Page 31 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“I didn’t say I wasn’t the boss, just that I worked for the company. And I do work for them. I work damned hard in fact.”
“So how come you’re sitting here with me then and not out somewhere arranging mega-bucks deals?”
Sean shrugged. “Perks of being the boss, I guess.”
“Lucky you.”
A porter came through the carriage trundling a food trolley, so we bought some lunch for the journey and settled back to eat it.
“So, your family isn’t too keen on this movie obsession?” Sean asked, tucking into his sandwich.
“OK, stop right there,” I said, putting down my baguette before I’d even had the chance to open it. “Unless you want me to get off at the next station, you can stop calling itthatright now.”
“Easy,” Sean said, raising his eyebrows. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”
He did that a lot, I noticed—raised his eyebrows. In fact his whole face was very expressive. The eyebrows in question were the exact same shade of sandy blond as his permanently tousled hair. He didn’t look much like the owner of a large successful business as he sat there tucking into an egg sandwich in his blue jeans and gray T-shirt—he’d also lost his look of Jude Law now too. No, the person sitting opposite me definitely bore more than a passing resemblance to Ewan McGregor.
“All right, how about we use some business terminology?” Sean thought for a moment. “You’re having a difference of opinion and are unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion whereall parties are in agreement that the subject is in fact in breach of her contract to remain a rational and normal human being? There, is that better?”
I couldn’t help grinning.
“Yes, that sounds much more like it, thank you.”
“So, Scarlett,” Sean asked, brushing some stray crumbs from his shirt, “how on earth did you manage to get your family to let you come away for a month? I mean I know about Maddie and the house, but your father and your fiancé too?”
“You’re not the only one that can swing a deal when you want,” I said, trying to shake Ewan McGregor from my brain at the same time as I shook open my baguette. I carefully picked out the pieces of cucumber they always insisted on putting in with tuna. “I have my ways when I want to.”
“Oh, I bet you do, Scarlett,” Sean said, one eyebrow raised again as he watched me. “I bet you do.”
Eight
We arrived in Glasgow Central station at about teatime, where we duly queued for a taxi and made our way to the hotel Ursula had booked for us.
Basically Ursula had organized the whole trip. She’d rung her father the night of the dinner party and told him what was happening. The next morning, while I’d gone along to Oscar’s boutique on the King’s Road to choose an outfit for the wedding, she had booked us two return train tickets for later that same morning and hotel rooms for the next two nights.
Without Ursula we definitely wouldn’t have got to Glasgow. She was one of life’s organizers (and also a hopeless romantic, she’d admitted to me) and reveled in providing us with everything we needed for the weekend ahead. Although Sean had insisted he should choose and pay for our hotel—in fact he had offered to pay for our whole trip—I, of course, declined his kind, yet surprising, offer, and insisted I at least paid for my own train ticket.
The Radisson in central Glasgow was a beautiful, modern hotel. I was impressed—I hadn’t really thought about where we’d stay. I’d assumed maybe a Travelodge, or a similar sort ofhotel—that’s where David and I usually ended up. But Sean didn’t seem the type to stay in hotels where the adjacent restaurant had laminated menus or an all-day breakfast.
“Shall I meet you back down here in, say, an hour?” Sean asked after we’d checked in. “Is that long enough for you to unpack and do whatever you need to?”
“Yes, that’s plenty of time,” I said, a little bit distracted by the hotel manager, who was currently dealing with a problem behind the check-in desk. He looked exactly like Barney, the hotel manager from the Regent Beverly Wilshire inPrettyWoman. Immaculately dressed, gray hair, pointy little gray beard…
“I know an excellent restaurant just down the road from here,” Sean continued. “Would you like to go there for dinner this evening?”
“Yes.” I pulled my attention away from “Barney” and suddenly felt shy. Sean made it sound like we were going on a date. “I’m sure that would be lovely.”
“Good. I’ll catch up with you later then.” He smiled at me, and for the first time since we’d met, it was not a smile of mockery or laughter. It was a genuine smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.
“Yes,” I said, coyly smiling back. “I’ll look forward to it.”
The restaurant Sean had spoken of was a lovely little Italian—it had oak beamed ceilings, checked cloths covering the tables, and waiters scurrying about brandishing huge pepper grinders.
After we had ordered, Sean took a sip of his wine and then leaned casually back in his chair and watched me.
“What?” I asked. “What is it this time? You keep doing that—you were doing it on the train too.”
“You remind me of someone,” he said. “Trouble is I can’t think who.”
