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Notting Hill in the Snow
Jules Wake
Escape to Notting Hill this Christmas… From the bestselling author of Covent Garden in the Snow, this is the most romantic and charming book you’ll read this Christmas… A Notting Hill nativity… what could go wrong? Viola Smith plays the viola in an orchestra (yes really!) but this year she's been asked to stretch her musical talents to organising Notting Hill's local nativity. Nate Williams isn't looking forward to Christmas but as his small daughter, Grace, has the starring role in the show, he's forced to stop being a Grinch and volunteer with Viola. With the sparks between them hotter than the chestnuts roasting in Portobello market, Nate and Viola can't deny their feelings. And as the snow starts to fall over London, they find themselves trapped together in more ways than one… This is a gorgeously heartwarming and uplifting Christmas romance, perfect for fans of Sue Moorcroft, Isabelle Broom or any Hugh Grant romcom… From Four Weddings and a Funeral to Notting Hill! Praise for Covent Garden in the Snow… ‘Had me laughing from the first page!’ Rachel’s Random Reads ‘Buy this book, put up a do not disturb sign and enjoy indulging in every page – you won't be disappointed!’ Gem’s Quiet Corner ‘A romantic and hilarious novel with a beautiful and snowy Christmas atmosphere’ Chicklit Club ‘Oh I absolutely loved Tilly! What a fun, festive book, and a beautiful cover’ LoveReading. com
Notting Hill in the Snow
JULES WAKE
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Jules Wake 2019
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Emoji © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008354817
Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008354800
Version: 2019-10-04
For my home stars, Nick, Ellie & Matt, all so talented, you never fail to inspire me. x
Table of Contents
Cover (#u2d019425-36db-5a54-a88d-9f419248ea0d)
Title Page (#u039ce807-7f09-5fdb-af98-25f3750177bc)
Copyright (#u01a9536b-311b-5202-b257-8fe29c09d200)
Dedication (#u9bf60c85-276b-5c0a-b7ae-126e0bda4afb)
Chapter 1 (#uca3eb043-9081-591c-ad2e-9d8ccc08d8f7)
Chapter 2 (#u3efd3b51-215d-547d-85c7-77a23ad58388)
Chapter 3 (#u49dbc76b-3dcf-5917-ad6c-1ad54c2cd16e)
Chapter 4 (#u05486591-3fb3-5cab-b8c7-0a79dc8d0782)
Chapter 5 (#uf75b82ed-1919-5551-bf3a-4d06aefb4703)
Chapter 6 (#u2b6aa57a-aefa-573e-93ad-69044d6e487d)
Chapter 7 (#ud14912db-35dc-50df-9c59-9ef742e81159)
Chapter 8 (#u22088ffe-0a4f-532c-9490-0cd1f38a46fb)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements
Footnote
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_85da9249-de40-5dcf-960b-abc25e307d4f)
‘Do you have to bring that thing on here at this time of day?’ snapped the woman, whipping round to look at me, her spiky, spider leg mascaraed eyes shooting sheer poison as everyone on the platform at Notting Hill Gate surged forward when the tube doors opened. ‘Bloody inconsiderate.’ I think there might have been an F-word in there as well but I didn’t quite catch it.
Taken aback by her hostility, all I could mutter was a hasty, ‘Sorry,’ as she gave me another outraged glare.
This time my apologetic smile was tinged with a hey-lady-I-have-to-get-to-work-too shrug. Travelling with a violin case (actually it’s a viola but everyone assumes) can make you unpopular in rush hour, which is why most of the time I do my best to avoid it.
Conscious of all eyes on me, almost siding with the woman who was still muttering about it being a disgrace, I clutched the case to my chest, trying to take up as little space as possible. Even though my nose was squashed up against it, she still tutted. Then she tossed her hair, saying in a loud voice, ‘This is ridiculous,’ and squeezed past with a rough shove which pushed me into one of the grab rails. The case ricocheted off the metal right back into my face, hitting my cheekbone with a crunch that brought tears to my eyes. The shock of the pain, and that she’d do something like that, temporarily stunned me and, rather than say anything, I just stood there like a complete idiot.
By the time I’d gathered my dazed wits together she’d gone, swallowed up by the crowd, working her way down the carriage. My cheek throbbed but it was too difficult to manoeuvre an arm up out of the crush and hang onto my viola to give it the there-there rub it desperately needed. I blinked hard, keeping my eyes closed, aware that some people had seen what had happened. When I opened them, I caught sight of a pair of warm brown eyes softening in sympathy. He mouthed, ‘You OK?’
I swallowed, feeling another rush of tears, hating the unwelcome feeling of being vulnerable and pathetic. I nodded. Don’t be nice, please don’t be nice. You really will make me cry. Despite everything, the warm smile and genuine concern made me feel a little better, a single ally in the hostile crowd, all desperate to get to work. I gave him a wan, grateful smile back. Nice man. Very nice man indeed. I’m a sucker for brown eyes. And smiles, for that matter. Smiles make a difference in life. They cost nothing and they can make a big difference to your day. Like his had done to mine. Mrs Scowly Over-made-up Face was probably destined to be miserable all day.
As he looked away, I sneaked a second look. He looked all business, buttoned-up and Mr Nine-to-Five, but nice – OK, gorgeous – and in that smart suit, with very shiny brogues and short, neat cropped hair, way out of my league. This morning I was rocking the Mafia moll look, an occupational hazard when you spend half your life toting a viola case around London. The look was completed by my long swingy bob, because it was easy to keep and suited my straight conker-brown, glossy – thank you, God – hair and Mac’s finest Lady Danger bright red lipstick because my make-up artist friend Tilly had talked me into it and a severe black dress, because I was performing later.
Travelling this early sucked but the conductor on this show was flying out to Austria later this afternoon so had called a morning rehearsal.
I noticed my smiling man for a second time among the tide of people that changed at Holborn; he was several people ahead, striding with purpose, navigating his way through the crowd with shark-like ease, unlike me, bobbing along like a little piece of flotsam trying to stay afloat and keep my viola case to myself.
And there he was again in the same lift as me at Covent Garden underground station. As we walked out of the tube he fell into step beside me. ‘Is your face all right? You took a bit of a whack.’ He looked at my cheekbone and winced. ‘Sorry, I should have said something to that woman, but I didn’t realise what had happened until she’d gone. And she got off at Bond Street.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get the chance to say anything either.’ During the rest of the journey I’d had time to get cross with myself about that. He probably thought I was a bit spineless.
I lifted my hand to my face; my cheekbone still throbbed and I could feel it was a little swollen. Great, nine o’clock on a Monday morning and I was modelling the Quasimodo look. Embarrassment turned to annoyance. A gorgeous man and here I was being a pathetic wimp. This was not me.
‘I’m guessing we might be heading the same way,’ he said, letting me go first through the tube barriers, indicating my case with a jerk of his thumb that seemed oddly out of character with his suited and booted form.
‘The Opera House?’ I asked.
‘Yes. You look like a musician.’
I gasped with wide eyes. ‘What gave it away?’
For a moment I didn’t think he was going to laugh and then his eyes crinkled, his mouth curved and a rich deep laugh rumbled out. ‘I’m psychic,’ he said.
‘Of course you are.’
‘Violin?’
‘Ah, not as psychic as you thought. Viola, actually.’
‘Ah, rumbled. What’s the difference?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You really want to know?’
He nodded, his smile a little impish now. I grinned back at him. Well, why not? What’s not to like about flirting with a handsome stranger, even with an outsize lump on your face, especially when you know that there’s absolutely no way he’s going to ask for your number or suggest an after work drink. He was the sort of man who would be more likely to have a cool, elegant blonde on his arm. I’m no fashion expert but that suit had a sniff of the designer about it and probably cost more than I spent on little black dresses in a year.
‘A viola is slightly bigger than a violin, its strings are a little thicker and –’ I paused, adding in a dreamy tone that I just couldn’t help ‘– it has a completely different tone. Mellower and deeper.’
We continued side by side down the cobbled street.
‘You think it’s far superior?’ he asked with a knowing smile as we hit the throng of people wrapped up against the vicious wind that had sprung up just this morning.
‘You really are psychic,’ I said with a quick sidelong look at the decorations that seemed to have sprung up in the last few days, even though November had another week to run. Covent Garden was decked out in all its Christmas finery, with lots of pots and containers all around the Piazza spilling over with scarlet poinsettia and garlands of evergreens, all interspersed with tiny white lights, finished off with big gold bows.
‘I think you might have given it away.’
I laughed. ‘I’m probably biased.’
‘Have you been playing long?’
‘Most of my life.’
‘So why the viola and not the violin?’
I laughed and waited a beat. ‘Most people start with the violin but …’ my mouth twitched ‘… I was destined to play the viola.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Picking up any psychic vibes now?’
He frowned, pretending to concentrate before shaking his head. ‘No, psychic transmission seems to have hit a block. The network’s down.’
Before I could answer, a girl stepped out in our path from one of the shops already playing Christmas carols. She held out a tray of mince pies, enticing us with the smell of rich buttery pastry and fruity mincemeat. Automatically, I licked my lips at the sight of the sugar glistening on top of the egg-brushed pastry.
‘Mince pie?’ she offered.
Both he and I ploughed to a stop and put out greedy hands at the same time, fingers brushing. We laughed.
‘Sorry, I love a mince pie,’ I said with a happy sigh. The delicious scent epitomised the very best of Christmas.
