by Ali McNamara
After I’d had lunch, I popped into Fenwick’s just in case Bill had made a miraculous recovery, and was wandering about the shop with a screwdriver in his hand once more. But the answer from Sheila was still negative, so I left, promising to return again tomorrow, and headed back home.
The same happened on Wednesday morning. Still no Bill. I asked Sheila if it might be possible for Personnel to give me his telephone number so I could ring him. But after a very brief phone call up to Janice again, the answer was a very definite no, they could not possibly give out personal details on a member of staff.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Sheila apologized. “They say he probably won’t be back until next week now either. Perhaps you could try again then.”
I returned to the house once more, dejected and completely fed up with life. Not only was finding out any further information on my mother proving to be virtually impossible, but nothing new was happening to me on the movie front either. This was probably because I’d spent most of the last three days trailing up and down Bond Street. But after the first week’s successes I’d been lulled into the false belief that proving you could live your life like a movie would be easy. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
That afternoon I flicked through all 400 channels on the TV. When I didn’t find anything to watch, I looked once more through Belinda and Harry’s collection of DVDs to find someone to spend my evening with—and then I ran yet another bath, hoping that would pass half an hour until dinner.
I was just about to climb into the hot soapy water when the doorbell rang. I tried to ignore it and hoped they’d go away. All I needed was Oscar or Ursula checking up on me again. They’d both popped round several times since we’d arrived back from Glasgow on Sunday night, and even though I was grateful for their interest and concern, I really didn’t feel like relaying yet another day’s disappointment to them. But instead of my intruder taking the hint that no one was going to answer, the doorbell rang again, this time for longer.
I rolled my eyes, pulled on a white toweling robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and hurried downstairs.
“Yes?” I snapped, as I flung open the door. I guess I should have used the peephole first, but I hadn’t got used to all this security stuff just yet.
“Oh sorry, am I disturbing you?” It was Sean. He stared down at the bathrobe.
“I was just about to take a bath actually,” I said, pulling the toweling collar around me protectively.
“Oh, I see.” His eyes rose up level with mine again. “I just wondered how you’ve been getting on. I imagine you’ve been up and down Bond Street for the last few days. I’ve been away on business or I’d have called round sooner.”
So that’s why I hadn’t seen him about.
“Yes, I have.”
“And? Any luck?”
“Actually, it’s been a complete disaster…” I told him everything that had happened. “Most of the assistants were so snooty—they weren’t interested in helping me at all. Just because I wasn’t wearing Jimmy Choo shoes or carrying a Gucci handbag…” I paused mid-sentence and stared at Sean, and then smiled as a thought dawned on me.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Pretty Woman,” I said, grinning. “That’s what! Oh, Sean, it may have been information I was after and not clothes, but they still made me feel the same as her.”
“What on earth are you talking about now?”
“Pretty Woman—it’s another movie. The one I was telling you about on the train. The one where you were a bastard?” I helpfully reminded him.
“Oh, that one.”
“In the film Julia Roberts is a hooker, and Richard Gere gives her some money to go out and buy clothes on Rodeo Drive—but the assistants won’t help her because she doesn’t look the part.”
“OK…”
“That’s been me over the last few days, but I wasn’t in Beverly Hills, I was in London’s equivalent—Bond Street.”
“If you say so,” Sean said with a quizzical expression.
“Yes, I do—I’ve got to take something positive out of all my efforts. And another movie scene to add to my list will do nicely!” I folded my arms over my dressing gown.
“But what of this woman in Fenwick’s—Sheila?”
“I won’t be able to do anything about that until Bill comes back to work. So until then I’d better try and forget about my mother and get on with my movie business, and if you don’t mind, just now, my bath.”
“Sorry, yes, of course. Oh, wait, I almost forgot, the other reason I came round. Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Apart from my bath, and a date with Brad Pitt—nothing, really.”
“Brad?”
I grinned at him. “It’s a joke. I was going to watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith on DVD tonight.”
“Oh right, I see.” Sean nodded but I still wasn’t sure he understood what I was talking about. “It’s just some friends of mine have given me tickets to the opera this evening, and I wondered if you’d like to go.”
“Thanks, Sean, but I don’t really know anyone who likes the opera that I could take.”
“No—I meant would you like to accompany me?”
I blushed. Of course he did.
“Oh, yes, I guess I could. Would I have to dress up? Only you know I don’t have that kind of garb with me.”
“No, it’s not an opening night—there’s no dress code. What about the outfit you wore to the wedding on Saturday? You looked good in that.”
I thought for a moment and was about to say, “But you called me Red in that outfit,” when something occurred to me. This got better and better. I might not be having any luck finding my mother, but I could sense another Pretty Woman opportunity on the horizon. Two in one week!
“Well, in that case, I should be delighted to accompany you to the opera tonight, Sean.”
Or should I call you Richard…
Thirteen
We arrived at the theater in plenty of time and decided to have a drink in the bar before the show.
While I was waiting for Sean to come back with our drinks I wandered over to a display cabinet of posters and programs advertising the show we were about to see: Così fan tutte. I was using any diversionary tactic I could to put all thoughts of Sean as Brad Pitt out of my mind—and actually it was proving much easier than it should have been considering he’d turned up this evening wearing another Ocean’s-inspired suit. As I stared at the glass, I was trying to picture him as Richard Gere and me as Julia Roberts to go with the theme of the evening. But this was proving far from the easy task it usually was. I seemed to be struggling with all my fantasies, both wanted and unwanted, and I couldn’t figure out why.
“So,” Sean asked when he’d finally fought his way back from the bar with a glass of white wine for me and a beer for himself, “is this your first opera?”
I wanted to reply, “Why, of course not. Opera, ballet, and the theater are the staple diet of my life when I’m back in Stratford.” But Sean knew me better than that. “Yes, it is, actually.”
“Opera is a bit like Marmite,” he said knowingly. “You either love it or hate it.”
That was hardly what Richard had said to Julia.
“Right, and I’m assuming you…love it?”
Sean nodded. “Should I tell you a little of what this opera is about?”
“Go on, then.”
“Roughly translated, Cosi fan tutte means ‘they’re all like that.’ It tells the story of two men who think their fiancées will always remain loyal. But this chap wagers them that the women won’t and says he can prove to them he’s right. As part of the bet, the two men pretend to be sent off to battle, but instead disguise themselves and return to try and woo each other’s girlfriend.”
“Sounds different.”
“It’s good, a bit like one of your romantic comedies, I suppose. Except it’s happening live in front of you, not up on some huge flat screen.”
“I’ll reserve
my judgment until I’ve seen it for myself,” I said with indifference. “But I’ll give anything a go once, and I like Mozart, so it can’t be that bad.”
“You—like Mozart?” Sean asked, looking surprised.
“Yeah, why shouldn’t I?”
“No reason. Yet again you surprise me, Scarlett. The libretto—that’s the text of the piece, rather than the music—was originally written for Mozart’s colleague, but he didn’t complete it, so Mozart took over.”
“Salieri,” I said knowingly.
“That’s right—how’d you know that?” Sean studied me for a moment, his blue eyes darting to and fro across my face as though he was reading my mind. “Oh I know—you’ve seen Amadeus, right?”
“I may have done. It’s a good film.”
“It stretches the truth a bit, though.”
“Most films do.”
“And there’s another instance of a film being based on one of those criteria we talked about on the train. Amadeus is not only based on the life of Mozart, but was a play and an opera before it was a movie.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked, looking skeptically at Sean. “You seem like this normal guy but inside you’re just a walking, talking encyclopedia.”
Sean laughed. “Years of very careful practice!”
The bell rang to summon us to our seats. “The time has come to see what you make of all this, Scarlett.” Sean held out his arm to me. “Shall we go?”
I slipped my arm through his, and we walked to the auditorium together to find our seats.
I was slightly disappointed we weren’t in a box like Julia and Richard. But once the opera began I soon forgot about re-enacting Pretty Woman, as I became more and more absorbed by what I was watching and hearing on the stage in front of me.
“So?” Sean asked when the curtain fell at the end of Act I. “What do you think so far?”
“It’s just wonderful,” I said, still staring at the closed curtain.
Sean smiled. “I thought you might enjoy it—that’s why I got the tickets.”
I turned to face him. “But you said some friends had given them to you!”
“Ah, I may have told just a little white lie there.”
“But why?”
“I didn’t think you’d come if I just asked you straight out. I thought if you figured you were doing me a favor then you’d feel more obliged to accept my offer. I knew you’d love the opera—it’s so dramatic, and as I said before, this one is just like one of those romantic comedies you’re always telling me about.”
Yet again Sean was causing me to feel mixed emotions. I was cross that he’d duped me into coming with him tonight, yet pleased that he’d wanted to bring me.
“The only reason I came with you tonight was so I could re-enact a scene from Pretty Woman,” I said haughtily. “The fact that I’m enjoying it is just an added bonus as far as I’m concerned.”
Immediately I regretted what I’d just said, as Sean’s face fell and quickly became void of emotion.
“It looks like I’ve done you a favor on both counts then,” he said in a strange, clipped voice.
We silently got up from our seats, following the crowds through to the bar to collect our interval drinks. Then we stood in painful silence sipping at them while we tried to look at anyone rather than each other.
To escape this torture, I downed my drink rather too quickly and then managed to pad out another ten minutes by visiting the ladies’ toilets. I was overjoyed when I heard the sound of the bell signaling the end of the interval.
Sean was already back in his seat reading his program when I returned. He threw a cursory glance in my direction as I sat down.
I took a deep breath. “About what I said before, Sean—it was uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”
“No need to be—you simply told the truth,” Sean said, still staring at the program.
“It was very kind of you to get these tickets for me,” I persisted. “I should have been grateful to you, not rude.”
Sean lifted his head and turned to me. “You’re honest, Scarlett, and I have to say I do admire that about you. But I guess it can sometimes get you into trouble, am I right?” He smiled, and my stomach did something funny, like it was trying to perform a back flip or some other gymnastic move inside me.
“So remind me, what film am I in now?” Sean asked, grinning. “Whatever it is, I hope I’m playing the part well.”
I smiled now too. “I’m afraid it’s that businessman again,” I said as the lights began to dim in the auditorium.
“Not the bastard one.”
“Yep, that’s him.”
“Then I’m not doing too bad so far,” he whispered as it went dark. “Since I’ve managed to annoy you all night.”
I was about to protest, but the orchestra struck up its first few notes and we were immediately drawn into the lives of Ferrando, Guglielmo, Dorabella, and Fiordiligi once more.
***
“Thank you,” I said to Sean as we traveled back to Notting Hill in a black cab. “The opera was fantastic.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it. At least it’s taken your mind off your various quests for a while.”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that’s what they are, aren’t they? Two very different personal quests.”
“So what will you do about Bill?” Sean asked. “You can’t just sit and wait until he comes back to work. If it’s flu and he’s elderly, it could be weeks.”
“What else can I do? I can’t just go in there and demand his telephone number. And they wouldn’t give it to me if I did. They don’t give out that kind of personal information about staff.”
“There must be other things you can try.”
“Like? I’ve visited every other shop in Bond Street now. Fenwick’s and Bill are my last hope.”
“Hmm, let me have a think.” Sean looked out of the window at the passing London streets.
“You could always take me back to the shop,” I joked. “Tell them that we would spend an extortionate amount of money in there if they pandered to my every need, spoiled me rotten, and gave us Bill’s telephone number!”
“We could try that, I suppose,” Sean said, mulling it over. “I’m not sure it would work, though.”
I laughed. Now that I’d met Sean, my father’s lack of movie experience suddenly didn’t seem quite so odd. “Oh, Sean, you really do have to start going to the cinema sometime soon; you’re starting to remind me of my father.”
“Why? Oh right, was that another movie scene?”
“Pretty Woman again.”
“Do you particularly like that one? You seem to mention it a lot.”
“Yes, it’s quite good. I’ve seen it several times.”
I hoped Sean didn’t want me to pinpoint a number. Double figures for any film would seem obsessive to him. And I had a feeling that Pretty Woman, like Notting Hill, might soon be approaching the triple-figure mark.
“So what’s your favorite one?” Sean asked to my relief. “Romantic film, I mean?”
“Ooh, that’s a good question,” I said, thinking. “There’s so many of them I like. I mean I love Notting Hill—that was one of the reasons I wanted to come here. But I don’t really have just one favorite.” I thought some more. “There is a scene from a movie I really love, though…it’s a bit odd because it’s not the sort most people would usually choose as their favorite.”
“Why, what happens?” Sean asked, sounding interested in my movie talk for once.
I hesitated. “It’s from Love Actually—but it’s kind of difficult to explain. It involves this chap telling a girl he loves her, without actually speaking once.”
Sean looked puzzled. “How does he do that?”
“With signs.”
“Signs?” Sean said, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch.
“You’d have to watch the film to understand properly,” I said, wishing I’d never mentioned it.
&nbs
p; “Sounds like it,” Sean said, raising an eyebrow.
I sighed and turned away from him to look out of the window, but the taxi was just drawing up in Lansdowne Road.
“Would you like to come into mine for a while?” Sean asked after he had paid the driver.
I hesitated again.
“I still haven’t come up with a plan for you yet, so a coffee is the least I can offer you until I do.”
I got the feeling he was trying to apologize for earlier. “Well—all right then.”
I followed him up the steps and into his house. I watched while Sean dealt swiftly with his alarm.
“I wish I was as quick with mine,” I said, looking around me. “Damn thing’s got a mind of its own.”
Sean’s house—much to my surprise—was decorated in warm and lively colors and had quite an exotic feel about it. Some of the influences seemed to be African, some Indian, depending on which room you were in. Big comfy-looking settees were adorned with cushions and throws, and everything was set against terracotta and sand-colored walls.
“I like your decor,” I said admiringly. “It makes Belinda and Harry’s look stark in comparison.”
“I think your home is as much an expression of who you are as your clothes,” Sean replied. “Maybe that means Belinda and Harry are stark and uninteresting people.”
“Well, they’re your neighbors.”
“Doesn’t mean I know them. This is Notting Hill, Scarlett—not Albert Square.”
I laughed. “So if everyone who lives here is stark and uninteresting, why are you here?”
“So I’m not stark and uninteresting, then?” Sean said, raising his eyebrows. “I thought I was a geek earlier?”
“I didn’t say that. I said you were a walking encyclopedia—and I can see why now.” I stared at Sean’s book-lined walls.
“Nothing wrong in improving your mind with a bit of light reading. Take a look while I get us something to drink. I’ll be right back.”
While Sean was in the kitchen I cast my eyes over his bookshelves. Light reading? It was like entering a library. There were books on everything—from the history of art to travel guides, to cookery; from crime novels to the classics—Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen, and Bronte…wait…Jane Austen? Charlotte Bronte? Did Sean actually read these? And then I saw it sitting there like a beacon shining out at me from the shelf: Love Letters of Great Men—the very same book that Carrie Bradshaw reads in the Sex and the City movie. There was no way Sean would read this—was there?
