Covent Garden in the Snow: The most gorgeous and heartwarming Christmas romance of the year!. Jules Wake
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.
From: [email protected]
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.
Everyone caught in the unexpected evening sleet wore a coat of dandruff as they hurried into the tube station, casting worried looks up at the sky. They had nothing to worry about, as this was not proper snow. I’d grown up in Yorkshire on the edge of the Dales and so I knew all about wading to school through drifts up to your thighs.
As the damp bodies started to warm up,the smell of wet dog permeated the packed tube on the Northern Line. I was wedged between a man in a Che Guevara khaki jacket, stained dark with the rain and a girl in a heavyweight rain-coat that rustled with every jolt and bump of the train.
Unable to get enough elbow room to read my book, I twitched like a smoker desperate for a light.
Despite my unknown email correspondent being a Liverpool supporter, he had good taste in books. I’d started High Fidelity a couple of days before and was loving it.
Finally, yippee, enough people got off at Charing Cross and I dropped into a seat. By the time the doors closed, chapter two had absorbed me.
By Waterloo, I was deep in 70’s suburban life.
Kennington came and went.
Clapham North arrived as I was mid-snigger, and way before I was ready. Stuffing my book away and leaving the summer of ’76, I only just got out of the doors in time to join the stream of bowed bodies battling up the escalators into the bitterly cold night where, surprisingly, the tiny pinpricks of barely-there snow had turned into full on flakes, curling and floating down like feathers I still doubted it would settle.
With Felix away for the night, I could carry on reading. Making myself baked beans on toast, I stood stirring the pan of beans with one hand and my kindle in the other and ate my tea, flicking the pages on the touch screen with my fingers.
The washing up was left as I curled up on the sofa, the TV on for background noise, and carried on reading, completely hooked.
Temptation sizzled on the edge of my fingertips.
With half an eye on a very old episode of Spooks on the telly, I swapped to the email app on my Kindle.
Ever since I’d finished the last chapter, I’d been mentally composing the message.
I was just being polite. Letting a fellow reader know how much I was enjoying his recommendation.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Book
Thanks for the recommendation. High Fidelity is fab. Love it, although I got some strange looks on the tube on the way home. Kept laughing out loud. Just what I needed on a filthy winter night.
Thanks, again
Tilly
My finger hovered over the send button. Was this the sort of jump in feet first type of thing that Alison meant? But where was the harm?
The only downside I could think of was that he might think I was stalking him? Would he care what I thought? But then he did recommend the book.
If it were me, I’d be delighted to hear someone liked a book as much as I did.
Then again, he was a bloke.
I groaned out loud. I was giving myself a headache. It was just an email. He’d read it, raise his eyebrows, think it’s that dumb girl who sent the virus, delete it and think no more about it ever again.
Then again … He might just appreciate the feedback.
The argument in my stupid head was getting out of hand. I went with the ref’s decision and pressed the send button. Done. No regrets.
Putting down my Kindle, I went back to Spooks where things on the screen were tense. MI5 were about to save London for the fifth time that series.
An onscreen flash on my Kindle two minutes later interrupted a terse exchange between the