Christmas on Primrose Hill (18 page)

Jamie turned to Jeremy after a few moments. ‘Right, I think they’ve probably got what they need, don’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ Jeremy agreed, turning towards the audience again. ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all for today.’

A murmur of disappointment crackled in the crowd, but Jamie had already turned away.

‘After you,’ Jamie said, indicating for Nettie to leave the back of the stage first.

‘Thanks,’ she said quietly, as Jeremy stepped between them both and walked them towards the small side room she had changed in.

‘Uh, you can’t come in here, I’m afraid,’ Nettie said quickly, as Jamie moved to step into the room behind her.

Jamie looked surprised, Jeremy even more so. ‘Nonsense, Nettie,’ he laughed. ‘
Jamie’s
allowed to know your identity. He’s the public face of the campaign! Come in, come in.’

‘Nettie?’ Jamie murmured, a small smile on his face as he stared down at her, and she had the sense of being chased, as though him having her name was just the first step in a game.

She slunk into the room to find Mike, Jules, Caro and Daisy lined up like a wedding line (Daisy appeared to have lost a layer of clothing in the time Nettie had been out on stage), idiotic grins on the girls’ faces.

‘Jamie, come and meet the team – they deal with all our CSR work. You’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in the next week,’ Jeremy said, handing them each a glass of champagne. ‘This is Mike Fortishaw, the team leader.’

Nettie watched as Mike sucked his stomach in for the handshake, gripping harder than was probably necessary.

‘Julia Grant’s in charge of strategy.’

Jamie looked amused. ‘Hmm, I believe we’ve met before, Julia,’ he said, shaking her hand, a wry smile playing on his lips.

‘Call me “Jules”,’ she gushed.

‘All right. Jules.’

‘And Caroline Broadley, she’s our technical specialist, analysing meta-data and other things I don’t really understand.’

‘Hi, Caro,’ Caro said, looking bored but chewing her gum at a speed that Nettie knew meant she was anxious.

‘Caro,’ Jamie repeated.

‘And finally Daisy Crompton. Daisy is our projects liaison officer. It was her idea to bring in a celebrity ambassador.’

‘Well, I’m very glad you had such a fine idea.’

‘Daisy’s never short of them. Or contacts. Who she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing.’

‘I’m amazed we haven’t met before, then, Daisy. Or is it “Daise”?’

‘I know, right?’ Daisy breathed, holding on to his hand and covering it with hers.

A man came into the room via the other door, which led into the lobby. ‘Hey.’ He had light brown hair, greying slightly at the temples, and small brown eyes that moved quickly in staccato bursts, seemingly missing nothing, a details man.

‘Dave,’ Jamie smiled, outstretching an arm to bring him into the group. ‘This is my manager, Dave Marshall.’

Dave shook everyone’s hands quickly. ‘A pleasure . . . Pleased to meet you . . . Hi . . .’ he said with brisk smiles and handshakes, stopping at Nettie. ‘Ah, the legend herself. An honour, miss.’ Nettie laughed nervously as he took her paw and kissed it. Jamie watched with close interest.

‘So, that went very well out there,’ Dave said, addressing the group as Jeremy handed him a glass too.

Nettie watched Jamie watching her. She had the safety of a costume to hide behind; he didn’t seem to need it.

‘Yeah,’ Daisy breathed. ‘But how come they got
you
, Jamie? I thought they were going for a sportsman.’

Nettie could have smacked her for flirting with the man, and kissed her for voicing the very question that was driving her to distraction.

Jamie turned his attention to Daisy, and Nettie immediately began scrutinizing his profile instead. It was every bit as magnificent as his face. ‘We recorded our first album at the White Tiger studios in London; they were one of the first sponsors to get on board with our first tour. So when Dave heard they were looking for a face for the campaign, he gave me a call. He knew I’d been following it.’ He shrugged.

‘You’re amazing,’ Daisy said breathlessly. ‘Giving up your time like this.’

‘Not really,’ he smiled. ‘What you’re doing’s really clever. And I particularly enjoyed yesterday’s gag.’

‘Yesterday? Oh, you mean the photo-bombing at the Bond film?’ Jeremy asked. ‘Yes, that did go down well.’

‘Not with Daniel.’ Jamie laughed. ‘I was there. Although actually, I was rather disappointed not to have been caught by the Blue Bunny myself.’ He turned back to face her. ‘Do you sleep in that thing too?’

Everyone laughed.

‘Yes, come on, Nettie,’ Jeremy said, realizing she was still in full costume. ‘Step out of that terrible costume. You must be sweltering in it.’

‘No, not really,’ she demurred, holding up a paw.

Jeremy paused, baffled by her insistence on staying bunnied up. ‘Well, even so, you can’t stay in there all night. I can’t pass you a drink, for one thing.’

He laughed, but it was an order rather than a suggestion, and reluctantly Nettie turned and let Jules undo the heavy-duty Velcro across the back of the costume. She stepped out of it, wearing the black leggings and top Jamie had seen her in yesterday. She stood there for a moment, looking ridiculous with the giant bunny head still on over hers and dwarfing her bang-on size-ten frame, before hesitantly taking it off, her long dark hair falling down her back as she blinked in the sudden light. Slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

‘Well,’ Jamie said softly, smiling with a quiet look of satisfaction as he set eyes upon her flushed face. ‘Hello again.’

Chapter Eleven

‘In your own time,’ Dan moaned as she burst in through the door of the Engineer, waving to Tom behind the counter before squeezing through the chairs to where he was sitting at their usual table. ‘You said you were going to be early.’

‘I said I
hoped
I was going to be early,’ she corrected, kissing him quickly on the cheek and sinking gratefully into her seat. Her heart was galloping like she’d run all the way here. ‘I got held up.’

He took in her red cheeks and bright, quick eyes. ‘Doing?’

‘We were at the Savoy.’

‘Ooh, very nice, darling, sweetie,’ Dan said, trying to pull off his best fashionista impression, but it wasn’t very impressive coming from a Norf Lundun boy. ‘Cocktails in the American bar, was it?’

Nettie coughed. That, in fact, had been exactly what Jamie had proposed in the name of ‘bonding’ – to the team, but with his eyes on her – and she had been more than delighted to make her escape, pleading this prior arrangement and leaving him stranded with Jules and Daisy and Caro. ‘It was just work. You? Had a good day?’

He rolled his bright blue eyes, which had a slightly hangdog look to them today. ‘Run off my feet. Apparently there’s not a single other person in the country but me who can lag a pipe.’

She grinned. ‘Well, don’t complain – just think of the money. You’ll be able to spoil your mum this year.’

‘Yeah.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Had any ideas?’

‘Tch, you are a nightmare. Have you really not got a single thought about what she’d like?’

He pulled a face. ‘I did think about one of those foot bucket things.’

‘Do you mean a foot spa?’

‘Yeah, them!’

She sighed. ‘You gave her one three years ago.’

‘Really?’

Nettie nodded, draining her flat beer and standing up again. ‘Come on. Let’s have a wander and see if there’s anything out there.’

‘There never is,’ he complained, pulling on his beloved grey Superdry puffa, which she’d bought him last Christmas and which he’d worn to death. ‘It’s just gingerbread biscuits and them smelly heart pillow things.’

‘Lavender sachets.’

‘Exactly. We’d be much better off just going straight to Argos.’

‘Over. My. Dead. Body,’ she said, holding the door open for him. ‘See you later, Tom!’ she called, waving as she stepped back out into the chilly street.

It was one of her favourite nights of the year – the local Christmas Market had been set up, ready for the switching on of the Christmas-tree lights tonight – and yes, there was a bias towards gingerbreads and lavender sachets, but there were also gorgeous Scandi Christmas decorations made from twigs and bells and brown gingham ribbons, hand-blown tree baubles in the colours of boiled sweets, gourmet sausages being freshly cooked on a metal drum, hand-knitted childrenswear such as strawberry-shaped baby bonnets and 1970s-style dungarees, wooden-toy stalls, French cheeses and eight-foot Christmas trees that fit perfectly in the area’s high-ceilinged homes.

It didn’t matter about the carefully considered – and budgeted – Christmas list that she’d spent weeks in advance drawing up, trawling through the catalogues as they dropped through the letterbox from October onwards: invariably, year after year, she staggered home from this market with an eclectic, budget-blown hoard of goodies – some of them presents, some of them just treats, like the stollen that wouldn’t keep till Christmas Day.

Regent’s Park Road was already crowded, the stalls ablaze beneath the brightly illuminated icicles that were strung up above the red-and-white striped awnings. Men ambled slowly down the middle of the street, small children on their shoulders waving sparklers and trying to touch the suspended stars, as their wives tarried by the displays, surreptitiously buying stocking fillers while chatting to neighbours and friends from playgroup.

She caught up with him by a stall that had bags made entirely from Coke-can ring-pulls. He held one up for her approval.

‘Dan, your mum’s fifty-four, not fourteen. No,’ she said, pushing his arm back down and pulling him on.

They began to wander, their breath hanging like snowy plumes in the air before them. It was too cold for snow, the London sky clear and orange-tinted, as ever. A couple of children dodged past them, laughing, their hoods up and faces painted as tigers as they wove through the crowds, their father hurrying after and saying sorry to everyone as he tried to squeeze past.

‘Mad, isn’t it?’ Dan said, standing to the side to let the harried man past. ‘The perpetual worry you always see on their faces.’

‘Whose?’

‘Parents. They look terrified all the time, the lot of them – terrified crossing the road, terrified in the pool, terrified in crowds, terrified at the tops of escalators, terrified around saucepans.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, why would you put yourself through it?’

Nettie laughed, hooking her free arm round his, to keep closer in the crush. ‘Well, I guess there must be some upside or no one ever would.’

‘Ha, not that I can see – you’re broke, exhausted and scared for twenty-five years.’ He snorted. ‘And given that that pretty much sums up my childhood, it’s hardly an enticing prospect for the next twenty-five . . .’

Nettie glanced at him and squeezed his arm tighter. ‘You’ll feel differently when you meet the right girl.’

‘Nope.’ He turned his face towards a lingerie stall and promptly turned back again.

‘Any word from Stacey?’

She felt Dan flinch and pull away from her slightly, but she kept her grip on him. ‘Why would I want to hear from her? She’s made her decision.’

‘The wrong one, obviously.’

‘Listen, I’m not bothered. It wasn’t going anywhere anyway.’

‘Did you ever tell her how much she meant to you?’

Dan looked down at her like she was mad. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because girls need to be told, Dan. We’re not mind-readers. I know you were batty about her, but did she? You need to put yourself out there. If she felt like you were taking her for granted, then maybe it’s no surprise that she . . .’ Her voice faded away as she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘Not that I’m advocating cheating. She never should have done it.’

‘Damn straight.’ His mouth had set into a thin line and she bit her lip.

They stopped at a stall selling cashmere ponchos. Dan frowned as he picked up one of the edges, baffled by the shapeless, armless triangular shape.

‘It goes over your head,’ Nettie explained. She pointed to the vendor, who was wearing one, helping another customer.

‘Oh right. I couldn’t work out—’

‘I know.’

‘Well, what about one of them? The orange?’

‘Yep, it’s nice.’ She reached for a subtler shade. ‘Or your mum would look nice in this caramel one too.’

‘Or . . .’ He held up another, a bright smile on his mouth, Stacey already forgotten.

She shook her head. ‘I think the royal purple might be a bit . . . bold.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. How much are these, anyway?’ he wondered, reaching for one of the tags. ‘Bloody hell, how much?!’

‘Evening, both,’ a male voice said, interrupting them.

Nettie turned to find Lee standing beside them in a green shooting jacket and yellow scarf. ‘Oh, hi, Lee,’ she said, forcing a smile. She remembered Sunday and felt awkward. ‘How are you?’

He threw his hands up in the air. ‘It’s been flat out this week.’

‘Yes,’ she nodded, thinking how it was funny everyone always said the same. If they only knew how active
her
week had just been . . .

‘Everyone’s desperate to exchange and complete by Wednesday so they’ve got enough time to unpack by Christmas Day.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘The removals companies are almost at breaking point, all these enormous rugby-playing Aussies and Kiwis and Polish guys on their last legs trying to fit two house moves in a day. It’s madness.’

‘I bet.’

The estate agent’s eyes slid over to Dan. ‘How about you, Dan? I hear everyone’s been having terrible trouble with their pipes.’

‘Vicar,’ Dan quipped.

They both laughed.

‘I may well be calling you in the new year, actually. Our usual man’s been letting us down lately on the rental properties.’

‘Who’s that, then?’

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to be indiscreet, but perhaps you might be interested in picking up the contract?’

‘Sounds interesting.’ Dan nodded. ‘How many units you got on your books?’

‘A fair few. More than twenty, less than a hundred.’ He smiled. ‘Put it this way, you wouldn’t be short of regular work, that’s for sure.’