Christmas on Primrose Hill (25 page)

‘That was because you’d just switched on the lights! They’d ignore you within a week.’

‘Being ignored? Huh, sounds surprisingly good,’ he grinned, as they approached a screen of mature yews. She had assumed they were at the bottom boundary of the garden, but to her surprise, she saw a discreet opening had been cut between two of them. He indicated for her to lead the way and she stepped through gingerly, a gasp escaping her as she took in the unexpected sight. Ahead was an enclosed seating area, two outdoor charcoal-grey rattan sofas and a vast daybed arranged round an open fireplace that had been built into a standalone brick wall. The fire was roaring, grey smoke twisting out of the short chimney into the grey-blue sky, red-hot embers spitting out occasionally where they twisted and hissed into oblivion on the cold Yorkstone slabs.

‘Take a pew,’ Jamie smiled, motioning for her to move from her frozen position on the spot.

‘I can’t believe you’ve got a fireplace in the garden,’ she murmured in amazement, walking slowly towards the nearest sofa. She didn’t dare go
near
the daybed, could barely even look at it, in fact.

‘Does it change your opinion of the house?’

‘It could do, actually,’ she laughed, sitting down primly in the corner as he wandered over to a table that had been laid out with plates covered with silvered domes. ‘God, an outdoor
fireplace
. I love it.’

‘I’ll keep it, then,’ he said. ‘Hot chocolate?’

‘Ooh, lovely,’ she sighed. ‘You know they’ve forecast snow this afternoon?’

‘Have they? We’d better keep you warm, then.’ Her eyes met his at the loaded comment, but he just grinned. ‘Take your shoes off and put the blanket round you.’

‘This one?’ she asked, trying not to purr as she draped the orange and camel H-embossed cashmere blanket around her. ‘OhmiGod, that’s so nice,’ she whispered in amazement again, as she snuggled into the warmth.

Jamie grinned. ‘Good. Now try this. It’s from Switzerland.’

He handed her a steaming mug and came to sit with her a moment later, a cup in his own hands and setting down a plate of . . . She looked at him in astonishment before a laugh escaped her.

There was no way that could be coincidence.

He shrugged. ‘Yesterday at the Savoy – after you left – we somehow got on to talking about our ultimate breakfasts. Caro said full English, Jules said continental, Daisy said Buck’s Fizz and strawberries, and Jules answered for you.’ He looked very pleased with himself as she bit into the thick white bloomer bread. ‘Toasted banana sandwiches and hot chocolate.’

He chuckled as she took another sip of the drink. ‘I really can’t believe that’s your all-time favourite breakfast.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she grinned back. ‘My mum always made it for me when I was little.’

‘And are you still little?’ he teased.

‘Well, what’s yours, then?’

‘A bacon butty sets me up pretty well. I’m, you know, pretty normal.’ He laughed again as she took another bite of the sandwich, eyes closed with pleasure.

She put a hand over her mouth as she answered back flippantly, ‘Listen, there’s
nothing
normal about you – that much I do know.’

He pretended to look offended. ‘And how am I not normal?’

The spectre of last night’s missed kiss drifted between them both again – the growing crowd recognizing him, becoming excited by him, the very molecules in the night air beginning to jangle and jostle because he was in it. His knees were angled towards her on the sofa, his head resting on his hand; he couldn’t see the way the firelight made his skin glow. He couldn’t see what she could see – that even if he wasn’t one of the most famous men on the planet, he could still never be ordinary.

She blinked, knowing she couldn’t say that. ‘Well, you have a fireplace in your garden, for a start.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s just a designer’s whimsical idea. Nothing to do with me.’

‘You have hot chocolate and banana sandwiches left here, steaming hot, by invisible garden pixies.’

He grinned. ‘You just have to believe.’

‘I doubt you’ve even once cooked a meal, cleaned your house, washed or even bought your own clothes in the past . . . hmm, five years?’

He inhaled sharply, as though wounded by the observation.

‘You probably fly by private jet.’

He didn’t reply.

‘And you only date supermodels.’

His mouth opened to protest, but she held up a finger.

‘It’s well documented in every single magazine and newspaper, so don’t try to deny it. Your private life is a matter of national interest.’ She was on a roll now. ‘Plus you’ve bought a house with a
panic room
in it.’ She gestured back towards the immaculate townhouse, only the roof visible from this secluded spot. ‘And you have a bodyguard.’ She paused. ‘Apart from that, you’re right – bacon butties for breakfast? You’re completely normal. A man of the people.’

He nodded in silence, his eyes steady upon her. ‘I guess when you put it like that,’ he said finally, but his tone was flat and she sensed her joke had been too sharply edged, drawing blood. ‘Hardly an attractive proposition, huh?’

She gripped her fingers tighter round the cooling mug, suppressing the sudden urge to tell him why all of that,
all
of it, seemed normal in comparison to the freak event that defined her life. But she had already gone far enough, souring the mood and undoing all the magic he’d conjured for them in this wonderful, intimate space. She sighed – would she ever get it right around him? She was as jumpy as a cricket in his company, her emotions too big and wild to contain in his presence, excitement and desire and fear and happiness and trepidation conflagrating in a combustible mix.

‘Although you were wrong about one thing.’

‘I was?’ She cocked an eyebrow.

‘I buy my own clothes.’

She reached out and patted his shoulder, resisting the urge to caress his cut deltoids. ‘Well done,’ she teased, grateful for the reprieve. ‘What, exactly? Your socks?’

‘T-shirts, actually. I’m particular about fit and feel. Selfridges are the only UK stockists of the brand I like.’

‘Ah, that’s a shame. Daisy and Jules are there right now – they could have picked some up for you.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously; he was so easy to tease.

‘Or we could go.’

‘Us?’

‘Why not? I could do with some new ones for tonight.’

Ones? ‘Oh, don’t tell me – you wear something once and then throw it away?’

His eyes glittered. ‘Actually, no, but it gets hot under the lights. I need several for each show.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she smiled. ‘Listen, tell it to the judge. If you think this is persuading me you’re Mr Normal, it’s not.’

‘Why not?’ He shifted position slightly and she could feel the heat from his legs radiating towards her.

‘Because you’re going to Selfridges to buy T-shirts, for a start. Normal people go to Gap or M&S or Topman.’

‘Fine. We’ll go to Topman.’

‘But what about the inferior fit and feel?’ She laughed, enjoying herself enormously. ‘And anyway, you’d have your bodyguard in tow.’ She pulled a face. ‘Not cool. They should probably close the store for you.’

Jamie was quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning her face before he reached for her mug, taking it from her with a solemn expression. ‘Up.’

‘Huh?’

He caught her by the wrist and pulled her to standing. He stared down at her, oblivious to the fact that his proximity to her whipped the air from her body. ‘We’re going shopping. For T-shirts. In Topman. With no bodyguard.’

The laughter in her eyes died. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not,’ he murmured. ‘But it is normal.’

Ten minutes later they were on the bike, weaving through the chaotic city traffic, which was almost prescriptive for the last Saturday before Christmas. Buses, cabs and cars jostled irritably for space on the overcrowded roads, Park Lane almost at a standstill as they zipped speedily past them all, the late-morning sun reflecting off their visored helmets.

Her cheek resting lightly on his back, her hands clasped as loosely as she dared round his waist, she looked at London’s festive guise with rare detachment. Usually she was on those pavements, standing at the bus stops texting or dodging the rain as she darted in and out of the shops with her shopping list in her pocket. She rarely looked at the decorative window displays, hardly noticed the lights strung overhead; those weren’t the things her eyes noticed or looked for.

But now, as a passenger on a bike, with her arms round a man who unseated her world, she was standing at the periphery of her own life like a watch eagle and she saw the festivity in the air, felt the party spirit. Her city – usually so defined by its greenness – was now white and red, silver and gold, the shuffling bustle of the crowds counterpoised by elegant mannequins striking
Vogue
-ish poses, snowy wonderlands set behind glass windows as yet contradicted by the bare hardness of the streets.

Roadworks were causing the traffic to snake up through Bayswater, so Jamie nipped through the park instead. He turned right at the Dorchester, and drove expertly up the narrow back streets that cut out the unnecessary crawl along Oxford Street, emerging again several minutes later onto New Bond Street. As they stopped at the lights, his foot on the ground, he didn’t turn his head once towards the luxury boutiques that lined the road on either side, even though he could go into any of them and buy anything. He kept his gaze dead ahead and she smiled to think how normal – no, scruffy, poor, out of place – they both looked to the well-heeled shoppers on the Mayfair streets. ‘You sure you don’t want to go to Selfridges?’ she called. ‘There’s still time.’

‘You’re funny,’ he quipped as the lights turned green and he pulled quickly away, turning towards the Topshop flagship store on the corner of Oxford and Regent Streets. He parked quickly on a back street, but even though it was quieter there, Nettie noticed he didn’t remove his helmet until the last minute, quickly pulling his beanie out of his coat pocket and covering his hair, before putting on a pair of sunglasses too.

‘No.’ She shook her head, reaching up and taking them off him again, folding them closed. ‘They draw attention to you. No one wears sunglasses in a shop in December.’

He watched her and she saw the tension around his eyes showing he was, quite literally, exposed now. No disguise. No bodyguard. She remembered Pho’s expression when Jamie had insisted he didn’t escort them on this expedition, the way the security adviser’s eyes had slid disapprovingly in her direction for a fraction of a second. She hesitated, feeling her sense of fun begin to dissipate. ‘Although . . . now you look just like you.’ She bit her lip. ‘Maybe a cap would have been better.’

‘Harder to get in my pocket, though.’

‘Yeah . . . Maybe keep the helmet on?’

He laughed suddenly, grabbing her hand and she gasped involuntarily at his touch. He really did need to give her written notice if he intended to get within a half-metre of her – her nervous system couldn’t cope. ‘Fuck it. It’ll be fine. Let’s just go in, buy a T-shirt, be normal.’

‘We can do that,’ she grinned.

‘You do realize
you
couldn’t do this if you were in your costume.’

‘No!’ she scoffed.

He raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘Trust me, you’d be mobbed.’ And with a squeeze of her hand, he broke into a fast walk, leading her down Upper Regent Street for fifty yards – his head bent as low as possible, her jogging to keep pace beside him, before they took a sharp left into the store. But he didn’t slow down there. If anything, it was busier in the shop than outside, and he rode the escalator with his head still down, face to the wall. Nettie tried to look casual, unnerved by his jumpiness.

They got to the menswear level and Jamie raised his head just enough to scan the shop floor for T-shirts. ‘Great. Over here,’ he said under his breath, grabbing her hand again and pulling her behind him like a kite as he wove through the rails with the same agility as he’d used on the bike. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, holding up a white T-shirt, screen-printed with a kitten in sunglasses.

Nettie stared at him. ‘Really?’

He pulled a face, grabbing the next T-shirt along – a Rudolph motif with actual jingle bells sewn onto the antlers.

‘Oh my God! Tell me you’re joking,’ she laughed.

‘I’ll get one if you will. We could both wear them on Christmas Day.’

‘Uh-huh. Sure thing,’ she said sarcastically.

‘I’ll Facetime you to make sure you’re keeping to your end of the bargain,’ he said, his eyes capturing hers and holding her for a moment.

‘What . . . what are you doing for Christmas, anyway?’ she asked casually, one hand nervously flicking the shirts beside her.

He put down the T-shirts and wandered over to the next rail. ‘I’m going away. Staying at a friend’s place.’ His voice was quiet, his eyes – like hers – always flicking around the room, scanning the crowds. ‘I haven’t had a holiday in eighteen months, so . . .’ he sighed. ‘Just this week to get through and then I’ve got three weeks to myself.’

‘Oh. That’s nice.’

‘You?’

‘At home. We always spend Christmas at home.’

He looked back at her. ‘In Primrose Hill?’

‘Yep.’

‘I bet that was great for you growing up, wasn’t it? Knowing that all the presents under the tree were yours?’

‘Something like that,’ she lied.

‘I had the opposite. My little brother was a nightmare for finding the presents and opening them all. Our poor mum could never outfox him with hiding places.’

Nettie frowned. ‘Brother? But I thought you said you had two sisters?’

There was a pause.

‘I do.’ He swallowed. ‘Ed died six years ago.’

The way he said the words, so quickly, answering a question before it was even asked . . . she knew from experience it meant the pain was still raw. She wanted to ask him what had happened but didn’t dare.

‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, mortified.

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault,’ he said, a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘And it was a while ago, so . . .’

Six years didn’t seem like a while ago to her. He moved over to the next rail and she followed after, sheepishly. ‘Well, will your family be with you for Christmas?’