Page 42 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
I opened up my bag, and pulled out the battered photo. “I know this is old,” I said, unfolding it carefully. “But did the Rosie you know look anything like the woman in this photo?”
Diana took the photo gently from me, and she and Alfie both reached for their spectacle cases.
It was Alfie who took his eyes from the photo first. He removed his glasses and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Scarlett, it’s difficult to tell—I can’t say I remember her all that well. Women change their appearance so much from week to week, let alone over several years. I really couldn’t say for sure.”
“It’s OK, Alfie. It was worth a try.” I tried not to look too disappointed.
Diana passed me back the photo and removed her glasses slowly. Then she placed her hand gently over mine before she spoke.
“It’s her, Scarlett. It’s Rosie.”
It was as if Diana was handing me a piece of the jigsaw I’d never been able to complete.
I’d told Sean I believed everything happened for a reason. What if my reason for coming to Notting Hill was more than just to prove my family wrong about the movies? What if the reason I’d come here was to get the chance to find the final piece of my jigsaw, the something that was missing from my life—the chance to find my mother again?
Eleven
Our journey home by train the next day was much quieter than our journey up had been. I sat deep in thought most of the time, and Sean was polite enough not to disturb me as we traveled back to London.
When we finally reached Notting Hill and our taxi dropped us off outside our houses, Sean asked if there was anything more he could do to help.
“Thanks, but I think I can take it from here,” I replied, carrying my suitcase up the steps.
“No, I mean with the search for your mother,” Sean said, climbing his own steps so he was level with me again. “You haven’t said as much, but I assume you’re going to continue looking for her now you’ve got a lead?”
“Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right, I am. But I think I know what I’m going to do.” I smiled at him. “Thanks for asking, though.”
“Any time. If you change your mind, you know where I am.”
I nodded.
Sean smiled, unlocked his door, and disappeared inside.
I stood for a moment on the steps, gazing at the spot where he’d just been. It seemed odd to be on my own again now.
But as I turned the key in my lock, I wasn’t alone for long: my homecoming was greeted by the now familiar wailing of Buster—as I’d christened him—the burglar alarm.
Early the next morning I set off to the heart of London’s shopping district. As I emerged from Bond Street tube station I suddenly realized the enormity of what I was about to try and do.
Surrounding me were more designer clothing, perfume, art, and antiques shops—and more Royal Warrant holders—than anywhere else in the city.
Where on earth do I start? I wondered, as I looked along the rows of elegant and expensive shops. Well, as a famous nun once sang in a movie, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…”
So that’s just what I did. That Monday morning I walked the entire length of Old and New Bond Street, asking in shops, and—if I was lucky to get even the merest flicker of interest from one of the bored assistants—showing my photograph too.
At lunchtime I took a break in a little cafe. I took a seat by the window, and while I was waiting for my panini to be brought to the table, I unfolded my photograph once more, this time for my own benefit.
“Ayearningforsomethingthat’s lost.” The words from that painting made sense to me at last. Now I was actually doing something positive about trying to find my mother, it was all clicking into place.
Carefully I folded the photograph and placed it safely in my inside coat pocket. Then I took a sip of my orange juice and stared at the shoppers passing by on the pavement.
Two women across the road bumped into each other as they tried to enter and exit Jigsaw at the same time. I smiled as I saw the two of them apologize to each other, and then bang their heads together as they both bent down to pick up the vast quantity of expensive-looking shopping bags that they’d dropped on the pavement. It was something that you did all the time when you were out shopping, especially in a place as busy as London. But what you didn’t usually do, and what the lucky lady had done who had been about to enter Jigsaw today, was bump into Keira Knightley in the process.
I sat watching open-mouthed as I saw recognition strike on the other lady’s face. She flushed a shade of bright red after either losing the power of speech or, by the look on Keira’s face, more than likely saying something really stupid. Keira just smiled politely at her and began to back away. At first slowly, and then at a much speedier pace. Very quickly she became invisible among the throng of afternoon shoppers once more.
What a waste, I thought, as the waitress brought my lunch to the table. If that had been me I would have been able to engage her in some polite chitchat about her latest movie for a couple of minutes. Not babble some incoherent nonsense that scared her away down the street. Why did I never get those sorts of chances? It was really unfair.
