Page 63 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually (Actually #1)

I think Dermot fancied himself as a bit of an action hero, because we took off at breakneck speed in the very authentic-looking American police car that he and Finlay had arrived in.

I’d assumed they’d meant they had a normal car parked around the corner—not a replica from the original Blues Brothers movie.

But it seemed that Dermot and Finlay took their business very seriously indeed.

I was grateful now they hadn’t been able to turn up as Scarlett and Rhett today—because a horse-drawn carriage from the American Civil War wouldn’t have been traveling at anywhere near the speeds the “Bluesmobile” was doing right now.

But it wouldn’t have mattered what form of transport we’d taken once we began to hit the central London gridlock. As I sat anxiously in the back of the police car, waiting for us to shunt forward another few meters, I suddenly realized what I was wearing.

“Oh my God, I’m still in my wedding dress!” I panicked from the backseat. Finlay turned the stereo down that had been constantly playing the Blues Brothers soundtrack since we left, and Dermot glanced at me in his rearview mirror .

“But you do look lovely in it,” he said, smiling.

“I know, but I can’t just roll up and meet Sean in a wedding dress I was going to marry another man in, now can I?”

“Hmm,” he said. “That is a bit tricky when you put it like that.”

“What choice do I have? I can’t very well change now. I don’t have the time or anything to change into.” I leaned forward between the two front seats and looked through the windshield. “Damn it, is this traffic ever going to move?”

It was just like Glasgow all over again—the day when Sean and I had ridden to the wedding on the back of mopeds. Except this time, I was the bride—running away from my own wedding.

And yes, I know I was in yet another movie. And yet again it was a Julia Roberts one. But I didn’t have time to reflect on that now, as we slowed right down and virtually came to a standstill a few yards away from the entrance to a church.

As we sat there waiting to move forward, I realized there must be another wedding taking place today, as the sound of church bells ringing filled the air.

I hope yours is more successful than mine was , I thought as I sat well back in the car.

I saw a man in full morning dress walk out of the church gates, and I wondered, as he walked toward us, if he was the nervous groom.

It was when he got right up to the outside of our car that an uneasy feeling started to spread over me.

He grabbed the door handle just as I went to push the lock down and thrust the car door wide open.

“You’re early,” he said, peering into the car. “The bridesmaids aren’t even here yet. I’m Max by the way, one of Graham’s ushers, we’ve not met before.” He held out his hand for me to shake .

“I…I’m not the bride,” I hurriedly said, trying to grab the door again and pull it shut.

“Don’t be daft, of course you are, Teresa—that’s just nerves. I didn’t know you were having a Blues Brothers theme?” he said, staring at Dermot and Finlay in the front seats. “But that’s cool—I like it. Now which one of you is Dad?”

“I’m telling you I’m not the bride,” I said, managing to wrangle the door from his grasp. “I’m not Teresa. And this is definitely not my wedding!” and I slammed the door shut again.

“Get us out of here, Dermot…please,” I implored him, as I recoiled from Max’s flattened face pressed up against the car’s rear window.

“Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don’t fail me now!” Dermot called out as he thrust the car into gear.

“It’s from the movie,” Finlay explained, breaking his silence for the first time. “He’s been waiting his whole life for an opportunity to say that line.”

Luckily, just then a significant gap opened up in the traffic and Dermot was able to accelerate away from the church, leaving Max standing on the side of the road looking dazed.

“Oh God,” I said, my head in my hands. “I should have known this would be a disaster. Everything I do always is.”

“I think it’s only going to get worse, I’m afraid,” Dermot said, looking at the traffic backing up in front of us. “There’s no way we’re going to make it across London by midday.”

Finlay turned and looked at me. “Can’t you phone him?” he asked sympathetically. “And let him know you’re on your way?”

I looked up at him, surprised he had spoken again—I guessed he was usually a man of few words.

Then I looked down at my dress, and held out my hands.

“All I came away with was these,” I said, holding up the card and ticket.

“I don’t have my phone with me, and I don’t remember his number to use someone else’s. ”

“Finlay, I think you’re missing the point,” Dermot said. “It wouldn’t be very romantic if Scarlett just called him up and said, ‘I’m on my way, but I’m stuck in traffic,’ now would it?”

“It would save a lot of hassle though,” Finlay said matter-of-factly.

“No,” Dermot continued. “She needs to race along the Embankment with only seconds to spare—hoping against hope she’ll make it on time—before her true love, in despair, gives up on her and disappears from her life forever.”

Finlay and I both stared at Dermot.

“You not only watch too many films, but you’ve been dressing up like characters from them for far too long,” Finlay said.

“Let’s be realistic—Scarlett’s not going to make it there on time.

This isn’t a movie script; this is real life, in real London traffic.

I’m sorry, there’s just not going to be a happy ending this time. ”

“Right,” I said, my hand already on the door. “That’s it. I’m getting out. I’ll run there if I have to, even in this stupid dress. There is no way I’m not making it to the London Eye by midday. There will be a happy ending for me this time, just you wait and see.”

I climbed out of the car. “Thank you both so much for getting me this far,” I said, smiling gratefully at them as Finlay rolled down his window. “Can I just ask you one more favor though? ”

“Sure, what’s that?” Dermot asked.

“Could you lend me my tube fare?”

***

I ran along the pavement as fast as I could in my awkward and now very uncomfortable wedding shoes until I found the nearest underground station, then descended into its depths and quickly bought myself a ticket.

I tried to ignore the stares I got from commuters as I ran down escalators and along corridors to shouts of, “Late for the church, are we?” or, “Been jilted at the altar darlin’?

” and a rousing chorus of “I’m Getting Married in the Morning” from a gang of Arsenal supporters on their way to a home game.

It seemed an eternity as we trundled along on the Bakerloo line—every time the train stopped in the tunnel or at a station, I’d try and glance surreptitiously at someone’s watch to see the time.

But eventually we arrived at Embankment and I emerged into the fresh air once more.

I could see the London Eye, dwarfing everything around it as it stood elegantly by the side of the Thames.

So, running as fast as I could manage, I crossed the Golden Jubilee Bridge, holding my white tulle skirts aloft like a lady of the bygone age in her crinolines.

I glanced at Big Ben in the distance—it was two minutes to twelve.

As I descended to the footpath that ran alongside the South Bank of the Thames, I managed to overtake tourists taking photos, children rollerblading, and even a couple of slow joggers.

It was only as I ran past a coffee shop, with a few tables waiting hopefully outside in the early April sunshine, that I suddenly pulled myself to a halt.

Slowly I reversed to the shop. Was that who I thought it was sitting at one of the tables toward the back of the outdoor seating area? I stopped and stared.

And then slowly, as if he sensed me looking at him, although I wasn’t actually that inconspicuous, standing there in a full-length wedding dress with a tiara balanced precariously in my hair and my skirt pulled up around my knees, Hugh Grant turned around and stared back at me.

He spoke quickly to the man sitting opposite him, and then they both turned to look at me.

Hugh’s dining partner looked familiar too—he had whitish gray hair and spectacles.

And then, as I stood there still staring, I realized that not only was I looking at Hugh Grant sitting having a cup of coffee in the middle of London on a sunny April day, but Richard Curtis too.

I hovered there for a moment—these were two of my biggest movie heroes, sitting right there in front of me—I had to go over, I had to…then I heard the chimes of Big Ben signaling it was about to become midday and I snapped back to the real reason I was here.

No, Scarlett, not this time , I told myself.

Sean is more important than the cinema .

“Put this in one of your movies!” I shouted to them both, as I hoisted up my dress once more and began to run the final few hundred meters along the footpath.

Each chime of Big Ben brought me that little bit closer to the Eye, until I arrived by its side just as the last chime declared it was now officially midday .

Breathlessly I stood at the bottom of the huge wheel and watched the glass capsules rotate slowly around. I looked up desperately to see if I could catch a glimpse of Sean in one of them, but most of the insides were not visible to me down on the ground.

Then I saw the queue.

It snaked around the turnstiles several times before ending a few feet in front of me. But people were joining it all the time—if I got in that queue I’d never spot Sean, and there was no way I’d ever make it to the wheel before he got off.

“Excuse me,” I said, beginning to push my way up through the queue. “It’s an emergency—thank you,” I’d say, as I got a bit further. “Thank you—emergency—sorry; have to get through—emergency, see.”

“Looks it, darlin’,” a man said as I passed by him. “Lost your groom, have you?”