Page 105 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
I tossed and turned in my bed, going over and over all the possible scenarios that my next move might bring forth.
First, I had to decide whether I wanted to see Rose again—and my answer to that dilemma was an immediate yes. There were still so many questions I wanted answers to that I couldn’twave good-bye to her just yet. Though I couldn’t imagine us ever being best friends like some mothers and daughters were. But she seemed likeable enough, for all her faults, and I wanted to spend more time getting to know her better.
I was going to have to speak to my father about all this at some point. But I didn’t know how he would react when I told him about Rose. What if he tried to stop me from seeing her?
My father couldn’t actually stop me from doing anything I wanted to—I knew that. I was, after all, a fully functioning adult. Although right at this moment I felt far from that as I huddled beneath my bedclothes like a frightened child, hugging my knees tightly into my chest and hiding away from the scary world outside.
But I couldn’t risk upsetting Dad over this—the emotional stakes were too high. No, I’d have to wait until after my time in Notting Hill was over and I’d returned home. Then I’d be able to tell him everything that had happened and ask him all the questions I wanted.
***
The next morning I called Rose. I lifted and lowered the phone from my ear at least five times before finally I was able to summon up the courage to dial the number and let the call go through.
Surprisingly she answered straight away. “Scarlett, how wonderful, I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon.”
“I was wondering if you were busy today. I mean, if you’re working it doesn’t mat—”
“No, not busy at all. I don’t have a shift at the cinema until this evening. Would you like to meet up again?”
Part of me was hoping shewasbusy. “Yes, I would, if it’s OK with you…I thought maybe we could meet in Kensington Gardens…or somewhere else if that’s not suitable?”
“The Gardens would be lovely. What time?”
“Is eleven too early?”
“Eleven is just fine. Do you know the Peter Pan statue?” she asked. “I could meet you there.”
I didn’t. “Peter Pan, sure, no problem. I’ll see you later then.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Scarlett.”
She hung up.
I sighed heavily as I collapsed back against the scatter cushions on the settee. “Oh, Dad,” I said out loud to the empty room. “If only you knew just what you’d started…”
Thirty
I sat on a bench opposite Peter Pan while I waited for Rose.
I’d got to Kensington Gardens early so I’d be able to find the statue in plenty of time. But it hadn’t been that difficult, as the first person I asked pointed me in the right direction.
I ran my eyes over the statue while I waited. The Peter in this sculpture appeared to be standing on a tall tree stump playing a set of pipes. A crowd of fairies, rabbits, and other woodland creatures swarmed around the base of the tree—and I guessed it was probably Tinker Bell who was at the top of the stump looking up at Peter. It seemed quite apt, in my current situation, to be sitting in front of “the boy who never grew up.” The reason I was waiting here now was because of something that had happened when I was just a baby—something that had never allowed me to completely leave my childhood behind.
While I waited, I watched walkers and joggers pass by, mothers and nannies push prams along the path in front of me, and dog owners allow their mutts to urinate on the gates that surrounded Peter.
Two women wearing baseball hats and tracksuits camerunning along the path toward me. I expected they’d pass by like all the others, but they paused and leaned on the railings.
“OK, let’s have twenty,” one of the women said to the other as they began to do push-ups while leaning on the wrought iron.
They’d completed twelve when I heard a mobile phone ring. “Oops—really sorry, I’ll just switch that off.” The woman instructing, who I assumed must be a personal trainer, reached into her pocket.
“No need. Take the call…” the other woman panted. “It’ll give me the chance for a break…I’ll still do the last few push-ups, don’t you worry.”
The trainer answered her phone, then wandered a little way away to speak to the caller. Her client finished her push-ups and came and sat down next to me on the bench. Resting her elbows on her knees, she dropped her head down so she could catch her breath.
“She’s working you hard, I see,” I said, partly out of politeness and partly to take my mind off my mother’s imminent arrival.
“Just a bit,” she said, sitting up. “She always does. But that’s what I pay her for; she’s very good.”
