Page 1 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
One
I didn’t feel much like Julia Roberts as I emerged from the hot and crowded London underground. There were no paparazzi ready to photograph my every move—unless you counted the two Japanese tourists snapping away at a black London cab that was just dropping off a fare. And neither did I probably resemble her that much, trundling my old blue wheelie suitcase along the pavement while I looked in awe at the Notting Hill area of London I thought I knew so well.
It was usually another movie star people compared me to, but one from Hollywood yesteryear. With my black hair and green eyes, I suppose I did bear a passing resemblance toGonewiththeWind’s Vivien Leigh. And since my parents had kindly christened me Scarlett as a baby, this only added to the illusion.
Itcertainlydoesn’t look much like the movie, I thought as I made my way down Portobello Road, which was lined with many antique and craft shops. Where was the vibrant market that Hugh Grant had walked through, with its eccentric market traders selling their wild and wacky wares? So there were a few stallholders, but I really didn’t think a fruit and veg stall and a man selling dodgy-looking watches equated to a Hollywood movie.
I’ve always loved any film Hugh Grant was in. I don’t really know why—I don’t fancy him exactly, I just love watching him up on the screen. I was certainly at my happiest during theFourWeddings,NottingHill,BridgetJonesera. There’s something very comforting about watching a Hugh Grant movie. You know no one’s head will be blown off in the first three minutes, no one will be tortured, and the worst thing that might happen is seeing a lanky Welshman eating mayonnaise in his underpants.
NowI’m sure it said I have to turn off somewhere near a coffee shop…I glanced at the piece of paper in my hand.I must concentrate on finding the house first. The movie stuff can all come later…
I looked around for a street sign.
Oh, but isn’t that the house with the blue door where Hugh Grant lives in the movie? No, Scarlett, concentrate for once in your life—stop daydreaming. You’re here to prove something. Not to let them be right about you!
I found the exit off Portobello Road and set off on my way again. But I was distracted almost immediately—this time I felt justifiably so. This time it would just have been rude not to stop and take a quick look. Because I’d only gone and stumbled acrossthebookshop.
You know the Travel Bookshop? The one in theNottingHillfilm where Hugh and Julia meet for the first time? I hesitated in the doorway for a few seconds…I really should go and find the house…but it wasthebookshop…a few minutes couldn’t hurt.
I hurriedly pulled my suitcase inside and tried not to look too overjoyed when I saw just how much the real shop resembled the movie version.
As I moved farther into the shop and stared at the bookshelves, I pretended I was actually interested in buying a book, hopefully not looking too much like a tourist, just lurking there hoping to spot Hugh Grant serving behind the counter.
“Wonderful area, Nepal,” a voice said next to me. I hadn’t even noticed anyone standing there, so entranced was I to be virtually “inside” one of my favorite movies. “Have you ever been before?”
I looked down at the book on the Himalayan Mountains I was holding.
“Wha…er, no I haven’t. Have you?” I asked, turning to see a young man replacing a book on the shelf beside me.
“Yes, quite a few years ago now, though—I highly recommend it if you are thinking of going.”
“Thanks—I’ll bear that in mind. Erm, do you work here?” I asked hopefully, thinking I’d struck it lucky right away. This was too good to be true, being chatted up in a travel bookshop in Notting Hill. Perhaps you should call me Julia after all.
“No, why on earth would you think that?”
On closer examination I realized the man was wearing a long black raincoat, holding a briefcase and carrying a bag full of groceries.
“Oh sorry, no, of course you don’t,” I said, chastising myself for getting too carried away in a movie moment as always. “Silly mistake.”
“Yes,” he said, looking me up and down scornfully. “It was.”
Then without saying another word, he turned smartly away and walked out of the shop.
I stared after him for a moment, the sound of the shop’sdoorbell still ringing in my ears. “Charming!” I muttered as I grabbed hold of my suitcase again. “I hope everyone’s not that friendly here. Now I reallymustconcentrate on finding the house. Where on earth did I put that address?”
I stood on the pavement outside and fumbled around in my pockets for a few minutes, and then my bag, and then my pockets again, desperately searching for the piece of paper with the address on it. Beginning to panic now, I quickly turned, meaning to return to the shop to see if I might have dropped it in there.
So caught up was I in my own turmoil I didn’t see the man hurrying toward me along the pavement. As I stepped to cross in front of him, a dog being carried in the man’s arms yapped, making me jump with fright. Unfortunately as I jumped, I stopped suddenly, and to prevent himself colliding with me, the man had to stop abruptly too. He managed to save himself from falling, and the contents of his shopping-bag-laden arm from spilling. But not the inside—I noted as it ran down the front of my white shirt—of a large cup of freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Oh my dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry,” the man said, quickly putting his shih-tzu dog and shopping bags down on the ground.
“No, it was my fault for stepping out in front of you like that,” I said, trying to pull my soaking wet shirt away from my skin. “I wasn’t thinking.”
But the man didn’t seem to be listening to me; rather unnervingly he just stared at my chest. “Quick, take off your jacket before the juice seeps on to that too.”
I hesitated for a moment, wondering just what sort of guy I’d bumped into. He seemed incredibly fixated by my chest and getting me out of my clothes at this very moment. I glanced at him again. He was wearing black jeans, a black leather jacket, and dark glasses. But he had topped off his look with a pink cravat and a black beret. And the bags that he’d placed carefully down on the pavement next to the dog were all emblazoned with “Harvey Nichols.”
I relaxed a little.
