From Notting Hill with Love Actually

by Ali McNamara

  “Wine OK?” Sean asked, returning. “Ah, I see you’ve been inspecting my library.”

  I jumped and turned away from the bookshelves. He held two empty wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other.

  “Yes, lovely thanks,” I said, quickly sitting down on one of the sofas, while Sean poured the wine. “So have you actually read all these books?”

  “Yep, every last one. Why?”

  “No reason, I just wondered.”

  “Wondered if they were just here for decoration, I bet. That would be like you having DVDs in your house that you haven’t watched, and you just keep them out on show to impress people.”

  Sean sat down next to me. “Anyway, before we get into another argument, let’s concentrate on your problem.”

  Which one? I thought. The fact that I’m deceiving my family by not telling them the true reason I’ve come to London for a month? The fact that the only person that can help me find my mother could be dead from flu by the end of the week? Or the fact that when you sit this close to me my stomach starts doing its Olympic gymnastics routine?

  “Hmm…” Sean looked deep in thought.

  I tried hard to think about Fenwick’s and Bill. But my mind kept overriding these thoughts, and chose instead to think about Sean and what it might be like to kiss him…His kisses would be firm and powerful—the sort that took your breath away. Not weak and wet, and leaving you wanting to rinse your mouth out with antiseptic.

  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.

  Fourteen

  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 m
e 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!”

  Fifteen

  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 pension
ers, 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.”