From Notting Hill with Love Actually

by Ali McNamara

  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.”

  Thirty-Nine

  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 realize
d 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 app
eared 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—”

  I cut him off before he went any further. “Wait a moment; you said Mr. Bond—is that Sean Bond you’re talking about? Is he the one who booked you to do this?”

  “Er, yes, he is—and actually we’d best continue with the task in hand; we’re starting to drift a bit off course.” He squared his shoulders and adjusted his tie in preparation. Then he gave me a nervous smile.

  I simply stared at him. I just wanted them to get on with this, now I knew Sean was at the bottom of it. What did it all mean? I glanced at David; his face was thunderously dark.

  I noticed that Oscar, Ursula, and some of the other guests had joined us outside to see what all the fuss was about.

  Dermot rummaged in his pocket for a piece of paper, then took a quick look at it before stuffing it back in his pocket again.

  “So, now we need to ask you how you feel?”

  “What?”

  “How…do…you…feel?” Dermot repeated slowly as if I was hard of hearing.

  “At…this…very…moment?” I repeated in the same tone of voice. “Extremely confused.”

  “Not angry?”

  “No.”

  “Not cross.”

  “No.”

  “Irritated?”

  “No—but I’m going to be in a moment if you don’t get on with it!”

  “Good, then we can give you this. Finlay?” Dermot held out his hand and Finlay pulled a red envelope from his jacket and passed it to him. With a flourish Dermot passed it to me. “Mr. Bond said if you reacted in the right way to the song then we were to give you this.”