From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually (21 page)

Luckily I don’t have to stagger too far, as waiting on the decking for me there are some wooden seats, benches and one of those two-seater swing things with a canopy over it. If I’d been sober I’d have never even attempted the swing seat – even if Bradley Cooper
and
Brad Pitt had been waiting for me on it with a Scarlett-sized gap in between them. So why in the state I’m in now I think I will find it an easy task to perch myself on this constantly moving object I’m not sure, but somehow after several attempts of shuffling in and out in time with the swing, I manage to hop on.

The rhythmic movement of the seat swinging back and
forth, rather than having a negative effect on me, is actually quite soothing, and soon I’m wondering just why I was getting so het up in the ballroom back there.

What did it matter if Jamie wanted to let Jennifer slobber all over him like a lovesick puppy dog? No, she wasn’t a puppy dog, she was more like a vixen from a wolf pack. Only not a nice comedy wolf pack like my new pal Bradley was in. Oh, no, a nasty, vicious vindictive one that couldn’t stand it that you were going out with their ex-boyfriend and they weren’t!

Was that really why I had issues with Jennifer, I wonder. Did I think she was still smarting over Sean casting her aside for me? And if that’s the only reason, why was I so put out tonight when I saw her with Jamie?

I think about this for a few more minutes, my alcohol-saturated brain taking longer than usual to process my thoughts.

Oh
, I suddenly think as something else occurs to me.
Oh …

The situation I’m in now – removing myself to sit outside in the dark on my own when I need to collect my thoughts – is a bit too close for comfort to the same situation I found myself in at Disneyland Paris with Sean. I’d left Maddie and Felix’s wedding because I was jealous of Sean spending time with another girl. Only last year, Sean had
come outside to see if I was OK, and it was then that I began to realise how I truly felt about him. At least Jamie wasn’t likely to do the same tonight, so I was safe on that count.

‘There you are, Scarlett,’ Jamie says, his head appearing around the side of the swing canopy.

I nearly swing myself off the seat in surprise.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, watching me swing manically back and forth. ‘Oscar said you’d come out here for some fresh air.’

‘Wha-what are you doing out here? I mean … why?’

‘Can you slow that thing down?’ Jamie asks, looking like a demented spectator at a tennis match as his head tries to follow the seat as it swings rapidly back and forth. ‘Or do I have to take a chance and jump on at an appropriate moment?’

I manage to put my feet down on the decking to slow the swing for a second while Jamie hops on.

‘That’s better! I was getting seasick watching you sway back and forth.’

I manage a weak smile.

‘Are you OK with this thing still swinging? You look a bit green around the gills. That could have something to do with all the alcohol you’ve put away tonight, of course.’ Jamie smiles, and I feel even sicker.

God, this can’t be the same as Disneyland Paris? I know I don’t feel the same way about Jamie
as I felt about Sean back then,
still
feel about Sean now, I remind myself … But
could
that be why I felt the way I did when I saw Jamie with Jennifer? No: it wasn’t jealousy I was feeling, I simply wanted to protect Jamie from her barbed claws. But my feelings were so strong, I’d needed to remove myself from the room … Oh, this is such a mess. I’ve got myself in deep, as usual, and now I don’t know what to do. Where is Sean when I need him? Actually this is probably the one time having Sean here wouldn’t be such a good idea.

‘Scarlett?’ Jamie asks again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’re very quiet.’

Suddenly the combination of the alcohol, the emotion and everything that’s happened this evening takes over and I burst into tears.

‘Obviously not. Erm …’ Jamie gropes about in his pocket. ‘Is this the moment where I’m supposed to produce a clean hankie?’

I nod as large teardrops roll down my face.

‘No can do, I’m afraid. How about this? It’s a napkin from the buffet table. It’s clean.’

I take the paper napkin from him and dab at my eyes. Then I shiver.

‘God, now you’re cold, too. And I’ve only gone and left my jacket inside. I’m rubbish at this stuff. Hey,’ he nudges
me with his elbow. ‘I’d never make a good romantic lead, would I?’

I sniff and give him a half-smile.

He holds out his arm. ‘Come here,’ he offers.

I slide along the seat and let Jamie wrap his arm around my bare shoulders. And it feels surprisingly comforting having him this close to me. It doesn’t feel as threatening, or as exciting, as having another man’s arm around me should do. It simply feels right.

I roll over
in my bed.

‘Ohh …’ I groan as I turn my head to the side, but my brain takes a few seconds to catch up with it, and as it does it clunks over to the side of my head like a lead weight. ‘Oh, this is not good.’

I slowly open one eye, and then the other, and realise that not only am I still alive and in New York, but I desperately need to drink some water and visit the bathroom.

I manage to do the last of these things first, by rolling out of bed and staggering across the floor to the bathroom. As I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I’m relieved to see I am at least dressed in a vest top and pyjama bottoms, but I don’t look at myself too closely
as I wash my hands. I feel bad enough, and seeing Morticia Addams – actually this morning it’s probably more like Uncle Fester in a bad wig – reflected back at me is really not going to help. I escape as fast as I can from the bathroom, fill a glass of water from the bottle of Evian on my dressing table and slump into the purple high-backed armchair while I attempt to sip at the water.

Had I really drunk that much last night? I remember feeling fairly OK on the champagne … but what had happened after that? I try and think back to the night’s events.

There were the Bradley Cooper incidents, they’d gone well as far as I could remember. Yes, he’d given me his phone number – that must count as a plus. Or did I dream that? I look around the room for my bag and see it lying on the dressing table next to me. I reach inside and find his card tucked in the pocket just where I’d left it.

I nod my head proudly at that little achievement, and place the card on the dressing table.

Then I try to remember some more.

Oh, then
she’d
turned up, I think, feeling my skin begin to crawl as I remember Jennifer. She’d been all over Jamie, and that’s when I’d started to down the cocktails with a vengeance. Hmm … then what happened?

I think as hard
as my pounding head will allow me to.

I was sitting outside on the swing seat on my own, and then Jamie’s face had appeared around the side, and he’d sat down next to me; it had felt so comforting when he’d had his arm around me, I remember that part. But that’s where it all starts to become a bit fuzzy. I drink a bit more water and try hard to recall some more of the evening, but nothing is forthcoming from my alcohol-addled brain.

I reach into my bag again and pull out my phone, to see if that will give me any hints. No new missed calls. No new dialled calls. No new received calls. Hmm … but I have had a few new emails, so I take advantage of the hotel’s free Wi-Fi to pick them up, but they’re nothing exciting, so I do something I haven’t done for a while: I log on to Twitter.

Nothing major on my timeline right now; a couple of mentions I reply to … Oh, I know what I was going to look up. I find the search box and type in Jamie’s name. Ah, there he is, smiling back at me from his photo. I click on his profile.

It seems odd seeing Jamie on Twitter. I don’t know why it should, but I stare at his photo for a few seconds before I continue investigating the rest of his profile.
Who does he follow?
I file through the names, recognising a few celebrities. The rest must be friends, work colleagues and the usual complement of strangers everyone follows on
Twitter, hoping they might turn out to be really interesting people with witty things to say.

Then I take a look at his followers, and Max is right: the vast majority of the ones I file through are women. Then I check out some of his tweets, and who’s replying to them. Yep, again mostly women.

Wow, it seems Jamie
is
a bit popular with the ladies – of all ages, it appears by the look of his Twitter account. I smile; I’m not sure why this thought amuses me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I don’t see it myself. Of course, I can see that he’s not exactly ugly, that he’s a very attractive young man. But he just doesn’t do anything for me. Not in that way, anyway. He’s good company, and I like him. But that’s as far as it goes, for sure.

Why, then, can’t I remember what happened after he put his arm around me on the swing seat last night? That thought does worry me a little …

There’s banging on my door.

I manage to drag myself over to it and take a look through the peephole. It’s Oscar.

I open the door and let him in while I crawl back to my bed and pull the duvet over me again.

‘Dearie, dearie me,’ Oscar sings, sounding far too bright for this time of the morning. Actually that’s a point, what time is it? I don’t think I’ve even focused on a clock yet. ‘We
are
looking rough this afternoon, aren’t we?’

Afternoon?

‘What
time is it, Oscar?’

‘One-fifteen. I thought I’d better come and check on you, you’re not normally such a heavy sleeper. But then,’ he winks, ‘you don’t normally drink quite as much as you did last night, do you?’

‘Oh, Oscar,’ I groan. ‘Was I that bad?’

He nods. ‘Yes, you were. It’s just as well you fell asleep when you did out on that swing seat. At least you were out of harm’s way then.’

‘I fell asleep?’

‘Ah-huh, we found you out there with your head in Jamie’s lap, sleeping like a baby.’

I shoot up in the bed. ‘My what! My head was where?’

‘In his lap. You were both out there swinging away, he was out for the count too, and you were all curled up like a little green kitten next to him with your head resting in a rather delicate area.’

‘Oh,
God
,’ I say, pulling the duvet up over my head in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. ‘I’m never drinking again.’

‘Of course, none of us has ever said the same when we’ve found ourselves the worse for wear the next morning, or in a spot of trouble. Oh, I could tell you some tales …’

‘Not now, Oscar,’ I uncover my
face, if only because I need some proper air. ‘Whatever am I going to say to Jamie when I see him?’

‘I don’t think you need worry about Jamie just now.’

‘Don’t I? Why?’ I ask, hoping Oscar will say Jamie knows nothing of the incident and slept through the whole thing. Then I have another thought. ‘You don’t think he might be gay, do you, Oscar? It’s something I’ve wondered a couple of times, and it would explain why I really like him but don’t, if you get what I mean. A bit like you and me.’

Oscar throws back his head and screeches with laughter.

‘Darling, you really are hungover, aren’t you? Of course Jamie isn’t gay.’

‘But how do you know? He might be.’ I realise I’m clutching at straws now, to get myself out of a predicament I can’t even remember if I’m actually in.

‘Believe me, Scarlett, I’d know if he was gay. My gaydar is one of the best in the business. That guy is as straight as that microphone he clutches, and just as dull, if you ask me.’ Oscar waves his hand in the air. ‘Anyway, forget about some daydream that features Boy Wonder marching in Pride this year – you’ve got far more important things to concern you right now.’

‘Like what?’

Oscar tilts his head
to one side and looks at me, and he appears to be reading something. ‘Like, how you’re going to explain to Sean why there’s a heart with
I love Bradley
tattooed on your right shoulder.’

Happily the tattoo turns out to be
drawn in black marker pen, and after a lot of scrubbing I manage to get it off.

But what’s more worrying is I still can’t remember how it got there, or how I ended up falling asleep in Jamie’s lap.

Oscar agrees that the best course of action is to leave me be for the afternoon to recover, and decides to take himself on his own tour of the
Sex and the City
hot spots around town. I don’t feel too guilty about this; I know he’ll be in seventh heaven checking out all the places the ‘girls’ are supposed to have hung out at in the show. When I’ve scrubbed and showered, I head down to the local Starbucks and order myself a large caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso. I cast a brief glance at their range of sandwiches
and pastries, but my stomach decides that coffee is singularly the best option right now, so I take my cup and sit by the window to watch the New York world pass by while basking in the generous air-conditioning.

After I’ve sat there for a while I gradually start to feel a little more human again, as the caffeine begins to work its magic on my hangover, and when I return to the counter for a second cup, this time I take a chance on an apple and cinnamon doughnut. I’m halfway through the doughnut when my phone rings – it’s Jamie.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds in panic, wondering whether to answer, but decide I’ve got no choice. ‘Hi, Jamie.’

‘Hey Scarlett, how are you feeling today?’

‘I’m in a Starbucks on my second cup of coffee, and I’m only just eating my first bite of the day. Does that give you any clues?’

‘That rough, eh?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Listen, me and Max have a favour we’d like to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ I’m pleased he hasn’t mentioned the ‘lap’ incident.

‘We need to come and film your hotel towels.’

‘I’m sorry, Jamie, I think the phone signal must
be breaking up because I thought you said you wanted to come and film my hotel towels just then. How odd would that be?’

‘I did.’

‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’