Page 19 of A Witch in Notting Hill

Willow

“Y ou’re stressing me out,” Vera said, watching me pace our hotel room to kill time before I was supposed to meet Oliver, Minho, and Lola at the park.

“Can’t you just stretch or watch ASMR videos or put on another coat of mascara or whatever you normally do?

Your energy is all out of whack and it’s making me itchy. ”

“I figured out how to make you talk and this is what I get in return?”

“You also turned me into a cat, in case you’d forgotten, so I’m not exactly sure making it so I can speak is a major accomplishment.”

She had a point.

Over the past few days, we’d learned a few things: cats required way more sleep than humans, baths were suddenly a freezing nightmare, and I was the only one who could understand Vera when she spoke.

Well, me and Siri, apparently. I guessed since robots didn’t have to believe in magic, there was nothing stopping Siri from comprehending.

The bellman, on the other hand... not so much.

We’d been avoiding him since a vicious meowing incident a few days ago.

Otherwise, Vera didn’t much mind hanging out in the hotel. And in a few days, we were going to relocate to a short-term apartment on a ground floor with a garden, so Vera could enjoy the next six months as much as possible while I got us sorted out.

As far as our jobs went, Vera was supposedly on a silent retreat, and we’d concocted a story about me also needing an unexpected break to relax and recharge before I took on new projects, said a few more Hollywood buzzwords about wellness, then put up a limited out-of-office message and hoped for the best.

“Imagine how my energy is making me feel.” I sighed, finally sitting down next to her on the windowsill. “I know I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just a few people at a park. And not even a popular park, so hopefully no one will recognize me.”

“Right, so...” she said, seemingly waiting for me to identify a problem. “Is this about Oliver?”

“Of course it isn’t about Oliver.” I had a sinking feeling it was very much about Oliver.

“It’s just... I’ve never gotten help from strangers with my magic before.

And it’s only a matter of time before they find out I’m terrible at it.

If they even believe I can do it at all.

And that’s assuming they don’t change their minds before then, which they probably will, so maybe I actually have nothing to worry about. ”

“Spiraling doesn’t look good on you.”

“So what do you suggest, hmm?”

“I suggest you take a deep breath and remind yourself who you are.”

“Secret, shitty witch who turned her manager into a cat? American actor incapable of doing a romance because she can’t get her magic under control?”

“Strong, thoughtful woman, capable of anything,” she said, staring straight into me with her marble-green eyes.

“Maybe one who’s doing a little too much whining right now, but a powerful one nonetheless.

And if you ever forget that, we’re both doomed.

So time to buck up and put your game face on, Willow James.

You’re not the only one in this mess, and I’m counting on you. ”

“No pressure,” I said, and laughed. “Thank you, Vera.” She knew exactly what she was doing.

If I couldn’t gather courage for myself, I could at least do it for her.

And part of what made her such a great manager was that she always knew exactly what I needed to hear, and that hadn’t changed just because she was a cat.

And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, Oliver might have also had a point.

I couldn’t spend the next six months thanking them incessantly for something they volunteered to do and frankly, with the exception of Oliver himself, seemed excited about.

I would drown in the feeling of being a burden, and there would be no way I could muster the strength to turn Vera back.

I needed to remember that my success (or lack thereof) didn’t define me, and I could be a good witch even if it was hard. And that I could be someone who accepted help from willing strangers whom I would trust not to judge me for the lack thereof part.

I squared my shoulders, swiped on another layer of lip gloss, settled Vera in her spot in the window with a room-service branzino and a Sex and the City marathon, and slipped out the door into the cool London night.

We’d agreed to meet at a quiet park near the Notting Hill Gate Tube station, hoping anyone who might recognize me would be farther into the hustle and bustle of the city and not hanging out in some unknown local spot without so much as a picnic table.

It was a perfect plan for more reasons than one.

Back home, Vera was constantly whisking me to parties and galas and openings and birthdays and events whose purpose I couldn’t even remember.

This kind of social calendar came with the territory, and Vera busted her ass to get us in front of all the right people wearing all the rights things and I couldn’t complain about any of it, nor did I want to, most of the time.

I was living the life younger me would have killed for.

But on the quiet walk by myself through the city, past the Victorian homes with their pillars and their checkered entryways, past the old couples and young families out for the night in this charming part of the city, without cameras or couture gowns or champagne that cost more than my rent, I felt like myself again.

Like the me before the films and the fame and the spell that changed everything.

If only for a second, I was the sensitive, curious Willow of my youth, wide-eyed and entirely unaware what would happen next. That kind of blissful ignorance that only feels good when you’re too young to know how blissfully ignorant you are.

The feeling didn’t last long, but it was enough that when I arrived at the park, I was cracked open with vulnerability.

The kind that makes you emotional at even the slightest act of kindness from a stranger, never mind the waving hands and the open can already in front of a spot on a picnic blanket where I was meant to sit.

“You made it,” Oliver said, scooting over on the blanket and stretching out his long legs as I approached. “Figured you’d be a pale ale kind of girl. Hope I wasn’t wrong.”

“You a mind reader?”

“No such thing.” He smiled, and I rolled my eyes.

“Glad you’re here,” Lola said, reaching over Oliver’s lap and touching my knee.

“You sure this park isn’t a pain? I’m not sure where you usually go, but it is kind of quiet here...” I looked around, clocking no more than a few young couples and a group of kids who didn’t look a day older than thirteen sharing a cigarette.

“We love it here,” Minho said. “We’re regulars.”

“You are not.”

“I’m serious. Found this spot when Lola was trying to hide from an ex years ago and loved it so much we kept coming back.

It’s never too empty that it’s creepy, but it’s never crowded, either.

Even on the rare two days of the year when the weather’s nice.

Perfect spot to have a bev and watch the sky. ”

“Did the ex find you?”

“Like hell she did,” Lola said. “She thought she was too good for parks in Zone 2.”

“Didn’t she live in like, Ealing?” Oliver asked.

“She was the worst,” Lola said, waving her hand.

“Which explains why you dated her for, how long was it? Two years? Three? Min, do you remember?”

“Why have you chosen violence today, hmm? Are you off your meds?”

“Piss off,” Oliver said with a laugh.

“Willow gets it,” Lola said. “You’ve had shitty exes, haven’t you? I’d say we all have, but these two only have like, one and a half exes combined, so.”

“Actually, I haven’t,” I said, trying not to have a visceral reaction when all three sets of eyes snapped up at me.

“I’m, uh, not great at dating, so whatever I’m involved in usually fizzles out before it can become a real breakup, anyway.

Most of my ‘exes’ are from high school, and I don’t think those count. ”

Lola nearly choked on her beer, which I supposed I should have expected. “What about the tabloids? All the rumors?”

“Just rumors,” I said. I knew what she was talking about.

As much as I tried not to read online gossip, it was unavoidable.

Vera usually filtered it for me and only told me what I needed to know, but that didn’t mean I still hadn’t heard my fair share of headlines: Willow James Spotted on Steamy Date in LA or Willow James Seen with Lover at LAX or Who’s on Willow James’s Arm at Brunch?

The “steamy date” was with Ivy, my “lover” at LAX was my driver, and the man on my arm at brunch was a childhood friend asking for industry advice. Hardly anything worth writing home about.

It was just easier this way. I kept telling myself it wouldn’t be forever, that I’d get a hold of my magic and it would stop interfering with my love life, but that day had yet to come.

All I could do was hope it would be soon.

Well, not too soon, because I had other things on my plate, but soon enough. I wasn’t getting any younger.

“What about now?” Lola asked. “I take it you aren’t seeing anyone?”

“This isn’t an interview, Lo,” Minho said.

“I’m making small talk.” Lola shrugged. “We’re friends now. This is what friends do.”

Friends. Not strangers. And friends helped each other.

I’d been so busy relishing the word and the idea that I wasn’t just a celebrity to them or a charity case that I’d forgotten I was supposed to answer.

And that my answer was supposed to be a lie.

“I’m, uh, it’s early days,” I said, grabbing my phone from the picnic blanket and sliding it into my back pocket. Suddenly nervous about the grand reveal of Kit’s face, I decided I’d leave them with only half the lie for now. Maybe it would do the job. “But I doubt it’ll become anything, so—”

“That’s so exciting.” Lola grabbed my arm again, suppressing a squeal. “Early days is the best part of a relationship. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it never got past early days.”

“That’s about when people realize you’re insane, so that checks out,” Oliver said, dragging his fingertips through the grass. He didn’t look up at Lola, or at me. Just traced a steady pattern in the earth and followed it with his gaze. I wondered if I was hallucinating the firm set of his jaw.

“Better than you, Mr. One Ex It Took Me Years to Get Over,” she said. “When was the last time you even went on a date?”

Hold on. Oliver Hadley was hung up on an ex? And he was obviously grumpy, but he really didn’t date? A man this handsome wasn’t out charming the entire population of Notting Hill?

“First of all, you’re the one who keeps bringing her up. Everyone else has moved on. And last I checked we were here to make a plan for Willow’s problem,” he said, “not pick apart my romantic history.”

“Picking apart the whole thing would only take us a minute, anyway,” Minho said.

“Doing yours would take half the time, so should we start there?”

“They don’t get out much,” Lola stage-whispered to me.

“We get out plenty,” Oliver snapped. “We just aren’t concerned with going on a date with all of bloody London.”

“Guilty.” Lola smiled.

Their banter was soothing. The less I had to talk, the less I was bound to reveal, and at this rate, they already knew more about me than nearly anyone else in my life. They didn’t need my sordid dating history to add to the file.

And if ending this conversation meant Oliver could release his shoulders from his ears, then I was even more in favor.

Whatever had washed over him in the last few minutes wasn’t a good look, and I wasn’t exactly keen on trying to unpack it.

Mostly because I knew where my train of thoughts would lead, and I needed to get off before that train left the station.

“Oliver’s right, though,” Min said. “We are here to discuss Willow’s problem, and I’m buzzing to get started.”

“Do you have the list?” Lola asked.

I’d copied it onto a sheet of hotel stationery so that I didn’t have to lug the book around, and I held my breath as I unfolded it and slid it across the blanket to Lola.

It was real now, in a way it hadn’t been when we were in the library, which made it even more frightening.

As if completing the tasks and reversing the spell weren’t daunting enough, now I had an audience.

An audience who was hopeful and generous and invested and who would be disappointed if I failed. An audience who was holding me accountable, who would watch me struggle, whose time would have been wasted if I couldn’t pull this off. And I thought Vera was putting me under pressure.

“What the hell is Clinopodium menthifolium?” Lola asked, eyes glued to the paper.

“Wood calamint,” I said. I’d had to look that one up last night. Hell, I’d had to look up half the list last night.

“My grandmother used to make tea with calamint,” Minho said. “Used to complain it was harder to find in the UK than it was in Korea. Which was fine by me, because I never liked it.”

“Love that,” I said, “given I have to find it, grown locally, and consume it.”

Minho shuddered. “We’ll help you with the search, but you’re on your own with the consumption. I haven’t seen my grandmother in years, and I’ve no interest in reliving the calamint tea of my childhood.”

“Lucky for you, you’re not the one who has to cast the spell,” Lola said, slapping him on the back. “So you’re all set there.” He rolled his eyes, and I envied him. I wished I wasn’t the one who had to cast the spell.

“It says here it flourishes in late August on the Isle of Wight,” Oliver said, scrolling through an article on his phone.

“Late August?” That was nearly six weeks away. So much for getting a jump on things.

“That a problem?” he asked. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re stuck here until December, so it’s not like we’re in a rush, are we?”

“Would have been nice to get started,” I said, and sighed. “But you’re right. What the hell are we going to do until then?”

“What everyone does in London in the summer,” Minho said. “Enjoy the city.”