Christmas on Primrose Hill (24 page)

‘Sure you won’t come with?’ Jules asked as Daisy slid into the car ahead of her.

‘No, thanks,’ Nettie said quickly.

‘You’re absolutely sure?’ Jules tried again, pulling a sad face.

‘Totally. It was an early call this morning. I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘Well, if you had a
late night
. . .’ Jules cackled with a wink-wink tone.

‘Later, Jules!’ Nettie said, cutting her off and quickly sliding into the comforting cocoon of her own car, the cream leather upholstery butter-soft around her. There was a TV screen set into the back of the driver’s headrest, and a tray of snacks – salted endamame, olives, vegetable crisps, Maltesers – on the armrest beside her. She looked at the bottle of Dom Pérignon already set in an ice bucket by her knee and wondered what the driver would think if she actually started quaffing that at nine in the morning.

The car moved so smoothly and quietly it was a moment before she realized they had even set off, sweeping noiselessly through the acres of currently empty car parks.

She popped a Malteser in her mouth – she knew chocolate for breakfast was hardly the way to start the day, but it wasn’t as bad as drinking the champagne – and anyway, her heart had already been working harder this morning than a marathon runner’s.

She didn’t know this area of London well. Diametrically opposite to her quarter, she seldom had cause to come over here and she stared blankly into the rows of Victorian cottages and block council estates, a succession of graffiti tags making it clear this was someone else’s patch.

Her hand found the TV remote and she switched on the screen. Predictably, it was already tuned to MTV and she jumped as the full power of Beyoncé’s vocals flew at her, her finger desperately jabbing at the volume button to turn it down. She found mute first, grateful for the sudden silence and content to simply watch Beyoncé’s powerful dance moves as she helped herself to more Maltesers.

Another Beyoncé song came on, then another and she realized she was watching a greatest-hits compilation. Idly, she switched the channel. Beyoncé was OK, but she’d never really been her thing. She found BBC News Channel and settled in to get the headlines.

Her hand reached for the Maltesers again, only to hit porcelain and she realized she had unwittingly eaten the lot of them. OK, there had probably only been ten in there, maybe fifteen – well, twenty, max – and she glanced at the driver in the rear-view mirror, embarrassed, but his gaze was dead ahead. This was what came of skipping meals, she could just hear her mother saying in her head, and she wished she’d had some of the fruit laid out at the O2. But who was she kidding? There was no way she could eat when Jamie was sparring and dancing around her, playing games, tying her up in knots so that her head was spinning and she was left breathless.

She wondered if any of his songs were playing on the music stations and she began channel-hopping again, craving a glimpse of him, an opportunity to blatantly stare at him and not have to cope with him staring back. Everything was just happening so fast. This time last week, she’d only just woken up to the mind-blowing revelation that he’d started following her on Twitter – that he actually knew she existed. Fast-forward seven days and he was smack-bang
in
her life – working with her, chasing her, flirting with her. ‘
I’d like to get to know you better, but it has to be in private.
’ Did he do this with every girl who caught his eye? Were they as rattled as her? Because she wasn’t sure her nerves could take it; it was like having a heat-seeking missile trained on her.

She flicked through some more channels, stopping as she found Coco Miller on VH1. Her hair was longer, and tousled in this video – her breakthrough hit in the States. She looked more all-American here, styled in denim cut-offs and a white T-shirt knotted in front, sitting in a pick-up truck with a guy in a baseball cap and a sneer. Nettie watched with growing despair as they parked in a cornfield and the camera cut to Coco dancing on the bonnet, her hair falling through her upstretched arms, face tilted to the moon. She looked ravishing; what man wouldn’t find her alluring?

Did Jamie? Nettie thought back to the photos Jules had shown her of Coco and him coming out of the nightclub, hands tightly gripped, private smiles on their faces. ‘
You’ll only ever see what they want you to see.
’ Had those pictures been staged, or was that just wishful thinking on her part? He didn’t know that she’d seen those photos.

She sighed, growing depressed, as the camera panned out on Coco twisted in white bed sheets, Marilyn-style. They probably
had
hooked up at one time or another. They looked like they should. They fit somehow, the two of them burning more brightly than those around them.

To her surprise, the car door opened suddenly and the driver was unexpectedly in her frame of vision. She was startled, mainly because she hadn’t noticed the car had stopped moving.

‘Oh . . .’ she said, switching off the TV and reaching for her coat, sliding out. She hadn’t even straightened up before she realized the problem. ‘Oh, no, I’m sorry. It’s meant to be Primrose Hill, not’ – she looked around – ‘Notting Hill.’

But the driver gestured towards the four-storey white Georgian terrace in front of her. ‘Mr Westlake’s orders, miss,’ he said, closing the car door behind her and walking round to the driver’s side, just as she saw a figure come to the window on the first floor. And her stomach tightened again.

Chapter Fourteen

The first thing she saw was the chandelier – it hung like a small planet in the hallway above a black-and-white marble floor, the staircase’s metal balustrades swooping to an elegant curve on the bottom step. Jamie himself looked incongruent standing amid it all in his jeans, boots and a faded T-shirt.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said wryly, stepping back to allow her past, as she stopped dead on the top step. ‘I’d prefer not to let anyone see me here,’ he added after a moment, and she suddenly realized he was referring to fans, stalkers and the like. She walked into the house, warily, and he closed the door behind her.

‘I thought you had sound checks,’ she said, staring back at him. Where were they? And why had he brought her here? He’d seen her just half an hour ago.

‘Actually, the band’s not needed till four today.’

‘But you said—’

‘I got someone to say that when the others came back from the tour,’ he replied. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. ‘Yes, I was trying to get rid of them.’

Her stomach fluttered. He’d set all this up? ‘Why?’

‘They’re great, but I meant what I said earlier – I want to get to know you better. We’re going to be working very closely together this week. We need to be able to trust one another.’ His eyes flitted over her lightly and she felt that familiar rush again that came whenever she stood in his gaze. ‘Don’t you think?’

She blinked, aware of a small blush of pleasure creeping up her cheeks. She couldn’t quite hold back a smile. ‘But why bring me here? You were just talking to me at the arena.’

‘No, I was stopping you from bolting again,’ he asserted. ‘And after last night, I wanted to be sure.’

A frown wrinkled her brow. ‘Sure of what?’

‘That you were as gutted as I was.’ His eyes fell to her mouth, her skin alive suddenly to the temperature of the air around them as she saw the look in his eyes. ‘There’s always so many damned people about. Here it’s . . . nice and private.’ He took a step towards her and she felt the moment that had eluded them last night flutter down again like a butterfly caught in a net. Her heart rate rocketed in an instant.

‘It is
nice
,’ she said in a half-whisper, a smile placing an ironically understated stress on ‘nice’.

‘You like it?’ he asked, his eyes dancing too now, only a half-step left between them.

Her peripheral vision took in the vast, white, luxe space. She was sure the cubic volume of her own house – which wasn’t remotely small; in fact, it had often felt rattlingly big when she was growing up – could fit into the ground floor alone. ‘Well, I like that it’s private,’ she said, feeling good sense and hesitation desert her. She would deal with tomorrow tomorrow. There was nothing beyond this moment, this man.

Except—

Except for
that
man. She noticed him suddenly and jumped, a small gasp escaping her at the sight of him – tall and heavily built, Thai, she reckoned, standing immobile at the far end of the corridor with his hands crossed in front of him.

Jamie looked behind him; his body relaxed.

‘Everything’s secure, sir,’ the man said.

‘Thanks, Pho,’ Jamie said, but his eyes were back on her. ‘Nettie, this is Pho, my security adviser.’

‘Oh.’ She swallowed and looked back at Pho. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Ma’am,’ Pho nodded, before turning and slipping away as silently as he’d come. She realized she’d seen him before – hanging around at the door at the pub last night, conspicuous in his suit, and again at Somerset House, something in his posture drawing her eye among the crowds.

She looked back at Jamie, to find him watching her. ‘You OK?’

‘Of course,’ she nodded, a little too quickly.

They paused a beat, but the intimacy of the previous moment had gone again and she wanted to cry. Would he ever kiss her?

‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour,’ Jamie said, putting his hand on the small of her back and leading her deeper into the house. He showed her the basement ‘leisure complex’ – subterranean pool, cinema room, sound studio – and the kitchen, a rich melange of walnut units and a cubist island cut from a single block of swirling chocolate and caramel-hued granite. He showed her upstairs, where they wandered from bedroom to bedroom – all of them white and high-ceilinged, with dark parquet floors and
verre églomisé
mirrors set into panelling in the walls, light flooding in through the full-height French doors and Juliet balconies, where bathrooms were clad in veined marble and appled limestone, with glass walls separating the baths from the rain showers, and walk-in wardrobes that were bigger than her kitchen.

The bones of the house were a dazzling display of good taste, reflecting proportion, light and stealth-wealth textures, but it was becoming less and less clear why he’d brought her here. There wasn’t a rug on a floor, a print on a wall. Not a table, chair or bed. The place was completely empty.

‘So what do you think?’ he asked her as they came back into the kitchen again. She looked around. There was nothing to sit at, nothing to sit on. If she’d assumed him bringing her here was a prelude to a seduction, she’d been wrong again.

She gave a weak smile. ‘It’s amazing.’ He inclined his head a little and she sensed she’d said the wrong thing. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘You hate it.’

She folded with a nervous laugh. ‘How could anyone hate
this
?’

‘Well, you don’t
like
it.’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, well . . . empty.’ She shrugged, looking around again, her eyes following the intricate grain of the chocolate granite island unit. How the devil had they got it in here? Surely they must have taken off the roof and craned it in? ‘Is it yours, or are you looking to buy it?’

‘I’ve just bought it.’

‘Oh, right.’ She couldn’t even begin to guess at what this must have cost.

‘On the advice of my financial advisers. They think it’s a gold-clad investment.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she murmured, looking at the Molteni oven. ‘Well, I’m sure it must be, yes.’

‘But . . .’

She looked back at him to find him staring at her intently. ‘Huh?’

‘But . . . ? Go on. Say it.’

‘There’s nothing to say. It’s wonderful. Amazing . . . Although you must have a
lot
of stuff to fill this,’ she murmured, her eyes falling to the skirting boards, which came almost to her knees.

When he didn’t reply, she met his eye again. One eyebrow was cocked. He was waiting.

‘Fine,’ she sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘It’s just a bit
grand
. I mean, is this . . . is this really how you want to live?’

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly and she knew she’d said the wrong thing. ‘So you think it’s like a mausoleum.’

‘No! But you’re . . . young. I would just have expected that you’d want something . . . fresher.’ She couldn’t read his expression and she felt her panic rise, defiantly sticking a hand on her hip. ‘Anyway, what does it matter what I think?’ She wondered whether he’d value her opinion if he knew she was still living in her childhood home.

There was a pause before the index finger of his right hand found hers on the worktop and tapped on it lightly. ‘I keep asking myself the same question, but it does,’ he said quietly. ‘Besides, I’m pleased you’ve been honest. I thought the same.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘You did?’

He nodded. ‘And you’ve just confirmed for me that I should sell it.’

Oh. Nettie kept her mouth shut this time. This house would be in the tens-of-millions price bracket. She didn’t feel qualified to offer formal opinions on the topic. She didn’t want him making decisions of that magnitude on her say-so.

‘Have you got another place in London?’ she asked as he walked towards the vast glass wall at the back and slid it open, leading her out to the garden. They stepped into a clipped oasis, evergreen box balls and bay trees planted in neat rows round small lawns. She followed after as he led her down the narrow garden. A fat-breasted robin, its feathers ruffled, hopped on the ground beneath a rosebush.

‘No. This is the first place I’ve bought. I was never sure where I wanted to set down roots, and with travelling about so much, there wasn’t really much point. But I don’t think I can do another year living in hotels. This area seemed as good a place as any,’ he said, turning and placing a hand to her elbow. ‘Here, be careful – it looks a little icy.’

She trod carefully, aware of his touch through her coat. ‘You’d be better off in Primrose Hill. No one would bother you there.’

He pulled a face. ‘It didn’t seem like that in the pub last night.’