Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake

      ‘OK, but I can only stay for one.’

      ‘Really? But the girls wanted you to read them a bedtime story, didn’t you, girls?’

      I shot her a quick cross look. Low blow, Bel.

      ‘Yes. Yes. Yes, Aunty Vila,’ said Ella. ‘Jesus’s Christmas Party.’ She was already waving the book in the air and had come around the island to nudge at me in my black dress with her flour-coated tutu.

      Then Bella added in a quiet voice, ‘I could really do with half an hour or so to myself.’

      ‘All right then,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Bella, taking the battered book from Ella.

      ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame,’ she said. ‘You bought them the book; they love it.’

      ‘I know,’ I said with a rueful smile as I opened the front page.

      I finally escaped from Bella’s at half past eight, having been conned into reading several other stories while, funnily enough, Bella holed herself up in the lounge with another glass of wine to crack through her Christmas card list. I hadn’t even bought mine, let alone started writing them.

       Chapter 4

      ‘Which terminal is it, Dad?’ I asked as I spotted the sign for the slip road for Terminals One, Two and Three.

      He began fumbling through the travel folder on his knees. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure,’ he said in a chatty, conversational way, completely unmoved by the fact that I needed to make a major directional decision in the next thirty seconds.

      ‘Do you think you could find out quickly, because if it’s Terminals One, Two or Three I need to come off the motorway in a minute.’

      I heard the shuffle of paperwork and tried to breathe slowly – in, out, in, out.

      ‘Any time soon,’ I said, looking in my mirror, taking preparatory action by indicating and trying to get into the left lane, just in case.

      ‘I think it might be Four. Or it might be Five. It was Four last time.’

      Damn, the Range Rover in the lane next to me was speeding up; he wasn’t going to let me in and the car behind me was getting closer and flashing its lights. I floored the accelerator and, to the accompaniment of the angry blare of the horn of the Range Rover, I nipped into the almost non-existent space between him and an articulated lorry as we reached the first countdown sign to the slip road.

      ‘Dad! I need a decision.’

      ‘Four,’ he said. ‘We definitely flew from Four last time. Oh, no, it was Five. It was the new one. Do you know, it’s the largest building in the UK and is big enough to hold fifty football pitches?’

      ‘That’s interesting,’ I said with a sigh as I put my foot down on the accelerator and sailed past the slip road.

      ‘Well, I’ll be there in perfect time,’ he said, checking his watch, oblivious to the sharp manoeuvre of the Range Rover, which wheeled out from behind me to overtake and when the driver drew alongside he made his displeasure quite clear with a few choice hand gestures. ‘My flight’s not until three-thirty and I’m checked in.’

      ‘Great,’ I said through gritted teeth, looking at the traffic on the other side of the M4 already starting to back up. I’d planned to drop him at twelve-thirty, which would leave me plenty of time to battle the traffic back into central London, but he’d faffed about trying to decide whether to take a front door key with him and then decided that he ought to have another book on the flight, which he’d packed in his suitcase. By the time we’d left my parents’ apartment, just ten minutes from my flat, it was half an hour later than I would have liked. And then the traffic was horrendous on the M4 because a lane was closed.

      Just as we approached the slip road – I’d moved over in plenty of time – my dad suddenly said, ‘Of course, last time I went to Atlanta I flew British Airways.’

      I risked a quick glance at him as he turned an apologetic face my way. ‘We’ve still got plenty of time. I’ve checked in online. I only have to drop my case.’

      I gritted my teeth. I had to get back to Notting Hill, drop the car and get to the school in time for two and it was already ten past one.

      ‘I’m flying Virgin Atlantic this time,’ Dad announced, apropos of nothing. There was a silence in the car. ‘Not British Airways.’

      ‘Does that mean that it might not be Terminal Five?’ I asked, my fingers almost strangling the steering wheel.

      ‘I think –’ Dad drew out the syllables as I negotiated a roundabout, following the signs to Terminal Five ‘– that’s for British Airways flights only.’

      ‘Oh, for … sake,’ I ground out under my breath as I did a hasty left signal and pulled back into the main stream of traffic going around the roundabout. ‘Are you definitely flying Virgin?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘See here.’ He held up the paperwork just under my nose as if I could calmly take my eyes off the road and peruse the details at my leisure.

      ‘Dad, do you have any idea where Virgin fly from?’

      ‘Terminal Four?’

      ‘Do you know that or is it a guess?’

      ‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If BA flies from Five, Virgin would fly from Four.’

      ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, driving for the second time around the roundabout, past the turning for Terminal Five. ‘Is there any way you could look it up on your phone quickly? I can’t keep driving round and round this roundabout.’

      When I started the third circuit, I took an executive decision and took the turning for Terminal Four.

      ‘I might have got it wrong, you know. I think Terminal Five is for all flights to America, so that would mean Virgin do fly from there,’ said Dad, looking back over his shoulder at the roundabout as he lifted his phone to his ear.

      ‘Who are you calling? I asked, glancing over at him.

      ‘Your mother; she might know.’

      I raised my eyes heavenward before I spoke. Dad was a gentle soul; getting cross with him would be counter-productive … but seriously.

      ‘Mum isn’t going to know. You’re the frequent flyer. Just look it up on your phone.’

      ‘Phyllis, it’s Douglas. No, I just had a cup of coffee. They’ll give us lunch on the plane. I know, but I didn’t like to bother you.’

      ‘Dad …’ I ground out through gritted teeth.

      ‘Yes, Viola’s fine. Driving a little too fast.’ I shot him a furious look but he was oblivious, picking at the twill on his tweedy trousers. ‘No, we’re not there yet. I don’t suppose you know which terminal the flight will go from? No, I thought Five but then I’m flying Virgin Atlantic … Yes, I know, I always go BA; I’m not sure why they changed it this time.’

      ‘Dad!’ I yelled. My shoulders were level with my ears and any second steam was going to hiss out of my ears. When he jumped and gave me a mild-mannered look of reproach I felt doubly guilty, but seriously, he was driving me mad. ‘Clues would be good here; otherwise we’re going to be driving round and round in circles.’

      ‘Viola needs to know which terminal it is. We thought possibly Four, but then it might be Five … You think it’s Three? Gosh, never thought of that.’ He leaned my way, any sense of urgency completely lacking. ‘Mum thinks it might be Three. I don’t think that’s very likely, do you? It doesn’t sound right to me.’

      I closed my eyes for a very brief second, wheeled the car into the left lane