Page 33 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
I nodded. “Yes, it’s a great motto to live your life by. I’ve always thought—”
Sean interrupted, “That’s exactly what my stepmother said to me when it happened too.”
“What, everything happens for a reason?”
“Yes…and I’ve just realized, she’s who you remind me of.”
“I guess that must be a good thing…” I started to say, pleased he seemed to have calmed down a bit now. But then something occurred to me. “Didn’t you mention when we were at Oscar’s how your stepmother was mad about the movies?”
“Yes, I said that’s why she puts up with Dad so easily.”
“My mother loved the movies too, and you just said I reminded you of Diana.”
“Yes, you do remind me of Diana in that way. And so? Wait, you’re not saying what I think you are? Are you?”
“It could be, Sean—although I know it seems like a huge coincidence.”
“No, you’re just getting carried away, Scarlett. My stepmother and your mother arenotone and the same person.” Sean picked up his knife and fork.
It was my turn to glare across the table now.
“Look, your mother’s name,” Sean said, pausing before he cut into his steak. “Was it Diana?”
“No, it was Rosemary, but—”
“So, you’re suggesting that my stepmother changed her name by deed poll before she met my father, and she never chose to tell him?”
“Well, she might have toldhim, but why would she need to tell you or Ursula?”
Sean shook his head. “I’m beginning to see where your family was coming from when they said you needed some time away. You’ve got one hell of an imagination, Scarlett. That script sounds like something a Hollywood film studio would churn out!”
He grinned now. But instead of smiling back, I sat back in my chair and folded my arms.
“It’s all right for you, Sean. You’ve been lucky enough to have two mothers in your life. I’ve never even had one—not that I can remember anyway.”
Sean put down his cutlery again and this time had the good grace to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Scarlett—about your mother. I don’t want to sound harsh, but I don’t think pinning your hopes on some crazy idea that my stepmother is also your mother is going to do you any good at all.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, pouring my Bolognese sauce—which I’d asked to be served separately—over my pasta. I picked up my fork and began twisting it around in my spaghetti. “Just forget I ever said anything.”
Sean nodded as the atmosphere between us calmed once again, and he happily began to tuck into his steak.
Wellyoucan forget about it, I thought, as I lifted a forkful of spaghetti up from my plate. ButIcertainly won’t…
***
That night, before I went to bed, I opened up my purse and pulled out a tatty, folded photo that I’d always kept with me for the past fifteen years. I’d found it at the back of a wardrobe Dad and I had been sorting out for a Brownie jumble sale oneday and, on realizing what it was, I’d quickly shoved it in my pocket so he didn’t see.
Now, I carefully unfolded it again as I had so many times before over the years, and looked at the creased up photograph that was lying in my hand.
It was a picture of a couple holding a newborn baby. My father was definitely the man in the photo, I could see that easily. I was the baby, and the woman holding me was my mother.
And the reason I knew that it was definitely my mother and me was handwritten in black ink on the back of the photo.
Tom,
Us & our darling Scarlett—March 1986
Now at last we are a family.
