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but … there’s so much to do. She’s had a lot of change in her life and she’s desperate for Christmas to be just like it was before. She’s already fretting about this.’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Elaine made one every year and it’s Grace’s abiding memory of Christmas. But it won’t be the same if we don’t make it.’ His mouth twisted and his eyes clouded, lost in memories.

      Oh, God, I hadn’t considered that he might be a widower and the shock of the idea made me ask, without proper preparation or tact, ‘Is your wife … erm … dead?’

      Nate looked up sharply. ‘No. Not dead. Just er … she’s erm … taking some time out from family life.’

      My rubbish poker face semaphored startled surprise. What the hell did that mean?

      ‘That must be tough,’ I said, trying not to sound the least bit judgmental, but who takes time out from family life when they have a seven-year old?

      ‘Yeah, it is, especially on Grace.’ And on him. Now I could see it. Those deep groves on either side of his mouth, not so much chiselled features but worn down, weary features. A weariness around the eyes.

      He rubbed at his cheek. ‘But we just have to get on with it.’ Like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I saw Nate in a different light. What came across as upright and confident hid a brittleness about him. A stiffness, like someone holding themselves back, retreating from human touch, for fear of a bruise being inadvertently touched again. He held himself aloof. Shutting down quickly when emotion escaped him. Hence the mixed messages that first day I’d met him.

      I wanted to ask more questions about his wife but it seemed far too intrusive.

      ‘Maybe Svetlana could make the gingerbread house,’ I suggested. ‘When she gets back.’

      Nate laughed. ‘Svetlana is great at many things, but she’s no baker. I think asking her to make this –’ he looked at the picture on the screen ‘– would be an ask too much. But Grace is desperate to make one; apparently Cassie De Marco has one every year. I feel like I’m failing her.’

      He looked so disconsolate I wanted to help.

      ‘I’ve had quite a bit of experience with gingerbread houses,’ I suddenly blurted out.

      ‘That’s not something you hear every day.’ There was cool appraisal in his face and I could almost see the barriers going up.

      ‘I have two cousins and between them they have five daughters. I’m dragged in on a regular basis to adjudicate as to who is winning in the best mummy stakes … and to help. I blame Martha Stewart or Aldi. I don’t remember gingerbread houses being a thing when I was a child. Do you?’

      He relaxed slightly. ‘You’re right. They weren’t. Why Aldi?’

      ‘Because they started doing those kits one year, but of course no self-respecting domestic goddess would use a kit. They have to make their own from scratch. And my cousins are experts.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Forget houses, think palaces, and I’m already signed up to help one of my cousins after school this week. And I’ve already stirred two Christmas cakes.’

      He looked confused, so I quickly explained the situation, finishing with, ‘Basically I’m like the family fairy godmother, parachuted in to help whenever they need me.’

      ‘I 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.’

       Chapter 7

      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

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