From Notting Hill with Love Actually

by Ali McNamara

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, turning to him.

  “But your family don’t understand you? She said your father isn’t keen on the cinema, but that your mother loved it just like you.”

  I froze on hearing my mother mentioned. I’d spent so many years not talking about her that it now seemed very odd for a relative stranger to want to start discussing her with me.

  “Alfie,” Diana said softly. “Maybe Scarlett doesn’t want to talk about her.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind. Really.”

  I told them what I knew of my mother and her love of the movies. While I was doing this Sean returned with the drinks. Then for some unknown reason—as I never usually talked about it to anyone—I told them about her leaving when I was only a baby.

  “Oh my dear, how awful for you,” Diana said sympathetically. “But your father sounds a fine chap from what you’ve told us.”

  “Yeah, Dad is great. I never missed out on anything when I was growing up. Well, I didn’t feel like I did anyway.”

  “What was your mother’s name?” Alfie asked.

  “Rosemary. But I think she called herself Rosie a lot of the time.”

  Alfie screwed his forehead up. “Diana, do you remember that barmaid who used to work for us? She was mad about the cinema too. You used to go out together and see films occasionally when I was working in the bar and couldn’t go with you. Wasn’t her name Rosie?”

  Diana thought for a moment. “Yes, I think you’re right, it was. But, Alfie, you’re talking ten, maybe twelve years ago now.”

  “What did she look like?” I asked eagerly. It couldn’t be her, surely—there must be thousands of Rosies who liked the cinema.

  Diana thought again. “Er, she had lightish-colored hair, I seem to remember, although I think she may have dyed it. But it definitely wasn’t black like yours, Scarlett. And if I remember rightly, light eyes too—blue, maybe green?”

  “I may get my hair from my father. But his eyes are brown, so…”

  We began to discuss excitedly the possibility that this woman could be my mother.

  Sean, who had been sitting quietly at the table until this point, interrupted us. “I hate to be the voice of doom among all this hope. But don’t you think you might be getting a little carried away here?”

  We all stopped talking and stared at him.

  He glanced between the three of us, and his gaze rested on Diana. “You said you hadn’t seen this woman for some time. Perhaps your memory might be a little clouded.”

  Diana considered Sean for a moment, her blue eyes blinking slowly. “Are you saying as I approach old age, Sean, that my mind is starting to go?” she inquired politely.

  “No, not at all, Diana,” Sean said hurriedly, his cheeks flushing a little. “I’m just saying the chances of it actually being her are millions to one.” Sean took a quick gulp of his drink, and his voice slowed to its usual calm collected pace again. “Quite simply you are all possibly letting your shared tendencies to romanticize things, as if they were on celluloid, shroud your better judgment.”

  “Ah, my son—the voice of reason,” Alfie said, leaning back in his chair and surveying Sean. “That is your mother talking.”

  “It’s nothing to do with Mum. I’m just being sensible. These are the facts: this all happened a decade ago; you’ve not seen the woman since and you have no idea where she is now. How is this helping Scarlett, by getting her hopes up that you may have met her mother many years ago? It’s not as if you know where she is now, is it?”

  I was in two minds as to how I felt about Sean at that very moment. I was mad at him for quashing our ideas with his common sense. But I was touched that he was worried about me getting hurt by all this talk of my mother.

  “London,” Diana said. “The last I knew of her, she went down to London to work. She met a chap up here who offered her a job in one of the upmarket boutiques on Bond Street. Rosie was always well dressed—she took care of herself, and people noticed.”

  “You don’t remember which one, do you?” I asked hopefully.

  Diana thought hard. “No, I’m so sorry, Scarlett, I don’t. But this is years ago, it doesn’t mean she’d still be there now.”

  “And even if she was,” Sean said, “it doesn’t mean this woman is actually Scarlett’s mother. We have no proof.”

  I opened up my bag, and pulled out the battered photo. “I know this is old,” I said, unfolding it carefully. “But did the Rosie you know look anything like the woman in this photo?”

  Diana took the photo gently from me, and she and Alfie both reached for their spectacle cases.

  It was Alfie who took his eyes from the photo first. He removed his glasses and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Scarlett, it’s difficult to tell—I can’t say I remember her all that well. Women change their appearance so much from week to week, let alone over several years. I really couldn’t say for sure.”

  “It’s OK, Alfie. It was worth a try.” I tried not to look too disappointed.

  Diana passed me back the photo and removed her glasses slowly. Then she placed her hand gently over mine before she spoke.

  “It’s her, Scarlett. It’s Rosie.”

  It was as if Diana was handing me a piece of the jigsaw I’d never been able to complete.

  I’d told Sean I believed everything happened for a reason. What if my reason for coming to Notting Hill was more than just to prove my family wrong about the movies? What if the reason I’d come here was to get the chance to find the final piece of my jigsaw, the something that was missing from my life—the chance to find my mother again?

  Eleven

  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 m
ade 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.”
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  “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.

  Twelve

  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.