Page 15 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually (Actually #1)

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, because 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?”

“I don’t think so.” Sean now leaned forward to speak to our own speed queen. “How much longer to the church?”

“At this speed, hen, ’bout another twenty minutes.”

“Sean, the wedding is in ten!”

Sean pulled a wad of notes from his wallet.

“Look, this should cover the fare so far—we’ll walk from here.” He turned to me. “Is that OK with you?”

I looked down at my high heels and sighed. “I don’t think we’ve much choice.”

We climbed out of the taxi and began to walk along the pavement on the side of the road.

“Do you think we’re going to make it at this speed?” I asked, trying hard to keep up with Sean’s great lolloping strides and finding I was having to break into a jog to do so.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Sean asked. Then he glanced down at my heels. “No, I don’t suppose you can.” He looked quickly around him, then suddenly darted out into the traffic.

“Sean!” I cried. “What the hell are you doing?”