Page 2 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually (Actually #1)

“And the Oscar goes to…”

Johnny paused dramatically, and his chocolate-brown eyes darted up from beneath his long, dark lashes to survey the audience in front of him.

Did I imagine it or had he glanced at me just then before he ripped open the envelope?

Does he know something? Does he have some inside information on who the winner is?

Or maybe there’s another reason he might be looking at me like that?

I’d always suspected Johnny Depp and I would make a fine couple, and now it seemed, on this most significant of nights, I was about to discover the feeling might be mutual.

“Scarlett O’Brien!”

Yes, it was me! Johnny was calling my name.

I was finally going to claim my Oscar from one of my favorite actors, and , I hoped, by the look on his face as I glided elegantly toward him in my Stella McCartney gown, soaking up the congratulations of my fellow Oscar nominees as I passed by, a whole lot more.

It was what dreams and fantasies were made for.

“Scarlett,” he called again, but this time his voice was more of an urgent whisper. “Scarlett, will you get a move on or is your bum permanently glued to that seat? The show is over now!”

I shook my head.

That certainly wasn’t Johnny Depp’s velvety voice calling me gently from the stage. It sounded much more like—

Oh my God. I turned my head from where I’d been staring into space and realized that I wasn’t in Hollywood after all.

And yes, I was in a theater, but it wasn’t the Kodak theater in Los Angeles; it was the Royal Shakespeare theater in Stratford-upon-Avon.

And the person standing there in a suit and tie calling my name wasn’t the gorgeous Mr. Johnny Depp but my fiancé, David.

“I…I’m sorry, David,” I apologized, hurriedly gathering my belongings up from the floor. “I must have drifted off there for a bit.”

“Hmm.” David gave me one of his looks. (Which, considering that he had the exact same coloring as Mr. Depp, sadly was nothing like the “look” that Johnny had given me a few minutes previously.) “We’ll talk about this later, Scarlett,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned toward me.

“But for now we’ve got other things to deal with.

Over there are twelve Japanese businessmen waiting for us to take them out to dinner.

So if you’re finally back from whatever fantasy world you were away in, I think it’s time we did just that, don’t you? ”

Hesitantly, I turned to my right to see a line of immaculately dressed oriental gentlemen watching our every move, and I closed my eyes for a moment.

Damn it, I’d wanted tonight to go so well for David.

Why couldn’t I for once just have enjoyed what was going on in the real world and not brought one of my cinema fantasies into it?

I mean, I had tried, really I had, but it’s what always happens when I’m bored—and tonight had been really, really boring.

I’d had to spend the evening sitting in the front row of a theater, with a dozen Japanese businessmen sitting either side of me, and David hidden somewhere among them.

Up on the stage, people appeared to be dying left right and center, and for most of the performance I had quite felt like leaping up there and joining them.

As I sat watching the tale of King Lear unfold in front of me, my head was filled with questions like, “Could it possibly go on much longer?” and, “Were these Japanese men really understanding all of this, or were they just grinning and nodding out of politeness?” And more importantly, did I have enough movie fantasies to fill an entire Shakespearian tragedy?

I’d hoped my first attempt at a real Shakespeare play would be something like Shakespeare in Love .

If Joseph Fiennes or Ben Affleck had been up there on the stage it might have been a tad more interesting.

Although I’d always had issues with Colin Firth playing the baddie in that film; Colin to me would always be Mr. Nice Guy in whatever movie he was in.

I tried picturing several movie heroes of mine wearing tights, but that didn’t take much time: men in tights didn’t really do it for me—even superheroes. When I got to Johnny Depp in full Shakespearian costume, he soon began to merge into Captain Jack Sparrow and that passed a good few minutes .

I’d done my imaginary Oscar walk down the center aisle of the theater when we came back from intermission.

This was something I usually did at the end of seeing a movie in a cinema: when you walk down the steps toward the screen when the credits are rolling, I like to imagine my name has just been called as the winner of an Oscar.

It’s usually Best Actress, but sometimes I vary it.

Sometimes it will be for Best Screenplay or something like that.

The person presenting me with my Oscar is usually Will Smith, but if I’m feeling particularly annoyed with David that day it’s either Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp, who then sweep me off my feet and tell me they’ve not only always admired my work for many years, but fancied the pants off me too.

And that was the fantasy I was in the middle of tonight when unfortunately David caught me.

No one else seems to understand my love of the movies.

I don’t think I even know why I love them so much.

It’s almost as if it’s a genetic thing that’s been bred into me.

But my father doesn’t take any interest in them; in fact, I can’t ever remember him watching a film on TV, let alone paying to go to a cinema. And I never really knew my mother.

Still, David’s cool with it. He usually puts up with my “nonsense,” as he calls it, just as long as he gets to watch his nature programs on TV, or those building ones he seems to have become obsessed with recently.

In fact, lately our Sky+ box is constantly full of DIY programs. All since we bought our first house together—a period property in need of some renovation—and David decided that to save us money he would have a go at doing the place up himself.

This would have been absolutely fine had David been the DIY type, but my David is less Bob the Builder and more SpongeBob SquarePants when it comes to home renovation, and now some six months down the line, I was living in a house that it would have been kinder to put out of its misery had it been an animal in distress.

Tonight’s effort to impress the Japanese businessmen had been David’s idea—he’d never included me in any of his company’s business dealings before.

But David said now we were soon to be married things should be different and he would like me to accompany him on business dinners and, in the future, to begin entertaining clients at the house once it was ready.

I wasn’t too worried by this talk of entertaining clients; by the speed of the progress David was making with the renovations, I wouldn’t have to worry about entertaining anyone in the next few decades.

Not unless David thought they’d be impressed by eating off the top of an upturned bucket or a Black we could easily have afforded to get someone in to do our renovations between us.

But no, he thought he’d save us a few pennies by doing it himself.

Although by the amount of things that keep going wrong and have to keep being redone, it’s going to work out more expensive in the long run than hiring a few Jack-the-lad builders. ”

“Bit on the cautious side with money, is he?” Oscar asked, politely sipping at his herbal tea.

“No, he’s not cautious, or even careful. He’s tight. That’s what all the DIY is about. Oh, Oscar, it’s like living in purgatory with power tools.” I picked up my cup from the glass table and took a comforting gulp of the hot filtered coffee.

Oscar laughed. “Oh, Scarlett, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t find it funny, because it’s your life. But it’s the way you tell it.”

I had to smile. “It’s OK, at least I’m not boring you.”

“No, darling, far from it. But I want to get back to the story. Now, where were we? Let’s see now, rewind, rewind…” Oscar ci rcled his hands around like film spooling from a reel. “Oh yes, you were at the theater with your fiancé and the hordes of Japanese chappies…”

***

So, although my first attempt at “business entertaining” hadn’t got off to an awfully good start, I was determined to make up for it.

After the slightly embarrassing incident earlier, David and I had managed to gather our oriental guests together outside the theater, and we were now standing on the pavement trying to hail enough taxis to drive us to the restaurant where we were about to have dinner, when the familiar tones of “Let Me Entertain You” began reverberating from my bag.

You’d have thought by the look on David’s face that the real Robbie Williams was calling to confirm a date with me next week.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, rummaging about in my bag. “I’ll just silence it.”