Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake

       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 which 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.’