Notting Hill in the Snow

by Jules Wake

‘I’ve been triaged,’ said Mum with disdain, ‘which translates as being seen by a nurse and offered some painkillers. And that’s all. The place is a shambles. No one seems to know what’s going on. The place is full of drunken idiots. I’d throw them all out on their ear.’

  I crossed the room and took one of her hands. My mother is normally indefatigable. Dad and I call her Boudicca, which she pretends to be irritated by but secretly she’s rather pleased about it. She’s a professor of history, so I guess that makes sense. Boudicca is one of her heroines.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I squeezed her hand, my heart aching a little when I saw the brief sheen of tears in her eyes.

  ‘I wish your dad was here,’ she whispered, squeezing my hand back as I crouched down next to her. She leaned back into the wheelchair and closed her eyes as if her get up and go had got up and gone. Up close I could see the lines in her cheeks. She was seventy-one, not much younger than some of my friends’ grandparents. As a child I’d always been conscious of having older parents but that was because they were slightly stuffy and set in their ways rather than lacking in energy or drive. They’d have been the same if they’d become parents in their twenties rather than their forties. Today, for the first time, I realised that my mum was getting old. There was a vulnerability about her I’d not seen before.

  ‘Do you want me to call him?’ I asked gently, pulling over a chair so that I could sit next to her and hold her hand.

  ‘No, he’ll only worry and there’s nothing he can do.’ She opened her eyes and gave me a determined smile, which suggested logic had just bested emotion.

  ‘He could book a flight back.’

  ‘That would be ridiculous.’ She lifted her head and with her haughty tone I saw some of her usual indomitable force reassert itself. ‘I’ve probably just twisted my ankle or something. Let’s see what the doctor says. To be honest, I wouldn’t have called an ambulance; it was just Ursula fussing.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m allowed anything until I’ve been seen by a doctor. All a load of nonsense. You could pass me my bag. I’ve got a couple of essays I could be marking. This lot of undergrads are actually quite intelligent for a change.’

  ‘Blimey, Mum. That’s high praise.’ I stood up to collect her leather laptop bag from the end of the bed.

  ‘I said quite.’ She raised an imperious eyebrow as I handed it to her. ‘Although a couple of them do seem to have genuinely enquiring minds.’

  I laughed at her. ‘By the middle of next term you’ll have knocked them into shape.’

  ‘Well, of course.’ Although Mum put the fear of God into her students in their first term, by the end of the year they all respected and admired her and she always got the top marks when students graded the faculty teachers.

  She fiddled with the zip of the case for a minute and then pushed it away. ‘Actually, I think I might just rest my eyes for a little while. My leg … it’s starting to ache a bit.’ Then, with a quiet sigh, she added, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Outside, beyond the curtain, as Mum dozed, I became aware of the groans of another patient a few cubicles down, a crying baby and a slurring drunk refusing to take off his trousers. I’d exhausted the entertainment offered by my phone; I didn’t think the current scenery would make a particularly fetching Instagram story.

  At last, as I was starting to doze off, a doctor appeared, a young tired-looking woman with a clipboard and a stethoscope around her neck. She introduced herself and asked lots of questions before even looking at Mum’s leg.

  ‘We’ll have to send you to X-ray. There’s a bit of a backlog, I’m afraid. It could be a while.’

  Chapter 8

  What had happened to my alarm? I woke up knowing it was later than I wanted it to be, sitting bolt upright and fumbling for my phone. The screen was blank. Instead I grabbed my watch from the bedside table.

  ‘Holy shit!’ It was ten o’clock.

  I shook my phone as if that might help. Ridiculous, it was completely dead. Damn, I was so tired last night … no, this morning, by the time I’d got home from the hospital at five o’clock I’d completely forgotten to plug it in to charge.

  And where was the charger? Oh, no, I’d left it at work. In my locker. I normally had two but one had broken last week.

  What an idiot! And I was expected at Nate’s half an hour ago. Damn, after his specific warning about not letting Grace down. I looked at my watch again. At least I knew Mum had an appointment in the fracture clinic at twelve and wasn’t expecting me before then. I jumped out of bed. Was I too late to salvage this, if I got dressed now and went straight round to Nate’s? I’d still be an hour and a bit late but I would be there.

  Outside, the sky had an ominous heavy grey cast to it, plump fat clouds billowing over the skyline. Snow was forecast for further north but I wondered if we might get a light dusting and, with that in mind, put my heavy boots on, just in case. It only took three snowflakes to fall in London and the whole place ground to a halt.

  Making a snap decision, I dived into the shower and dressed at lightning speed. Still damp, I grabbed my coat, shoving my phone in the pocket, hoping I could borrow a charger at Nate’s house, pushing my arms through the sleeves even as I was opening the front door and charging up the steps to street level. Running headlong into icy cold air, I quickly remembered I’d forgotten both hat and gloves but I didn’t want to waste time going back for them; instead I strode at a fast pace down the street, not even pausing to do my coat up. Just as well that, when Nate had invited me to his house, I’d checked out the route and I could mentally picture the roads I needed to take to get there. It wasn’t a street I was familiar with.

  Despite the icy temperature and the cars which were covered in heavy frost, I cut through Denbigh Terrace, admiring the colours of the houses, which brightened up the dull day, especially those with festive window baskets of bright red poinsettia and white cyclamen. I dodged a few hardy tourists taking pictures and hit Portobello Road in full Saturday morning throng. Weaving my way through the crowded pavements, I whizzed past the famous landmark of Alice’s, its bright red shop front already teeming with shoppers who were keen to peruse the eclectic selection of vintage and antique goodies or just take a snap to remind them of the Paddington films. There were families wandering along, their children like small padded Michelin men bundled up in buggies, and lots of trendy hipster couples wandering hand in hand wearing bobble hats and pea coats. Most of the shops and market stalls had already got their Christmas decorations up and it reminded me that I was co-opted for tree decoration at Bella’s and Tina’s in the next two weeks. Bella liked hers to go up in the second week of December, so she could maximise its value, and Tina’s went up anywhere between, depending on when there was time between the children’s ballet lessons, taekwondo, English tuition, football practice and French classes – and when I could make it as well.

  Two streets and my pace began to slow.

  Blimey, this street was posh. No coloured houses here; everything was staid white and Regency rather than Victorian and protected by grand steps up to the houses and bounded by wrought iron railings. There were lots of extremely expensive cars parked in the permit-only bays. The houses were all proper houses, not broken down into flats like in my road. My flat was one of five in what had once been a house.

  And look at that glossy, shiny front door with its lion’s head brass knocker and the perfectly manicured bay trees on either side. I stopped at the bottom of the imposing set of steps leading up to the door, my fingers crossing in my pockets. This was a proper grown-up, married person’s house.

  I lifted the heavy knocker and let it drop, hearing the sound echo in the hall beyond. I could feel the beat of my heart thudding a little harder and faster than normal. Breathe, I told myself.

  The door opened and Grace stood there looking very small next to its solid glossiness. She was dressed in a cute pink sweatshirt with a sparkly love heart, in wh
ich was written Loves to dance, lives to dance and a pair of slightly darker pink leggings. The co-ordinated look was completed by matching little pink sheepskin moccasin slippers. With her hair bundled up in a pineapple-style ponytail, she looked cute and savvy in a slightly terrifying way.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.

  ‘Who is it, Grace?’ Nate came hurrying into view looking a little harassed and then his mouth drew in a taut, displeased line. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late. My phone died. I couldn’t call because I left my charger at work.’ I pulled it out of my pocket and waved it in the air for want of something to do in the face of his gimlet stare.

  ‘I see,’ he said with a terse nod. Hard-face Nate was definitely intimidating; he did it rather well. Unfortunately for him, all I could think was that it added to his overall sexiness. At last he said, his mouth turning down in displeasure, ‘Grace, do you want to pop into the kitchen?’ It was said with calm nonchalance but I could see the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

  ‘No, Daddy,’ she said, looking up at him with an innocent expression.

  I almost laughed but a quick glance at Nate’s stern expression made me pinch my lips together to suppress the quick burst of misplaced amusement. I could tell from the annoyed glint in his eye I was not helping my case.

  ‘I’d like you to go into the kitchen while I talk to Miss Smith.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her off? For being late. You could take a house point away.’

  ‘Grace, would you do as you’re told?’ Nate’s tone had changed and her mouth squashed into a mutinous line, making her look like a smaller, crosser version of her father.

  ‘OK,’ she said and then looked up at me. ‘Daddy’s very cross with you.’ Then she whispered to me, ‘But it’s OK if you admit you made a mistake and you tell the truth about it and then you apologise properly and say you’re sorry.’

  ‘That’s good advice, thank you,’ I said as gravely as I could manage.

  ‘Grace.’ Nate’s warning tone had her turning away but she gave me one last almost reassuring look over her shoulder, as if to say, Don’t worry you’ll be fine, before she disappeared through a door at the very end of the rather large entrance hall.

  Nate came to stand in the doorway, keeping it half closed. A guard at the gate and I wasn’t getting through. I could see that I wasn’t about to be invited in, no matter how cold it was.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so late but—’

  ‘I thought I’d made it quite clear. I’m not in a place where I can let Grace be messed around.’ He raised a single eyebrow that spoke volumes.

  ‘I know. You did. But I couldn’t phone because my phone’s dead and my charger is at work. And that’s why I had to come. To explain. I feel really bad about it.’ Although, of the two of them, Grace seemed the more forgiving. ‘I’ve come to apologise and explain.’

  ‘Well, thank you for coming and don’t worry, I don’t need your excuses. If it was important enough for you to come, you’d have been here. Clearly you’re a very busy person. Unlike you, I have responsibilities.’

  ‘My mother had an accident,’ I blurted out. ‘She’s in St Mary’s. I was there till five o’clock this morning. I slept through my alarm this morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nate and I felt a flash of satisfaction at seeing the uptight, snotty front deflate almost immediately. ‘My goodness, is she OK? What happened? Has she been in an accident?’

  ‘She had a fall. She’s OK but it was a long night. Hence me oversleeping, for which I’m genuinely very sorry. Despite going to bed at five, I wasn’t going to let you down. I had every intention of coming but my phone died and I didn’t wake up until –’ I looked down at my watch ‘– thirty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘It should be me apologising for being such a dick. I’m sorry, you’ve had a rough night and you still came here. Have you had breakfast?’ he asked suddenly, his eyes running down my body.

  ‘I came straight here.’

  ‘Now you mention it, I can tell,’ he said with a twitch of his lips, looking at my coat and stepping back to open the door. ‘Come in. You look cold.’

  ‘Forgot my hat and my scarf. And my gloves. I was in a bit of a hurry.’

  As soon as I stepped inside, I saw myself in the big gilt mirror. My coat was inside out and my hair was sticking up on one side where I hadn’t brushed it. I looked an absolute sight with my bed head hair, flushed cheeks and scarecrow wardrobe.

  ‘Oh, God, I look a sight.’

  ‘It’s an interesting look,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened to your mother.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘She fell off a ladder.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She’s seventy-one.’

  ‘I’m surprised she’s climbing ladders at that age. What was she doing?’

  ‘You don’t know my mother. She’s an academic; my parents have a lot of books … a lot of bookshelves. Some you need a ladder to reach. And apparently some books you just have to have when there’s no one else around to help you.’

  ‘Ah, stubborn?’

  ‘You do know my mother.’

  He smiled at me, his eyes kinder now and running over my face. ‘You look tired. Come on, I’ll make you some breakfast. You look like you could do with a nice fry-up.’

  ‘That sounds bliss, thank you. I didn’t get much sleep last night but –’ I looked at my watch ‘– I’m sorry I can’t stay too long. I’ve got to go back to the hospital to pick her up.’

  ‘Will you stop apologising?’

  ‘But I’m letting you down. The gingerbread house.’

  ‘The gingerbread house can wait. What time do you need to be at the hospital?’

  ‘She’s got an appointment at the fracture clinic at twelve and, dependent on how that goes, we’ll get a taxi back to her place.’ I frowned. ‘And then I’m not sure what. My dad’s away in the States at the moment, although I’m hoping he’s going to get a flight home later today.’

  ‘That is bad luck, especially when your dad’s not there.’

  ‘Yes, and of course I was at work, so uncontactable. Mum was not best pleased when I finally rocked up at the hospital at midnight.’

  Nate led me through the corridor, down some steps to a big square basement kitchen as I surreptitiously took in the beautiful house. I thought Bella’s house was all World of Interiors; this was even grander. ‘Shades of Pemberley,’ I murmured to myself. This house was gorgeous. The hall had an octagonal wooden table with an enormous glass vase, which I suspected when his wife was in residence would have always had a large arrangement of tall-stemmed, lush flowers. A rather grand staircase curled away from the hall with a rich chestnut banister that curved elegantly around to the next floor. Its white treads were punctuated by a striped carpet runner in shades of teal and beige which was held in place by shiny brass stair rods.

  Off to the left, double glass doors opened into an elegant lounge with deep velvet sofas in pale eau de nil and white-painted furniture including another big mirror over the white plasterworked fireplace. Stylish lamps with overblown shades in pastel colours and big clear glass bases were arranged around the room. It looked light and bright and almost too neat and tidy to venture into. I’d have banned anyone from taking red wine in there.

  The kitchen, while echoing those designer statements, felt a lot more homely and it looked as if this was where Grace and Nate spent most of their time. It opened out into an L-shape; to the right a long glass-roofed dining area and to the left a small cosy seating area with a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a television, a DVD player and a stack of Disney DVDs. Grace was sitting at a bar stool at the long wooden breakfast bar that ran the whole length of the kitchen area, surrounded by colouring pencils and bits of paper.

  ‘Tea, coffee?’ asked Nate. ‘Take a seat.’ He waved to the bar stool next to Grace. ‘Sorry, I should have taken your coat.’

  He seemed a little bit fluste
red, as if me turning up at the wrong time had thrown the script. I got the impression that if I’d been on time he would have had a script.

  ‘Have you said sorry?’ asked Grace, not looking up from the drawing she was colouring in with fierce concentration as I took the stool next to her.

  ‘Yes, and I’d like to say sorry to you too.’

  She shrugged and carried on carefully nudging at the lines of the unicorn on the paper with her pink pencil. ‘It’s OK.’

  Her indifference tugged at my heart and I glanced over at Nate and saw his mouth tighten.

  ‘No, Grace, it’s not OK. I said I was coming and I really was, but my mum had an accident last night. So she had to go to hospital.’

  Grace’s mouth pressed in a firm line. But she didn’t say anything.

  ‘She broke her leg and she had to stay the night.’

  At that the little girl did look up. ‘Has she got crutches?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to see her later, when they put the cast on her leg.’

  ‘Maddie at school got a broken arm. She had a blue cast. I’d have a purple one.’

  ‘Can you choose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, because Edward Palmer had a red one. Because of football. Do you like football?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Me neither. I do gymnastics and dancing.’

  ‘What sort of dancing do you do?’

  ‘Ballet, jazz and tap. I like the tap dancing. But ballet –’ she pulled a face ‘– it’s boring but Mummy likes me to do it.’ She sighed. ‘When I’m grown up I’m never doing anything boring.’

  ‘That’s a good plan,’ I said.

  Nate rolled his eyes as he poured two cups of coffee and handed one my way. ‘I’d offer you a biscuit … but the biscuit burglar has been to visit this week and all the chocolate ones have gone.’

  Grace was suddenly very studious with her drawing, nodding in agreement.

  ‘I hate it when that happens,’ I said. ‘And why do they always steal the good biscuits and leave the custard creams behind?’

  Nate laughed. ‘You have the same burglar.’