Page 98 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
I opened the door to the café, and a bell rang above my head, announcing my arrival. “I’ll call you later and let you know how it all goes,” I promised.
“Yes, please do, we’ll be crossing everything for you,” Ursula said with an encouraging smile. “Including our eyes!”
I gave them one last nervous smile, then I took a deep breath and walked into the café. I found myself a table in the corner by the window and sat down.
A middle-aged waitress wearing a brown uniform and a white frilly apron tied around her middle duly appeared. “Evening, what can I get you?”
“Erm, just a cup of tea, please, milk no sugar. Actually no, I will have sugar, please.” I still felt I was in shock: maybe a sweet cup of tea would help me more than that brandy had.
“OK…” the waitress said slowly, eyeing me up and down. “Anything else?”
“No, not at the moment, thanks…Oh, if you haveskimmilk that would be good in the tea too, thanks.”
“Skim.” The waitress wrote on her pad. “Sure, I’ll check for you. I won’t be long.” She wandered back to the counter and spoke briefly to a man who I assumed must be the chef because he was wearing a large white apron. Well, it would originally have been white underneath all the food stains.
I sat back and surreptitiously looked around at the other diners in the cafe.
They were an odd mix of people. The youngsters that lolled about at one of the tables were obviously there to partake of their five daily food groups—chips, caffeine, ketchup, salt, and sugar. Most of the other diners were that bit older, but still obviously felt that their day was not complete without some sort of fry-up. And there were a few odd people like me just sitting on their own, sipping a cup of tea. The lone people looked quite desperate and sad, and I hoped I didn’t look like that.
The dingy white walls were covered in old black and white photos. I glanced at the one closest to me and immediately recognized the handsome face of Gary Grant smiling back.
Then I realized that all the photos were of movie stars. Marilyn Monroe and Charlie Chaplin were hanging next to Clark Gable, Rita Hayworth, and who was that? I squinted tosee across the room. Ah yes, Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire, and Gene Kelly. Maybe the café was named in his honor?
I picked up the laminated menu that stood on the checked plastic tablecloth and flicked casually through the pages. Helpfully, there was a photo of every dish that Kelly’s had to offer. This was presumably so you didn’t have to tax yourself by wading through the one-line description of each meal. And intriguingly, all the dishes had Hollywood-inspired names, I assumed to try and inspire you into wanting to eat them.
Was this why my mother knew this place—because of all its movie connections?
I put the menu down as the waitress reappeared at the table with my tea. I was impressed that it was in a pot, and not just in a chipped cup and saucer as I’d half expected it to be.
“Would you like anything else?” the waitress asked hopefully. “I see you were just looking at our menu.”
“No, not just at the moment, thanks—maybe later though,” I added when she looked disappointed. “I’m meeting someone here.”
“Righty-ho,” she said, walking away. “I’ll pop back in a while.”
I turned my head and looked out of the window. I felt like I should have a red rose or something similar poking out of a book, so the person meeting me would know who I was. But Rose already knew what I looked like, didn’t she? Just like a younger version of her, really.
I thought about what had happened only half an hour ago in the cinema. What were the odds of that? I wondered. All that time I had been chasing across London and Paris with Sean looking for her, my mother had been right here all along—in Notting Hill.
Sean! Oh my God, I had to tell him; he’d be so excited for me,and it would be an excuse to talk to him again. I’d ring him now, even if he was in New York. Hmm, what time would it be there?
“Hello, Scarlett.”
I looked up and saw Rose standing at the other side of the table. “May I sit down?” she asked.
“Yes—of course.”
I watched her remove her raincoat, hang it neatly on the back of the chair, then smooth her skirt carefully beneath her before she sat down. She arranged herself so that her knees were together and her lower legs, angled slightly to the side, were crossed at the ankles.
It was very elegant to watch. I noticed she had changed out of her cinema uniform too. She now wore a slim green skirt, white shirt, and matching pale green cardigan. Her hair, that had been pulled tightly up in a bun before, had now been brushed and lay gracefully over her slim shoulders.
The waitress appeared. “Hello, Rose,” she said. “Usual?”
Rose nodded. “Yes, please, Greta. Would you like anything, Scarlett?”
I shook my head. “No, no, I’m fine just now, thanks.”
The truth was I was far from fine. I had the strangest combination of sickness, apprehension, and curiosity all burning a hole inside me, and it was starting to make me feel a bit lightheaded.
