Читать книгу Covent Garden in the Snow: The most gorgeous and heartwarming Christmas romance of the year! - Jules Wake, Jules Wake - Страница 9

With a quick glance at my watch, I figured there was just enough time to finish the hairpiece I was working on before a mad dash to meet up with my sister. The strand of hair wrapped around a piece of doweling only needed a quick spray with setting solution and the last perfect ringlet would be done. I held up the piece with its bobbing curls and admired it, imagining the way it would look on the dancer playing Juliet.

‘Ooh Tilly. You might wanna see this.’ Vince let out an alarmed squeal. He bounced up in his seat, where he’d been ensconced in front of the department computer since ten o’clock that morning. Allegedly he was looking for Byronesque style headshots but as far as I could tell he’d done nothing but sigh over pictures of good looking male movie stars who might once have had a brush with a historical film.

Hanging onto the final curl, I gave him a quizzical look.

‘I thought you’d decided Mr McAvoy and his appropriate sideburns, in Becoming Jane, were what you were looking for. Are you still hunk-spotting?’

‘As if I would?’ He batted his eyelashes as if he’d never once logged onto Onmygaydar.com. ‘No lovie. It’s you. You’re in trouble, girl. You got email.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Seriously, doll.’ Vince’s blue eyes widened, like a small bush baby. ‘Looks as if it’s your virus.’

It wasn’t my virus.

I carefully put down the hairpiece, before scurrying over to the computer, to find an email from a complete stranger.

I heartily wished I’d never sent that first email.

To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

Subject: FW: URGENT – Possible loo roll crisis

Dear Matilda

Do I know you? I’ve just had an email from you. Don’t think you meant to send it to me but

loo rolls? Try Tesco. Although funnily enough, I’ve literally just finished that book, funny read. Did you know there was a sequel?

With kind regards

A Liverpool Supporter.

P.S. Didn’t think Arsenal supporters could read, not as erudite as us Liverpool supporters.

‘Oh pants.’ Thankfully, despite his duff allegiance, the Liverpool supporter didn’t seem too upset. ‘Do you think I’m going to get loads of these?’

Suddenly I realised Jeanie was standing behind us. She rolled her eyes, and squinted at the screen beyond them. ‘If they’re all as dull as this, you haven’t got a problem. A football supporter who sounds very sensible. Probably short, bald and lives with his mum. And likes Liverpool United.’ She shook her head, before adding. ‘Oh God, a Northerner.’

Southern born and bred, Jeanie was convinced that anyone north of Mill Hill was slightly suspect.

‘Come on, some of us have work to do.’ She gave both of us a pointed look before turning and heading back to her office.

I shot the screen another look and then my watch. Christelle was incapable of being late, I had no leeway.

‘You’re not going to email him back, are you?’ asked Vince, clutching his throat in dramatic horror, which was a bit rich coming from Mr Online Romance himself. ‘What if he’s a stalker or one of those people that’s looking to groom you for the sex-slave trade?’

With great show, I pointed to my flat chest and raised my eyebrows.

‘Seriously, I read about it in the paper.’

‘Well it must be true, then.’

‘No, honest, girls promised designer clothes and given make-overs and then sold into high-class prostitution.’

In my favourite vintage 1950s skirt, printed with cherries, a matching red ballerina style cross-over cardigan and flat chunky boots, I was hardly sex-kitten material.

Vince inspected my boots. ‘Maybe not.’

‘Definitely not. Besides, it’s not as if we’re to become pen-pals.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’m not letting him have the last word on my football team.’ I shrugged my shoulders.

Vince raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘You’re a girl, is that normal? You know – the football stuff.’

‘You’re a boy. You wear yellow. Putrid mustard yellow. That’s not normal unless you’re a Buddhist monk.’

With another quick check of my watch, I edged him out of the way, pausing only fractionally as I remembered the thing about e-safety his royal ITness had said. But this was different. This bloke had taken the trouble to email me, it was only polite to email him back and thank him. If he was up to no good, he wouldn’t be trying to help, would he? Then I stopped, what if he thought I was some sad loser type sending random emails out to try and make friends.

To: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

From: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

Subject: Loo Rolls

I’m so sorry. That email was supposed to be to my fiancé.

There. Not single or desperate.

I think I might have got a virus.

No shit, Sherlock.

I opened an attachment I shouldn’t have. Thanks for being nice about it.

And for God’s sake please don’t mention it to anyone.

I’ve finished the book now. Don’t want to read the sequel straight away but want something as good. I always feel a bit bereft when I finish a book I’ve enjoyed.

With kind regards

Deciding to keep things formal I put Matilde rather than Tilly which felt like it kept a bit of distance.

I hate my name. Matilde, written down, looks German and butch rather than French. The ‘d’ is silent but very few people get that, so I prefer Tilly. My mother is Parisian – hence the name. Although these days, even she managed to call me Tilly – on the odd occasions we spoke.

‘How about that?’ I re-read the words on the screen one last time. Mostly harmless.

Vince pulled a mournful face, disappointment filling his big blue eyes.

‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

He sighed and tossed his head. ‘Well, it’s hardly Gone with the Wind. I mean…’

‘It’s not supposed to be.’ I read the words again. It was OK. Not like people you heard of, who gave in to the heady temptation of on-line and text flirting, and ended up creating daring alter-egos that bore no resemblance to their real persona.

Although, I rolled my neck feeling the tension. God knows a flirtation would be a welcome ego boost – Felix seemed to find me about as sexy as a moth-eaten camel these days, but I was not going to fall into that trap.

Vince rubbed at his goatee and sighed in theatrical despair. ‘Lovie, why don’t you compare slippers? At least ask him what he thinks of the book. It’s seriously, seriously dull.’

‘Thanks a bunch. It’s just a response. It’s not as if I’m going to get to know him.’

‘I should think not.’ Vince bristled, folding his arms and speaking with hushed reverence. ‘Not when you’ve got Felix.’

There was only one thing to do with that comment; I ignored his half-pint sized crush on Felix. ‘Just keeping it bland makes it obvious I’m not some desperate cyber-stalker on the lookout for a man.’

‘Charming. What does that make me? Minced meat.’ Vince walked off huffily.

I literally slapped my forehead. God, he was such a drama queen. He’d be offended for the rest of the day now. I hadn’t meant anything to do with his predilection for on-line dating.

I gave it one last read through. Vince was right, it did sound slipperish. Ignoring the small matter of already being ten minutes late, I added a quick post-script.

P.S. Liverpool supporters erudite? In which parallel universe would that be?

That wasn’t flirty, was it? No. With a resolute stab that nearly pinged the enter button off the keyboard, I pressed send and shut down the email. Oops, even by my shoddy time-keeping standards, I was late.

Of course, she was already there, perched at one of the high tables in Café Paul and engrossed in her iPhone. I knew exactly what my sister would look like without having to peer through the window. Pristine and pressed to perfection. I could have made easy money betting on the fact that Christelle would be wearing a pure white cotton shirt, peaked tramlines down each sleeve, and a figure hugging black pencil skirt along with a nipped in matching jacket from either Hobbs or Jigsaw. Her glossy brown hair would be scraped mercilessly back into the dullest bun you could imagine and she’d be wearing rubbish make-up. Seriously, she didn’t have a clue. Lipstick in a dull nude colour which made her lips vanish into her face and a matt brown eyeshadow over the whole lid that made her eyes recede into her head. With her figure and gorgeous hair, she could have looked like some sixties starlet. It wasn’t fair. Stick a button on my nose and I’d look like one of those anime cute cartoon girls, except with way too much curly hair. I would have loved to get hold of her and give her a serious make-over but we weren’t that sort of sisters. Oh Lord, no.

‘Late again.’ Why the hell did she have to look at her watch? I wasn’t going to deny it. I was nearly always late to meet her. Maybe it was psychological. It minimised the amount of time we had to spend together.

I shrugged cheerfully. ‘Problem with a virus at work.’ It sounded almost professional and competent, something she might appreciate.

For once, Christelle appeared vaguely interested. ‘Serious? That can be terribly damaging. I heard of one solicitor’s company who had to buy a new server because they’d got some malware that corrupted everything. It almost put them out of business. And they’re a very smart outfit. They have some very high profile, blue chip clients.’

‘Our IT department is very good,’ I said smoothly as if it were the sort of thing that I regularly trotted out.

‘That’s so important,’ said Christelle nodding. She stuck her head out, trying to catch the attention of the waiter who acknowledged us with a quick nod before disappearing with an armful of dirty crockery.

We lapsed into silence.

‘So,’ I said, ‘how’s work?’

‘Good.’ She stopped there. I had about as much of an idea about her job as she did about mine. She was a barrister, except she didn’t do the exciting criminal stuff, no she did employment law which from the little I understood sounded deadly.

I’ve no idea why she insisted on these monthly meetings, they were always excruciating. But no, regular as clockwork, she phoned at the beginning of the month to suggest we meet up.

‘So, are you busy this weekend?’ I asked, praying the waiter would get a move on.

‘Yes, it’s Alexa’s thirtieth birthday and we’ve hired a gorgeous house. It sleeps twenty-eight, which is perfect.’ She whipped out her phone and showed me a couple of pictures of a fantastic view and a rather lovely looking Edwardian mansion perched on the side of a wooded hillside.

You see, that I couldn’t fathom. Whatever I thought about my sister, her social life was always busy.

‘What about you?’

I smiled. ‘I’ll be working late on Friday and Saturday.’

‘I don’t know how you manage to have a relationship. I find it hard enough to get dates with my hours let alone working most nights. Doesn’t Felix mind? Do you ever get to spend a weekend together?’

‘He doesn’t mind.’ That was the wonderful thing about Felix. He’d never minded. He understood how important my job was to me. And me working evenings had never been an issue. I paused, trying hard to picture my very uptight sister going on a date. She’d never mentioned any romantic entanglements and I’d always assumed she was too busy pursuing her career to bother with such irrelevancies. For some reason, Marcus popped into my head. He was probably Christelle’s perfect date, not that I’d wish her on him.

‘Do you do a lot of dating?’ I asked, surprising myself.

It took her a minute to answer. In fact, she spent a good thirty seconds rummaging through her handbag, in a most un-Christelle like fashion, before she lifted her head. I could almost see her weighing up how to answer.

The second thirty seconds seemed to hang with unexpected portent between us. Sink or swim. Do or die. Crash and burn. Her foot poised over uncharted territory.

And then she cleared her throat and I felt a pulse of shock at her candid look.

‘Not with any success. You’re so lucky. You and Felix have got it all sussed. You were friends with him first. I’ve been on so many dates but I just never seem to click with anyone. On paper, they’re absolutely perfect … and then I meet them.’ Her childish expression combined with the most exaggerated eye roll, again so not Christelle, made me break out in a wary smile.

‘They’re either unmitigated hooray Henry tosspots,’ she broke off, ‘excuse my language,’ she added, giving me a look that dared me to say anything, ‘or stuffed shirts who spend the entire date trying to work out whether I’m more successful than they are and whether I’ve billed more than them in the last forty-eight hours. It’s pathetic.’

‘It must be hard.’ I tried to look sympathetic, but quite frankly they sounded eminently suitable. ‘Ah, the waiter,’ I said and grabbed the menu. ‘What do you fancy? The fruit tarts look gorgeous, but then so do the palmiers and the chocolate croissants here are to die for.’

‘Cappuccino for me and a croissant amandes.’ Christelle snapped shut her menu and handed it to him, while I had now discovered the enticements of chocolate éclairs, raisin pastries and pear and rhubarb tarts.

I chewed at my lip as Christelle folded her arms. ‘Make that two Cappuccinos and I, hmm, I can’t make up my mind between the…’ I turned the menu over and then peered beyond the waiter at the glass fronted cabinets. ‘Or should I have one of the strawberry tarts. No. I’ll have a pain au chocolat …’

The waiter clearly had my measure, because he whipped away the menu before I could change my mind and go for one of the glistening strawberry tarts.

Christelle put her elbows on the table.

‘We need to decide what we’re going to get for Mum and Dad for Christmas.’

‘It’s ages away,’ I said. Why couldn’t people enjoy the build up to Christmas? Planning this far ahead took away all the fun and spontaneity. Present-buying should be an adventure and a grand expedition to all the beautifully decorated shops, sparkling with glitter and tinsel. It should be full of promise and excitement, like going on a bear hunt, to track down and tease out things that people will like. No, that people will love.

Christelle let out a small huffy sigh. ‘You haven’t spoken to Mum, have you?’

‘No.’ Nothing new there. My unsociable working hours didn’t fit with her and Dad’s nine to seven schedule.

She bit her lip before blurting out with great indignation. ‘They’re going away for Christmas.’ Around her mouth a few tiny lines that I’d never noticed before tightened.

‘Really? Where?’

‘Apparently,’ she stiffened. ‘They’re going on a cruise.’

I shrugged.

‘To Scandinavia.’

‘Oh.’ It was a bit of a surprise but it would save me the scramble to catch the last train from Kings Cross wedged up against over-exuberant drunks in a corridor and then having to make the journey back in two days’ time to get back to work. It never seemed fair to book holiday at Christmas when other people in the department had young children and families.

‘I don’t know why they’ve suddenly decided to go on a cruise now.’ Christelle’s voice wobbled.

‘Why not? We’re not children anymore.’

‘But it’s a family time. And we always go home.’

‘Well maybe this year it’s time to do something different.’ I shrugged, ignoring the bleak look on her face. ‘Break the mould. See it as an opportunity.’

‘An opportunity for what?’

‘There’s loads going on in London, carol concerts, ice skating, shows.’

‘Yes, but not on Christmas Day.’

‘There is.’

Oh, God, now I had no excuse not to go with Felix to visit his mother on Christmas Day. ‘Loads of things still happen, you know.’

Her mouth dipped down in scepticism.

‘Jeanie, my boss, often spends Christmas on her own. She’s never short of things to do. Last year she went on a walking tour around the city. The year before she volunteered for Crisis and the year before that she went to watch the swimmers in the Peter Pan Cup race on the Serpentine. It’s only one day. You could just spend the day watching films.’

A pang of guilt danced in and out of my conscience. Was she worried about being on her own? I hadn’t given it that much thought. As I said, Christmas was still ages away.

‘Yes, but why don’t they want to have Christmas with us? It’s not like them. Don’t you think it’s odd?’

‘No.’

She pursed her mouth. ‘That’s so typical of you Tilly, you ignore the things you don’t want to see.’

‘No I don’t.’

‘You do, you’ve always done it. Making out that Mum and Dad are so against your career.’

‘They are.’ I folded my arms, I really didn’t want to get into this now. It was old history and nothing was going to change.

‘No, they just wanted you to—’

‘Whatever. Going home at Christmas is a hassle anyway. The trains are always packed and we’re busy at work.’

‘What will you do instead?’

‘Work.’

‘On Christmas Day?’

‘No, but we’ll probably go to Felix’s mum and I’ll come back that evening because I’m working on Boxing Day.’

‘I guess I could have lunch with some friends, but it won’t be the same,’ she sighed, ‘although Mum has said she’ll do lunch with all the trimmings before Christmas. We can go up together. If I drive up, we won’t have to worry about carrying all the presents.’ She brightened. ‘Talking of which, I was thinking about a nice Estée Lauder skin set for Mum, they’ve got some lovely gift packs this year.’

‘I’ll be work–’ Christelle had never done puppy dog eyes in her life. She worked on pure logic but there was a shadow of sadness about her and a sudden blinking that made me pause and say, ‘That’s probably a good idea.’

‘We could leave late on Friday, miss the traffic and then we’d have the whole of Saturday. I could pick you up straight from work. What time do you finish?’

‘Depends on the production but around ten-thirty, eleven.’

She smiled and straightened up, losing the sad uncharacteristic droop. ‘I’m glad that’s all sorted. Now, I was thinking a nice cashmere sweater for Dad and he’s been wittering on about learning coding, so a colleague at work recommended a book for him. Oh…’ She looked down at her phone which had begun to ring, ‘I need to take this. Will you excuse me?’

‘Yeah. It’s fine.’ Her formality drove me nuts. I was her bloody sister for God’s sake, not an effing client. She scooped up her phone and disappeared out of the door, where I watched her pace with considered steps backwards and forwards through the window.

I picked up my Kindle Fire that I never went anywhere without and luckily it seemed to be the one thing that evaded my negative electrical force-field. My idea of hell was not having a book to read. I’m not sure what made me do it, but I logged onto the free Wi-Fi to check my emails and nearly dropped it when I saw I’d got a response to my earlier one.

To: Matilde@lmoc.co.uk

From: Redsman@hotmail.co.uk

Subject: Loo Rolls

Dear Matilde

The sequel is good but if you want something of a similar ilk, how about High Fidelity by Nick Hornby. It’s about a man who’s crap at relationships too.

Regards

R

P.S. - Would that be that same parallel universe in which Arsenal can play?

It made me smile and by the time Christelle reappeared I’d downloaded High Fidelity.

‘Sorry about that. A client I’ve been trying to get hold of for a few days.’ Any hint of sadness was vanquished as back-in-business Christelle swept back to the fore.

‘OK, coding book and sweater for Dad, skin care set for Mum. Do you want me to get them and you can pay me back?’

‘I hate to be mean but could we perhaps go lamb’s wool rather than cashmere on the sweater for Dad? And set a budget.’

‘Don’t worry, if you can’t afford it now, you pay me back later when you can.’

‘I can afford it.’

Just because her income bracket outstripped mine by several thousand a month didn’t mean she should contribute more. Pride stopped me saying that things were a bit tight this month because Felix still owed me two months’ share of the household bills.

‘Well, we can worry about that later.’ She gave me a blithe smile and glanced at her mobile phone; it reminded me of a cheeping canary clutched in her hand. It never shut up. She took a long swallow of Cappuccino. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Sir Charles Whitworth’s solicitor. I’m going to have to go in a minute.’

‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Pietro D’Angelis waits for no woman.’ My rare name drop sent her eyebrows shooting upwards in satisfying startlement.

‘What? The Pietro D’Angelis?’

‘Yes.’

‘You do his make-up? Seriously?’

‘Yes.’ I sat quite still, contrary to the smug inner squirming, surprised by my petty attempt at one-upmanship. The truly sad thing was that Christelle wasn’t name dropping or trying to score points. That was her world in the same way the theatre was mine.

Usually I gave little away about work. As the black sheep of a high achieving professional family, I preferred to keep my triumphs to myself. Obviously putting a bit of slap on a singer wasn’t quite in the same realm as saving a company billions of pounds in pay-outs in a wrongful dismissal case.

‘Wow. He’s really famous. Isn’t that a bit, you know, daunting?’

I laughed. ‘Not now, but,’ I leaned forward, to whisper conspiratorially, ‘the first time, I thought I might poke his eye out, my hand was shaking so much!’

She laughed too and then both of us stopped, stalling in a well-this-is-not-like-us moment of shared confusion. Jumping up to her feet, Christelle gathered her phone, her bag and her gloves, leather ones that matched her bag and shoes, both a bold kingfisher blue, which I hadn’t noticed before.

We peeled off in opposite directions with a quick kiss on each cheek, back to our other worlds.