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
