Page 131 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
The day I left Notting Hill, Oscar and Ursula had been the only two people there to see me off. Sean was still in Dublin on business, so I hadn’t actually seen him to say good-bye to properly.
“Sean will be so upset he’s missed you,” Ursula said, almost in tears as I loaded my final bits and pieces into the waiting black cab.
The taxi was a luxury, but today was stressful enough as it was without having to battle to the train station on the hot and crowded underground system.
“Darling, you must send me photos of you in your wedding dress,” Oscar said, hugging me. He kissed me on each cheek. “You’re going to look absolutely divine—I just know it.”
“I can do better than that,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out two envelopes. “Here—invites to the wedding.” I’d had to fight tooth and nail with Cruella to get these invites for Oscar and Ursula because, apparently, “There isn’t any more room to squeeze in two miniature chihuahuas, let alone two more guests,” I’d been told when I’d asked for two of my friends to be included on the guest list. But fight is what I’d done, and for once I’d come out victorious.
“Ooh we’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Oscar?” Ursula said, eagerly opening her envelope. “What about Sean—have you put one through his letterbox?”
“Er…no. I think he’s had enough of weddings just lately. He probably wouldn’t want to go to another one.”
Oscar glanced at me. “And especially notyourwedding,” he said, exchanging a knowing look with Ursula.
“No,” she replied. “Perhaps not.”
I pretended not to have noticed and gave them both one last hug. Then I bent down and gave Delilah a quick stroke before climbing into the back of my taxi and driving away from Lansdowne Road and Notting Hill forever.
***
And now, as I held on tightly to my father’s arm—who, thankfully, looked nothing like Harrison Ford today in his steel-gray morning suit and burgundy cravat—and we walked together down the seemingly never-ending aisle of the vast church my wedding was being held in, I saw Oscar and Ursula again for the first time since that day.
You couldn’t really miss them, because Oscar was wearing a startling lime-green shirt teamed with an electric-blue suit. And Ursula, a red and white polka dot 1950s dress with a huge, red, wide-brimmed floppy hat.
They waved at me as I passed by, and Ursula mouthed “good luck.”
Unlike last night when I’d “walked down the aisle,” today I was actually wearing the same dress I’d picked out in the wedding shop with the two of them that day. The white silk embroidered bodice, although fitted, wasn’t so tight that I couldn’t breathe, and the yards upon yards of white tulle that made up my skirts floated airily around my legs, allowing me to move freely.
I wouldn’t have wanted to run a marathon in this dress, or these four-inch stiletto heels for that matter. Or even the diamante headdress that was balancing precariously on top of my curled and tonged hair. But for moving around at the sedate speed I was going to be required to move at today, they’d do just fine.
When we finally arrived in front of the minister and the service began, I watched carefully while my father “gave my hand away” to David. He then went and sat down next to mymother, and for a split second a look passed between them that proved to me they had once genuinely cared about each other very much, and I was pleased that my wedding had formed, even for just that brief moment, a small link between them again as they shared their pride.
The vicar, who I was relieved to see looked nothing like Rowan Atkinson, continued with the service in a clear and confident manner, and everything seemed to be going just fine.
I can’t say I felt blissfully euphoric that this was my wedding day and I was finally standing here opposite David about to take my vows. After all the dramas of a few weeks ago, I just felt glad to get it over with at last and to be able to get on with living a normal life once more.
Yes, this feeling of stillness inside me must be how normal people felt. It wasn’t an emptiness at all like I’d worried it was before I came to London. No, today this was simply a feeling of calm. There was no need for the exhilaration and excitement I’d felt in my month living in London…no need at all.
“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together,” I heard the vicar saying, “let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”
As there always is at weddings, there was a deathly silence in the church as the congregation waited (hopefully?) to see if anyone did have any objections to our marriage.
When it appeared that no one was going to burst through the doors, declare their undying love for me, and whisk me off on a galloping white charger, the vicar opened his mouth to continue.
“Wait,” a voice said, breaking the silence. Embarrassingly, I quickly realized it was mine. I was sure I could hear something outside, and if he started prattling on again I wouldn’t be able to hear it properly. “Wait, please. Just a moment—listen.”
Everyone fell silent for a second time. And there it was again, I hadn’t imagined it—the definite sound of someone singing in the church grounds. And it was a song and a singer I recognized immediately.
I knew then that I had to go and find out.
I knew that I couldn’t just carry on with the ceremony without checking first.
What if it wasn’t just a coincidence? What if that song meant what I thought it meant?
I turned and looked at David.
My head was saying, “This is your wedding day, Scarlett…”
