled pulling a silly face. ‘Pretty pretty please, boss lady.’ He put his arms around me and spun me around the kitchen. ‘Let’s go get a pint in at The Windmill. Have some fun.’ He buried his head in my curls.

  I slipped my arms around his neck. ‘We could always go back to bed.’ I nuzzled his neck.

  He pushed me away, shaking his head. ‘Down girl. I’ve just got out the shower. Come on leave that, let’s go out.’

  ‘But Felix there’s still the hall …’

  ‘But Tilly …’ he teased, ‘you know you want to…’ His dark eyes twinkled as he said it, his whole face alight with laughter. ‘Clean house and no fun makes Tilly just like her parents.’

  I thought of the pristine home I’d grown up in. ‘Give me ten minutes to get showered.’

  With his usual bouncy exuberance, Felix pulled me along to the pub, not allowing me to dawdle and giving me affectionate hugs every time I slowed down as we passed the row of shops around the corner from the flat.

  Luckily in pub terms it was still early and we managed to grab a table. Felix had texted a few friends who joined us, the usual crew of his best friend Kevin and girlfriend, Sarah, and their nearest neighbours Jason and Kelly. Jason had brought a couple of Sunday papers which he dumped onto the slightly sticky round table, a serious broadsheet and a tabloid.

  Felix seized them and placed them on the chair nearest him. ‘We’re here to drink beer and socialise, not read the papers.’

  ‘Mate, I want to read the match report,’ said Kevin, grabbing them back.

  ‘So do I,’ I added.

  Felix folded his arms and pouted. ‘Sport only,’ which resulted in Kevin and me having a quick tussle to grab the sports pages. He was a West Ham supporter and we routinely abused each other.

  ‘Rubbish result, yesterday,’ he grinned, snagging the tabloid.

  I pulled a face and picked up the broadsheet. ‘Woeful,’ I agreed and started leafing through the back pages to find a match report.

  Kelly, a very natural redhead, tossed her page boy bob and head, screwed up her petite freckled face. ‘Isn’t it a bit weird that you’re into opera and football? And that Felix can’t bear football and he’s a bloke.’

  ‘He’s gay,’ Kevin chipped in, peering over the top of his paper.

  Felix grinned and swiped at the paper making the pages crumple. Kevin folded it and whacked him over the head.

  I ignored the two of them and turned to Kelly as Kevin began flicking through the paper. A text pinged on Felix’s phone which immediately diverted his interest.

  ‘My dad didn’t have any sons,’ I explained. ‘He used to say the only person in the house on his side wa
s the cat, George. He took me to a couple of Leeds United matches when I was a kid. I got into it.’

  ‘So how come Arsenal?’ asked Kevin.

  I pulled a wry face. ‘Leeds kept losing. Dropped out of the premiership. Arsenal kept winning. Became a habit and then when I moved to London I lived in Highbury for a little while.’ I shrugged.

  ‘I still don’t get how you like opera as well … I mean it’s like well pretentious.’ Kelly sneered. ‘For stuck up rich people.’

  I smiled. I’d heard that sort of comment so many times. ‘You just get to know the music and the stories, and they’re not that different from a soap opera; just set several centuries ago.’

  Kelly wrinkled her nose in confusion. ‘What like EastEnders in Italian?’

  ‘Not exactly …’ I laughed. ‘But they share universal themes. Love, jealousy, betrayal.’

  ‘Hey, Tilly. Look. Is this one of your lot?’

  Kevin held up one of the pages. ‘The Snow Queen.’

  ‘Oh my God, it’s Katerina. What does it say?’

  I scooted round the table to sit next to him.

  Kevin read out, ‘It says, “Prima Ballerina, Katerina Petrova, 26 …” Why do they always give people’s ages? “denies cocaine addiction, but it looks like the Swan Lake star might be partial to a little pick me up between scenes.”’

  ‘Oooh that’s not good. She’s in full costume and … oh God that’s backstage. Oh shit …’ The picture was more than familiar. One of the backstage crew had taken it and shared it on WhatsApp. Jeanie had been furious when she’d heard that Vince had shown it to me and Felix on his phone one night when we were all out together. I tried to catch Felix’s eye but he was absorbed in his phone.