by Ali McNamara
“Yes,” I said, coyly smiling back. “I’ll look forward to it.”
The restaurant Sean had spoken of was a lovely little Italian—it had oak beamed ceilings, checked cloths covering the tables, and waiters scurrying about brandishing huge pepper grinders.
After we had ordered, Sean took a sip of his wine and then leaned casually back in his chair and watched me.
“What?” I asked. “What is it this time? You keep doing that—you were doing it on the train too.”
“You remind me of someone,” he said. “Trouble is I can’t think who.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t been expecting that sort of answer. I thought it was going to be one of Sean’s usual smart remarks.
“I hope that’s a good thing,” I said, thinking he might say I reminded him of a film star—then we’d actually have something in common. I was hoping for Anne Hathaway or Julia Roberts, and not the obvious Vivien Leigh. Even Angelina Jolie would have done, though I’d never quite forgiven her for stealing Brad’s heart. Talking of Brad, was Sean starting to resemble him too? No, he could never be a Brad—a Matthew McConaughey maybe at a push, but never a Brad Pitt.
“Who knows?” Sean continued, still thinking, but his eyes twinkled mischievously. “It could be someone I hate.”
“Thanks a lot.” I took a sip of my own wine. “Talking of people you hate—I’ve been meaning to ask why you and Oscar seem to dislike each other so much.”
“Hmm…Oscar…now there’s a tricky one.”
“Why? He seems OK to me.”
“He is, I guess. He’s been a friend of Ursula’s for years, but we’ve never really seen eye to eye.”
“Why not?”
Sean twiddled the stem of his wine glass around in his fingers. “Like I said—it’s tricky.”
“Come on, Sean, we’ve got all night. And judging by our past conversations, I really don’t think we’re going to have that many subjects in common to last the whole evening.”
Sean grinned. “Now that is very true. OK, I used to go out with Oscar’s sister.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I can guess. You broke her heart, right, and now Oscar can’t forgive you for doing it?”
“No, the other way around actually, she broke mine.”
“Oh.” I felt guilty for judging him. “Oh right. I’m sorry.”
“No need, it’s not your fault she fell for some Yankee bastard.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat quietly in the hope Sean would continue.
He didn’t. Instead, he picked up his wine again, and this time drank the glass dry. “More?” he offered, as he held up the bottle from the table and hovered its neck above my glass.
“Just a little,” I said, not wanting him to suffer further rejection.
For the next few minutes we sat in silence. I politely sipped at my wine while glancing surreptitiously at the other diners. Sean’s interest was held solely by the contents of his glass.
“Look, just tell me to bugger off if you want, Sean—and I know you would,” I said, hoping to lighten the moment. I smiled across the table at him, hoping he would see the funny side and smile back. But he didn’t; he just stared down at the tablecloth. So I carried on anyway. It couldn’t get any worse. “But why would Oscar hate you because of that? It wasn’t your fault.”
Sean sighed and placed his glass purposefully back down on the table in front of him.
He was quiet again for what seemed like ages while I watched his face gradually darken until it was so black that I half expected he was going to throw his wine over me and storm out of the restaurant.
“I introduced them,” he said finally, looking up at me, his eyes full of anger. “I bloody well introduced her to him!”
I didn’t dare say anything, so Sean continued. “Rob was a work colleague of mine. They both did the dirty on me for a couple of months before deciding the only decent thing to do was to continue doing the dirty—but to do it as far away as they possibly could and move to the States. He already had a job to return to, and she had some family over there, so they just upped and left one day. So that’s why Oscar and I don’t see eye to eye. His sister screwed me over, and as far as Oscar’s concerned, I was the cause of her going to live as far away from him as she possibly could.” He paused to reflect on this. “So, Scarlett,” he said, leaning forward and looking me right in the eyes, “now do you see why we’re not best buddies?”
I nodded, this time choosing to return his intense glare.
The waiter appeared at the table and began to serve our meals. While he was doing this, Sean silently downed yet another glass of wine.
“Look, Sean,” I said bravely, when the waiter had gone. “This is none of my business, I know. But I believe everything happens for a reason in life, and it may not seem like it now, but there will be a reason you introduced them to each other. You may not know why just at this moment in time, but I promise you, you will in the end.”
Sean stared at me again. “Did you just say everything happens for a reason?”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s a great motto to live your life by. I’ve always thought—”
Sean interrupted, “That’s exactly what my stepmother said to me when it happened too.”
“What, everything happens for a reason?”
“Yes…and I’ve just realized, she’s who you remind me of.”
“I guess that must be a good thing…” I started to say, pleased he seemed to have calmed down a bit now. But then something occurred to me. “Didn’t you mention when we were at Oscar’s how your stepmother was mad about the movies?”
“Yes, I said that’s why she puts up with Dad so easily.”
“My mother loved the movies too, and you just said I reminded you of Diana.”
“Yes, you do remind me of Diana in that way. And so? Wait, you’re not saying what I think you are? Are you?”
“It could be, Sean—although I know it seems like a huge coincidence.”
“No, you’re just getting carried away, Scarlett. My stepmother and your mother are not one and the same person.” Sean picked up his knife and fork.
It was my turn to glare across the table now.
“Look, your mother’s name,” Sean said, pausing before he cut into his steak. “Was it Diana?”
“No, it was Rosemary, but—”
“So, you’re suggesting that my stepmother changed her name by deed poll before she met my father, and she never chose to tell him?”
“Well, she might have told him, but why would she need to tell you or Ursula?”
Sean shook his head. “I’m beginning to see where your family was coming from when they said you needed some time away. You’ve got one hell of an imagination, Scarlett. That script sounds like something a Hollywood film studio would churn out!”
He grinned now. But instead of smiling back, I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.
“It’s all right for you, Sean. You’ve been lucky enough to have two mothers in your life. I’ve never even had one—not that I can remember anyway.”
Sean put down his cutlery again and this time had the good grace to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Scarlett—about your mother. I don’t want to sound harsh, but I don’t think pinning your hopes on some crazy idea that my stepmother is also your mother is going to do you any good at all.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, pouring my Bolognese sauce—which I’d asked to be served separately—over my pasta. I picked up my fork and began twisting it around in my spaghetti. “Just forget I ever said anything.”
Sean nodded as the atmosphere between us calmed once again, and he happily began to tuck into his steak.
Well you can forget about it, I thought, as I lifted a forkful of spaghetti up from my plate. But I certainly won’t…
***
That night, before I went to bed, I opened up my purse and pulled out a tatty, fo
lded photo that I’d always kept with me for the past fifteen years. I’d found it at the back of a wardrobe Dad and I had been sorting out for a Brownie jumble sale one day and, on realizing what it was, I’d quickly shoved it in my pocket so he didn’t see.
Now, I carefully unfolded it again as I had so many times before over the years, and looked at the creased up photograph that was lying in my hand.
It was a picture of a couple holding a newborn baby. My father was definitely the man in the photo, I could see that easily. I was the baby, and the woman holding me was my mother.
And the reason I knew that it was definitely my mother and me was handwritten in black ink on the back of the photo.
Tom,
Us & our darling Scarlett—March 1986
Now at last we are a family.
All my love for ever,
Rosie x
Nine
The next morning we were up bright and early.
The wedding was at eleven o’clock, so we didn’t have long to get ready before we had to leave for the church on the other side of town. I scrutinized my appearance in the full-length mirror that hung in my hotel room while I waited for Sean to arrive.
I hadn’t really known what to expect when I turned up at Oscar’s shop early yesterday morning, but I had been pleasantly surprised.
Oscar’s tiny boutique was a cornucopia of fashion. He had everything in there from sixties chic and seventies retro, to up-to-the-minute designer wear. Everything was unique—and very “Oscar.” The only thing the clothes had in common was that they were all jostling for prime position on the bulging rails and in the shiny display cases.
I had no idea where to begin looking, but Oscar produced three perfectly matched outfits immediately upon my arrival. I tried each one on in turn and was surprised to find I looked quite good in all of them.
In the end we settled on a dress—a simple design, in red cashmere. It had a high roll neck, short sleeves, and fit me like a glove.
“It could have been made for you, darling!” Oscar cried when he saw me in it. “Now we just need some accessories.”
The accessories—a thick black belt, a pair of stiletto-heeled, black suede boots which we purchased from a shop three doors down from Oscar’s, and a long, black wool coat—finished off the outfit perfectly.
“Darling, you will look divine!” Oscar approved when he saw the whole ensemble. “What a shame you’re only going with Sean to the wedding; it’ll be wasted on him.”
As I turned back and forth in front of my hotel mirror I knew Oscar was right: it was lovely. Even my self-critical eyes were enjoying what they saw for once. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about my appearance usually, far from it. I liked a good shopping spree as much as the next Gok Wan or Stacy London—I just didn’t do dresses that often. In fact when we’d been to see King Lear David commented that the next time he was likely to see me in a dress would be on our wedding day. Which at the time I felt was a little unfair, but in retrospect was probably quite justified.
As if he knew, my mobile phone rang on the dressing table beside me and David’s name flashed on the screen. I debated whether to answer it. But David had been so good about not calling me too often since I left that I thought perhaps I should speak to him this time.
“David, how are you?” I asked brightly.
“I’m well, Scarlett, how are you? How’s London?” David’s voice sounded a bit forced.
“Er…I’m not actually in London right now.”
“Where are you then?”
“Glasgow.”
“Glasgow! What the hell are you doing in Glasgow?”
“I’m going to a wedding,” I replied calmly.
“Whose wedding?”
“Er…” Oh God, what was the name of the bride again? Or the groom, for that matter? “It’s a friend’s cousin’s wedding. I just met up with them the other day in London, and they mentioned the wedding and asked if I’d like to go with them.”
“What, just like that?”
“Yes.”
I desperately tried to think of a way I could change the subject quickly. “It’s a lovely hotel we’re staying in, David—the Radisson.”
“The Radisson! Blimey, you’re not paying, are you, Scarlett?”
Yep, it worked. “No, my friend is, David, don’t worry.”
There was a knock at my door.
“Oh, that’ll be them now; we’re just about to leave for the church. I’ll have to catch up with you another time. Bye-bye now!”
Quickly I hung up the phone.
It was Sean.
“Come in,” I said, throwing the door open. “I’ll just get my things.”
I gathered my bag and coat up from the bed and turned to face him. “Hey, you’ve got a suit on—it kind of suits you.”
Sean was wearing a deep-purple shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and what I imagined must be a very expensive, charcoal-colored suit. The fabric had a slight sheen to it, and it hung beautifully on him.
David got his suits in Tesco’s. They’d just started doing them in their value range. The day David found out you could get a full suit for only £25 you’d have thought he’d won the lottery.
I bet Sean’s suit wasn’t even “off the rack,” let alone from a supermarket trolley.
“Sorry, bad pun,” I said when Sean didn’t respond to my comment.
“Oh sorry, yes,” Sean said hurriedly. “Your outfit is lovely too. You look so…so…”
“So…what?” I asked, grinning at him.
“Different.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean that in a good way. Oh, I’m rubbish at giving compliments, always have been. What I meant to say was—you look beautiful, Scarlett.”
“Oh, oh, right. Well, thank you,” I said, as my face flushed a similar shade to my dress.
We stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“We’d better get going,” I said. “Did you book a taxi?”
“Yes.” Sean looked at his watch. “It should be here by now, shall we wait downstairs?”
We both tried to exit through the door at once, barging shoulders as we did so.
“Sorry, ladies first,” Sean said, gallantly holding out his hand.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I replied, bobbing a little curtsey, for once trying to act and sound like my namesake.
Sean pulled a face. “You’re not really the Scarlett O’Hara type, are you?”
I stopped still in the doorway. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the name—Scarlett. It’s a cool name, but it’s not really you, is it?”
I stared at Sean. What on earth was he talking about?
“What do you suggest I should be called?” I asked him, stepping back into the room. “If you’ve got any better ideas perhaps you should let me know now while I’ve still got the chance to spend the rest of my life getting used to being called something different.”
“Easy.” Sean laughed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you have got the O’Hara temper on you. You definitely see red whenever someone criticizes you. Perhaps that’s why the dress suits you so well today.”
I should have known his pleasant manner wouldn’t last long.
“In fact that’s it. That’s probably what you should be called.”
I opened my eyes wide to suggest I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Red.” Sean grinned. “That’s what I shall call you from now on whenever you’re getting het up about something.”
“Red,” I repeated. “You’re going to call me Red?”
Sean nodded.
“Fine,” I said, turning away from him and heading out of the door again. “Just don’t ask me to repeat what I’m calling you inside my head every time you do.”
***
As we traveled down silently in the lift together, for the first time ever it was bugging me that the person I was with reminded me of an actor in a movie. This was one of my favorite games usually. But today, bec
ause he was dressed the way he was, Sean was looking much too like Brad Pitt in Ocean’s Eleven for me to deny any resemblance. I didn’t like it one little bit.
Luckily my mind soon had more important things to worry about than my Brad/Sean dilemma, when after twenty minutes our taxi had still failed to appear.
After Sean had to complain twice at reception—and once to “Barney”—the cab driver, full of apologies, finally screeched to a halt outside the front entrance of the Radisson.
“Apologies for the hold-up, folks,” she called from the driver’s seat as we piled into the back of her cab. “There’s a protest march in the city center, so the roads are a pure nightmare. I dinnee know what clown was given the job of arranging the diversions—but he disnee know Glasgow one wee bit!
“Don’t yez worry though,” she assured us, as we plugged our seat belts in and finally pulled away from the Radisson. “I know a wee short cut—I’ll have yez both there in no time at all.”
We headed off at such speed that for the first few minutes of the journey we could do nothing but sit bolt upright like statues on the backseat as we both silently prayed for our lives. Then we relaxed a little as our “torturer” had no choice but to slow down, while she twisted and turned in and out of the side streets and back alleys of Glasgow city center.
When she finally had to slow right down because of traffic lights up ahead and I could finally catch my breath enough to speak, I leaned forward in my seat a little so not to disturb her concentration (or her foot on the accelerator pedal) too much.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a movie called Taxi, have you?” I asked. “It stars Queen Latifah?”
“Queen who, hen?”
“Queen Latifah. She plays this feisty, wise-crackin’, speed-demon taxi driver in New York, who gets caught up helping this police detective out with a gang of bank robbers.”
“No, hen, never seen it. I like a nice wee horror film meself, something that scares the shit out of me.”
Like you do to your passengers? I wondered. “You should try and rent it sometime. I think you’d like it.”
I glanced at my watch as we sat bumper to bumper in the traffic that crawled along the road. It appeared to stretch way out in front of us too. “At this rate we’re never going to make it on time. Is it much further, do you know, Sean?”
