Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake

I’d done a few school visits, playing in assemblies and talking to gifted music students.

      ‘Well, the gentleman I was showing around …’

      Gentleman. Didn’t he have a name? James, I decided. There was a touch of Andrei Bolkonsky from War and Peace, as played by James Norton.

      ‘Viola!’

      I looked up. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Mr Williams,’ Alison said with emphasis, ‘is a governor at a primary school in Notting Hill. His mother-in-law is a friend of the Opera House.’

      So, Mr Nine-to-Five had a name and a wife.

      ‘We’ve been asked to help the school with its annual nativity.’ She pulled a face. ‘Although it’s very short notice, it does fulfil our outreach criteria and she is a very significant benefactor.’

      I nodded, ignoring the barely contained sniggers of Tilly and Leonie.

      ‘It will be mainly mornings and possibly the odd afternoon. And you’re in Notting Hill.’

      ‘OK,’ I agreed, thinking that it didn’t sound terribly arduous. How hard could playing a few carols for the local school be?

       Chapter 3

      ‘Tell them you’re busy,’ said my cousin Bella, waving a wooden spoon at me as she took a quick rest from stirring the cake mix.

      I hadn’t intended to mention my new outreach role but she’d asked if I was free the next day as she was expecting an Amazon delivery. ‘I need you to wait in for a parcel tomorrow afternoon for me. I promised Tina I’d meet her at Westfield to go Christmas shopping.’

      She lived just around the corner from me in one those sherbet, pastel-coloured houses made famous in the film Notting Hill. Hers was painted a pretty pale powder-blue and was sandwiched between a sunshine-yellow house and a pale rose-pink house. Just walking along her street always made my heart lift and it was one of the reasons I loved living in this area. It was never a hardship coming here and I occasionally used her front room to practise while waiting in for her parcels. Her house was even more gorgeous inside, with its big high-ceilinged rooms decorated to within an inch of their lives with John Lewis furnishings and accessories. The extremely stylish kitchen, where I was currently sitting, had featured in several style magazines and at least one Sunday supplement.

      ‘What time’s your parcel arriving?’

      ‘Any time between twelve and four.’

      ‘I don’t think I can fit it in. I might be able to get here for three-thirty.’

      ‘Three-thirty, no earlier?’

      ‘I’m taking Dad to the airport and then I’ve just got time to come straight back home, drop the car back at Mum’s and get to the school for two.’

      ‘What are you going to be doing?’ she asked.

      I shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. Probably just helping with the musical arrangements and the singing. I’ve been invited to meet the class tomorrow because they’re starting rehearsals. I’d said I’d go.’

      ‘Oh, God, poor you.’ Bella cringed. ‘Cue crying tots because they all wanted to be Mary. And a dozen disgruntled shepherds because who wants to wear a tea towel on their head?’

      ‘Thanks, Bel, because that’s really cheered me up.’

      ‘Oh, well, it will be light relief after a trip to Heathrow.’ Bella shook her head. ‘Couldn’t he have got the tube or the Express from Paddington?’

      I pulled a face. ‘Mum said she needed me to take him. She wasn’t happy about him travelling on his own with luggage.’ I shrugged. ‘He is seventy-five.’

      Bella snorted. ‘He’s travelling long haul and jaunting about the States at the other end. I think he would have managed just fine.’

      So did I. My dad still runs a mile every day and you’ve never met a fitter, healthier seventy-five year old – he actually looks more like sixty-five – but Mum had used the magic word on me: need.

      ‘Oh, well, I said I’d do it. And I’ll time it so that I pick him up to give myself enough time to get to the school.’

      ‘Well, I think the school thing is taking the piss. Surely they can’t make you … Sorry, Laura –’ she turned to her sixteen-year-old daughter ‘– forget I said that. Taking the Michael.’

      ‘It’s work. I can’t say no,’ I said.

      ‘Extracting the urine,’ said Laura, suddenly interrupting with a cool stare at her mother before going back to her book, despite having earphones in. She sat at the opposite end of the huge island counter, perched on one of the white stools. Despite the seeming impracticality, what with having three children and a dog, everything was white: the cabinets, the composite material worktop with its touch of glitter and the tiled floors.

      Bella went to say something to her eldest daughter and realised it was a waste of time. Laura, with teenage flippancy, now held the book in front of her face, while her two younger sisters, Rosa, eight, and Ella, five going on ninety-five, were both darting around the kitchen in matching lurid pink fairy costumes, throwing pinches of flour into the air and making wishes with fairy dust. At least it wouldn’t show on the floor.

      She turned to me. ‘You can say no. Is it part of your contract?’

      ‘I don’t know but I’m sure there’ll be something in there about reasonable requests to appear on behalf of the LMOC. Like I said, I don’t really have much choice.’

      ‘You always have a choice,’ said Bella, groaning and rubbing her shoulders. ‘Here, you have a go. Rosa, Ella, stop that now.’ Her mock glare just brought giggles.

      I took the mixing bowl from her while she continued. ‘Tell them you’ve got family commitments. We all need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She looked over at the calendar. ‘Thank God Dave will be home for Christmas; this latest contract feels like it’s been forever.’

      Her husband, Dave, was a civil engineer who worked on big overseas projects and was currently in Finland building a new bridge.

      ‘Keep going.’ She nodded at the bowl. ‘I’m really hoping I’ve got it right this year and all the fruit doesn’t sink to the bottom,’ she said, rolling her shoulders as I manfully stirred the thick cake mix.

      I looked with longing over at the Kenwood Chef on the side.

      ‘It’s not the same,’ said Bella, catching me. ‘Christmas cake should always be hand stirred. It’s tradition. And you’re doing a great job.’

      ‘I thought it should always be baked at the end of October,’ I said, my shoulder twinging with a sharp pinch of pain. We were at the end of November. I pushed the bowl back over the table towards her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be feeding it with brandy by now? Here, you’ll have to take over; my shoulder hurts and I’ve got a performance tomorrow.’ I wasn’t going to push it for the sake of bloody Christmas cake, especially when I knew from experience that on Christmas Day both sisters would turn up with a cake each, because the recipe made enough mixture for two cakes (and no one in the entire family seemed to have the power to divide by two) which, added to the extra one Mum always gave me, meant I would end up with three un-iced cakes. I wouldn’t mind but the icing was my favourite bit and I’d still be eating it by Easter.

      We always had Christmas at Mum’s, even though my Aunt Gabrielle’s place was definitely bigger.

      Bella took the bowl back and, with a calculating expression, turned to her daughter. ‘Laura, do you want to have a go? You can make a wish.’

      Laura sighed and shook her head. She wasn’t