wish I had one of those. My parents live in Portugal and … Elaine’s mother, Friend of the Opera House, is not the doting granny type.’
Before I knew it, I’d opened my mouth. ‘I could help you.’
To my slight chagrin, Nate didn’t immediately accept my offer. Instead he sat there, toying with his coffee cup, weighing up the off-the-cuff offer.
‘That’s very kind of you …’
Turning pink, I batted the air with my hands. ‘Don’t worry. That was probably a bit forward. I’m sure you’ve got it covered.’
‘No … it’s not that.’ He gave me a pained smile. ‘I’m … I’m a bit wary, I guess. I don’t like making promises to Grace and then having to let her down. Elaine used to do that a lot. Say she’d do something and then she’d have an important meeting or something would crop up and she’d have to take a conference call in the study for an hour. Grace got used to being disappointed. I don’t want that to happen to her again. I’ve worked hard this year to avoid it.’ His smile was sad. ‘That’s why I said I’d help with the nativity originally and now I can’t even do that. I feel like she’s always being let down.’
‘I can understand that,’ I said, feeling for Grace. My parents’ jobs had always taken priority when I was a child. There were plenty of times when I’d felt as if I was an inconvenience. I came into my own when I was old enough to manage things by myself.
‘And … well, you’ve got a high-powered job too.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t think of it as high-powered. But my hours are set in stone. I know pretty much from month to month what they’ll be,’ I said, but I wasn’t about to beg him for the job.
‘If you want some help, I don’t work on Sundays. And, apart from performances on Saturday evenings and the odd matinee, I’m free most Saturdays during the day.’
‘Sorry. You’re offering to help and I’m being pretty churlish. Grace would love it if you could come and teach us how to make a gingerbread house. Could you come over this Saturday morning?’
‘We’ll need supplies,’ I said.
‘What sort of supplies?’ he asked, getting out his phone to open up the notes app.
‘Sweets, boiled for the windows, chocolate buttons, chocolate fingers, icing sugar decorating tube, icing sugar.’
His face dropped with dismay.
‘Would you like me to bring the supplies? I can probably raid one of my cousins’ cupboards.’
‘Would you? I’ll pay you for any expenses.’
‘It’s probably easier that way. OK, text me your address and I’ll see you on Saturday at about nine-thirty … or is that too early?’
‘I have a seven-year-old. It’s quite usual for me to have a six o’clock wake-up call complete with cold feet on a Saturday morning.’
The house lights went up and I blinked as the faces in the audience came into focus. Without exception, I feel the same magical thrill at the end of every performance, as the last notes die out and there’s that brief pin-drop silence before the tumultuous applause begins. Every time, it makes my heart beat faster and my spirits soar right up to the gilt-painted ceiling.
I’m so incredibly lucky to work in this amazing building. The London Metropolitan Opera House has been in residence here since 1956 but the theatre was built in 1822 and, while not quite as posh or as big (but only 256 seats less) as the Royal Opera House, it can give it a good run for its money.
As always, I stood for a moment in the black painted pit, the lights glowing over the music stands, and listened to the hum of a well and truly satisfied audience as they filed out of the plush red velvet seats. There was no better feeling but now I had a whole two days off and, much as I loved my job, I was ready for some ‘me’ time. A little frisson ran through me at the thought that that included seeing Nate on Saturday and I pushed away the other busy Christmas preparation agenda I’d been co-opted into. Sunday was cake decorating at my eldest cousin Tina’s.
I gathered up my viola and packed it away quickly. None of us hung around on a Friday night, especially not at this time of year. We had a packed schedule; there were four more performances of Tales of Hoffmann, a quirky operatic piece by Offenbach that was actually one of my favourites, before The Nutcracker opened.
Grabbing my bag from my locker, I headed for the stage door, grateful for the protection in numbers in the busy streets of Covent Garden at this late hour. I switched on my mobile and was surprised to see that I’d missed six calls from my mother in the last fifteen minutes.
‘Mum – are you OK?’
‘Viola, at last. I’ve been calling and calling. Your phone was switched off.’ Her peevish voice filled my ear.
‘Mum, I was at work.’
‘This late?’ she snapped, so I refrained from making the obvious comment. While Mum did know what I did for a living, she never seemed to be able to equate it with real work. When it was more convenient to her, she liked to assume it was part-time and I just popped in and out of the theatre when I felt like it and had plenty of time on my hands, which needed filling. Actually, most of my family were of a similar view.
‘Yes, Mum. Are you all right?’ But she wasn’t listening.
‘You should keep your phone with you for emergencies. Honestly, why would you switch it off?’
Yeah, right, Mum. While I’m playing a complex piece in front of an audience of two thousand people, I’ll just down my bow and take your call. I could just imagine the conductor’s reaction to that.
‘Our phones have to stay in our lockers.’ I was sure I’d told her this before.
‘Hmph,’ she said, her disdainful tone loud and clear down the line. ‘Luckily, Ursula next door answered her phone. She wasn’t too busy to come and help me.’ There was a distinct ring of triumph in her words and of course the guilt kicked in.
‘Oh, Mum – what’s happened? Are you all right?’
‘She had to call an ambulance.’
Despite being nearly midnight, St Mary’s Hospital buzzed with purpose and activity as I half-walked and half-ran to find the entrance to Accident and Emergency. I’d spent the cab ride fiddling with my phone but not actually contacting anyone. It was too late to call either of my cousins and Dad was five hours behind us, so probably still holding court to a packed lecture theatre; besides, until I’d seen Mum, there was no point worrying him.
I sighed, following the signs to A&E, some of which were hung with hopeful strings of tinsel and plastic holly, going over the sketchy information she’d told me on the phone. Apparently she’d fallen in the library; in most homes it would be called the study but this book-lined room in my parents’ apartment was most definitely the library. She’d avoided saying how but I could bet it was from falling
