Page 41 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“No, it’s fine.” I smiled at Diana. “Nothing I can’t handle anyway.” Perhaps Sean wasn’t as different from Alfie as I’d automatically assumed earlier on. His sense of humor was just a little more subtle.
“So, Scarlett,” Alfie said. “Ursula has told us all about how you love the movies.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said, turning to him.
“But your family don’t understand you? She said your father isn’t keen on the cinema, but that your mother loved it just like you.”
I froze on hearing my mother mentioned. I’d spent so many years not talking about her that it now seemed very odd for a relative stranger to want to start discussing her with me.
“Alfie,” Diana said softly. “Maybe Scarlett doesn’t want to talk about her.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind. Really.”
I told them what I knew of my mother and her love of the movies. While I was doing this Sean returned with the drinks. Then for some unknown reason—as I never usually talked about it to anyone—I told them about her leaving when I was only a baby.
“Oh my dear, how awful for you,” Diana said sympathetically. “But your father sounds a fine chap from what you’ve told us.”
“Yeah, Dad is great. I never missed out on anything when I was growing up. Well, I didn’t feel like I did anyway.”
“What was your mother’s name?” Alfie asked.
“Rosemary. But I think she called herself Rosie a lot of the time.”
Alfie screwed his forehead up. “Diana, do you remember that barmaid who used to work for us? She was mad about the cinema too. You used to go out together and see films occasionally when I was working in the bar and couldn’t go with you. Wasn’thername Rosie?”
Diana thought for a moment. “Yes, I think you’re right, it was. But, Alfie, you’re talking ten, maybe twelve years ago now.”
“What did she look like?” I asked eagerly. It couldn’t be her, surely—there must be thousands of Rosies who liked the cinema.
Diana thought again. “Er, she had lightish-colored hair, I seem to remember, although I think she may have dyed it. But it definitely wasn’t black like yours, Scarlett. And if I remember rightly, light eyes too—blue, maybe green?”
“I may get my hair from my father. But his eyes are brown, so…”
We began to discuss excitedly the possibility that this woman could be my mother.
Sean, who had been sitting quietly at the table until this point, interrupted us. “I hate to be the voice of doom among all this hope. But don’t you think you might be getting a little carried away here?”
We all stopped talking and stared at him.
He glanced between the three of us, and his gaze rested on Diana. “You said you hadn’t seen this woman for some time. Perhaps your memory might be a little clouded.”
Diana considered Sean for a moment, her blue eyes blinking slowly. “Are you saying as I approach old age, Sean, that my mind is starting to go?” she inquired politely.
“No, not at all, Diana,” Sean said hurriedly, his cheeks flushing a little. “I’m just saying the chances of it actually being her are millions to one.” Sean took a quick gulp of his drink, and his voice slowed to its usual calm collected pace again. “Quite simply you are all possibly letting your shared tendencies to romanticize things, as if they were on celluloid, shroud your better judgment.”
“Ah, my son—the voice of reason,” Alfie said, leaning back in his chair and surveying Sean. “Thatis your mother talking.”
“It’s nothing to do with Mum. I’m just being sensible. These are the facts: this all happened a decade ago; you’ve not seen the woman since and you have no idea where she is now. How is this helping Scarlett, by getting her hopes up that you may have met her mother many years ago? It’s not as if you know where she is now, is it?”
I was in two minds as to how I felt about Sean at that very moment. I was mad at him for quashing our ideas with his common sense. But I was touched that he was worried about me getting hurt by all this talk of my mother.
“London,” Diana said. “The last I knew of her, she went down to London to work. She met a chap up here who offered her a job in one of the upmarket boutiques on Bond Street. Rosie was always well dressed—she took care of herself, and people noticed.”
“You don’t remember which one, do you?” I asked hopefully.
Diana thought hard. “No, I’m so sorry, Scarlett, I don’t. But this is years ago, it doesn’t mean she’d still be there now.”
“And even if she was,” Sean said, “it doesn’t mean this woman is actually Scarlett’s mother. We have no proof.”
