From Notting Hill with Love...Actually (10 page)

Our journey home by train the next day was much quieter than our journey up had been. I sat deep in thought most of the time, and Sean was polite enough not to disturb me as we traveled back to London.

When we finally reached Notting Hill and our taxi dropped us off outside our houses, Sean asked if there was anything more he could do to help.

“Thanks, but I think I can take it from here,” I replied, carrying my suitcase up the steps.

“No, I mean with the search for your mother,” Sean said, climbing his own steps so he was level with me again. “You haven’t said as much, but I assume you’re going to continue looking for her now you’ve got a lead?”

“Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right, I am. But I think I know what I’m going to do.” I smiled at him. “Thanks for asking, though.”

“Any time. If you change your mind, you know where I am.”

I nodded.

Sean smiled, unlocked his door, and disappeared inside.

I stood for a moment on the steps, gazing at the spot where he’d just been. It seemed odd to be on my own again now.

But as I turned the key in my lock, I wasn’t alone for long: my homecoming was greeted by the now familiar wailing of Buster—as I’d christened him—the burglar alarm.

Early the next morning I set off to the heart of London’s shopping district. As I emerged from Bond Street tube station I suddenly realized the enormity of what I was about to try and do.

Surrounding me were more designer clothing, perfume, art, and antiques shops—and more Royal Warrant holders—than anywhere else in the city.

Where on earth do I start? I wondered, as I looked along the rows of elegant and expensive shops. Well, as a famous nun once sang in a movie, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…”

So that’s just what I did. That Monday morning I walked the entire length of Old and New Bond Street, asking in shops, and—if I was lucky to get even the merest flicker of interest from one of the bored assistants—showing my photograph too.

At lunchtime I took a break in a little cafe. I took a seat by the window, and while I was waiting for my panini to be brought to the table, I unfolded my photograph once more, this time for my own benefit.

“
A
yearning
for
something
that’s lost
.” The words from that painting made sense to me at last. Now I was actually doing something positive about trying to find my mother, it was all clicking into place.

Carefully I folded the photograph and placed it safely in my inside coat pocket. Then I took a sip of my orange juice and stared at the shoppers passing by on the pavement.

Two women across the road bumped into each other as they tried to enter and exit Jigsaw at the same time. I smiled as I saw the two of them apologize to each other, and then bang their heads together as they both bent down to pick up the vast quantity of expensive-looking shopping bags that they’d dropped on the pavement. It was something that you did all the time when you were out shopping, especially in a place as busy as London. But what you didn’t usually do, and what the lucky lady had done who had been about to enter Jigsaw today, was bump into Keira Knightley in the process.

I sat watching open-mouthed as I saw recognition strike on the other lady’s face. She flushed a shade of bright red after either losing the power of speech or, by the look on Keira’s face, more than likely saying something really stupid. Keira just smiled politely at her and began to back away. At first slowly, and then at a much speedier pace. Very quickly she became invisible among the throng of afternoon shoppers once more.

What a waste, I thought, as the waitress brought my lunch to the table. If that had been me I would have been able to engage her in some polite chitchat about her latest movie for a couple of minutes. Not babble some incoherent nonsense that scared her away down the street. Why did I never get those sorts of chances? It was really unfair.

In the afternoon I repeated my morning performance, this time along the opposite side of Bond Street. I knew it was a long shot. I mean, it was over ten years since my mother was supposed to have worked here. But it was all I’d got—I had to keep giving it a try.

My mobile rang just as I was about to enter the Fenwick department store.

“Dad!” This was the first time Dad had contacted me since I’d been away. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Scarlett. How’s it going? Are you having a good time away from us all?”

How
could
I
answer
that?

“I’m missing everyone, obviously. But it’s been…helpful to get away for a while, yes.”

“Good, I’m pleased to hear it. So, what are you up to at the moment?”

“I’m just doing a bit of shopping, actually.”

“Ah, I should have known—spending all David’s money, are you?”

Chance
would
be
a
fine
thing.

“I do have money of my own, Dad,” I reminded him. “That’s why I come to work with
you
every day!”

“Not
quite
every day,” Dad said, laughing. “I’m glad you’re having a good time, though. You needed a break.”

“Yes…” I said, feeling guilty as I thought about what I was doing just then. “Look, Dad, I’d better get going. I’m having a bit of a hectic day.” That was putting it mildly.

“You’re not the only one. I’m running this office virtually single-handed. Or had that little detail slipped your mind?”

I could hear by the tone of Dad’s voice he was just joking with me. “Then you’ll appreciate me all the more when I return!” I smiled. “I really have to go now. I’ll call you soon.”

“OK then, darling. Speak to you later. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

I ended the call and looked down at my phone. Perhaps I should have told him. But this search for my mother could all come to nothing so it would be pointless upsetting him. It wasn’t as if I was getting anywhere with it. But I had to keep trying.

I put my phone back in my bag and pushed my way purposefully through the revolving doors of Fenwick’s.

Right then—where to start?

I walked through all the departments, asking the same questions to any of the more mature assistants I could find. It was pointless asking the younger ones; they wouldn’t have been around when my mother worked here—if she had worked here, of course. Diana’s information may indeed have been accurate: my mother could well have worked in one of these shops many years ago. But the chances of finding her—or even anyone who had worked with her—were becoming more unlikely by the second.

I returned to the ground floor and began to make my way toward the exit. But I paused as I walked through the handbag department—not to gasp at the extortionate price of the designer bags, but to stare at one of the assistants. She was an older lady, but I hadn’t seen her earlier when I’d passed through. The reason I was now staring at her was because pinned tightly to the top of her head was a bun of jet-black hair. And as she looked over her spectacles at a stock sheet, I saw that the eyes that darted to and fro were the exact shade of bright green as my own.

She glanced up and met my stare. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“No. Well, actually, yes, you might be able to.” I didn’t know what to say—I was in shock. I’d been trailing up and down Bond Street all day, I was tired and exhausted, and now this person standing right in front of me could really be my mother. “Have you worked here long?” I asked stupidly.

“About ten years. Why?”

“Oh, good, erm, well, the thing is…” How the hell did you ask someone if they were the mother that ran out on you when you were a six-month-old baby?

“Miss Sheila!” I heard a voice call. “Could you help me with this customer?”

Miss Sheila looked toward the other side of the counter where an elderly gentleman who was obviously having trouble deciding on a handbag—I presumed for his wife—stood there looking perplexed.

“Excuse me one moment, dear. I’ll be right back.” Sheila glided effortlessly over and spoke briefly to the gentleman. Expertly she demonstrated two bags by opening and closing them, holding them under her arm, at arm’s length, and then slung over her shoulder. Finally, the gentleman pointed at his choice: a tan leather clutch bag with optional chain strap.

“Michelle—gift-wrapping, please!” Sheila called.

“Michelle’s on her break now, miss.”

“Then you can do it, Leila, please.”

“I can’t, miss, I haven’t been shown that yet—with me being a trainee ’n’ all.”

Sheila raised her eyes to heaven as if asking for spiritual guidance to give her the patience to deal with these underlings. “It’s about time you learned then, my girl. Watch and learn.”

I watched too, as Sheila swiftly and expertly dealt with the gift-wrapping. The finished product was an elegant, light blue parcel with coordinating ribbon. It was placed in a clear cellophane bag, which was tied up at the top with a white ribbon, after dried rose petals had been carefully poured into the bag to surround it.

Rowan Atkinson eat your heart out, I thought, storing yet another film scene in my head to add to my ever-growing list.

Sheila returned to my side of the counter.

“So sorry about that,” she said. “Now, you were saying?”

“Er yes, that’s right—is Sheila your real name?” I blurted out.

Sheila looked as if she was wondering whether she might need to call security in a minute. “Yes, it is—why do you ask?”

“Oh…no reason,” I said dejectedly.

“There must be a reason, dear, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked in the first place.”

I stopped myself from saying. “Because I thought you might be my mother” just in time. Instead, I told her about my search for a Rosemary O’Brien, who might have worked here in the past. Then I quickly showed her my photo.

“Sorry, dear. Neither the name nor the photo ring any bells, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind,” I said, putting the photo back in my bag. “It doesn’t surprise me—I’ve been getting the same answer all day. Thanks anyway.” I began to move away from the counter.

“Wait—you could ask Bill.”

“Bill?”

“He’s our odd-job man—he’s been here for donkey’s years. Bill knows everyone, and everyone knows Bill.”

“Can I speak to him?” I asked excitedly.

“Wait, I’ll just see if he’s around.” Sheila picked up the internal phone. “Hi, Janice, Sheila here—ladies’ bags…yes, yes, I’m fine. Do you know if Bill is about somewhere in the store?”

I waited with bated breath. I’d never had to bate my breath before, and now seemed as good a time as any to give it a try.

“Oh, is he? Oh, that can be nasty…Yes, let’s hope so, eh? Well thank you, Janice…yep, we should do that soon. Bye-bye for now.” Sheila put the phone down.

“I’m sorry, it seems Bill is off sick at the moment. Touch of the flu, Janice says.”

I unbated my breath as my heart sank. “Do you know when he might be back?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Bill must be well into his sixties—these things take their toll when you’re that age, don’t they? Perhaps you could pop back later in the week?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’ll try and do that. Thanks for your help, Sheila.”

“My pleasure, dear. Good luck with your search.”

It was the last straw at the end of a very disappointing day. I couldn’t face any more shops after Sheila’s news, so I decided to head home.

A long soak in a hot bath was what was needed tonight, and maybe a bit of cinema therapy, courtesy of the extensive library of DVDs that Belinda and Harry kept in their study. I’d had enough real life for one day.

I passed the next couple of days with more visits to Bond Street.

I completed the second side of the street fairly quickly on Tuesday morning, but although I felt more positive as I entered the stores and asked my questions, the answers I received were still the same.

Spending the day in and out of all these designer stores should have been fun. It should have been like something from the
Sex
and
the
City
movie. But I didn’t feel much like Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, or Miranda as I trailed in and out of the shops. They’d have been parading up and down here in designer outfits and high heels. I had chosen comfort and was sporting TopShop jeans, a Gap hoodie, Next down vest, and Nike trainers.

After I’d had lunch, I popped into Fenwick’s just in case Bill had made a miraculous recovery, and was wandering about the shop with a screwdriver in his hand once more. But the answer from Sheila was still negative, so I left, promising to return again tomorrow, and headed back home.

The same happened on Wednesday morning. Still no Bill. I asked Sheila if it might be possible for Personnel to give me his telephone number so I could ring him. But after a very brief phone call up to Janice again, the answer was a very definite no, they could not possibly give out personal details on a member of staff.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Sheila apologized. “They say he probably won’t be back until next week now either. Perhaps you could try again then.”

I returned to the house once more, dejected and completely fed up with life. Not only was finding out any further information on my mother proving to be virtually impossible, but nothing new was happening to me on the movie front either. This was probably because I’d spent most of the last three days trailing up and down Bond Street. But after the first week’s successes I’d been lulled into the false belief that proving you could live your life like a movie would be easy. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

That afternoon I flicked through all 400 channels on the TV. When I didn’t find anything to watch, I looked once more through Belinda and Harry’s collection of DVDs to find someone to spend my evening with—and then I ran yet another bath, hoping that would pass half an hour until dinner.

I was just about to climb into the hot soapy water when the doorbell rang. I tried to ignore it and hoped they’d go away. All I needed was Oscar or Ursula checking up on me again. They’d both popped round several times since we’d arrived back from Glasgow on Sunday night, and even though I was grateful for their interest and concern, I really didn’t feel like relaying yet another day’s disappointment to them. But instead of my intruder taking the hint that no one was going to answer, the doorbell rang again, this time for longer.

I rolled my eyes, pulled on a white toweling robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and hurried downstairs.

“Yes?” I snapped, as I flung open the door. I guess I should have used the peephole first, but I hadn’t got used to all this security stuff just yet.

“Oh sorry, am I disturbing you?” It was Sean. He stared down at the bathrobe.

“I was just about to take a bath actually,” I said, pulling the toweling collar around me protectively.

“Oh, I see.” His eyes rose up level with mine again. “I just wondered how you’ve been getting on. I imagine you’ve been up and down Bond Street for the last few days. I’ve been away on business or I’d have called round sooner.”

So that’s why I hadn’t seen him about.

“Yes, I have.”

“And? Any luck?”

“Actually, it’s been a complete disaster…” I told him everything that had happened. “Most of the assistants were so snooty—they weren’t interested in helping me at all. Just because I wasn’t wearing Jimmy Choo shoes or carrying a Gucci handbag…” I paused mid-sentence and stared at Sean, and then smiled as a thought dawned on me.

“What’s up?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“
Pretty
Woman
,” I said, grinning. “That’s what! Oh, Sean, it may have been information I was after and not clothes, but they still made me feel the same as her.”

“What on earth are you talking about now?”

“
Pretty
Woman
—it’s another movie. The one I was telling you about on the train. The one where you were a bastard?” I helpfully reminded him.

“Oh, that one.”

“In the film Julia Roberts is a hooker, and Richard Gere gives her some money to go out and buy clothes on Rodeo Drive—but the assistants won’t help her because she doesn’t look the part.”

“OK…”

“That’s been me over the last few days, but I wasn’t in Beverly Hills, I was in London’s equivalent—Bond Street.”

“If you say so,” Sean said with a quizzical expression.

“Yes, I do—I’ve got to take something positive out of all my efforts. And another movie scene to add to my list will do nicely!” I folded my arms over my dressing gown.

“But what of this woman in Fenwick’s—Sheila?”

“I won’t be able to do anything about that until Bill comes back to work. So until then I’d better try and forget about my mother and get on with my movie business, and if you don’t mind, just now, my bath.”

“Sorry, yes, of course. Oh, wait, I almost forgot, the other reason I came round. Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Apart from my bath, and a date with Brad Pitt—nothing, really.”

“Brad?”

I grinned at him. “It’s a joke. I was going to watch
Mr. & Mrs. Smith
on DVD tonight.”

“Oh right, I see.” Sean nodded but I still wasn’t sure he understood what I was talking about. “It’s just some friends of mine have given me tickets to the opera this evening, and I wondered if you’d like to go.”

“Thanks, Sean, but I don’t really know anyone who likes the opera that I could take.”

“No—I meant would you like to accompany me?”

I blushed. Of course he did.

“Oh, yes, I guess I could. Would I have to dress up? Only you know I don’t have that kind of garb with me.”

“No, it’s not an opening night—there’s no dress code. What about the outfit you wore to the wedding on Saturday? You looked good in that.”

I thought for a moment and was about to say, “But you called me Red in that outfit,” when something occurred to me. This got better and better. I might not be having any luck finding my mother, but I could sense another
Pretty
Woman
opportunity on the horizon. Two in one week!

“Well, in that case, I should be delighted to accompany you to the opera tonight, Sean.”

Or
should
I
call
you
Richard
…