From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually (2 page)

‘Oi,’ I pretend to complain, as I find myself on Sean’s lap. ‘I thought you weren’t well!’

‘I’m suddenly feeling much, much better,’ Sean whispers as he deftly flicks off the TV with the remote control in one hand, while the other wraps itself around my waist. And I find, for once, that it’s my chassis commanding his attention for the next few minutes, instead of the highly polished, overpriced ones on the TV screen.

‘You’re going
where
with Oscar?’ Sean asks me
as he buttons up his shirt and deftly knots his tie in the mirror of our dressing table.

‘To the gym. Well, we’re calling in somewhere first to drop off one of his outfits.’

One of my best friends, Oscar, falling on his designer-shoe-clad feet, has managed to ride the tidal wave of recession hitting the independent high-street retailer and has turned his cornucopia of a boutique, where he was selling designer fashions through the decades, into a thriving costume-hire business. Now he’s offering his genuine period clothing not only to private clients and businesses, but quite often these days he is asked by magazines and newspapers for one-off items for photo shoots. And recently
he’s had some breaks in the film and television market, too. It was with much excitement that we’d eagerly tuned in to an episode of a new BBC1 wartime drama the other night, just so we could spot one of Oscar’s hats appearing on the head of Prostitute Number Two in a scene set in the East End of London.

‘You and Oscar are going to the gym?’ Sean asks, turning round to face me. ‘So
that’s
why you’re dressed like that.’

I look into the full-length mirror that stands in the corner of our bedroom. ‘Is it a bit over the top?’ I ask, eyeing my new black and red Nike tracksuit with matching Lycra vest top. There’s also a pair of coordinating cycling shorts concealed beneath the tracksuit bottoms, which may or may not be revealed this morning, depending on just how many mirrors the gym contains.

Sean moves behind me and considers my reflection, then he kisses the side of my neck. ‘No one will even bat an eyelid at you when you arrive with Oscar, sweetheart. I don’t even want to try to imagine what he’s going to turn up in!’

Ever since I met Oscar last year, when I first came to Notting Hill, he’s always had a pretty eccentric taste in clothes. Never one to blend into the background, Oscar’s taste definitely leans towards the brighter end of the colour spectrum. In fact,
a macaw parrot would probably feel dull and uninteresting perched next to him.

‘You’ll find out in a moment – he’s coming round to pick me up.’

‘Why this sudden interest in joining a gym?’ Sean asks, moving away from the mirror to lift his jacket from the hanger.

‘Oh, no reason. Oscar and I just decided we wanted to get fitter, that’s all, and we thought we’d go for a little induction today to see if we like it – it’s free, after all.’

‘Scarlett, I know you a bit better than that by now …’ Sean thinks for a moment while he adjusts his tie in the mirror. ‘Let me guess: there’s a rumour that some celebrity has joined this gym you’re testing out, and you’re hoping to catch a glimpse of him in his shorts.’

Damn, Sean knows me a bit too well.

‘You know I’ve been exercising a lot with my workout DVDs lately,’ I say, sitting down on the bed and pulling on my new Nike trainers. ‘I just thought I’d step it up a gear.’ In reality, I’d bought a box set of Davina McCall workouts and done the first DVD two and half times. The half was because I’d got distracted midway through by a man outside in the street busking Beatles songs. Not unusual in London, but in a suburban street in Notting Hill definitely a stop-and-stare necessity.

Sean waits with his
arms folded. He taps his foot on the carpet for added effect.

‘OK, OK, yes,’ I look up at him from the bed. ‘There was a tiny little rumour that Jude Law has been spotted using the gym while he’s in a West End play in town, but that’s not the only reason we’re going there today.’

‘I knew it!’ he announces triumphantly, a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘You’ll never change, Scarlett.’

‘That’s not true! You know I don’t watch anywhere near the amount of movies I used to.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Sean’s face becomes serious. ‘But you’ve replaced your obsession with other things.’

‘Like?’

‘Like TV, and that computer of yours. You’re never off it.’

I finish lacing up my shoes. ‘You can talk about TV, with your stupid car programmes and your sport, you watch just as much as me. And I like my laptop. It keeps me in touch with people.’

Sean snorts. ‘Not real people, though. Internet people.’

‘They
are
real people! Just because I can’t see them in the flesh doesn’t make them imaginary.’

Sean’s face softens again; he walks over towards me and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Scarlett, as long as you’re happy I don’t mind what you find yourself obsessed with next. As long
as it’s legal, of course,’ he adds with a wink. ‘Now I have to go to work. Have fun with Oscar at the gym, won’t you? Don’t work out too hard – you’re just a beginner, remember.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind, thanks, Sean,’ I reply, trying to sound aloof. But as Sean scoops me up into his arms to kiss me goodbye properly, as always, I melt at the feeling of his lips on mine. Some things never change.

We both head downstairs, and as Sean opens the front door to leave the house Oscar is already standing on the doorstep, about to ring the bell.

‘You must have sensed I was coming, darling,’ Oscar announces, flamboyantly swishing past Sean into the hall.

‘Yes, I thought I could feel my retinas beginning to burn,’ Sean says, pretending to shield his eyes from Oscar’s bright clothing. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and chat, Oscar, as always, I have to go to work. Bye, Scarlett, have fun working out those noses of yours.’

Both Oscar and I grimace at him as he closes the door.

Oscar and Sean have never seen eye to eye. Mainly because, some years ago, Sean used to date Oscar’s sister, and when they broke up, quite bitterly at the time, Jennifer went to live over in the States.

‘Oscar, you look …’ I search for an appropriate word as I gaze at the abundance of neon Lycra positively throbbing before me in the hallway ‘… resplendent,’ I decide.

‘Do you think?’ Oscar says, pirouetting
around on the tiled floor. ‘I thought it might be a tad over the top. But as I always say, if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it to the absolute limit!’

‘You’ve certainly done that. Perhaps …’ I hesitate as I think about the hip and trendy private gym we’re going to be entering today.

‘Perhaps what?’ Oscar scoots over to the wall and scrutinises himself in front of the mirror. ‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ he wails. ‘I knew it. It will have to go.’ He carefully removes a shocking-pink towelling headband. ‘There, what do you think now – better?’

I try not to look at the rest of his ensemble – his electric-blue Lycra leggings with emerald-green leg warmers, or his matching blue singlet with a bright pink tick across the chest. ‘Much better, Oscar,’ I agree. ‘The headband
was
a bit OTT.’

‘Fabbo! Now, are you ready to get going? We’ve got to drop this at the TV studios on the way, you know?’ Oscar holds up a zipped suit bag containing one of the vintage outfits from his shop.

‘Yes, I haven’t forgotten.’ How could I? We were going to a real TV studio! I was so excited. But I was trying to act cool and calm, like it was an everyday occurrence. ‘Will we be OK to get in looking like this, though?’ I glance down at my gym gear.

‘Are you kidding, Scarlett, this
is TV! Anything goes behind the scenes. It’s only onscreen that there are rules and regulations.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, they don’t want you wearing big stripes because it interferes with the screen, or something, and if it’s morning TV there’s no black, it has to be bright and breezy.’

‘So if one of us accidentally ends up on air today, then you’ll have no worries, Oscar.’

Oscar tosses his head. ‘There’s as much chance of
that
happening as one of us dating Bradley Cooper. Too much security, darling; it’s like Colditz getting in and out of there.’

We set off for the TV studios in a black cab. Oscar won’t allow his clothes on public transport, in case they get squashed or
tainted
by the smell of commuters. As we trail across London in the taxi, I look out at the city I now call home.

It hadn’t taken me too long to get used to living here permanently. After I’d spent a month house-sitting last year in Notting Hill, and I’d fallen in love with my next-door neighbour at the time – Sean – it hadn’t taken me much thought at all before upping sticks and moving in with him. We’d relocated the offices of the popcorn-machine company I continued to run with my father from Stratford-upon-Avon down to London, and our headquarters were now based
in a little office in Chelsea. But it was only me and my new assistants, Tammy and Leon, that ran the offices now. Dorothy, my father’s faithful secretary of many years, had decided to retire when Dad had gone over to New York to run the new US arm of the business. Which was blossoming, after Sean had purchased a chain of cinemas last year in one of his business deals, and our popcorn machines were gradually supplying the ever-growing needs of the cinema-goers of America.

I missed Dad terribly. But he’d taken to living in New York surprisingly well. I think he quite enjoyed having the chance to do something different with his life for once, and my moving in with Sean had given him the push to move on.

‘What ya thinkin’ about?’ Oscar asks, as we suddenly pick up speed and start moving through the early-morning traffic at a pace.

‘Dad.’

‘You miss him, don’t you?’ Oscar asks, resting his hand on mine.

I nod. ‘Yes, but he’s having a whale of a time over in New York. Best thing that ever happened to him, going to the States. It’s been like a new lease of life.’

‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t miss him, though, Scarlett. It was only the two of you for twenty-three years. It’s understandable you should feel the loss.’

I nod again. Oscar
always knows the right thing to say. He’s been like my new best friend since I’ve come to live in London. Maddie, my oldest friend, still isn’t that far away in Stratford-upon-Avon, when she isn’t off travelling around the world with her husband, Felix, but it just isn’t the same.

Suddenly the taxi driver screeches to a halt.

‘What’s wrong?’ I exclaim, peering through the glass partition to see what’s caused him to brake so hard.

‘Bloody joggers!’ he moans, rolling his eyes. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed. She just stepped right out in front of that bus, and now there’s a three-vehicle pile-up.’

As the taxi driver slowly pulls around the line of vehicles, I see some early-bird tourists already snapping photos of the incident, and uniformed police officers appearing on the scene, trying to grab a couple of witnesses to take a statement from as the jogger looks anxiously at her watch.

‘I don’t think she is a jogger,’ I remark as we drive by. ‘Her clothes suggest she’s going to a gym, like us, not out road-running.’

Oscar laughs. ‘Two sessions with Davina McCall, and you’re a fitness expert now?’

‘Three, actually, and I have bought some other workout DVDs, I just haven’t had time to do them yet.’

‘And will you?’ Oscar asks with wide eyes.

‘Depends on how I get on
at the gym later this morning. I could well take up a yearly membership if I like it.’

‘You mean if you catch a glimpse of Jude Law in a sweat-soaked vest!’

‘There is that added incentive!’

The taxi pulls to a stop outside the TV studios where we’re dropping off Oscar’s outfit. While Oscar pays the driver, I look up at the rather dull building we’re about to enter. It doesn’t look much like I’ve imagined a TV studio might look. It’s quite drab and boring on the outside. But as we go through the security gate outside, giving our names and reason for being there, and then on into Reception where we sign our names in a book, it begins to feel a bit more exciting. I see photographs of some of the programmes that are filmed there, and some of the personalities that work on them. Oscar flashes his visitor’s pass at the smiling receptionist and we’re allowed further into the building.

‘So where do we have to go now?’ I ask, trying to act cool but feeling a sense of nervous anticipation, like a child about to visit Santa.

‘This way,’ Oscar says, prancing down a long corridor.

As I follow him, I try and look as if I visit TV studios every day of the week, but the reality is my head is swivelling to and fro trying to see inside rooms and offices in the hope that I might spot something exciting going on.

But it’s
all quite boring, really, not at all what I expected. It’s just like a normal office block.

Then as we turn a corner, and Oscar hurriedly sets off down the next long corridor, I pause for a moment to glance back at a small crowd of people gathering outside one of the rooms we’ve just passed.

It couldn’t be – could it? It had looked an awful lot like him sitting in that chair as we’d whizzed past … But what would he be doing here at this time of the morning?

Then I see a sign above me on the wall that says
Wake Up Britain TV Studios
, and the penny drops. He must be a guest this morning on breakfast television. I’m about to call out to Oscar to wait a moment, but the corridor stretching out in front of me is empty.

I look at my two options. Chase after Oscar and his 1920s flapper dress and matching headband, or casually wander back down the corridor and possibly get the chance to speak to Colin Firth …

It doesn’t take much thinking about.

I’m about to take a step towards my date with destiny when a young man in faded jeans and a Ted Baker t-shirt taps me on the shoulder.

‘Excuse me?’ he enquires.

I’m almost thrusting my hands in the air in surrender and admitting that yes, I’m not supposed to be here alone when he continues, ‘Are you the fitness expert?’

‘I … I’m sorry?’ I ask, looking at him in bewilderment.