Christmas on Primrose Hill (41 page)

‘Right, ta, love,’ he nodded, immediately appeased. ‘And merry Christmas to you.’

She walked towards the narrow opening and stood beneath the glass porch. It was like standing in the nave of a glass cathedral, snow-capped box trees in every shape – balls, twists, pyramids – lining the walkway, their dense canopies twinkling with white pin-lights.

She walked slowly along it, resisting the urge to bury her fingers in the soft snow, her mouth parting in wonder as it opened out into a dense grove that spanned what must have once been three gardens. Leaves of every hue tickled the air; church candles flickered in glass lanterns; stone statues nestled between screens trained with winter ivy; Christmas trees shimmered with baubles; greenhouses glowed like orbs.

It was like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia, an enchanted oasis hidden in the centre of the city – its living, breathing heart. She saw bent and twisted olive trees, freshly imported plum-coloured acers that shimmied their leaves like grass skirts in the arctic breeze, tight-budded roses and feathery lavenders. Even at this, the barest, boniest time of the year, when nature slept in the parks and gardens, this space brimmed with life and growth and beauty. How many people walked past without ever knowing it was here?

She stopped and picked up a twiggy door wreath. It was decorated with cinnamon sticks and pine cones, a more bohemian, craftsy alternative to the blue firs and crimson berries she saw everywhere else. It would suit their idiosyncratic house, and as Jules had said, theirs was the only house on the square that didn’t have one. But she put it down again, unable to give herself up to the lure of a little retail therapy, a last festive splurge.

She walked past the greenhouse, her eyes tracing the naked wisteria branches that spanned the ceiling like veins. Ahead was a large conservatory, more of a palm house, really. Giant snowflakes were dusted onto the glass panes, twinkling box spirals positioned outside the door. It glowed with amber firelight even at this midpoint of the day, and she walked in, appreciating at once the radiant heat from a wood-burning stove in the corner, the hallowed alto of carols coming from a distant speaker. A whitewashed counter was laden with cloched cakes and pastries, the day’s specials were written in sloping script on a blackboard behind, and mismatched tables and iron trellised garden chairs were scattered in clusters across a black-and-white tessellated floor.

Nettie rubbed her hands as she looked about, breathing into her cupped palms as she felt herself begin to warm. There were various couples and small groups at the tables, a low hum of chatter as steam from coffees twisted and cakes crumbled beneath the flash of forks.

She walked over to the counter and ordered a version of the same – coffee-and-walnut cake with a white Americano. The cabby had been right – she almost winced as she handed over another ten-pound note – but she walked to a table in the far corner, nearest the stove, and shrugged off her coat with relief.

She had to bring her father here, she thought, as she pressed the edge of the fork into the sponge. One of the young ash trees in the community orchard had been damaged in the storm winds they’d had a few weeks back, and although their budget probably wouldn’t stretch to buying a replacement from here, the sheer variety of stocks made it worth coming over for an inspirational look-see, if nothing else.

She cupped a hand round her drink, staring into space and wondering if they were open on Boxing Day. The pain of enduring Christmas Day could usually be smudged by fretting over the turkey, and her and her father distracting themselves with presents or ‘checking in’ for the Queen’s Speech, but Boxing Day was an enforced lull that was harder to escape.

She watched the girl working behind the counter as she carefully sliced a new cake; she stared at the tiled floor that seemed to move in her peripheral vision; she eavesdropped on the couple of girls at the next table who were deploring a new boss.

The door opened and her gaze swung slowly over as one of the gardeners walked in backwards, pulling a wheeled trolley with white-blossomed camellia stacked on its deck.

‘Just on the shelf there, thanks,’ she heard the girl behind the counter say, pointing to a bare timbered shelf on the left-hand wall.

Nettie sighed, knowing she had to move sooner or later. She couldn’t sit here all day, tempting though it was. She reached down for her bag and pulled out her purse to leave a tip. She found a two-pound coin and set it on the saucer, reaching for her coat and shrugging it on again.

She stood, her fingers fumbling with the buttons, which had always been fractionally too large for the buttonholes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, raising her hand automatically as she walked across the floor. ‘Lovely cake.’

The girl behind the counter nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you. Come again.’

Nettie opened the door and walked out into the icy blasts again, shuddering as the chill breeze wrapped round her neck like a scarf. She would have to get another cab again now, and that could take a while in a residential area like this, particularly on the day before Christmas Eve.

‘Oh!’ She turned back, remembering to ask about their Christmas opening hours. The glass door had closed behind her already, but a sheet was neatly taped to it, listing the revised times to those already etched into the glass.

She read it, disappointed to see that they were closed for the entire Christmas week and not open again until 2 January. She bit her lip, knowing she’d have to think of something else to keep her father’s spirits up.

She went to turn, but—

Her subconscious registered the anomaly, of something animate that had become too still. Frozen. The hairs on her neck were bristling and she had a sense of being watched, of eyes like weights upon her. Slowly she raised her gaze, but something in her already knew what she was going to see, her instincts racing ahead of time itself to get there first like a precocious child.

The world warped. Time became pliant as rubber, slowing and stretching within her breath as she registered the face on the other side of the glass. On the cusp of silence, she heard the alto of an angel and knew her prayer had been answered.

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘Come on, come on, it can’t be that bloody hard,’ Daisy hissed as she struggled to get her legs in the suit, barely enough room in the changing cubicle for the long paws to fit.

‘I’m doing my best,’ she hissed back. ‘What’s happening out there?’

Daisy didn’t reply for a moment.

‘I can see the police. There’s about eight of them.’

‘Does it look dodgy?’

Another pause. ‘Well, there’s a few people looking.’

‘They’re probably worried there’s a terrorism threat or something.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Daisy whispered. She turned back to the cubicle, sticking her head round the curtain. ‘They’re not stopping, though.’

‘Do up the back,’ she said, turning so that she was facing the mirror. ‘God, this is so weird,’ she grinned, patting the blue bunny’s swollen tummy; she hadn’t yet put on the head. ‘My head looks like it’s shrunk.’

Daisy laughed as she patted the Velcro strip closed. ‘It so does.’

The sudden metallic whine of a microphone made them both wince. ‘Well, that’ll make them stop and stare,’ Daisy groaned.

She felt a sudden flash of adrenalin. ‘But everyone’s in place, yes?’

‘Yep. Jamie’s being hidden in Gucci.’

‘Huh,’ she muttered. ‘And I get H&M. Typical . . . How about—’ But she was interrupted by a guitar chord starting up on the concourse, the electric sound like a pulse, a single shockwave that made everyone stop and turn. ‘Who’s that?’

There was another chord – long and echoey, reaching to the furthest reaches of the mall; then he segued into the intro for “Crystal Dawn”, one of Jamie’s biggest hits.

‘Gus,’ Daisy murmured, placing herself flatter against the curtain as a couple of girls rushed past, curious to see what was happening.

‘Can I look?’

‘Nope, definitely not.’

She sighed in protest, wishing she could take a peek, but she had pulled the rabbit head on now and Daisy was right – they couldn’t afford for anyone to see her before the pertinent moment.

The drums started up. They had been cleverly hidden under a sheet, and the guy selling calendars and annuals had been only too pleased to set up his screens around them.

‘What’s happening now?’ she hissed.

Daisy stuck her head back round the curtain. ‘Definitely a bit of a crowd forming.’

‘Not too much, I hope?’

‘Don’t worry – the police seem to have set up some sort of cordon round the performance area.’

And then suddenly Jamie’s caramel voice filled the halls – deep and languid, the signature trace of huskiness in his voice that made women everywhere weaken sounding even richer live, his guitar adding in with the others as the sound was steadily built up in layers to full ripeness.

The cheers and screams began as people realized what was happening.

‘You’d better go. Get in position,’ she hissed to Daisy.

‘All right. See you out there. Remember, second song when it goes into the chorus—’

‘Yes, yes. Now go.’

She stayed behind the curtain, too nervous to stick her head out and risk a glimpse of the excitement out there. She couldn’t chance being seen.

Alone again, the day’s events gripped her with icy fingers. Her emotions felt like walls she kept walking into – huge, immovable slabs of fear and panic. She shook her head, trying to chase them away, at least for the next few minutes. But it was the thought of what was coming after that was making her scared, the next steps . . .

She peeped out. Word had spread and the crowd was growing quickly, the audience singing in time with Jamie. She felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck at the sound – the band was slick and well rehearsed, experienced and vastly overqualified to be playing in a shopping mall. They were world class.

The first song was over all too quickly and she took a deep breath, trying to remember everything they’d been going over this afternoon. It had been frantic, the atmosphere tense as they tried to cram everything in to the little time they had. It was all very well Caro saying they should go for film clips and not photos, but it took up so much more time, especially when Jamie was being so evasive – Dave had been fielding his calls all day, saying first he was in the studio, then at a boxing lesson, then having lunch with an old friend, and the upshot was that they hadn’t rehearsed together, which may be fine for the seasoned performer, but it wasn’t great for the little CSR team trying to wing it.

She stuck her head round the curtain again. This was it. Not a customer was in the shop – everyone was gathered on the concourse directly outside (it was why they had chosen to change in the cubicles of this store, of course) – and even the staff were standing in their own shop windows, their noses pressed to the glass. She crossed the floor quickly and stood behind a pillar by the door. Not a soul noticed her, not even the few reporters who’d been lucky enough to receive a phone call from Dave twenty minutes ago, giving them the exclusive.

Jamie was singing the first verse of ‘Night Ships,’ his lips close to the mic stand, his hands effortlessly strumming the guitar and his eyes closed. He was dressed down as usual in dark grey jeans and a navy jumper, a crescent of white T-shirt just visible at the neck, but it wouldn’t have mattered what he wore; he still stood out from everyone else – his skin had a lustre to it that came from sleeping in good beds and taking frequent breaks in good climates; his body was fit and sculpted from working one on one with professional trainers. The equation was clear – living the best meant you got to look the best.

She heard the cue to get into position – the break in Jimmy’s rhythm – and she stepped out from her hiding place and ran into the back of the crowd, ducking low and wriggling through the bodies, people too absorbed in Jamie to take any notice of her until she suddenly emerged out at the front and ran into the space that had been created for her by the police cordon, just in front of the band. She struck her first pose just as the guys launched into the chorus, and she began the routine she had been trying to choreograph and master herself all afternoon.

A cheer erupted as the crowd realized what was happening again. All around them, dotted among the strangers, was the rest of the team, even Mike, throwing their shapes in their set positions before slowly making their way towards her, the crowd automatically stepping back to allow them past.

They came together as an ensemble, dipping, spinning and bobbing in unison, the crowd beginning to clap along now, all the cameras coming out and filming them as people realized they were part of today’s skit – a flashmob – and wanting to record it, to say, ‘I was there.’

Amazingly, she remembered every step, even though it had been a
huge
oversight to rehearse without wearing the costume. Moving around in it was so much harder than it looked. It was so heavy for one thing – it must have weighed at least ten kilos – and it was hard to jump around and move nimbly when the ears kept falling in front of her eyes. But she did it.

And it was over too soon, far too soon. The song finished on a roar, Jamie’s arm rotated high in the air as he swung out his guitar with the other, Gus and Jimmy beaming back at the crowd with self-satisfied grins. Everyone was calling for more, an encore, but their job here was done. The police had limited the publicity exercise to two songs only, citing safety concerns if the crowd grew – which it surely would as the minutes ticked past and the word spread. People would be dashing over here, even now, and the police were already struggling to keep people back.

‘Thanks very much, everybody,’ Jamie said into the microphone, eliciting more screams. ‘Happy Christmas!’

He turned and headed to where Dave was standing at the back of the performance area. Security had cleared an exit route through to the fire escape and they had an unimpeded path out. She had already been briefed by Dave to follow after the band and leave with them; unlike the rest of the team, she couldn’t afford to be ‘seen’ afterwards.