Page 133 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“That, David, is just what I’m trying to find out,” I said impatiently. “Dermot, please continue. I’m sure everyone will be quiet and listen—won’t you?”
Everyone nodded silently. I don’t think I looked like I was in a mood to be messed with.
Dermot glanced nervously at his new audience.
“Anyway, as I was saying before, I must apologize not only for turning up here today, but also for being so late.”
“Late—by how long?”
“About sixteen hours, give or take a couple.”
“Sixteen hours! I don’t understand.”
Dermot cleared his throat and looked a bit embarrassed.
“We should have been at your house yesterday evening. I say we…Finlay and his missus should have. You see, it was them that was booked to do the drop.”
“The drop?” I asked, mystified.
“Yeah, that’s what we in the trade call the booking—see?” He lifted his dark glasses momentarily to wink at me, then saw David scowling at him and he hurriedly continued. “Finlay and his missus, well, they was booked to turn up dressed as Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler fromGonewiththeWind. Finlay does a stunning Rhett Butler, don’t you, Fin?”
Finlay blushed under his black hat.
“But due to unforeseen circumstances—namely the lovely Scarlett having to be rushed into hospital yesterday with suspected appendicitis—Rhett and Scarlett were not able to make an appearance at the appropriate time or place yesterday.”
“Oh dear,” I said, addressing my remark to Finlay, although I didn’t for one moment expect him to reply, as Dermot seemed to do all the talking in this relationship. “I do hope your wife is all right.”
Finlay simply nodded while Dermot answered for him. “She’s fine—we just got her to the hospital in time, apparently. But it means we’re a Scarlett O’Hara down for a few weeks now, which is going to mean a lot of canceled bookings…and a lot of lost revenue…”
He looked me up and down for a moment. “I don’t supposeyou’dbe interested in joining our books for a while, would you?You’ve quite a look of the Miss Scarlett about you and you do suit a fuller dress.”
I smoothed my tulle skirts down. “That’s very kind of you. But no, I don’t think so. And what books would they be anyway? What is all this?”
“We,” Dermot said proudly, producing a business card from his pocket, “provide the highest quality, top notch, can’t-be-matched message delivery service in London. We currently have over thirty different options of message delivery service available to our very discerning and dignified clientele. We never fail to deliver; our messagesalwaysget through.”
“Oh,” I said, looking at the business card Dermot had thrust into my hand. “I get it. You’re like a singing telegram service.”
Dermot and Finlay recoiled in horror.
“Madam,” Dermot said, lifting his hat again and placing it over his heart. “We pride ourselves on being much more than just…”
Finlay patted him encouragingly on the back as he struggled to repeat my damaging words.
“More than just a…a…telegram service!” he almost spat out. “And I can assure you we definitelyneversing!”
“Oh my God, you don’t strip, do you?” I asked in dismay, looking from one to the other of them. Finlay was tall and gangly with black, slightly greasy-looking curly hair, and Dermot was short and fat without enough hair left on his head to tell what it had once been. Neither of them were exactly oil paintings.
“No, miss, we certainly do not! We,” Dermot said, squaring his shoulders, “are London’s only Moviegrams—we deliver messages dressed as characters from the silver screen. And as I said before, we have 100 percent success record at gettingour messages delivered. Which is why,” he said, glancing at Cruella, who had now appeared outside the church, “we would not be thwarted by a minor setback such as a Chanel-wearing Rottweiler when it came to delivering this message to you before its deadline expired at midday.”
“Oh, right,” I said, relieved Dermot and Finlay weren’t going to strip down to their boxers, or even further, in front of me in the churchyard. “Now I get it. Oh,” I said again as something else just occurred to me. “You’re dressed as the Blues Brothers today—right?”
“Yes,” Dermot said, looking pleased I’d guessed. “We had to substitute costumes at the last minute because of the circumstances I mentioned before—and since we couldn’t get hold of Mr. Bond, we had to choose something ourselves. The Blues Brothers are one of our favorites, see—”
I cut him off before he went any further. “Wait a moment; you said Mr. Bond—is that Sean Bond you’re talking about? Is he the one who booked you to do this?”
“Er, yes, he is—and actually we’d best continue with the task in hand; we’re starting to drift a bit off course.” He squared his shoulders and adjusted his tie in preparation. Then he gave me a nervous smile.
I simply stared at him. I just wanted them to get on with this, now I knew Sean was at the bottom of it. What did it all mean? I glanced at David; his face was thunderously dark.
