From Notting Hill with Love Actually

by Ali McNamara

  “It all sounds…lovely.”

  I looked skeptically at Sean, but he wasn’t being sarcastic for once. He was genuinely trying to say something that wouldn’t offend me.

  “It is actually—it’s very romantic. But I don’t suppose Ronan Keating is your cup of tea really, is he?”

  Sean wrinkled his nose. “Not really, no. But I’ve heard him singing that song before, if that helps?”

  “Well, that’s a start.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Our eyes met in the same way they had over the dining table earlier.

  “About the wedding, Sean…”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, holding his hand up. “I told you, you don’t have to come.”

  “No, I do,” I insisted. “Your sister would be so disappointed if I didn’t go. She’s going to so much trouble to help me—I can’t let her down now.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re absolutely right,” Sean said keenly, resting his hand on the back of the bench. “We really should go through with this weekend for Ursula, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, smiling at him now. “Let’s put our own feelings aside. We’ll go to this wedding together, simply to keep your sister happy. What other reason would there be for us to go all the way to Glasgow together?”

  For a moment Sean was silent. “No other reason, Scarlett,” he said eventually, shaking his head. “No other reason whatsoever.”

  Seven

  We decided to travel up to Glasgow by train. We could have flown; Sean seemed quite happy to pay for tickets with whatever airline had the best last-minute flights available. Unlike David, who never booked anything last minute, because in his opinion there was always money to be saved “with a little forward thinking.”

  But when Ursula was sorting everything out for us and gave me the choice, I opted to travel by rail. I did think about it for a while—flying would have been so much quicker, and really the less time I had to spend with Sean the better. But I could see another movie opportunity in traveling this way, and I didn’t want to miss out on any chances to add to my dossier of proof.

  We arrived early at King’s Cross station on Friday lunchtime, and so had plenty of time to kill before our train arrived.

  “Shall we get a coffee?” Sean asked.

  “Yes, let’s,” I said eagerly, pleased he was making this so easy for me.

  We walked through the station toward the concourse area of shops and cafes, me dragging my case and Sean carrying a small holdall in his hand and a folded garment bag over his shoulder.

  “Aren’t you going to try and go through there?” Sean asked, grinning, as he nodded toward a wall. Two children were having their photo taken underneath a sign that said Platform 9¾. “Then you’d be able to catch the train to Hogwarts, and you’d have another movie to cross off your list.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” I said, pulling a face. “Anyway, how’d you know that’s in Harry Potter if you never watch films?”

  “I think you’ll find it was in the book,” Sean said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Oh right, yes, of course it was.” I was embarrassed. I didn’t want Sean to think I was one of those people who only know the movie version of a story. But then again, why should I care what Sean thought?

  We came to a stand selling hot drinks. It was hardly the refreshment room at Ketchworth station, but it would have to do.

  “A coffee, please—black no sugar,” Sean said to the vendor.

  The young man who grunted a reply—which I think was inquiring whether Sean wanted a lid—was hardly Myrtle Bagot, or even Beryl. I sighed wistfully as I remembered Brief Encounter.

  “What would you like, Scarlett?” Sean asked. “Hey, Scarlett?” he asked again when I didn’t respond. “Are you with us? Would you like a drink or not?”

  “What? Oh sorry. Er, I’ll have a tea, please, milk no sugar.” I began to blink hard.

  Sean looked at me and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he paid for the drinks. “Have you got a nervous twitch or something?”

  “No, I think I’ve got something in my eye.” I blinked even harder and it occurred to me I could get two movie scenes for the price of one here if Sean responded accordingly. The Holiday contained a similar scene between Kate Winslet and Jack Black.

  “Cheers,” Sean said to the vendor as he lifted the hot cups from the counter. “What do you want to do, Scarlett—go to the ladies’ and take a look at it? I think it’s just over there, but you’ll need 30 pence to get in. Have you got change?”

  “No.” I blinked. “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me see if I have, then. Just hold these,” he said, passing me the drinks.

  “Can’t you take a look?” I asked in frustration. I was standing in the middle of King’s Cross station, holding two steaming polystyrene cups and winking madly at everyone that passed by. One man even winked back. “I think it might be a piece of grit.”

  “I could, but I don’t have my glasses on just now,” Sean said, still rooting about in his pockets for change.

  “What glasses? I’ve never seen you wearing glasses before.”

  “I only need them for close stuff. I can look into your eye if you want me to, but I can’t guarantee I’ll see anything as small as a piece of grit.” He began to rummage in his jacket pocket.

  “Oh, just forget it,” I said huffily. I handed him back his coffee. “The moment’s passed now anyway. I…I mean the grit seems to have gone.”

  I opened my tea and took a large gulp. It was hot and burned the back of my throat, but I wasn’t going to let on. “Looks like our train is here at last,” I said, glancing up at the ever-changing information board. “We’d better go.”

  Sean followed me with a puzzled expression on his face, as I stomped off in the direction of the platform. We loaded our luggage and ourselves onto the right train, and then looked for our seats. They were facing each other over a table—and after a quick discussion about who would travel forward and who would travel back, we sat down.

  I looked out of the window at the people hurrying along the platform toward their carriages and wondered what their reason was for catching the same train as us.

  I bet none of them are in the same situation as I am right now, I thought as I silently watched them.

  I glanced at Sean, but he wasn’t looking out of the window; he was looking at me.

  “What is it?” I asked when he didn’t immediately avert his gaze.

  “I was just wondering what all that was about back there on the platform—with your eye?”

  “It was nothing, I told you it’s gone now.”

  “Was it ever there in the first place?”

  I sighed. Oh, what was the point in lying to him?

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “Then why would you say…wait a minute, was that charade something from a movie by any chance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I should have known—which one?”

  “Brief Encounter, if you must know.”

  “Isn’t that the one about aliens?”

  I laughed. “No! That’s Close Encounters. Brief Encounter is a wonderful love story, set mainly in a railway station. It stars Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard.”

  “Oh, I see.” Sean thought for a moment. “And let me guess—this Celia gets something stuck in her eye, and good old Trevor gets it out, right? And then they fall madly in love?”

  I tried hard to suppress a smile. “There’s a bit more to it than that, but yeah, that’s the general gist.”

  “Sounds riveting.”

  “It is, actually. It’s a wonderful piece of black and white film-making—it’s based on a play by Noel Coward.”

  “Quite the little film buff, aren’t we?” Sean said, grinning at me. “It doesn’t surprise me though—about Noel Coward, I mean. Most good films were originally books or plays. Either that or they’re based on true stories or real events.”


  I thought about this for a moment. “Some are, I suppose—but not all.”

  “Go on then, name some well-known, quality films—you know, the type that have won Oscars—that haven’t been based on one of those things.”

  I thought again. But annoyingly he was right—every film that immediately sprang to mind fell into one of those categories.

  “There are some exceptions, obviously,” Sean continued. “But the ones you always think of first are all just copies. Although I’m sure they would rather be known as a homage to someone else’s work.”

  I smiled wryly.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked, grinning.

  “Well, I can’t think of any right now—so for the minute, yes, I guess you are.”

  We sat in silence for a moment as the train began to pull out of the station. As it started to pick up speed and the tower blocks of London turned into the hedges and fields of the country, Sean spoke again.

  “If we’re going to be spending over six hours on a train together, Scarlett, we may as well get to know each other a bit better. So you first, why don’t you start by telling me the story of your life?”

  I turned my gaze back from the window, thrown off course by his innocent question. Without realizing it, Sean had given me another movie moment for my list. In When Harry Met Sally, Harry asks Sally virtually the same thing when they’re traveling to New York together at the beginning of the film.

  “Er…there’s not that much to tell really. I’m almost twenty-four years old. I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, and I work in the family business.”

  “Which is?”

  Here we go, I thought—more fodder for ridicule.

  “We manufacture and sell popcorn machines.”

  Sean laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?” I demanded.

  “First,” Sean said, trying to straighten his face, “what finer career for you, a lover of the cinema, than providing the staple diet of any moviegoer. And second, you live in Stratford-upon-Avon—the home of the Bard, recognized as one of the greatest playwrights ever. And you choose to worship movies?”

  “That’s right,” I said defiantly, folding my arms. “And what’s wrong with that?”

  Sean shook his head. “Nothing—nothing at all. Look, I don’t want to argue with you, Scarlett, I’ll behave.” He sat back in his seat, a childlike, innocent expression imposed on his face—which any moment looked like it might break out into a mischievous grin.

  “What about you then?” I asked, fighting hard my inclination to grin back at him. “Let’s hear all about your wonderful life.”

  “Well, I’m no James Stewart.” He grinned, trying to make a joke. “Get it—Wonderful Life?’

  I chose not to laugh at his poor attempt at a joke. “So you do know some films then?”

  “Maybe just a few.” Sean arranged himself in his seat so that his ankle rested up on his knee. “OK, let’s see, I’m twenty-six years old, I have a sister called Ursula, as you know. A father called Alfie—who to my absolute joy is the owner of a James Bond-themed pub in Glasgow, which he runs with my stepmother, Diana. Oh, and I quite boringly work for an investment company.”

  “And what do you invest in, property?”

  “No, companies.”

  “How?” I asked to be polite, even though I wasn’t really interested in what Sean did for a living.

  “Well, we help out companies that are having a few problems. We either invest heavily in them until they’re rebuilt and back on their feet again, or we just buy them out there and then.”

  “How do you make money out of that? Oh wait, I know. You buy them at a ridiculously low price because they’re struggling, then build them up and sell them on when they’re successful again.”

  “Something like that, yes. That’s very astute of you, Scarlett. I’m impressed.”

  “Richard Gere,” I said knowingly.

  “What?”

  “If you owned this investment company, you would be like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman.”

  Sean looked blank.

  “In Pretty Woman,” I explained, “Richard Gere plays this bastard businessman, who swoops in and buys businesses when they’re at rock bottom and just about to go bust. Then he sells them on at a later date when they’re successfully making money again, for a huge profit.”

  “Sensible man.” Sean nodded approvingly.

  “So, if you were the owner of this company, then you’d be just like him.”

  “A bastard, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I am.”

  I looked at Sean to see if he was winding me up again, but his face was completely serious. “What do you mean—you own this company, or you’re actually just a bastard?”

  “What do you think, Scarlett?” Sean placed his elbows on the table, rested his head on his interlinked hands, and looked at me with a challenging expression.

  As I sat back in my seat and tried to consider this, I was much too aware of Sean’s pale blue eyes scrutinizing my every move. “Well,” I said eventually, meeting his gaze, “you do live in a very affluent part of Notting Hill, so I guess you might be telling me the truth.”

  Sean grinned and leaned back. “I’ll take that as a compliment—I think.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me that to begin with?” I demanded. “Why the pretense?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t the boss, just that I worked for the company. And I do work for them. I work damned hard in fact.”

  “So how come you’re sitting here with me then and not out somewhere arranging mega-bucks deals?”

  Sean shrugged. “Perks of being the boss, I guess.”

  “Lucky you.”

  A porter came through the carriage trundling a food trolley, so we bought some lunch for the journey and settled back to eat it.

  “So, your family isn’t too keen on this movie obsession?” Sean asked, tucking into his sandwich.

  “OK, stop right there,” I said, putting down my baguette before I’d even had the chance to open it. “Unless you want me to get off at the next station, you can stop calling it that right now.”

  “Easy,” Sean said, raising his eyebrows. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

  He did that a lot, I noticed—raised his eyebrows. In fact his whole face was very expressive. The eyebrows in question were the exact same shade of sandy blond as his permanently tousled hair. He didn’t look much like the owner of a large successful business as he sat there tucking into an egg sandwich in his blue jeans and gray T-shirt—he’d also lost his look of Jude Law now too. No, the person sitting opposite me definitely bore more than a passing resemblance to Ewan McGregor.

  “All right, how about we use some business terminology?” Sean thought for a moment. “You’re having a difference of opinion and are unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion where all parties are in agreement that the subject is in fact in breach of her contract to remain a rational and normal human being? There, is that better?”

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Yes, that sounds much more like it, thank you.”

  “So, Scarlett,” Sean asked, brushing some stray crumbs from his shirt, “how on earth did you manage to get your family to let you come away for a month? I mean I know about Maddie and the house, but your father and your fiancé too?”

  “You’re not the only one that can swing a deal when you want,” I said, trying to shake Ewan McGregor from my brain at the same time as I shook open my baguette. I carefully picked out the pieces of cucumber they always insisted on putting in with tuna. “I have my ways when I want to.”

  “Oh, I bet you do, Scarlett,” Sean said, one eyebrow raised again as he watched me. “I bet you do.”

  Eight

  We arrived in Glasgow Central station at about teatime, where we duly queued for a taxi and made our way to the hotel Ursula had booked for us.

  Basically Ursula had organized the whole trip. She’d rung her father the nig
ht of the dinner party and told him what was happening. The next morning, while I’d gone along to Oscar’s boutique on the King’s Road to choose an outfit for the wedding, she had booked us two return train tickets for later that same morning and hotel rooms for the next two nights.

  Without Ursula we definitely wouldn’t have got to Glasgow. She was one of life’s organizers (and also a hopeless romantic, she’d admitted to me) and reveled in providing us with everything we needed for the weekend ahead. Although Sean had insisted he should choose and pay for our hotel—in fact he had offered to pay for our whole trip—I, of course, declined his kind, yet surprising, offer, and insisted I at least paid for my own train ticket.

  The Radisson in central Glasgow was a beautiful, modern hotel. I was impressed—I hadn’t really thought about where we’d stay. I’d assumed maybe a Travelodge, or a similar sort of hotel—that’s where David and I usually ended up. But Sean didn’t seem the type to stay in hotels where the adjacent restaurant had laminated menus or an all-day breakfast.

  “Shall I meet you back down here in, say, an hour?” Sean asked after we’d checked in. “Is that long enough for you to unpack and do whatever you need to?”

  “Yes, that’s plenty of time,” I said, a little bit distracted by the hotel manager, who was currently dealing with a problem behind the check-in desk. He looked exactly like Barney, the hotel manager from the Regent Beverly Wilshire in Pretty Woman. Immaculately dressed, gray hair, pointy little gray beard…

  “I know an excellent restaurant just down the road from here,” Sean continued. “Would you like to go there for dinner this evening?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my attention away from “Barney” and suddenly felt shy. Sean made it sound like we were going on a date. “I’m sure that would be lovely.”

  “Good. I’ll catch up with you later then.” He smiled at me, and for the first time since we’d met, it was not a smile of mockery or laughter. It was a genuine smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.