Page 43 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
In the afternoon I repeated my morning performance, this time along the opposite side of Bond Street. I knew it was a long shot. I mean, it was over ten years since my mother was supposed to have worked here. But it was all I’d got—I had to keep giving it a try.
My mobile rang just as I was about to enter the Fenwick department store.
“Dad!” This was the first time Dad had contacted me since I’d been away. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Scarlett. How’s it going? Are you having a good time away from us all?”
HowcouldIanswerthat?
“I’m missing everyone, obviously. But it’s been…helpful to get away for a while, yes.”
“Good, I’m pleased to hear it. So, what are you up to at the moment?”
“I’m just doing a bit of shopping, actually.”
“Ah, I should have known—spending all David’s money, are you?”
Chancewouldbeafinething.
“I do have money of my own, Dad,” I reminded him. “That’s why I come to work withyouevery day!”
“Notquiteevery day,” Dad said, laughing. “I’m glad you’re having a good time, though. You needed a break.”
“Yes…” I said, feeling guilty as I thought about what I was doing just then. “Look, Dad, I’d better get going. I’m having a bit of a hectic day.” That was putting it mildly.
“You’re not the only one. I’m running this office virtually single-handed. Or had that little detail slipped your mind?”
I could hear by the tone of Dad’s voice he was just joking with me. “Then you’ll appreciate me all the more when I return!” I smiled. “I really have to go now. I’ll call you soon.”
“OK then, darling. Speak to you later. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I ended the call and looked down at my phone. Perhaps I should have told him. But this search for my mother could all come to nothing so it would be pointless upsetting him. It wasn’t as if I was getting anywhere with it. But I had to keep trying.
I put my phone back in my bag and pushed my way purposefully through the revolving doors of Fenwick’s.
Right then—where to start?
I walked through all the departments, asking the same questions to any of the more mature assistants I could find. It was pointless asking the younger ones; they wouldn’t have been around when my mother worked here—if she had worked here, of course. Diana’s information may indeed have been accurate: my mother could well have worked in one of these shops many years ago. But the chances of finding her—or even anyone who had worked with her—were becoming more unlikely by the second.
I returned to the ground floor and began to make my way toward the exit. But I paused as I walked through the handbag department—not to gasp at the extortionate price of the designer bags, but to stare at one of the assistants. She was an older lady, but I hadn’t seen her earlier when I’d passed through. The reason I was now staring at her was because pinned tightly to the top of her head was a bun of jet-black hair. And as she looked over her spectacles at a stock sheet, I saw that the eyes that darted to and fro were the exact shade of bright green as my own.
She glanced up and met my stare. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“No. Well, actually, yes, you might be able to.” I didn’t knowwhat to say—I was in shock. I’d been trailing up and down Bond Street all day, I was tired and exhausted, and now this person standing right in front of me could really be my mother. “Have you worked here long?” I asked stupidly.
“About ten years. Why?”
“Oh, good, erm, well, the thing is…” How the hell did you ask someone if they were the mother that ran out on you when you were a six-month-old baby?
“Miss Sheila!” I heard a voice call. “Could you help me with this customer?”
Miss Sheila looked toward the other side of the counter where an elderly gentleman who was obviously having trouble deciding on a handbag—I presumed for his wife—stood there looking perplexed.
“Excuse me one moment, dear. I’ll be right back.” Sheila glided effortlessly over and spoke briefly to the gentleman. Expertly she demonstrated two bags by opening and closing them, holding them under her arm, at arm’s length, and then slung over her shoulder. Finally, the gentleman pointed at his choice: a tan leather clutch bag with optional chain strap.
“Michelle—gift-wrapping, please!” Sheila called.
