Covent Garden in the Snow

by Jules Wake

  Christelle sighed. ‘Because you’re free this weekend and I’m booked solid now until after Christmas.’

  ‘Ah but the rota’s change all the time. I need to check. I might need to work now.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I know for a fact.’ That firm don’t-mess-with-me tone probably put the fear of God into hapless jurors in court.

  ‘Bloody hell, how?’ In stark contrast my voice took on a plaintive wail.

  ‘Guillaume told me.’ She gave another one of those girlish and rather confounding giggles. ‘And you told me you’d booked it.’

  ‘Guillaume!’ That explained a lot. Yesterday when I’d seen him, he’d had a decided sheepish tinge to his smile. ‘Are you … Seeing…going out with him?’

  It sounded so sixteen-year-old but it obviously worked for my sister who immediately said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘What? Seeing him, seeing him?’

  ‘Tilly. Are you asking me if I’m sleeping with him?’

  ‘Well now you come to mention it. No. I didn’t dare. But are you?’

  ‘I might be.’ She giggled again.

  ‘You only met him a week ago!’ I sounded as stuffy as I’d once imagined her to be. It was a complete role reversal but I couldn’t help myself. ‘And why didn’t I know?’

  Chris’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘Because, it’s all been so … and what if he didn’t you know, feel the same way. I didn’t want you to … laugh.’

  My starchy sister with free-spirited handsome, floppy-haired Guillaume. Who’d have thought it? A flood of shame washed over me. I was a crap sister. The least I could do for her was to go and visit our mother this weekend.

  ‘OK, Chris – I’ll go, if I absolutely have to. Although you know they’d far rather see you …’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense Tilly. I know things weren’t great when you were a teenager but things have changed. It’s you that stays away. You’re the one that keeps your distance.’

  That wasn’t fair. ‘No I don’t,’ I snapped. ‘My hours are unsociable and we’re usually so busy during holiday times.’

  ‘Tilly, you’re entitled to statutory holiday the same as everyone.’

  Only Christelle would use the term statutory.

  ‘You just choose not to go home. Don’t blame work. It’s your choice – and Mum and Dad make it worse because they’re so wary of upsetting you. They’d love to see you but don’t want to pressure you.’

  I sighed. She was pushing buttons I didn’t want pushing. If I didn’t think too much about my parents, I didn’t feel guilty. Rather than answer, I scuffed at the back of the chair with my booted foot.

  ‘Tilly. You still there?’

  ‘Yes Chris. I’ll go. But you owe me. Big time.’

  She didn’t answer.

  As soon as I put the phone down, having arranged for her to drop off the presents, reluctantly I went on line to work out the best way of getting home.

  It didn’t take long to research every form of transport north. Hell, who knew it was going to cost so much? It was almost cheaper to fly from Heathrow to Leeds. Thoroughly fed up by now, I sought diversion, checking my email for want of anything better to do. Redsman’s latest email gave me a bit of a lift. In my last email to him, strictly business, I’d told him how much I was enjoying the adventures of forensic anthropologist, Tempe Brennan and had already bought the second in the series by Kathy Reichs.

  To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  Glad to hear you approved of my recommendation this time. Although I still think you could use a little education in the art of real football. Looks as if you’re doomed to disappointment this weekend with two strikers on the bench.

  R

  To: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

  From: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

  Subject: Another disaster

  I’m doomed to disappointment full stop. My weekend has just gone completely to pot. Just when I think things can’t get any worse (and no we’re not talking Arsenal’s latest signing, what were they thinking?) I have to go home.

  I only want to go to Harrogate, not bloody Honolulu. The train is going to cost over £100 and National Express is fully booked on Saturday. I can’t believe it’s so expensive! I can’t even book a seat on the 9.10 out of Kings Cross.

  Tilly

  I sat back and stared at the computer screen.

  And now I was running late for my latest computer lesson. Damn, just when I thought I was starting to show Marcus that perhaps I wasn’t as useless as he thought I was.

  You’ll never believe this. I’m going to Harrogate on Saturday. Would you like a lift?

  Wow what were the chances of that? That would save me a fortune. When I was saving that much money, of course I accepted the lift. It was only after I said yes, gleefully thinking of all the things I could buy with the £100 I never had, that it occurred to me that perhaps I’d been a bit rash.

  ‘You’re late.’ Marcus glared and rose from his desk. He slammed down his coffee mug, liquid slopping everywhere.

  I stared at the quivering puddles on the surface. He seemed oblivious, his eyes burning with barely contained fury. I thought we’d moved on and come to some kind of détente but looking at him this morning, he’d got some bug up his butt.

  I wasn’t even that late. Surely he wasn’t nervous about our meeting with Alison Kreufeld. It was me that was going to have to wing it when he unveiled the brilliant new stock taking system. I’d added a grand total of three items since our last session together.

  ‘Sorry. Family trouble.’ I stared distractedly at the mug with its football club emblem. Liverpool FC. Something shimmered in my brain and then I lost it as he spoke.

  ‘Family trouble!’ He spat the icy words.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said gloomily. I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed to go up to Yorkshire.

  ‘Jesus Christ Tilly! You still don’t get it, do you?’

  I jumped at his vehemence. Something had really got his goat.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked realising as soon as I said it that he clearly wasn’t.

  ‘For fuck’s sake woman. When are you going to start taking this seriously?’

  ‘W-well … I’ve got better. I’ve started inputting the products into the system.’ Admittedly at a pace that could be outstripped by a three-legged tortoise but it was a start.

  ‘What about the other things. Computer security. Taking any notice of that?’

  Today his expression was even more grave than usual. Pissed off too. He paced up and down.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked. ‘Mostly. Well, nearly.’

  I stiffened, feeling the usual defensiveness creep into my body language as my brain started to process the earlier spark.

  He glared even harder and wheeled to a stop. ‘Your own personal security.’

  With unexpected violence, he slammed his hand down on the desk, sending coffee drops all over the sleeve of his white shirt.

  ‘If I were up to no good … a serial killer … a rapist … do you know how easy it would be to track you down? Find you. Have you ever heard of Melody May?’

  His sudden roar and show of emotion, so out of character, shocked me, even though I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘9.10. This Saturday. You’ll be at Kings Cross Station. You live in Clapham. Trewgowan Road. I’m guessing you’ll probably leave the house at about 7.30 am to get there in time. Be extremely quiet then. No one around.’

  He sneered still looking angry. I backed up until I hit the chair.

  ‘What … what do you mean?’ And why was he so bloody angry. The furious emotion pouring off him in waves made me feel wrong-footed and lost. This wasn’t Marcus. Calm, logical, distant.

  ‘I work here … that doesn’t mean I have or should have access to your personal details. I know it all because you told me.’

  ‘I …’

  I stared again at the mug on the desk. Liverpool FC.

  ‘Or … you could just
agree to a lift with … A. COMPLETE. AND. UTTER. STRANGER.’ His words reverberated around the small room.

  He followed my gaze, the dawning of comprehension on my face. I looked at him.

  ‘You’re …’ Colour flooded my face as the significance of the mug hit me with the force of a punch to the head. It was suddenly bloody obvious. In fact, so obvious, now I knew, I could see my own denial. Part of my usual pattern, exactly as Christelle had pointed out, ignore things I didn’t want to see. I squinted at the mug, desperately trying to recall all the emails I’d sent. What I’d written in them. What I’d inadvertently revealed.

  ‘His Royal ITness, The Prince of Darkness,’ he snarled with a tight unamused smile.

  ‘Yes,’ I said faintly, plopping down into the chair with a thud. He glared at me and I smiled nervously at him. ‘That was at the beginning … you’ve grown on me since then.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a stuff what you think of me. What bothers me is that you are so fucking clueless. I reeled you in, asking leading questions about where you lived, and you answered them like a bloody lamb to slaughter.’

  ‘You knew all the time it was me,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Of course, I bloody did. Matilde@lmoc.co.uk isn’t that difficult to work out. And Santa Baby, the little virus you unleashed. Let’s face it, who else in the building would do that? From the day I arrived you’ve been a thorn in my bloody side. When are you going to grow up and stop flouncing around in your sexy little skirts and start taking anything apart from the theatre seriously?’

  Had he said ‘sexy little skirts’ while insulting me? I didn’t have time to analyse what he meant by that as he was still in full rant mode.

  ‘No wonder I think you’re flaky … you are.’ He roared the last two words, slamming his hands on the desk on either side of me.

  I jumped up from the chair, putting my hand on his chest to push him back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the crisp white cotton and the solid muscle of his chest. Adrenaline fired through me, sending my heart crashing into my ribs and heat firing in my cheeks.

  ‘How dare you?’ I shouted back, shaking now. ‘You know nothing about the theatre. You and your bloody La Bohème. You don’t have a soul. You’re just a pompous stuffed shirt who wouldn’t know how to let his hair down if he tried.’

  We stood facing each other, his eyes flashing furiously. I couldn’t look away. ‘I’m not paid to let my hair down.’ His face came closer, I could see the hazel flecks in his eyes and the thick dark lashes fringing them. ‘I’m paid to do a good job. Protecting the infrastructure of this place from idiots wreaking havoc. Among them, you.’

  ‘I might be an idiot,’ I spat, taking in another angry breath, my chest feeling tight, as I held his gaze, ‘when it comes to computers … but at least I care about real things not bits of … bits of …’ I flung my arm out towards his laptop just as he stepped closer and inadvertently grazed his hip.

  ‘I care,’ he snapped, stepping in again, so that my arm dropped around his hip, touching his … his bottom. Our faces were so close, I could feel his breath.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I snapped back, tipping my chin up to show I wasn’t intimidated.

  ‘I care …’ his voice dropped to an irritated husky whisper.

  Suddenly I found myself mesmerised by his lips which were millimetres from mine and hypnotised by the change in timbre of his voice. I swallowed, feeling my stomach fall away. His nostrils flared and he dipped his head, the same second as I let out a sigh of capitulation.

  I always thought angry kisses were the stuff of films and books. They never really happened, but oh boy did they. Did they ever?

  Fury fuelled, we duelled for a minute, pressing our lips against each other, twisting as each of us tried to gain control. It was like no kiss I’d ever had. We were panting, our chests planted together and still it wasn’t close enough. Then his tongue touched my lips and I opened my mouth, a zing firing through me, lighting up parts that had been in hibernation for way too long. There was nothing tentative or gentle about his mouth taking possession of mine but I eagerly kissed him back as if I couldn’t get enough of him.

  His hands snaked up my blouse and were making forays under my bra while mine had slid down the back of his trousers, clutching firm, gorgeous buttocks.

  Thank God the phone rang because I seriously think that we’d either have spontaneously combusted or just got down and dirty right there on the desk.

  Breathing heavily, Marcus snatched up the phone.

  ‘Yes Alison. We’ll be … right there.’

  He put the phone down and looked at me, his face grave and his lips pinched.

  I looked away and concentrated on tucking my blouse back into my waistband.

  ‘I’m …’ He blushed and waved his hand to express his incoherence.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Not very professional.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alison’s expecting us.’

  ‘Right. We’d better go then.’ Shock had robbed me of the ability to say anything. What the hell had just happened? Sexual chemistry to the power of ten and the rest. It had never occurred to me for one minute that cool, detached Marcus could lose control quite like that. Or me for that matter. I sneaked a look at him but he was busy rounding up his pen and smart desk diary, the red in his cheeks receding.

  There was a silence as we walked to the lift. Once inside, he surreptitiously tucked in his shirt.

  We didn’t say a word as the ancient lift ponderously rocked its way to the fifth floor.

  As we got out, Marcus turned to me, a pulse jumping in his cheek.

  ‘Just one thing. Those emails. I hope you realise now how open you left yourself. You should be grateful I haven’t shared them with anyone else. Hopefully I’ve made my point.’ He strode ahead towards Alison’s office.

  My heart clenched in sudden pain. All those emails. None of them had been real. Yeah, he’d certainly made his point. I pinched my lips and wiped my hand across my eyes, swallowing hard before following him.

  Chapter 23

  Despite the sexual blow up just minutes before, Alison seemed oblivious to the tension crackling between me and Marcus or his less than sartorial perfection. Throughout the meeting, I couldn’t stop staring at the coffee stains on his shirt cuffs. Our communication was stilted, ultra-polite, waiting for each other to finish sentences and neither of us looked at each other once throughout the entire meeting.

  He did most of the talking, going into so much detail about software programmes and coding that even Alison’s shoulders started to droop. I could see what he was doing. The bastard. He was being deliberately nice. Purposefully deflecting any attention from my snail’s pace progress with the new system. He might have even used the phrase, ‘Tilly’s doing a great job inputting all the information, which is a bit of a thankless task, as it’s a tedious and repetitious job,’ which made me sound a paragon of responsibility and diligence, when he knew damn well I’d done fuck all.

  Thankfully Alison asked me to wait for a quick word at the end of the meeting, and Marcus left without a backward glance. I stared out of the window, tuning out their brief conversation as they said their goodbyes.

  ‘I’m very pleased with the way you’ve worked with the IT department.’ I jumped and turned. Alison stood in front of me, a smirk on her face. ‘Actually, make that bloody incredulous.’ She cornered her desk and perched on the edge, her arms folded. ‘Mr Walker has been very positive about your willingness to work with him and how receptive to his ideas you’ve been. Well done, Tilly. I know you were reluctant,’ she paused and gave me a wry, knowing smile, ‘computers not being your thing but,’ she nodded her head approvingly, ‘you’ve shown an admirable maturity, which … I’ll be honest,’ she leaned back and crossed her legs, with a short bark of laughter, ‘I didn’t think you would. I thought you’d faff and fanny about making excuses and being arsey and flighty about it. Your probation period’s up in a couple of weeks, so let’s
have that stock management system up and running by the time we finish for Christmas. Sounds as if you’re well on the way.’

  I can’t even remember what I said to her as I left, my mind was still on all those emails I’d sent to Marcus. I clock watched for the rest of the day, until it was time to go home and the minute I got back to the flat, like picking at a scab, I went back and re-read every one of the emails Marcus and I had exchanged.

  Bugger. I sat back. I’d been an idiot. Marcus hadn’t even been subtle about it.

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

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

  Clapham? Posh bird then.

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

  He really hadn’t had to work that hard.

  Once I’d started, it was hard to stop reading and by the time I’d finished, I was left with a serious dilemma. I’d spent so much time pigeon holing Marcus, the suit, into the box I’d created for him, I’d missed the bits that shone out in his emails. He was funny, witty and irreverent but sensible and smart. It was like a sharp slap in the face.

  Out of curiosity I did a quick google search on Melody May, the name that Marcus had tossed at me. It rang bells and when the BBC news site came up with a page from two years ago, I understood. She was a young woman who’d met and corresponded with a man online for several months. Being sensible and wary, she’d refused to meet him, but over the course of their digital friendship, using her emails, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram he’d stalked her profile, working out where she worked, where she lived and her daily routine. He’d broken into her flat and taken her hostage for three days before anyone had realised she was missing. It was only thanks to her flat-mate falling ill during a business trip and returning early that Melody had been rescued.

  Oh, bugger again. Marcus had been rightfully angry. And then he’d gone and been nice in front of Alison. And I wasn’t even going to think about that kiss. That was another matter altogether.

  I started typing.

  Hi Marcus

  You were right, I should have been more circumspect in my emails. Thanks for saving my bacon with Alison today.