From Notting Hill with Love...Actually (30 page)

Even though my head was still spinning with thoughts and conversations when finally I climbed the stairs to bed that night, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders now that Dad knew about me finding Mum. But when I arrived at the bedroom door and saw David sleeping in my bed, I felt the same weight descending upon me again.

The purpose of taking some time away on my own hadn’t originally been to find out whether I wanted to marry David or not; purely to put my mind at rest that I was doing the right thing. But now after everything that had happened, I found myself standing at the bedroom door wondering just that.

To anyone who didn’t know David well, he did appear to be quite staid and reserved, and he didn’t give too much away. But I knew that deep down he could be very passionate and loving once you got to know him. And that was the David I loved—the one he didn’t show to anyone but me.

But since Sean had come into my life it had made me question whether what I felt for David was enough. Sean was the complete opposite to David, his personality was…well, how would you describe him? My mother had portrayed him just now as a bit of a cad…a smooth talker…a ladies’ man, even. He wasn’t really that. She’d also said he was an amusing and intelligent young man—fun to be with at first, but likely to let you down in the long run. Even Dad had said he used his head to get what he wanted, not only in business, but in his personal life too.

I screwed my forehead up; those descriptions sounded familiar, particularly Mum’s…where had I heard them before?

Then I realized. That’s just how I’d described the characters of Mark Darcy and Daniel Cleaver from the
Bridget
Jones
movies to Sean earlier today—almost word for word!

I’d told Sean then that I’d preferred Colin Firth’s character of Mark Darcy to Hugh Grant’s Daniel Cleaver. Is that the way I really felt about David and Sean?

Oh God, this is just getting ridiculous. Didn’t I just say this evening how I wasn’t going to try living my life like a movie anymore? And now here I am only an hour or so later doing it again already.

I entered the bedroom and tiptoed in the dark across to the bathroom.
Too much has happened tonight for me to even be thinking about all this right now, let alone to be making any decisions.

When I had finished in the bathroom, I returned to the darkened bedroom again. I tried crossing the room as silently as I could; the last thing I needed was for David to wake up and want to start yet another discussion with me—especially about our relationship. I think I’d done enough soul-searching for one night.

I stubbed my toe against the chair in front of the dressing table and swore under my breath, so I reached out and fumbled for the lamp that sat on top of the table. A soft glow filled the room. David stirred in the bed and I watched him for a moment, praying he wouldn’t wake up. But he didn’t—he just turned over and carried on snoring.

Normally if I’d heard David snoring I’d have been immediately thinking of ways of getting him to stop before I tried to get some sleep myself. But not tonight; in fact, I hardly heard him—I just stared at the offending chair that had attacked my innocent toe.

On the seat of the chair lay David’s clothes for the next morning. Not his suit and shirt; they hung on wooden hangers against the outside of the wardrobe. The items that were causing me so much interest were his socks neatly laid out in a pair, and more importantly, his underpants. They sat folded just as neatly on top of the seat too—just like Mark Darcy’s underwear had done when he’d been in Bridget Jones’s flat…

I looked at the boxer shorts and then I looked at David.

And suddenly everything that had been a jumbled mess in my head up until now became crystal clear.

What Dad had said to me in the lounge.

What Mum had said on the phone.

It all made sense now.

Dad had been through so much to raise me on his own. He’d made so many sacrifices for me, and now it was my turn to repay him.

Mum had spent too many miserable years all alone, just because she chased some wild, romantic dream that didn’t exist with the wrong type of man. I didn’t want to end up like that.

Now it was my turn to do the right thing. Dad said I’d know what to do when the time came, and now this must be the time. He was wrong about one thing, though; it
was
something to do with the movies that was helping me make my choice.

“Well, if Mark was good enough for Bridget,” I whispered quietly into the darkness.

Vivaldi could be heard filtering from the church as Maddie made the final adjustments to my train and Dad held out his arm to me.

That’s funny, I thought, as we entered the church and began to walk down the aisle. I don’t remember my dress having a train when I was fitted for it.

In fact, I’m sure this wasn’t the dress I’d chosen with Oscar and Ursula for my big day at all. This dress was a
very
fitted gown in raw ivory silk. I could hardly breathe as I tried to waddle down the aisle with a smile fixed rigidly to my face.

But I couldn’t stop to complain because my father was whisking me toward the altar at such a speed that I could hardly feel my feet on the ground below—was he that desperate to get rid of me?

We arrived in front of the vicar, who looked suspiciously like Rowan Atkinson, and Dad passed my hand quickly to David. At least that part was right.

The vicar rushed through the preliminaries swiftly, and it was soon time for the first hymn. I looked about me for a hymn sheet, but there didn’t seem to be one.

“What are you looking for?” David hissed at me. “Surely you of all people should know the words to this one?”

A band appeared out of nowhere among the congregation and part of me wanted to shout, “Hey, that’s just like in
Love
Actually
!” But then I remembered I wasn’t counting movie scenes anymore—so I just stood and silently listened as they began to play the first few bars of…no, it couldn’t be, could it?

But it was—and then suddenly up in the pulpit there he was, wearing the biggest pair of feathery white wings I’d ever seen: Robbie Williams, and he was singing “Angels.”

I wanted to rub my eyes—but I daren’t in case my mascara smudged. Robbie Williams—at my wedding—singing “Angels”? This couldn’t be happening. I looked around at everyone, but they all seemed completely unmoved by the whole thing, as if Robbie Williams singing at a wedding was just an everyday occurrence. I decided to ignore them and enjoy it; after all, this
was
Robbie. But when “Angels” quickly turned into “Let Me Entertain You,” and then “Rock DJ,” the romantic ambience was soon lost.

Robbie finished singing and disappeared back down into the pulpit as quickly as he’d appeared. I began to applaud loudly but was the only one who did. Embarrassed, I quickly hid my hands behind my bouquet.

What was wrong with these people?

The vicar resumed the service and soon came to the part about anyone having any reasons why David and I shouldn’t get married. I secretly hoped I might hear Sean’s voice floating across the church pews toward me. But sadly I heard nothing, only a deathly silence.

Then there was a polite cough at the back of the church, and all heads swiveled round to look at the offender.

“Does somebody have something to say?” the vicar asked, seeming worried. I looked at him closely—he looked even more like Rowan Atkinson now than he had done at the start of the service.

“Yes, I have a reason,” I heard a familiar voice call from the back of the church.

“Please, stand up,” the vicar requested, squinting into the distance.

I nearly dropped my bouquet when Hugh Grant stood up. What the hell was he doing here?

“You have an objection, sir?” the vicar inquired.

“Yes,” Hugh said in his clipped English voice. “I do.”

Wasn’t I supposed to say that?

“Perhaps you’d like to share it with us?” the vicar asked.

I looked at Hugh in amazement—what on earth was he going to say?

“I suspect the bride is having doubts,” he said. “I suspect that the bride does, in fact, love someone else.”

The congregation’s heads swiveled in unison away from Hugh and back toward me again.

I looked at Father Rowan. “Do you?” he asked me sternly. “Do you love someone else, Scarlett?”

My breathing was quick and shallow, and I could feel my chest rising up and down as I tried desperately to get enough air into my lungs to speak. I turned frantically to David. But David had vanished and in his place, and his morning suit, was Colin Firth.

“Well, do you, Scarlett?” Colin now demanded of me. “Do you love someone more than you love me?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. I looked desperately into the congregation for help, but all my family and friends had disappeared now too. Replacing them on the groom’s side of church were Darth Vader and the cast of
Star
Wars
, and on my side the pews were now filled with Mickey Mouse and his Disneyland friends.

I searched frantically for my father. He would help me; Dad was always there for me when I needed him. But in the place where my father had been standing until a few minutes ago was Harrison Ford dressed as Indiana Jones complete with fedora and whip.

I turned to Colin again. He just stared at me; like everyone else in the church, he was awaiting my answer.

“Yes!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “Yes, I do love someone else! I do…I do…I do!”

I awoke with a start and sat up in bed. Still breathing heavily, I wiped away the sweat that was pouring down my face.

“Scarlett,” my mother said, rushing into the room in her nightdress. “Are you all right?”

My breathing was beginning to calm down now. “Yes…I had a bad dream, that’s all.”

My mother sat down on the side of my bed. “Was it about the wedding? Only you were shouting out ‘I do’ at the top of your voice.”

“Yes, it was about the wedding. Things were…well, they weren’t going too well at the service.” Apart from Robbie being there, of course—of all the dreams I’d had about Robbie Williams, I couldn’t say I ever recalled being in a church with him before.

“That’s quite understandable the night before your wedding. I’m sure most brides have the odd strange dream about their big day.”

Strange? Nightmarish, more like.

“Well,” my mother said, looking at her watch. “There’s not much point in going back to sleep now, is there? Not now your big day is here at last.” She jumped up to the window and flung back the curtains. Sunlight streamed through the glass and down onto my bed. “And it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day!”

I yawned and rubbed my eyes now mascara wasn’t an issue. “After that dream, as long as no more instances of movies where the wedding goes disastrously wrong crop up during the service, I’ll be quite happy, whatever the weather does.”

Mum came over to the bed again. “Weddings don’t always go wrong in the movies, Scarlett.”

“Oh, come on, Mum,” I said, holding up my hand ready to count on my fingers, “there’s loads. Apart from
Four
Weddings
, there’s
The
Runaway
Bride
,
The
Wedding
Planner
,
Bride
Wars
, er…” I tried to think of one from my mother’s era. “What about
The
Graduate
when Dustin Hoffman runs off with Anne Bancroft’s daughter at the end? It’s hardly a recipe for success, is it?”

“Scarlett,” Mum said, taking my hand. “Like you said, they
are
just movies. This is
real
life and everything is going to turn out just fine at your wedding. Trust me.”

I sighed and gave her a half-smile. “I suppose just as long as I don’t look like the Bride of Frankenstein when I walk down the aisle later this morning, there is half a chance it could just be a perfect day for love—actually.”

Yes, it was finally my wedding day—the day every girl dreams of.

As I began the long process of trying to transform myself into the perfect-looking, radiant bride I had plenty of time, in between manicures and hairdressing appointments, to ponder what had happened over the last few weeks to lead me to this most important of days.

After the disastrous dinner party that never was, things had been decidedly calm in Lansdowne Road.

Belinda and Harry had decided to return a few days earlier than expected from Dubai, so I’d had to vacate their home sooner than I’d originally planned. They’d been extremely grateful to me for looking after their house so well, and as Belinda said, “putting up with our neighbors.” And they had brought me several expensive gifts back from their travels, as a thank-you.

The day I left Notting Hill, Oscar and Ursula had been the only two people there to see me off. Sean was still in Dublin on business, so I hadn’t actually seen him to say good-bye to properly.

“Sean will be so upset he’s missed you,” Ursula said, almost in tears as I loaded my final bits and pieces into the waiting black cab.

The taxi was a luxury, but today was stressful enough as it was without having to battle to the train station on the hot and crowded underground system.

“Darling, you must send me photos of you in your wedding dress,” Oscar said, hugging me. He kissed me on each cheek. “You’re going to look absolutely divine—I just know it.”

“I can do better than that,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out two envelopes. “Here—invites to the wedding.” I’d had to fight tooth and nail with Cruella to get these invites for Oscar and Ursula because, apparently, “There isn’t any more room to squeeze in two miniature chihuahuas, let alone two more guests,” I’d been told when I’d asked for two of my friends to be included on the guest list. But fight is what I’d done, and for once I’d come out victorious.

“Ooh we’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Oscar?” Ursula said, eagerly opening her envelope. “What about Sean—have you put one through his letterbox?”

“Er…no. I think he’s had enough of weddings just lately. He probably wouldn’t want to go to another one.”

Oscar glanced at me. “And especially not
your
wedding,” he said, exchanging a knowing look with Ursula.

“No,” she replied. “Perhaps not.”

I pretended not to have noticed and gave them both one last hug. Then I bent down and gave Delilah a quick stroke before climbing into the back of my taxi and driving away from Lansdowne Road and Notting Hill forever.

***

And now, as I held on tightly to my father’s arm—who, thankfully, looked nothing like Harrison Ford today in his steel-gray morning suit and burgundy cravat—and we walked together down the seemingly never-ending aisle of the vast church my wedding was being held in, I saw Oscar and Ursula again for the first time since that day.

You couldn’t really miss them, because Oscar was wearing a startling lime-green shirt teamed with an electric-blue suit. And Ursula, a red and white polka dot 1950s dress with a huge, red, wide-brimmed floppy hat.

They waved at me as I passed by, and Ursula mouthed “good luck.”

Unlike last night when I’d “walked down the aisle,” today I was actually wearing the same dress I’d picked out in the wedding shop with the two of them that day. The white silk embroidered bodice, although fitted, wasn’t so tight that I couldn’t breathe, and the yards upon yards of white tulle that made up my skirts floated airily around my legs, allowing me to move freely.

I wouldn’t have wanted to run a marathon in this dress, or these four-inch stiletto heels for that matter. Or even the diamante headdress that was balancing precariously on top of my curled and tonged hair. But for moving around at the sedate speed I was going to be required to move at today, they’d do just fine.

When we finally arrived in front of the minister and the service began, I watched carefully while my father “gave my hand away” to David. He then went and sat down next to my mother, and for a split second a look passed between them that proved to me they had once genuinely cared about each other very much, and I was pleased that my wedding had formed, even for just that brief moment, a small link between them again as they shared their pride.

The vicar, who I was relieved to see looked nothing like Rowan Atkinson, continued with the service in a clear and confident manner, and everything seemed to be going just fine.

I can’t say I felt blissfully euphoric that this was my wedding day and I was finally standing here opposite David about to take my vows. After all the dramas of a few weeks ago, I just felt glad to get it over with at last and to be able to get on with living a normal life once more.

Yes, this feeling of stillness inside me must be how normal people felt. It wasn’t an emptiness at all like I’d worried it was before I came to London. No, today this was simply a feeling of calm. There was no need for the exhilaration and excitement I’d felt in my month living in London…no need at all.

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together,” I heard the vicar saying, “let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

As there always is at weddings, there was a deathly silence in the church as the congregation waited (hopefully?) to see if anyone did have any objections to our marriage.

When it appeared that no one was going to burst through the doors, declare their undying love for me, and whisk me off on a galloping white charger, the vicar opened his mouth to continue.

“Wait,” a voice said, breaking the silence. Embarrassingly, I quickly realized it was mine. I was sure I could hear something outside, and if he started prattling on again I wouldn’t be able to hear it properly. “Wait, please. Just a moment—listen.”

Everyone fell silent for a second time. And there it was again, I hadn’t imagined it—the definite sound of someone singing in the church grounds. And it was a song and a singer I recognized immediately.

I knew then that I had to go and find out.

I knew that I couldn’t just carry on with the ceremony without checking first.

What if it wasn’t just a coincidence? What if that song meant what I thought it meant?

I turned and looked at David.

My head was saying, “This is your wedding day, Scarlett…”

But my heart was saying…

“David, I’ll be right back.”

“Scarlett, you can’t just run off in the middle of our wedding ceremony!”

But I was already halfway down the aisle.

“Get out of my way,” I instructed Cruella, as she tried to bar my exit through the doors.

“Miss O’Brien, I really don’t think you should go out there. I’ve managed to stop them from coming in. But it’s nothing, really. Please just continue with the service.”

“Get out of my way now—or I
will
move you myself!”

She hastily stepped aside.

“And if you want to retain your reputation as London’s top wedding planner, then I suggest you try and stop them from coming outside for a few minutes,” I said, as I saw David, Maddie, and my parents all hurrying down the aisle behind me.

I ran the last few steps down the aisle and tugged open the heavy wooden doors at the end, and as I did so the music immediately got louder, because sitting alone on the steps of the church was a CD player. And it was playing a song that was instantly familiar: “When You Say Nothing At All” by Ronan Keating.

It was the theme tune to
Notting
Hill
, the song that had been playing while Hugh and Julia sat on the bench in the movie.

The song Sean and I had discussed while we sat in the park together the first night we met…

While the song was playing I became aware of two pairs of eyes watching me. The eyes were trying to disguise themselves behind two pairs of dark glasses, and they in turn appeared to belong to two bodies that thought they were hiding themselves behind two gravestones.

“Do you know something about this, by any chance?” I called, pointing to the CD player as I carried it to the bottom of the church steps.

The two pairs of eyes turned to each other, then one of the heads nodded, and slowly two bodies emerged from behind the graves. Then walking across the churchyard toward me came two men who wore black suits and black hats to match their dark glasses.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the shorter of the two men said, removing his hat from his head in greeting. “My name is Dermot, and this is my brother Finlay.”

Finlay gave a small bow of his head.

“And can I assume that you are the lady in question?”

I stared blankly at them.

“Scarlett?” he prompted.

“Yes, that’s me—but who are you, and what’s going on?”

“All in good time, miss,” Dermot said. “First we must apologize to you that we’ve turned up here today in this manner.” He smiled ruefully and straightened his tie. “And please also send my apologies to the lady inside who tried to bar our entrance for the slight, shall we say, altercation that took place a few minutes ago.”

“Who? You mean Cruella? Tall woman, silver hair in a bun?”

Dermot nodded. “That’s her.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it—I’m sure she can handle herself.”

“She certainly can. Finlay was unconscious for over a minute.”

I looked at Finlay, who nodded his agreement.

“Oh, er…I’m really sorry about that, Finlay.”

Just then the church doors burst open and, unable to be contained any longer, David, Maddie, and my parents burst forth from the church and poured down the steps behind me.

“What on earth is going on, Scarlett?” David demanded, looking with disdain at Dermot and Finlay.

“
That
, David, is just what I’m trying to find out,” I said impatiently. “Dermot, please continue. I’m sure everyone will be quiet and listen—
won’t you?
”

Everyone nodded silently. I don’t think I looked like I was in a mood to be messed with.

Dermot glanced nervously at his new audience.

“Anyway, as I was saying before, I must apologize not only for turning up here today, but also for being so late.”

“Late—by how long?”

“About sixteen hours, give or take a couple.”

“Sixteen hours! I don’t understand.”

Dermot cleared his throat and looked a bit embarrassed.

“We should have been at your house yesterday evening. I say we…Finlay and his missus should have. You see, it was them that was booked to do the drop.”

“The drop?” I asked, mystified.

“Yeah, that’s what we in the trade call the booking—see?” He lifted his dark glasses momentarily to wink at me, then saw David scowling at him and he hurriedly continued. “Finlay and his missus, well, they was booked to turn up dressed as Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler from
Gone
with
the
Wind
. Finlay does a stunning Rhett Butler, don’t you, Fin?”

Finlay blushed under his black hat.

“But due to unforeseen circumstances—namely the lovely Scarlett having to be rushed into hospital yesterday with suspected appendicitis—Rhett and Scarlett were not able to make an appearance at the appropriate time or place yesterday.”

“Oh dear,” I said, addressing my remark to Finlay, although I didn’t for one moment expect him to reply, as Dermot seemed to do all the talking in this relationship. “I do hope your wife is all right.”

Finlay simply nodded while Dermot answered for him. “She’s fine—we just got her to the hospital in time, apparently. But it means we’re a Scarlett O’Hara down for a few weeks now, which is going to mean a lot of canceled bookings…and a lot of lost revenue…”

He looked me up and down for a moment. “I don’t suppose
you’d
be interested in joining our books for a while, would you? You’ve quite a look of the Miss Scarlett about you and you do suit a fuller dress.”

I smoothed my tulle skirts down. “That’s very kind of you. But no, I don’t think so. And what books would they be anyway? What is all this?”

“We,” Dermot said proudly, producing a business card from his pocket, “provide the highest quality, top notch, can’t-be-matched message delivery service in London. We currently have over thirty different options of message delivery service available to our very discerning and dignified clientele. We never fail to deliver; our messages
always
get through.”

“Oh,” I said, looking at the business card Dermot had thrust into my hand. “I get it. You’re like a singing telegram service.”

Dermot and Finlay recoiled in horror.

“Madam,” Dermot said, lifting his hat again and placing it over his heart. “We pride ourselves on being much more than just…”

Finlay patted him encouragingly on the back as he struggled to repeat my damaging words.

“More than just a…a…telegram service!” he almost spat out. “And I can assure you we definitely
never
sing!”

“Oh my God, you don’t strip, do you?” I asked in dismay, looking from one to the other of them. Finlay was tall and gangly with black, slightly greasy-looking curly hair, and Dermot was short and fat without enough hair left on his head to tell what it had once been. Neither of them were exactly oil paintings.

“No, miss, we certainly do not! We,” Dermot said, squaring his shoulders, “are London’s only Moviegrams—we deliver messages dressed as characters from the silver screen. And as I said before, we have 100 percent success record at getting our messages delivered. Which is why,” he said, glancing at Cruella, who had now appeared outside the church, “we would not be thwarted by a minor setback such as a Chanel-wearing Rottweiler when it came to delivering this message to you before its deadline expired at midday.”

“Oh, right,” I said, relieved Dermot and Finlay weren’t going to strip down to their boxers, or even further, in front of me in the churchyard. “Now I get it. Oh,” I said again as something else just occurred to me. “You’re dressed as the Blues Brothers today—right?”

“Yes,” Dermot said, looking pleased I’d guessed. “We had to substitute costumes at the last minute because of the circumstances I mentioned before—and since we couldn’t get hold of Mr. Bond, we had to choose something ourselves. The Blues Brothers are one of our favorites, see—”