by Karen Swan
Matt nodded. ‘Well, we’ll certainly all miss your double act. Can you give us an indication of what we can expect for the final two days? Anticipation is high.’
Nettie shrugged. ‘I’m not sure exactly. It’ll be based around the song vote obviously. Have you heard?’ she asked, looking over at Jamie.
He shrugged back. ‘I just do what I’m told.’
‘So you’re not involved in the actual strategy of the campaign?’ Alex asked her.
‘Not hugely. They don’t tend to tell me what I’m going to be doing until the last minute. I think they’re worried I’ll freak out and run away. Put it this way, if I’d known when I woke up last Tuesday morning that I was going to be dangling off the Shard . . .’
Everyone laughed.
‘There’s a rumour that maybe you’re going to reveal your identity on the final day,’ Matt said, leadingly.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’
Matt laughed. ‘She’s not giving anything away, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said to camera. ‘We’re just going to have to wait and see.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘Well, thank you both so much for coming in and speaking to us tonight. Jamie, I know you’re going to set up over there and sing for us in a few minutes. Tonight, you’re singing the second of the two songs that people are voting for as your Christmas single – is that right?’
‘Yes. This one’s called “Night Ships”.’
‘And this is the first time you’ve performed it, I gather?’
‘That’s right. This is the Team Bunny single.’
‘Well, we can’t wait to hear it. It’s a great honour having you here and we wish you all the best for the final days of the Ballz-Up campaign on behalf of Tested. Jamie Westlake and Blue Bunny Girl, everybody!’
A round of applause started up. Nettie made to stand, but Jamie discreetly put a hand on her leg to stop her. ‘Not yet,’ he said without moving his lips.
It was another minute before they could move, the cameras cutting to a prepared scene from a new Oscar-tipped film and after shaking their hosts’ hands heartily, they walked back into the shadows.
‘Your brother—’ she began.
But Jamie didn’t reply. The cameras had stopped rolling; the pretending was over. He walked away from her, towards the empty stage that was waiting for him, signing a few autographs on his way. Doing his job. Nothing more.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘How are you getting back?’ Debbie asked as they all travelled down in the lift together.
‘Train,’ Nettie said, shifting her weight and keeping her gaze down, away from Jamie.
‘It’s a great service, isn’t it?’ Debbie asked. ‘So fast. Sometimes I pop down to London just to do a day’s shopping.’
Nettie smiled and nodded.
The door opened and they walked across the lobby to the front desk. A tall, bushy Christmas tree was standing resplendent in the centre, twinkling and glittering in its gold-baubled glory and reminding Nettie, yet again, that there were only three days left to Christmas. She leaned against the desk, staring back at it but seeing, in her mind’s eye, her own version in Primrose Hill – the wispy sapling on the kitchen table, scarcely dressed, with just one decoration for each year her mother had been missing. It hadn’t felt right, somehow, to celebrate Christmas without her, but they hadn’t been able to ignore it either – something in them struggled to keep life as normal as possible, and the tiny potted spruce had been their compromise: a diminished Christmas for their diminished lives. Her father hoped to plant the tree in the orchard one day, when – if – her mother came back, as a testament to these years of waiting.
‘Could you call Mr Westlake’s car to the front and order a cab to the station, please, Amy?’ Debbie said to the receptionist.
The receptionist frowned, trying not to gawp at Jamie, who had dipped his head, his collar of his jacket pulled high. Nettie realized he was trying not to be recognized, again his default position whenever he was in public. It seemed wearing. Exhausting.
She glanced around the atrium – he wasn’t succeeding very well. Glances were already skating their way, people picking up somehow on his presence.
At least she didn’t have that problem.
‘Um, I’m afraid the station’s closed, Mrs Laing.’
‘What? Why?’
‘There’s been a landslip outside Nuneaton. There won’t be any trains running before the morning.’
What? Nettie closed her eyes, exhausted and worn out.
‘Ah.’ Debbie inhaled deeply – weary after a long day too – before turning and looking at Nettie. ‘I’m so sorry about this.’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ she said, mustering a smile.
‘We will of course put you up in a hotel for the night.’
‘Oh no, really, that’s not necessary. I’ll sort something out myself,’ Nettie said hurriedly.
‘No, no, you shouldn’t have to go to that bother when we can sort it for you really very easily. We have accounts with several of the main hotels in the city.’ She looked back at Amy again. ‘Amy, could you arrange a room, please, for Miss Watson for the night?’
‘She can come back with me.’
It wasn’t the most gracious offer in the world. Jamie’s voice was brusque, his shoulders giving an ‘or not’ shrug as they all turned to him. ‘If she wants to get back to London tonight.’
She? The cat’s mother? Nettie stared at him, feeling her anger rise again, like sap in a tree. Could he not show her any respect?
She felt something in her sag as she remembered precisely why not, what she was to him.
‘No, it’s fine, thanks,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’ll get the train in the morning.’
‘But I’ve got a perfectly serviceable helicopter.’
‘I’m in no ru—’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘Now you’re just cutting your nose off to spite your face. Do you want to get home or not? Stop being so bloody stubborn.’
‘Me being stubborn?’ she gasped. ‘Who’s the person who ignored half a million people earlier today just to indulge his tantrum?’
‘It was not a tantrum. You made an idiot out of me up there.’
‘That’s because you are!’ The words were out before she could stop them.
She watched as he opened his mouth, ready to continue the fight, but he caught on something, seeming to become aware suddenly of Debbie’s and Amy’s aghast expressions. He closed it again, drawing himself up. ‘Fine. Have it your way.’
Nettie bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. Her emotions felt scratch-ready; one touch and they’d fall out of her. She turned back to Amy, her cheeks flushed, her breathing fast as she tried to calm herself, placing her fingertips on the edge of the desk. ‘Sorry,’ she said to the women, in a voice so faint it was barely a whisper. ‘We’re very tired.’
Amy seemed not able to reply – perhaps she couldn’t believe that Nettie, this unremarkable nobody, had called Jamie Westlake an idiot.
‘Amy, get that room sorted for Miss Watson, please, pronto,’ Debbie said, her voice a whip. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Yes, Mrs Laing,’ Amy nodded. A light flashed on her phone and she picked it up wordlessly. ‘Thank you.’ She replaced the phone again. ‘Mr Westlake, your driver’s here.’
‘Thank you, Amy.’ He nodded to Debbie. ‘Debbie, see you soon, I trust.’
‘Always a pleasure, Mr Westlake,’ she smiled, shaking his hand.
His eyes flittered towards Nettie, not quite finding her, words written on his face but blocked in his throat. He turned and walked away through the glass doors, his boots heavy on the marble floor, his head dipped down as much from the avoidance of scrutiny as the low temperatures.
‘Right,’ Debbie smiled, seeming to breathe more easily now that the star had gone. ‘Let’s get this room sorted out for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Nettie murmured, grateful that it was over. Devastated that it w
as clearly over.
‘Chalcot Square, please,’ she said to the cabby, stepping in and rubbing her hands as she sat down. It had stopped snowing, down here at least, but the temperatures were bitter and her cheeks were slapped red from just a few minutes’ queuing at the taxi rank.
The cabby turned off his light and pulled into the traffic, turning right onto Marylebone High Street and past the froth of customers spilling in and out of the shops. Nettie frowned as he drove past Lisson Grove, the turn-off for Primrose Hill.
‘Hey, you should have turned down there,’ she said, leaning forward on the bench seat.
The cabby slid the glass partition open. ‘Roadworks, love. They’re laying them fibre-optic-cable whatnots. It’s a nightmare. I’m gonna take the Edgware Road and cut through St John’s Wood.’
Nettie sighed and sat back again. She didn’t suppose an extra couple of minutes were going to make much difference now, anyway. The morning was all but gone and she needed to change before going into the office.
She began texting Jules. ‘Back! Finally!’
Jules’s reply was almost as fast as if she’d been in the cab with her. ‘TGFT! Thought the polar bears had got you. You were amazeballs last nite.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How was he with you?’
‘Fine,’ she typed, before then adding, ‘Not chatty.’
‘No screaming-diva hissy fit?’
‘No. V. professional.’
‘Shame!’
Nettie sighed. She could well imagine the wink that accompanied the comment in person. ‘Will be in office in an hour. Got to change first.’
‘Don’t bother. Mike out for the afternoon trying to buy his wife’s pressie. Get to Westfield for 5 p.m.’
Nettie frowned. ‘Shepherd’s Bush? What we doing there?’
‘Call me when you get to landline and I’ll explain.’
‘OK x.’
Nettie slipped her phone back in her pocket and looked out of the window. They were chugging along the Harrow Road, below the flyover, which was already congested as the great Christmas exodus to the Home Counties began. The driver turned into Warwick Avenue – Maida Vale territory – and she stared flatly out at the streets she had marched along with frantic haste only a few days ago.
Everything looked different since then. The snow that had started that afternoon had settled like a puffy duvet over the garden walls and ball-shaped bay trees, bringing the hard edges of the urban landscape out of focus. It was bigger, softer, quieter now. Snowmen had been built in some of the front gardens, and she could see crystal-thin slabs of ice had formed at the edges of the canal, the chimneys from the houseboats puffing like steam-engine funnels as their inhabitants tried to keep off the damp chill from the water. The pavements and middles of the roads were almost bare, the snow worn away by heavy traffic as workers trudged to their offices for the last full working day before the festive break, but footprints could clearly be seen in the lower-density areas – between parked cars and round tree trunks, going up to sheds and down side streets – and she knew she could have followed these footprints on the lesser-worn paths to the shadier, quieter fringes if she’d just thought a bit smarter and come back.
The cab came to a stop, the driver tutting loudly and pulling Nettie’s attention away from the hidey-holes. There was a flashing amber light ahead, a man standing in a helmet and high-vis jacket holding a red ‘stop’ sign. Cars on the other side of the sign sluiced past, the sound of their wheels in the slush a wet hiss.
Nettie looked back out of the window. They were on a wide street, brick villas with white-rimmed windows flanking the road on both sides. Between two such houses directly opposite was a vaulted Edwardian glass roof, which straddled an open area that spanned maybe ten feet. She cocked her head to the side, intrigued.
‘Do you know what that is?’ she asked the driver.
He turned with his eyebrows already raised, ducking low in his seat to see what she was pointing at.
‘Oh, that’s Clifton Nurseries. Oldest garden centre in London, that is.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Got a nice cafe in it, but it’s well expensive.’
Nettie looked back at it. ‘But where is it? It’s so narrow.’
‘Opens up round the back. Gorgeous in the summer, I’ve got to admit.’
Nettie stared at it. She had walked down this street on Monday after her mother had turned up in Maida Vale, she was sure of it. She remembered the road sign – Clifton Villas – but not this. Had she walked past on the wrong side of the street, missing the narrow entrance to a supposed Elysium? Or had she run down it in haste, dismissing it as too big and grand and well lit for those trying to hide?
The driver took his foot off the brake, the engine beginning to growl again as the clutch bit.
‘Actually, I think I’ll get out here,’ she said quickly, reaching for her purse in her bag.
‘But I thought you said . . .’ But he didn’t bother finishing the complaint, merely sighing wearily and hauling the cab out of the line of traffic as he tutted.
‘Thanks,’ she said, handing over a ten-pound note for a six-pound fare. ‘Keep the change,’ she said, hoping to appease him.
‘Right, ta, love,’ he nodded, immediately appeased. ‘And merry Christmas to you.’
She walked towards the narrow opening and stood beneath the glass porch. It was like standing in the nave of a glass cathedral, snow-capped box trees in every shape – balls, twists, pyramids – lining the walkway, their dense canopies twinkling with white pin-lights.
She walked slowly along it, resisting the urge to bury her fingers in the soft snow, her mouth parting in wonder as it opened out into a dense grove that spanned what must have once been three gardens. Leaves of every hue tickled the air; church candles flickered in glass lanterns; stone statues nestled between screens trained with winter ivy; Christmas trees shimmered with baubles; greenhouses glowed like orbs.
It was like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia, an enchanted oasis hidden in the centre of the city – its living, breathing heart. She saw bent and twisted olive trees, freshly imported plum-coloured acers that shimmied their leaves like grass skirts in the arctic breeze, tight-budded roses and feathery lavenders. Even at this, the barest, boniest time of the year, when nature slept in the parks and gardens, this space brimmed with life and growth and beauty. How many people walked past without ever knowing it was here?
She stopped and picked up a twiggy door wreath. It was decorated with cinnamon sticks and pine cones, a more bohemian, craftsy alternative to the blue firs and crimson berries she saw everywhere else. It would suit their idiosyncratic house, and as Jules had said, theirs was the only house on the square that didn’t have one. But she put it down again, unable to give herself up to the lure of a little retail therapy, a last festive splurge.
She walked past the greenhouse, her eyes tracing the naked wisteria branches that spanned the ceiling like veins. Ahead was a large conservatory, more of a palm house, really. Giant snowflakes were dusted onto the glass panes, twinkling box spirals positioned outside the door. It glowed with amber firelight even at this midpoint of the day, and she walked in, appreciating at once the radiant heat from a wood-burning stove in the corner, the hallowed alto of carols coming from a distant speaker. A whitewashed counter was laden with cloched cakes and pastries, the day’s specials were written in sloping script on a blackboard behind, and mismatched tables and iron trellised garden chairs were scattered in clusters across a black-and-white tessellated floor.
Nettie rubbed her hands as she looked about, breathing into her cupped palms as she felt herself begin to warm. There were various couples and small groups at the tables, a low hum of chatter as steam from coffees twisted and cakes crumbled beneath the flash of forks.
She walked over to the counter and ordered a version of the same – coffee-and-walnut cake with a white Americano. The cabby had been right – she almost winced as she handed over another ten-pound note – but she
walked to a table in the far corner, nearest the stove, and shrugged off her coat with relief.
She had to bring her father here, she thought, as she pressed the edge of the fork into the sponge. One of the young ash trees in the community orchard had been damaged in the storm winds they’d had a few weeks back, and although their budget probably wouldn’t stretch to buying a replacement from here, the sheer variety of stocks made it worth coming over for an inspirational look-see, if nothing else.
She cupped a hand round her drink, staring into space and wondering if they were open on Boxing Day. The pain of enduring Christmas Day could usually be smudged by fretting over the turkey, and her and her father distracting themselves with presents or ‘checking in’ for the Queen’s Speech, but Boxing Day was an enforced lull that was harder to escape.
She watched the girl working behind the counter as she carefully sliced a new cake; she stared at the tiled floor that seemed to move in her peripheral vision; she eavesdropped on the couple of girls at the next table who were deploring a new boss.
The door opened and her gaze swung slowly over as one of the gardeners walked in backwards, pulling a wheeled trolley with white-blossomed camellia stacked on its deck.
‘Just on the shelf there, thanks,’ she heard the girl behind the counter say, pointing to a bare timbered shelf on the left-hand wall.
Nettie sighed, knowing she had to move sooner or later. She couldn’t sit here all day, tempting though it was. She reached down for her bag and pulled out her purse to leave a tip. She found a two-pound coin and set it on the saucer, reaching for her coat and shrugging it on again.
She stood, her fingers fumbling with the buttons, which had always been fractionally too large for the buttonholes.
‘Thanks,’ she said, raising her hand automatically as she walked across the floor. ‘Lovely cake.’
The girl behind the counter nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you. Come again.’
Nettie opened the door and walked out into the icy blasts again, shuddering as the chill breeze wrapped round her neck like a scarf. She would have to get another cab again now, and that could take a while in a residential area like this, particularly on the day before Christmas Eve.