From Notting Hill with Love...Actually (12 page)

Oh my God, get a grip, Scarlett—what the hell are you thinking that for? You’re engaged to David, for heaven’s sake. Plus you barely even like Sean—why on earth would you want to kiss him? You must have thought about him as Brad Pitt once too often. Yes, that must be it.

I took a large gulp from my wine glass.

“So, what do you think?” Sean asked.

“Hmm?” My mind floated back into the room again as I realized Sean was talking to me.

“My idea—what do you think?”

“Run it by me again?”

Sean sighed. “We go into the store with stockings over our heads and hold up the manager at gunpoint until he gives us Bill’s address.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Sean raised one eyebrow at me.

Oh
God, my stomach must have won a medal—it’s doing a lap of honor now.

“Yes, of course I’m joking. Are you OK? You haven’t been listening to me, have you?”

No, I’m not OK. I’m engaged. I shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. He’s not Brad Pitt, Scarlett. Or Ewan McGregor or Jude Law or any of those movie stars he might have a passing resemblance to—he’s Sean, your temporary next-door neighbor.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, trying to pull myself together. I took another large gulp of wine. “I was just, er, deep in thought and didn’t hear what you said, that’s all.”

“I said, we’ll both go over to Fenwick’s tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can use my natural charm to persuade them to tell me more about Bill.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“OK—now I
know
something is wrong. I fed you a great line there, Red, and you chose
not
to make a sarcastic comment about me?”

“Oh yes, sorry. Do you know something, Sean? I’m not feeling that great—I think I’d better go home.” I stood up and made a bolt for the door. “It’s a great idea though,” I said, peeping out from behind the doorframe. “What time do you want to meet up tomorrow?”

“Ten?” Sean suggested. “Look, do you want me to help you back to your place—tuck you up in bed, that kind of thing?”

“No!” I insisted a bit too loudly. “No, thank you, I’ll be just fine. You stay right here…with your wine…alone. And I’ll be next door…in my bed…alone.”

“Right…” Sean said, sounding mystified. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, at ten.”

“Yes—ten,” I said, disappearing backward out of the door. I ran down Sean’s steps, back up my own, and in through my front door again. And Buster the burglar alarm must have sensed this was not the time to play me up, because for once he behaved impeccably.

It was just as well one of us did. Because I feared if I’d stayed any longer at Sean’s tonight my own behavior might have been far from impeccable.

Sean knocked on my door at 10 a.m. as arranged, and after he inquired if I was feeling any better this morning, we set off to Bond Street—a tube journey I knew all too well by now.

At Fenwick’s we walked through the store together to the handbag department, where I spotted Sheila behind a desk. She was checking off stock against a delivery sheet.

“Right, you stay here,” Sean said, parking me behind a pillar. “Sheila mustn’t know we’re together.”

“OK,” I said, wishing he hadn’t had to touch me to do so. My stomach was off again—I think it may have been training for the parallel bars event now.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sean said, facing me. He still held on to my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes while he spoke. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I squeaked, barely able to find my voice with his face this close to mine.

Sean released his hold on me then strode purposefully across the shop floor in the direction of Sheila.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had to stop this—now.

When I’d got back home last night, I’d given myself a stern talking to in the bathroom mirror. Telling myself that I was getting married in just over seven weeks—and under no circumstances was my stomach, or brain, allowed ever again to repeat anything that had gone on in Sean’s house that night. Sean was just a friend—well, hardly that, really, more an acquaintance—who was simply helping me out. He wasn’t a movie star or whoever else my brain had subconsciously duped me into believing he was to make me feel this way about him.

Sensibly, after my stern talking to, I’d phoned David. And after a long conversation with him I’d slept extremely soundly, which I put down to a guilt-free conscience, but in reality was probably more to do with David’s long and extremely detailed description of how well the grouting had gone on his newly hung kitchen tiles.

But why was Sean still helping me? He didn’t need to, he could just as easily have dumped me after Glasgow. He had no reason to continue helping me search for my mother, and yet he did. Why?

Over in ladies’ bags Sean was now deep in conversation with Sheila. She was shaking her head, and Sean, still talking, was tapping his index finger forcefully on the glass counter.

Sheila then picked up the same phone she had called Personnel with on Monday. She had a brief conversation, presumably with Janice again, before the phone was quickly replaced.

More shaking of the head, then I saw Sheila lift her hand and point in my direction. Quickly I pulled my head back behind the pillar.

“It’s no good you hiding!” Sheila called. “I know you’re there. I’ve just told your boyfriend here the same as I’ve told you for the past three days—we
can’t
and we
won’t
tell you any more about Bill. You’ll simply have to wait until he comes back to work!”

I slithered out from my hiding place and joined Sean at the desk.

“Then I shall have to take my business elsewhere!” Sean said in a very loud voice. “I imagine you work on commission, Sheila, right?”

Sheila nodded furiously as she furtively glanced around to see how many customers might be watching.

“Big mistake then,
big
mistake! Because my girlfriend loves handbags—especially expensive designer ones, and I was just in the mood today to treat her to more bags than she could hold in both her hands. But no, sadly, because of you, we’ll just have to go somewhere else now. Good day to you, Sheila!”

I was beginning to doubt Sean was telling me the truth about not watching movies. That speech was almost word for word the same one that Julia Roberts had made to the snooty shop assistants in
Pretty
Woman
. I was about to question him about it, but he was grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the exit.

“Don’t look back,” Sean insisted as we hurried toward the doors.

“But—”

“Trust me!”

We reached the exit and were about to go through the revolving door when we heard someone hissing, “Oi, you—mister.”

We turned and saw a young lad wearing a navy blue coverall and carrying a bucket and mop.

“Yes?” Sean inquired.

“I might know where Bill lives.”

Sean smiled knowingly at him. “That sort of information could be very useful in the right hands.”

The young lad—who according to his name badge was called Joe—leaned toward us. “I can’t say noffin ’ere, someone will see. Meet me outside in a few minutes—in front of the ladies’ knicker window.”

“We’ll be there,” Sean said with a conspiratorial nod of his head.

Still holding my hand he quickly pulled me through the revolving doors. We walked along the front of the shop until we came to a window full of ladies’ lingerie being promoted as
The
Ideal
Gift
for
your
loved
one
this
Valentine’s Day
.

It was the type of underwear that was the ideal gift for a
man
on Valentine’s Day, but in my experience was far from ideal for any woman I’d ever met.

Sean gazed up at the window.

“Put your tongue away,” I said, turning my back to the glass.

“Why, isn’t that
your
ideal gift?”

“Hardly.”

“Poor David.”

“I’d have thought
you’d
have had more taste than that sort of thing,” I said, gesturing with my head back toward the window.

“Maybe I do.” Sean grinned. “But it doesn’t do any harm to look.”

Joe appeared again. “I can’t be long,” he said, looking around furtively. “Or they’ll miss me. I heard yous in the shop earlier asking after Bill, and I’ve seen ’er”—he nodded at me—“come in asking after him too. Is he in some sorta trouble?”

“No, not at all…” I began to explain. “You see—”

“Look, let’s cut to the chase,” Sean interrupted.

I frowned at him and huffily folded my arms.

“Bill’s not in trouble,” he continued, speaking directly to Joe. “We simply want to ask him a couple of questions. Maybe this will help.” Sean pulled two £20 notes from his wallet.

“Nah, see, me memory ain’t that good these days,” Joe said, looking up at the sky.

Sean took two more twenties out.

Oh
my
God, that makes it eighty quid. If David ever carried that amount of cash on him he’d have had his wallet chained to his wrist.

Joe nodded. “That’ll help.” He reached out for the money, but Sean snatched his hand away.

“Information first.”

I was impressed. Now
this
was more like being in a movie.

“Well, I don’t know the exact number or anyfin—but he definitely lives down West Ham way. There every other Saturday, he is—in the stands.”

“West Ham is a big place, Joe.” Sean took another twenty from his wallet.

“I fink he said Chesterton sumfin…”

Sean counted the notes in his hands.

“Chesterton Terrace—that was it. Yeah, ’cause it made me fink of him in the stands watchin’ the ’ammers.”

“House number?” Sean inquired.

“Nah, I definitely don’t know that. Can I ’ave me money now?”

Sean narrowed his eyes and looked at Joe. “Yeah all right, go on with ya then.”

Joe snatched the money from Sean’s hand and ran back inside the store.

Sean turned and looked at me. “Well?”

I was still staring after Joe, amazed at how easily Sean had just relieved himself of £100.

“Oh, sorry, yes, I’ll pay you back of course.”

“No, not the money, silly—don’t worry about that. Joe’s information?”

“Oh…oh right. I guess it’s something to go on. But unless this street is a very close community, it’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.” I sighed. “Oh, why does this have to be so difficult all the time?”

“Come on,” Sean said, grabbing my hand again. “Never say never—it’ll be a challenge!”

A challenge? Resisting the sweet trolley when hot chocolate fudge cake is calling out to me in a restaurant: that’s the scale of my usual challenges.

Trying to find one old man in a street of houses that seemed to run on for miles—that was something else. It was akin to painting the Forth Road Bridge with your toothbrush, but as embarrassing as finding out you had to do it in your underwear.

“Where on earth do we start?” I asked Sean as we stood gazing at the endless row of houses.

“By knocking on the first door?” he suggested helpfully. “Should you do one side and I do the other?”

I didn’t fancy knocking on anyone’s door, let alone doing it on my own without Sean for backup. “No, let’s do it together.”

“Right then, no time like the present.”

How could he be so cheerful about this? We’d have chafed knuckles and a repetitive strain injury by the time we’d knocked on all these doors.

But luckily for us, many of the houses had knockers—and some, even doorbells—so my hands were spared. Even if my patience wasn’t.

After the twentieth time, the routine was becoming all too familiar.

I would knock or ring at the house, and then if the door
was
answered, Sean would ask the question, “Excuse me, does Bill live here by any chance?” And when the answer came in the negative form—as it always did—and the person answering the door didn’t immediately slam it in our faces, Sean would follow up with, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any Bills that live down this street?”

It didn’t take me long to realize the reason this routine was becoming so familiar. It was not the constant repetition of knocking, ringing, and questions, but the fact that I’d seen it all done before in a movie. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“D’oh!” I said, sounding like Homer Simpson as I clutched my hands to my head.

“What’s up?” Sean asked, opening a small gate leading up to the next front door. “We can’t give up yet, we’re not even halfway.”

The tiny patch of land in front of this house had some plants in it this time and not the usual fridge, mattress, or empty beer crate that the last few houses we’d tried had lying around in them.

“It’s another film!” I cried.

“What is? This garden?”

“No, what we’re doing: banging on people’s doors asking if someone lives here. Except it was Hugh Grant asking if his tea lady—Martine McCutcheon—lived there, not Bill the Fenwick’s handyman.”

Sean shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. I mean there’s no way you could have orchestrated this movie scene.”

“I don’t
orchestrate
any of my movie scenes, Sean. That’s the whole point of what I’m trying to prove, that movies aren’t that different from real life. Well, I may have tried a couple of times in the beginning,” I said, thinking of King’s Cross. “But when I did they only went wrong. And can I remind you that walking down this street banging on doors asking if Bill lives here was all
your
idea.’”

“Well, I’m sorry for trying to help you, but—”

“Yes, Bill lives here,” a voice said.

We’d been so busy arguing that we hadn’t noticed that the door had been quietly opened, and an elderly woman now stood on the step in front of us. She was wearing a brightly colored pinny and wiping her flour-covered hands on a tea towel.

“He does?” we both asked in surprise.

“Yes, what did you want him for? Only he’s not been too well of late. Oh, you’re not from the pools, are you? Have we won and that silly fool hasn’t checked the draws off correctly? He did that once before, we’d only won £50 that time, but it was still enough to buy us a little something, and when you’re pensioners, every little helps. I mean, my Bill still has his part-time job at Fenwick’s, but how much longer he’ll be there after this flu’s knocked him out is anyone’s guess. Dr. Hardman says it could be a while before he’s allowed back. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘you can’t be letting Bill go back to work until he’s fully recovered,’ and with the weather being what it is just now, you never know when he might take a turn for the worse again. He’s a good doctor is Dr. Hardman—been our family doctor for donkey’s years, he has. I remember when—”

“We’re not from the pools,” Sean interrupted. Trying to stop Betty when she was in full flow was like trying to stop a verbal tidal wave crashing toward you.

“You’re not? Then what are you here for? Oh wait, you’re not from
Deal
or
No
Deal
, are you? We applied to be on that
ages
ago now, I just love that little Noel Edmonds, he’s such a—”

“No,” Sean said firmly. “We’re not. We wondered if we might be able to have a word with Bill. Scarlett here is looking for her mother, and it seems Bill might have known her many years ago.”

Betty puffed out her chest under the pinny like a mother hen protecting her young. “I’ll have you know I’m Bill’s childhood sweetheart—we’ve been together since school, so we have—there’s been no
other
women in his life.”

“No. Please, it’s not like that,” I said, holding up my hands in a submissive gesture, hoping to calm Betty down—she’d turned a funny shade of purple and didn’t look too good. “We think he may have worked with my mother at Fenwick’s many years ago. I’m trying to find her, and we wondered if Bill might know where she went after she left the store.”

“Oh, I see.” Betty’s chest subsided along with her color. “Well, why didn’t you say so before, dear? Come in.”

Betty opened the door, and we walked into a small hallway. “Bill’s right through here,” she said, leading us into the front room.

Bill sat in an armchair by the fire with a rug over his legs. He was doing a book of crossword puzzles.

“Bill, these people are here to ask you about—”

“I know what they’re here for, woman. I’d have to be deaf to not hear you prattling on, wouldn’t I?”

I smiled at Bill. “I’m sorry to bother you when you’re not well,” I said, approaching him, and for some reason I felt I needed to kneel down beside his armchair. I’d been trying so hard to stop comparing people to movie stars since the Sean incident, but I just couldn’t help it with Bill, because there was just no mistaking it. He was so obviously a dead ringer for the late James Stewart, only a bit heavier around the middle—probably much to do with Betty’s home cooking, I suspected. “Only I’m looking for my mother, and we think she used to work at Fenwick’s between ten and twelve years ago. I can’t be more specific than that, I’m afraid. But I do have a very old photo of her.” I reached into my bag, but Bill stopped me by placing his hand over mine.

“No need,” he said. “It’s Rosie you’re looking for, am I right?”

“Yes, yes we are. How did you know?”

“Because she’s sitting in front of me right now.” He smiled. “Well, someone who looks very much like her is anyway. You, my dear, are the spit of your mother. The hair, no, but your eyes and your coloring—they’re an exact match.”

“So you knew her well?” I couldn’t believe it! Someone sitting here in the same room as me that had actually known my mother.

“Everyone knew Rosie. She was the life of that place while she was there—always up for a good time, she was.”

I smiled as I tried to imagine. “When did she leave, Bill?”

“Oh let me see, nine, maybe ten years ago now. It’s difficult to say, time goes by so fast these days.” Bill looked wistfully into the distance as he considered this thought. Then he smiled down at me before continuing with his story. “She got a job offer out in America, from one of them designers whose frocks we used to sell. Rosie was always wanting more for herself. I didn’t get the feeling she was one to settle for long. So she took him up on his offer, and was gone within a week. It was all very sudden.”

“Do you happen to know which part of America?” Sean asked, while I was still thinking about my mother.

Bill looked up at Sean. “New York, I seem to recall. Yes, it was definitely New York, because we joked about her finding herself in the middle of a movie set one day. Rosie loved the movies.”

“And the designer?” I asked, coming back to the real world again. “Do you remember the designer’s name?”

“Oh now, you’re talking, dear. I don’t think I do.”

“Please…please try and think.”

“Hmm, now let me see.” Bill’s brow furrowed. “It was definitely a man’s name. Because I remember the person that came and offered her the job didn’t look like his name at all.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Bill that it would definitely have been an assistant to the designer that offered my mother a job, not the designer himself. But we’d narrowed it down to a male name, so that was something.

“You’re sure it was a man’s name?” I asked, trying to think of some male fashion designers. “It wasn’t a one-word name like…Chanel, or…or Gucci, for instance?”

“No, it was definitely a man’s name.”

I looked at Sean for help.

“Er…” he struggled. “Jean Paul Gaultier?”

Bill shook his head.

“You’ll get nowhere with this,” Betty said. “He has enough trouble remembering our grandchildren’s names, let alone a fashion designer’s.”

“I’ll have you know, woman,” Bill defended himself, “my brain is as sharp today as it was…” But his voice faded rapidly, as a nasty coughing fit took over.

Betty rushed to his side to comfort him as he tried to regain his breath.

“Perhaps we’d better go,” I said, worrying we’d pushed Bill too far with all our questions.

Bill held up his hand. “Just…wait…a moment…will you?”

Betty rubbed Bill on the back. “He gets like this occasionally,” she said. “Takes him a few minutes to recover.”

Sean and I stood awkwardly in the room waiting, as Bill’s breathing slowly returned to normal.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said at last. “This damn flu’s taken me real bad, it has. And I’m sorry I can’t remember this fella’s name that your mother went to work for either, but it was definitely her, I’m certain of it. You really are the spit of her, dear. Be in no doubt of that.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you anyway, Bill—and you, Betty, you’ve been a great help, really you have.”

“Any time, dear,” Betty said. “You’ll let us know if you find her, won’t you? I’ll be wondering about it now—how you’ve got on and all.”

“Of course I will,” I said, smiling at them both. “Now we should really go. No, please, don’t get up, Betty—really, we’ll see ourselves out. Thank you both again.”

We left Bill and Betty sitting together in their front room, Bill still in his armchair and Betty perched on the arm, lovingly tucking his blanket back around him.

“Well, that’s that then,” I said as we let ourselves out into the cold afternoon air. I pulled my coat tightly around me as we began to walk back to the tube station.

“What do you mean?” Sean asked in astonishment, pausing from tapping the buttons on his BlackBerry. “I’m just working out when we’ll be able to get a flight to New York.”

I stopped abruptly and stared at him. “I can’t just drop everything and fly to New York!”

“Why not?” Sean asked, turning back to me.

“Because…I can’t afford it, for one thing.”

“I’ll pay.”

“No, I can’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sean raised his eyebrows. “Don’t be silly, Scarlett—I want to help.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Why do I want to help you?”

“Yeah, what’s in all this for you?”

I knew I was being overly cynical and incredibly ungrateful. But Sean’s constant generosity of spirit and of wallet bothered me. Or had I just spent far too long living with David’s double-knotted purse strings?

Sean shrugged, tucking his phone away in the back pocket of his jeans. “Why does there have to be something in it for me? Can’t I just help out a friend?”

I folded my arms and looked quizzically at him. “So we’re friends now, are we? When did that happen?”

Sean grinned. “Maybe we did find each other a tad irritating at first—neither of us can deny that.” He paused, and his expression changed. “But now…”

“Now?” I repeated. I half expected one of Sean’s wisecracks but instead he just looked at me. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

“Now, Scarlett, I—”

My
mobile phone rang now. “Sorry,” I said, hurriedly reaching into my bag. I looked at the name flashing on the screen. “I’d better take this. I’ll just be a minute, I promise.”

As I flipped open my phone cover, Sean closed his eyes and sighed.

“Maddie, hi.”

While I spoke briefly to Maddie about how everything was going in London (well, it was a brief phone call for us—only five minutes long), I watched Sean. He had wandered a little way away from me while I spoke—well, Maddie spoke mainly—and now seemed deep in thought.

“Sorry about that,” I said when I finally got Maddie off the phone. “That was my best friend. Anyway, before—you were saying?”

“It wasn’t important,” Sean said, smiling at me. “I was just going to say that your idiosyncrasies—shall we call them—don’t annoy me quite as much now as when I first met you.”

“Thanks,” I said, pulling a wry face. “I’ll take that as a compliment—I think.” But I desperately wanted to know what he was really going to say before Maddie phoned. I’d never seen Sean look at me quite like that before—and I think I liked it.

“Now, about New York—” Sean began.

“I’ve told you—I can’t just drop everything and fly over to the States.”

“And I’ve told
you
, I’ll pay.”

“I know and that’s incredibly generous of you, Sean, but it’s not just that. That phone call is one of the reasons—actually, Maddie is. She’s getting married on Saturday, and tomorrow night is her hen night.”

“Oh, I see. Wait, isn’t Maddie your friend from Stratford who got you the house-sitting gig?”

I nodded. “Yes, she’s the one.”

“But I thought the idea was to get away from all your family and friends for a month?”

“It is, but the wedding is different. It’s been planned for ages. I can’t miss it. Anyway, I’m chief bridesmaid.”

“Oh right,” Sean said, trying to take all this in. “So this Maddie is having her hen party the night before the wedding?” he asked, looking surprised. “She’s asking for trouble, isn’t she?”