From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually

by Ali McNamara

  God, this can’t be the same as Disneyland Paris? I know I don’t feel the same way about Jamie as I felt about Sean back then, still feel about Sean now, I remind myself … But could that be why I felt the way I did when I saw Jamie with Jennifer? No: it wasn’t jealousy I was feeling, I simply wanted to protect Jamie from her barbed claws. But my feelings were so strong, I’d needed to remove myself from the room … Oh, this is such a mess. I’ve got myself in deep, as usual, and now I don’t know what to do. Where is Sean when I need him? Actually this is probably the one time having Sean here wouldn’t be such a good idea.

  ‘Scarlett?’ Jamie asks again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’re very quiet.’

  Suddenly the combination of the alcohol, the emotion and everything that’s happened this evening takes over and I burst into tears.

  ‘Obviously not. Erm …’ Jamie gropes about in his pocket. ‘Is this the moment where I’m supposed to produce a clean hankie?’

  I nod as large teardrops roll down my face.

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid. How about this? It’s a napkin from the buffet table. It’s clean.’

  I take the paper napkin from him and dab at my eyes. Then I shiver.

  ‘God, now you’re cold, too. And I’ve only gone and left my jacket inside. I’m rubbish at this stuff. Hey,’ he nudges me with his elbow. ‘I’d never make a good romantic lead, would I?’

  I sniff and give him a half-smile.

  He holds out his arm. ‘Come here,’ he offers.

  I slide along the seat and let Jamie wrap his arm around my bare shoulders. And it feels surprisingly comforting having him this close to me. It doesn’t feel as threatening, or as exciting, as having another man’s arm around me should do. It simply feels right.

  Twenty-one

  I roll over in my bed.

  ‘Ohh …’ I groan as I turn my head to the side, but my brain takes a few seconds to catch up with it, and as it does it clunks over to the side of my head like a lead weight. ‘Oh, this is not good.’

  I slowly open one eye, and then the other, and realise that not only am I still alive and in New York, but I desperately need to drink some water and visit the bathroom.

  I manage to do the last of these things first, by rolling out of bed and staggering across the floor to the bathroom. As I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I’m relieved to see I am at least dressed in a vest top and pyjama bottoms, but I don’t look at myself too closely as I wash my hands. I feel bad enough, and seeing Morticia Addams – actually this morning it’s probably more like Uncle Fester in a bad wig – reflected back at me is really not going to help. I escape as fast as I can from the bathroom, fill a glass of water from the bottle of Evian on my dressing table and slump into the purple high-backed armchair while I attempt to sip at the water.

  Had I really drunk that much last night? I remember feeling fairly OK on the champagne … but what had happened after that? I try and think back to the night’s events.

  There were the Bradley Cooper incidents, they’d gone well as far as I could remember. Yes, he’d given me his phone number – that must count as a plus. Or did I dream that? I look around the room for my bag and see it lying on the dressing table next to me. I reach inside and find his card tucked in the pocket just where I’d left it.

  I nod my head proudly at that little achievement, and place the card on the dressing table.

  Then I try to remember some more.

  Oh, then she’d turned up, I think, feeling my skin begin to crawl as I remember Jennifer. She’d been all over Jamie, and that’s when I’d started to down the cocktails with a vengeance. Hmm … then what happened?

  I think as hard as my pounding head will allow me to.

  I was sitting outside on the swing seat on my own, and then Jamie’s face had appeared around the side, and he’d sat down next to me; it had felt so comforting when he’d had his arm around me, I remember that part. But that’s where it all starts to become a bit fuzzy. I drink a bit more water and try hard to recall some more of the evening, but nothing is forthcoming from my alcohol-addled brain.

  I reach into my bag again and pull out my phone, to see if that will give me any hints. No new missed calls. No new dialled calls. No new received calls. Hmm … but I have had a few new emails, so I take advantage of the hotel’s free Wi-Fi to pick them up, but they’re nothing exciting, so I do something I haven’t done for a while: I log on to Twitter.

  Nothing major on my timeline right now; a couple of mentions I reply to … Oh, I know what I was going to look up. I find the search box and type in Jamie’s name. Ah, there he is, smiling back at me from his photo. I click on his profile.

  It seems odd seeing Jamie on Twitter. I don’t know why it should, but I stare at his photo for a few seconds before I continue investigating the rest of his profile. Who does he follow? I file through the names, recognising a few celebrities. The rest must be friends, work colleagues and the usual complement of strangers everyone follows on Twitter, hoping they might turn out to be really interesting people with witty things to say.

  Then I take a look at his followers, and Max is right: the vast majority of the ones I file through are women. Then I check out some of his tweets, and who’s replying to them. Yep, again mostly women.

  Wow, it seems Jamie is a bit popular with the ladies – of all ages, it appears by the look of his Twitter account. I smile; I’m not sure why this thought amuses me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I don’t see it myself. Of course, I can see that he’s not exactly ugly, that he’s a very attractive young man. But he just doesn’t do anything for me. Not in that way, anyway. He’s good company, and I like him. But that’s as far as it goes, for sure.

  Why, then, can’t I remember what happened after he put his arm around me on the swing seat last night? That thought does worry me a little …

  There’s banging on my door.

  I manage to drag myself over to it and take a look through the peephole. It’s Oscar.

  I open the door and let him in while I crawl back to my bed and pull the duvet over me again.

  ‘Dearie, dearie me,’ Oscar sings, sounding far too bright for this time of the morning. Actually that’s a point, what time is it? I don’t think I’ve even focused on a clock yet. ‘We are looking rough this afternoon, aren’t we?’

  Afternoon?

  ‘What time is it, Oscar?’

  ‘One-fifteen. I thought I’d better come and check on you, you’re not normally such a heavy sleeper. But then,’ he winks, ‘you don’t normally drink quite as much as you did last night, do you?’

  ‘Oh, Oscar,’ I groan. ‘Was I that bad?’

  He nods. ‘Yes, you were. It’s just as well you fell asleep when you did out on that swing seat. At least you were out of harm’s way then.’

  ‘I fell asleep?’

  ‘Ah-huh, we found you out there with your head in Jamie’s lap, sleeping like a baby.’

  I shoot up in the bed. ‘My what! My head was where?’

  ‘In his lap. You were both out there swinging away, he was out for the count too, and you were all curled up like a little green kitten next to him with your head resting in a rather delicate area.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say, pulling the duvet up over my head in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. ‘I’m never drinking again.’

  ‘Of course, none of us has ever said the same when we’ve found ourselves the worse for wear the next morning, or in a spot of trouble. Oh, I could tell you some tales …’

  ‘Not now, Oscar,’ I uncover my face, if only because I need some proper air. ‘Whatever am I going to say to Jamie when I see him?’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about Jamie just now.’

  ‘Don’t I? Why?’ I ask, hoping Oscar will say Jamie knows nothing of the incident and slept through the whole thing. Then I have another thought. ‘You don’t think he might be gay, do you, Oscar? It’s something I’ve wondered a couple of times, and it would explain why I
really like him but don’t, if you get what I mean. A bit like you and me.’

  Oscar throws back his head and screeches with laughter.

  ‘Darling, you really are hungover, aren’t you? Of course Jamie isn’t gay.’

  ‘But how do you know? He might be.’ I realise I’m clutching at straws now, to get myself out of a predicament I can’t even remember if I’m actually in.

  ‘Believe me, Scarlett, I’d know if he was gay. My gaydar is one of the best in the business. That guy is as straight as that microphone he clutches, and just as dull, if you ask me.’ Oscar waves his hand in the air. ‘Anyway, forget about some daydream that features Boy Wonder marching in Pride this year – you’ve got far more important things to concern you right now.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Oscar tilts his head to one side and looks at me, and he appears to be reading something. ‘Like, how you’re going to explain to Sean why there’s a heart with I love Bradley tattooed on your right shoulder.’

  Twenty-two

  Happily the tattoo turns out to be drawn in black marker pen, and after a lot of scrubbing I manage to get it off.

  But what’s more worrying is I still can’t remember how it got there, or how I ended up falling asleep in Jamie’s lap.

  Oscar agrees that the best course of action is to leave me be for the afternoon to recover, and decides to take himself on his own tour of the Sex and the City hot spots around town. I don’t feel too guilty about this; I know he’ll be in seventh heaven checking out all the places the ‘girls’ are supposed to have hung out at in the show. When I’ve scrubbed and showered, I head down to the local Starbucks and order myself a large caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso. I cast a brief glance at their range of sandwiches and pastries, but my stomach decides that coffee is singularly the best option right now, so I take my cup and sit by the window to watch the New York world pass by while basking in the generous air-conditioning.

  After I’ve sat there for a while I gradually start to feel a little more human again, as the caffeine begins to work its magic on my hangover, and when I return to the counter for a second cup, this time I take a chance on an apple and cinnamon doughnut. I’m halfway through the doughnut when my phone rings – it’s Jamie.

  I stare at the screen for a few seconds in panic, wondering whether to answer, but decide I’ve got no choice. ‘Hi, Jamie.’

  ‘Hey Scarlett, how are you feeling today?’

  ‘I’m in a Starbucks on my second cup of coffee, and I’m only just eating my first bite of the day. Does that give you any clues?’

  ‘That rough, eh?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Listen, me and Max have a favour we’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’ I’m pleased he hasn’t mentioned the ‘lap’ incident.

  ‘We need to come and film your hotel towels.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jamie, I think the phone signal must be breaking up because I thought you said you wanted to come and film my hotel towels just then. How odd would that be?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  ‘We need to get some footage of someone stealing towels for a story we’re doing about New York hotels that are tagging towels and bathrobes to prevent them being stolen.’

  I take a large sip of my coffee as I try and take this on board. ‘You’re kidding me – right?’

  ‘No, deadly serious.’

  ‘And you want to come to my hotel to do it?’

  ‘Yes, and if possible film you stealing them.’

  ‘You’re gonna make me look like a thief?’ I explode into my phone, causing my fellow coffee-drinkers to look up from their laptops, smartphones and newspapers.

  ‘No, of course not. We’ll probably just film you from behind.’

  And this is supposed to make me feel better, being asked to provide shots of my bum to fill people’s TV screens over their Coco Pops and toast?

  ‘You’d be doing us a huge favour, Scarlett. Pleeease …’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ I sigh. ‘When do you want to come and film?’

  ‘This afternoon, if possible.’

  I think about the state I’ve left my room in. ‘Can you give me a while?’

  ‘Sure, we’re just doing some editing at the studio right now. It needn’t be until later.’

  ‘Great, my hotel’s on Park Avenue on the corner of—’

  ‘It’s OK, I know where your hotel is,’ Jamie interrupts. ‘After all, how do you think you got back there last night? Look, got to go or we’ll never get this edit done. Meet us outside at, say, five? We can’t just roll up with all our equipment, or the hotel might get suspicious. We’ll need to find a way to get inside unnoticed. Catch you later.’

  ‘Wait, all what equipment?’ I ask, but he’s gone.

  Right then, I think, as I hastily finish my coffee and doughnut. What’s my biggest worry right now: how quickly I can turn my hotel room from a pigsty into a palace? Or what, exactly, happened within those four walls last night?

  I tidy up my room as best I can and then, at just before five o’clock, I head downstairs to the hotel foyer.

  It’s Sam on the door. That’s good, I think, that could come in handy …

  ‘Hi, Sam,’ I call. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Good, miss, thank you. And yourself?’

  ‘Very well.’ I hover by the door.

  ‘Off out, are we?’

  ‘Er no, not just now. I’m waiting … for some friends.’

  ‘That’s good, miss.’ He smiles at me expectantly, waiting to see what my next move will be.

  I look out towards the sidewalk. ‘I … think I’ll just wait for them outside. It seems like a nice evening.’

  ‘It is, miss. Warm, but pleasant all the same.’ He holds the door open for me, and I escape outside.

  How was I going to sneak two grown men and their ‘equipment’ in past Sam? Even saying that sounded dodgy. And what was all this equipment, anyway? Jamie hadn’t really explained too much over the phone. Then, as a taxi pulls up a little way down from the hotel, I see just what I’ve let myself in for as Jamie, Max and what looks like half a TV studio begin to pile out.

  ‘What is all this stuff?’ I ask, as I find myself surrounded on the sidewalk by a camera, a big furry thing I recognise to be the top of one of those boom mics, some poles and a large spotlight.

  ‘Our equipment,’ Jamie says. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘I know, but do you really need all this stuff?’

  ‘We might do,’ Max explains. ‘It depends on what the conditions are like in your room. I might just get away with the camera, but to be on the safe side, and since we were coming by taxi, we decided to bring the lot.’

  ‘And how are we supposed to get all that through the foyer without anyone noticing?’ I ask, looking back towards the hotel doors. Luckily, at the moment Sam is caught up with some new arrivals, who are just checking in to the hotel with all their cases.

  ‘Could you create a diversion?’ Max suggests.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Strip all your clothes off and run around naked in the foyer. I’m sure we could creep past then.’

  I give him a disapproving look. ‘You’d be too busy gawping to creep past, and you’d probably trip over your equipment, if not your own tongue, in the process. No, I am not stripping my clothes off in public so you two can sneak into the hotel.’

  ‘Well, what then?’ Max says. ‘I’d do it, obviously, but you’d never lift this camera.’

  ‘Is it that heavy?’

  Max hands me the camera. ‘Whoa,’ I say as my arm is nearly pulled out of its socket. ‘That’s even heavier than my shopping after a day at the January sales.’

  ‘You gotta be strong to be a cameraman,’ Max says, proudly flexing his muscles. ‘Not like these namby-pamby reporters.’ He regards Jamie’s biceps with derision. ‘Only thing they’re capable of holding up is a microphone, and then not
for too long.’

  Jamie opens his mouth to respond but I hold up my hands. ‘Boys, boys, now is not the time for bickering. We need to find a way of getting you inside, remember?’

  The three of us stand on the pavement for a few seconds thinking, then as I watch Sam in his doorman’s uniform ushering people in and out of the building, I have an idea.

  ‘How are you at tipping doormen?’ I ask Jamie.

  ‘Not bad,’ he replies, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘How about maids?’

  ‘Quick,’ I call out of the back door. ‘Hurry up, we don’t have long.’

  Jamie and Max appear from around the side of a huge rubbish cart carrying their equipment. They stare at me as they see me standing at the back door.

  ‘Suits you,’ Jamie winks.

  Max looks me up and down. ‘The dress is nice and short and I’d have preferred some heels, but you don’t do too bad as a French maid.’

  ‘I’m not a French maid!’ I insist as I pull at the hem of my dress. It’s just my luck that the only maid to be coming off duty at the hotel right now is four foot eleven and a size eight. This dress is practically indecent.

  We’d tipped, OK bribed Sam on the front door to find a maid who was likely to take another ‘tip’ to let us borrow her uniform and a dirty laundry trolley for a few minutes. This would allow the boys to stash their equipment under the cover of some of the hotel’s sheets and towels, so that I could push them up to the hotel room in disguise.

  This had all worked well until the maid Sam had produced was Adriana, a tiny Portuguese girl. She hardly spoke a word of English, but was grateful to earn a few extra dollars. I barely fitted into her doll-sized dress, but I was only going to be wearing it for a few minutes, I reminded myself, and Jamie had been very good at helping me with my brooch. This was the least I could do to help him get his towel story.

  ‘Just stick your equipment in there and let’s get going!’ I say, shoving the trolley at them.

  ‘My God, she even talks dirty as well!’ Max grins as he places his camera carefully in the trolley, while Jamie lifts in the lighting and sound bits.