Page 4 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“Scarlett,” he called again, but this time his voice was more of an urgent whisper. “Scarlett, will you get a move on or is your bum permanently glued to that seat? The show is over now!”
I shook my head.
Thatcertainly wasn’t Johnny Depp’s velvety voice calling me gently from the stage. It sounded much more like—
Oh my God. I turned my head from where I’d been staring into space and realized that I wasn’t in Hollywood after all. And yes, I was in a theater, but it wasn’t the Kodak theater in Los Angeles; it was the Royal Shakespeare theater in Stratford-upon-Avon. And the person standing there in a suit and tie calling my name wasn’t the gorgeous Mr. Johnny Depp but my fiancé, David.
“I…I’m sorry, David,” I apologized, hurriedly gathering my belongings up from the floor. “I must have drifted off there for a bit.”
“Hmm.” David gave me one of his looks. (Which, considering that he had the exact same coloring as Mr. Depp, sadly was nothing like the “look” that Johnny had given me a few minutes previously.) “We’ll talk about this later, Scarlett,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned toward me. “But for now we’ve got other things to deal with. Over there are twelve Japanese businessmen waiting for us to take them out to dinner. So if you’re finally back from whatever fantasy world you were away in, I think it’s time we did just that, don’t you?”
Hesitantly, I turned to my right to see a line of immaculately dressed oriental gentlemen watching our every move,and I closed my eyes for a moment. Damn it, I’d wanted tonight to go so well for David. Why couldn’t I for once just have enjoyed what was going on in the real world and not brought one of my cinema fantasies into it?
I mean, I had tried, really I had, but it’s what always happens when I’m bored—and tonight had been really,reallyboring.
I’d had to spend the evening sitting in the front row of a theater, with a dozen Japanese businessmen sitting either side of me, and David hidden somewhere among them. Up on the stage, people appeared to be dying left right and center, and for most of the performance I had quite felt like leaping up there and joining them.
As I sat watching the tale ofKingLearunfold in front of me, my head was filled with questions like, “Could it possibly go on much longer?” and, “Were these Japanese men really understanding all of this, or were they just grinning and nodding out of politeness?” And more importantly, did I have enough movie fantasies to fill an entire Shakespearian tragedy?
I’d hoped my first attempt at a real Shakespeare play would be something likeShakespeareinLove. If Joseph Fiennes or Ben Affleck had been up there on the stage it might have been a tad more interesting. Although I’d always had issues with Colin Firth playing the baddie in that film; Colin to me would always be Mr. Nice Guy in whatever movie he was in.
I tried picturing several movie heroes of mine wearing tights, but that didn’t take much time: men in tights didn’t really do it for me—even superheroes. When I got to Johnny Depp in full Shakespearian costume, he soon began to merge into Captain Jack Sparrow and that passed a good few minutes.
I’d done my imaginary Oscar walk down the center aisle of the theater when we came back from intermission. This was something I usually did at the end of seeing a movie in a cinema: when you walk down the steps toward the screen when the credits are rolling, I like to imagine my name has just been called as the winner of an Oscar. It’s usually Best Actress, but sometimes I vary it. Sometimes it will be for Best Screenplay or something like that. The person presenting me with my Oscar is usually Will Smith, but if I’m feeling particularly annoyed with David that day it’s either Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp, who then sweep me off my feet and tell me they’ve not only always admired my work for many years, but fancied the pants off me too.
And that was the fantasy I was in the middle of tonight when unfortunately David caught me.
No one else seems to understand my love of the movies. I don’t thinkIeven know why I love them so much. It’s almost as if it’s a genetic thing that’s been bred into me. But my father doesn’t take any interest in them; in fact, I can’t ever remember him watching a film on TV, let alone paying to go to a cinema. And I never really knew my mother.
Still, David’s cool with it. He usually puts up with my “nonsense,” as he calls it, just as long as he gets to watch his nature programs on TV, or those building ones he seems to have become obsessed with recently. In fact, lately our Sky+ box is constantly full of DIY programs. All since we bought our first house together—a period property in need of some renovation—and David decided that to save us money he would have a go at doing the place up himself.
This would have been absolutely fine had David been theDIY type, but my David is less Bob the Builder and more SpongeBob SquarePants when it comes to home renovation, and now some six months down the line, I was living in a house that it would have been kinder to put out of its misery had it been an animal in distress.
Tonight’s effort to impress the Japanese businessmen had been David’s idea—he’d never included me in any of his company’s business dealings before. But David said now we were soon to be married things should be different and he would like me to accompany him on business dinners and, in the future, to begin entertaining clients at the house once it was ready.
I wasn’t too worried by this talk of entertaining clients; by the speed of the progress David was making with the renovations, I wouldn’t have to worry about entertaining anyone in the next few decades. Not unless David thought they’d be impressed by eating off the top of an upturned bucket or a Black & Decker Workmate.
***
“I once had a boyfriend like that,” Oscar mused, reaching for a biscuit. “His house was a complete tip whenever I went round to visit. I couldn’t stand it. I spent all my time tidying up when we were there.”
“Well I may have exaggerated slightly—it’s notquitethat bad, I suppose.” I took a chocolate HobNob from the plate Oscar was offering me. “But I did once write a letter to the BBC asking them if theDIYSOSteam could come in and help me out.”
“And did they?”
“No, apparently they’ve stopped making the show now. I don’t think they docompletehouse makeovers anyway.”
Oscar laughed. “That’s the benefit of getting someone in to do the work for you.” He admired his immaculate home. “Although that Nick Knowles can turn up on my doorstep any day with his power tools, I quite like the rough ’n’ ready look.”
“I can imagine,” I said, grinning.
“Still, not everyone can afford to have designers in to decorate, darling, can they?” Oscar patted my knee reassuringly. “I’m sure your fiancé’s doing his best.”
“But that’s the thing, Oscar, David isn’t short of a bob or two; we could easily have afforded to get someone in to do our renovations between us. But no, he thought he’d save us a few pennies by doing it himself. Although by the amount of things that keep going wrong and have to keep being redone, it’s going to work out more expensive in the long run than hiring a few Jack-the-lad builders.”
“Bit on the cautious side with money, is he?” Oscar asked, politely sipping at his herbal tea.
“No, he’s not cautious, or even careful. He’s tight. That’s what all the DIY is about. Oh, Oscar, it’s like living in purgatory with power tools.” I picked up my cup from the glass table and took a comforting gulp of the hot filtered coffee.
