Covent Garden in the Snow

by Jules Wake

  ‘Have you ever been?’ I sat opposite her in what I’d come to think of as my chair, the little green velvet cushion nestled just in the small of my aching back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how do you know? You might enjoy it.’

  She lowered her wine glass. ‘I’ve never been eaten by a lion but I’m sure I wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘That is so random.’

  ‘At this time of night, and after a day as long as today, it’s all I’ve got.’

  We were both knackered after a particularly gruelling shift. Vince hadn’t turned up today, calling in sick again. Despite the extra workload, it had been a huge relief. Well, to me anyway. Jeanie probably could have done without having to re-allocate the team to ensure that everyone got on stage on time.

  I still harboured the urge to murder him. Funny that I could forgive Felix but not Vince. Yesterday the day had limped by, not helped by my hangover which helpfully turned into an all-day affair. A sleepless night had followed where my thoughts vacillated between hope and anticipation. They veered towards Marcus and depression and deep disappointment whenever I thought of Vince and Felix. Where my wildly fluctuating emotions were concerned, becoming a nun seemed an excellent life choice. I’d retreated to Jeanie’s, unable to bear another confrontation with Felix or the confirmation that I was an even bigger mug by agreeing to let him stay. I ought to have asked him to leave but I didn’t have the energy.

  ‘What do you wear to a football match?’

  ‘Clothes?’

  ‘I meant you. Miss kitten heels.’

  ‘Well … obviously I won’t wear them.’ But what would I wear? The days of going to see Leeds United with my dad in a big woolly pom-pom hat and a stripy scarf in a Paddington duffle coat were long gone. ‘I’m just hoping it won’t snow. The forecast says it might next week.’

  We lapsed into silence.

  ‘You can borrow my North Face jacket. That’ll keep you warm.’

  I’d also look as puffed up as the Michelin man … but then again there was a lot to be said for being warm. Marcus had seen me plenty of times before, my sensible side pointed out. The vain, altogether more-in-charge side of me pointed out, it was a first date. I owed it to myself to look my best.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t asked that question.’ I grumbled, knowing I was about to face another sleepless night.

  Wrapped up in a large moss green velvet scarf, Jeanie’s North Face coat, dark green skinny jeans (fresh from H&M that morning), a pair of brogue lace up ankle boots, and an Arsenal beanie hat, I waited for Marcus to turn up, hoping that I looked suitably chic but not out of place in the football crowd. We’d arranged to meet on the junction of two streets, just around the corner from the stadium. Already the streets were thronging with good natured groups all heading to the game. I hopped up and down on the spot, as if I was cold but in truth I couldn’t keep still. I hadn’t been to a real game in years and I’d forgotten the atmosphere. The feeling of community as we all swarmed towards the ground. That indefinable sense of belonging. Sharing smiles and chatter with complete strangers who all had the same goal. The smell of beer and burgers. Little kids skipping along beside their dads, in matching scarves and hats. The towering walls of the stadium, making you bristle with nerves like a nervous army about to storm the castle.

  I caught sight of Marcus before he saw me and took the time to watch him as he strode my way. How was it possible that he looked even hotter than usual? The jeans helped. They definitely helped. A couple of girls gave him a second and third look and who could blame them. A black leather jacket emphasised his broad shoulders, narrowing down to highlight lean hips and those long legs. Definite eye candy. I couldn’t help but smile, he was mouth-watering.

  ‘Tilly.’ He greeted me with a peck on the cheek. ‘Looking forward to the game?’

  I nodded, momentarily lost for words, as he smiled down at me. Perfect white teeth in a movie star grin. They needed to slap a health warning on him. This man will make your heart beat faster than is medically good for you.

  ‘Should be a good one. I brought hankies for you.’

  ‘Why, so I can mop up your tears when my boys trounce you?’

  He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Yeah right.’

  Suddenly I stopped. No hat. No scarf. He could have been supporting anyone. It didn’t bode well. ‘Marcus?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded wary.

  ‘Which end are we in?’

  He laughed. ‘You’re OK. I’ve got a mate who’s an Arsenal season ticket holder. We’re at the home end. It’s me that has to keep my gob shut.’

  ‘That’ll be a challenge then.’

  We exchanged silly banter all the way into the grounds and up to our seats which were so high up I felt almost dizzy.

  ‘It’s as bad as Drury Lane, although there’s a wee bit more leg room here.’

  ‘Trust you to compare it to a theatre.’

  ‘At least I don’t call half time the interval!’ I reminded him.

  He laughed.

  Flirty banter was the order of the day. There was no awkwardness between us, no shyness or being on best behaviour. It was a bit difficult to be shy around someone who was mercilessly rude about your favourite player, likening him to a donkey with three wooden legs, or muttering abuse about the keeper who took a couple of brilliant saves. We both disagreed with the ref’s decisions, although not in tandem.

  It felt good to be surrounded by all that straight forward, no nonsense, say it how you feel it testosterone. I remembered his early emails. Car chases. And smiled.

  ‘What are you smirking about? It’s still nil nil.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said continuing to smile.

  With a mischievous grin, he pulled off my hat, sending my hair spiralling all over the place. Whatever he planned to do or say never happened as it was one of those moments when everything stalled and we just stared at each other. ‘I love your hair.’ He stroked a section from my face and then used it to pull me gently towards him.

  We were so absorbed in the kiss we barely registered the sudden roar of the crowd as around us everyone surged to their feet.

  ‘I think someone might have scored and we missed it,’ I finally murmured when I managed to come up for air, feeling dazed and very thoroughly kissed. A plastic cup bounced off Marcus’s head and a voice jeered, ‘Get a room.’

  He tucked my hand into his and we sat more decorously for the rest of the match.

  When the next goal was scored, I leapt to my feet, screaming along with the rest of the crowd. For obvious reasons Marcus didn’t join in.

  When we spilled out of the stadium as part of the happy, celebratory crowd, it was dark. A good-natured throng of people poured out all heading towards the tube station. I held Marcus’s hand tightly in the crush.

  ‘Come on.’ He tugged me down a side street which was still busy but here there was room to walk along the pavement instead of on the road.

  I was starting to feel chilled right through to the bone.

  ‘You’re looking a little blue around the edges.’

  ‘My feet are frozen.’

  ‘My place is only a ten-minute walk and I did promise you dinner.’

  ‘Is that a man ten-minute walk or a real ten-minute walk?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘My dad’s idea of a ten-minute walk is often a good half hour.’

  ‘No, it’s really only ten minutes.’

  ‘Then lead on Macduff.’ And I was nosy. I was dying to see what his place was like. I was guessing that it would be neat and organised, all shiny surfaces like his office at work. Probably not to my taste at all.

  ‘Can I correct you there, it’s actually “Lay on Macduff”.’

  ‘And you’re loving that, aren’t you?’ Payback for all the grief I’d given him about not knowing about opera.

  He grinned at me. ‘Yes.’

  He lived in a mansion block, which I wasn’t expecting.

  ‘I tho
ught you’d live in one of those glass and steel jobs, testament to the god of all things contemporary,’ I said as we went through a lovely old stained-glass door onto a black and white tiled floor and up a flight of stairs with beautiful wrought iron tracery and brass banisters.

  ‘I thought about it, came close to buying a place in Canary Wharf … but my parents live out in Watford.’

  ‘You’ve got parents.’ Stupid, of course he had parents. He squeezed my hand which he hadn’t let go of, even when he opened the main front door downstairs. He had a sister too, he’d told me all about her on our trip up north.

  ‘Yes, I see them every couple of weeks and it’s only a forty-five-minute drive. Which is why I chose this place.’

  We climbed a second flight of stairs before stopping outside his door.

  ‘Come in.’ He tugged me inside.

  The warmth hit us. ‘Bliss,’ I said, taking off my beanie hat and shaking my hair free.

  ‘Here, let me take your coat.’ He peeled the coat from my shoulders and then while my arms were anchored to my sides, he paused and leant in for a kiss before pushing the coat down. Neither of us paid any attention as it dropped to the floor. His kisses were rapidly becoming addictive and like a pair of dancers we already seemed to know exactly how to slot together. His tongue teased my lips and I opened my mouth and felt all my senses flare as he deepened the kiss.

  With a gentle beguiling thoroughness, he explored my mouth, taking charge with a delicious authority. It had been so long since I’d felt wanted, that this thoroughly male attentiveness stirred desires that had been left untouched for quite a while. There was no doubt about it – Marcus was all man.

  When he drew away I almost pulled him back again but his lazy smile promised so much, I felt a warm pang of feminine satisfaction. The heated glow in his eyes made me feel rather smug.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Just about.’ I rubbed my lips and must have looked a little dazed. I blushed, had I really said that out loud? I wasn’t used to the effect of his kisses. I felt a bit light headed and dreamy.

  Lean hipped and long legged in well-fitting jeans, he seemed completely comfortable in his own space and those kisses full of simmering lust had lit a slow burn. At the same time, the proprietary kiss on the boundary of his territory made me feel as if he’d taken charge of me. I was the guest, here to be looked after. With sudden insight, I realised just how exhausting daily life with Felix had been. Always having to be the sensible one, making the financial decisions, making sure the bills were paid and the insurance sorted, it had been like looking after a child. Felix had no sense of responsibility for anything. At first it had felt great, no pressure to do the right thing but after a while it had palled. God, he and Vince were going to be a disaster together.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? White w … no not white wine. Red? Can you drink red? Vodka? Gin? A beer?’

  I grinned. ‘I can drink anything just not white wine.’ I followed him through the hallway from which several doors opened. He went into a surprisingly big kitchen with a centre island.

  ‘Wow, this is nice. You could almost fit my whole flat in this kitchen.’

  ‘Benefits of a City salary.’

  Floor to ceiling glass-paned cabinets filled one wall, ranged on either side of a brick chimney breast in which sat a large stainless steel double oven with five gas burners.

  ‘Have a seat while I get you a drink.’ He nodded to one of two bar stools on the far side of the island.

  ‘Thanks,’ I hauled myself up onto one of them, leaning my elbows on the walnut wood top.

  ‘I’ve got a nice bottle of Barolo.’ From a single width rack, between the wall of kitchen units and the brick chimney breast, he pulled out a bottle.

  ‘That would be lovely.’ And it would; I knew very little about wine but Pietro loved a good Barolo and he could afford expensive wine.

  ‘Good, I’m cooking Italian, so that will go down perfectly.’

  ‘You’re cooking?’ I thought of Felix’s idea of cooking. Lots of mess, too much seasoning and vast quantities of pasta.

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  I looked up and shook my head. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t worry; no one’s ever died from my cooking.’ He grinned. ‘Well, not yet anyway.’

  ‘You can cook then?’ I asked responding to his teasing.

  ‘They don’t call me Jamie Oliver Walker for nothing. Wait till you’ve tried my pomodoro y prosciutto pasta.’ He kissed his fingers and lapsed into an atrocious Italian accent.

  ‘Sounds lovely … what is it?’

  ‘Bella pasta, mama mia, vino rosso. Oregano.’

  In response, I said, ‘Un bel di vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo sull’estremo confin del mare. E poi la nave appare.’

  His face fell. ‘Are you fluent?’

  With an insouciant shrug, I added, ‘Come un mosca prigionera l’ali batte il piccolo cuor!’

  ‘One thing I’ve never mastered. A foreign language. I always feel a bit of a dick when I go to another country and before I’ve even attempted a word, they speak to you in perfect English.’

  I turned away, squeezing my lips together.

  ‘Say some more, it sounds …’ He raised his eyebrows signalling the rest of the sentence.

  In a deliberately husky voice, I said. ‘Che gelida manina! Se la rasci riscaldar. Cercar che giova? Al buio non si trova. Ma per fortuna – e una notte di luna, e qui la luna l’abbiamo vicina.’

  ‘So, what did you say … or can’t you tell me?’ He waggled his eyebrows with exaggerated lasciviousness.

  I pretended to think about it for a moment and then said with a completely straight face, ‘Your tiny hand is frozen! Let me warm it into life in mine. Why look while the murky darkness lingers? But by good fortune tonight the moon is bright and up here the moon is our closest of neighbours.’

  He swiped at me with a tea towel. ‘Opera … I presume.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t recognise it?’ I giggled to myself. ‘It’s from your favourite,’ I paused and raised my eyebrows at him. ‘La Bohème?’

  ‘Very funny.’ He hooked the tea towel around the back of my neck and pulled me in close for another lingering kiss.

  ‘I’m going to take you to see it one day.’ Although the words came out without thought, as soon as I said them, his serious expression made my heart miss a beat.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said softly. ‘I suspect I shall be getting to know an awful lot more about opera. So,’ he relinquished me, turning back to open a bottle of wine, ‘do you speak Italian or just lyrics?’

  ‘Just lyrics,’ I laughed. ‘Sorry, you hear it so often, you start singing along. Obviously not in front of the likes of Carlsten and Pietro and the English translation is up on the screens for the audience. Me and Vince always used to …’ I faltered.

  ‘I have to admit, I don’t get it,’ Marcus gave me a gentle smile, his unspoken sympathy making my heart jump. ‘But I’m willing to give it a go. You can educate me.’

  Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. It was possibly the nicest thing he could have offered to do.

  ‘Tilly.’ He put down the bottle. ‘I’d forgotten about Vince and Felix.’

  ‘No, it’s not them. It’s just so nice of you to want to learn about it.’ I gave him a tremulous smile. ‘To tell you the truth, I much prefer ballet. Music wise, opera wouldn’t be my first choice. Too much of a bus man’s holiday. I’d rather go and watch the Foo Fighters or the Imagine Dragons.’

  ‘I remember … Snow Patrol.’

  We talked music and our favourite bands and I watched as he moved around the room with economic efficiency, pouring two glasses of red wine and handing me mine. With quiet grace, he pulled out onions, switched on a music system which filled the room with the Stereophonics and unselfconsciously chopped, fried and stirred without making any further conversation. I found it enormously soothing and a mark of his quiet confidence. Felix would have filled the sil
ence with inane commentary, as if silence were some kind of failure. Marcus glanced over occasionally with a nod or a smile, tapping in time to the beat and occasionally joining in with the raspy lyrics of the band. His voice wasn’t bad … and I had heard the best in the world but I enjoyed seeing him like this, relaxed and at home in his own space.

  Sipping red wine and watching him, I felt safe and totally at home. The bottle of wine slowly emptied as conversation ran smooth and sure. I hadn’t even seen the rest of his flat but it didn’t seem to matter. Cocooned in the kitchen with the smell of tomatoes and onions, music washing over me with Marcus’s presence felt right. No drama, no frenetic activity, just quiet contentment. It felt like home, my parents’ home – the secure, normal upbringing that for so long I’d fought and reacted against.

  Once he slipped the dish into the oven and set the timer, it suddenly went very quiet.

  I swallowed. The air sizzled between us, anticipation, nerves and a sort of awareness, as if we both realised that something big depended on the next step.

  He took my hand and led me through to the lounge, putting on lamps as he went so that the room was bathed in low watt glow.

  Tapping our glasses gently together, Marcus faced me on the sofa, our knees touching.

  ‘Tilly, there’s enough chemistry between us to blow this place sky high.’ He took an inward breath and let out a long sigh, pinching his lips.

  ‘Chemistry, drama, high emotion …’ he paused. ‘That’s not me. It’s all a bit mind-blowing. It’s not what I’m used to.’

  Bemusement shadowed his face. ‘And even as I say this, I can’t believe I am. I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone. You remind me of an angry kitten spitting at every turn, and yet you’re so passionate about what you do, engaged with your life, your job and friends all intertwine. It’s alien and yet I feel like a boy with his nose pressed up against the glass wanting in.’

  My heart skipped and hopped. I chewed my lip and held his steady, serious gaze. His eyes crinkled at the edges with a reluctant smile. I think that meant that he liked me.