TWO
Bella
I leave the book shop, unable to hold back the smile on my face. Something about a shy nerdy guy just does it for me. Not that I should be looking. Imagine what the press would say if they got wind of me flirting with some other guy when Austin is telling everyone we’re still together.
Pushing that problem aside for another day, I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes and glance up and down Notting Hill. It feels exhilarating to be out without any security.
How long has it been since I’ve really had a chance to be alone like this?
I turn left, keep my head down, and try not to attract attention. So far, no one has noticed me. Or perhaps they have and they’re just too polite to say anything. Another thing I love about the British.
Rickety market stalls line the streets here and it’s busy. I brush past other shoppers and get quickly lost in the crowd. I laugh out loud just a little when an older man pushes past me roughly like I’m nobody. Today, I am nobody. It’s the most free I’ve felt in years.
It helps I’m finally out of Austin’s grasp. Now if I could only get him to admit I broke up with him weeks ago.
I stop at a quaint little stall selling homemade soap in the shape of cakes. I poke around a stall selling tiny frilly dresses for dogs. I breathe in the smells. Frying donuts and fresh orange juice, burning incense and sweaty bodies mingle to form a potent memory I know I’ll be trying to recapture for years to come when I think back on this day wistfully. I imagine what it would be like to live this life. To sit in my colorful terrace house knitting beanies for cats and chat with other stall holders every weekend, call out to the guy selling pumpkins from the fruit and vegetable stall opposite and never have to worry about another paparazzi picture, another leaked story or stupid rumor.
I know I’ve spent too long already. I should meet my driver and head back to the hotel to prepare for the next round of interviews and appointments that never seem to end. Only, this is my last free morning for the next month and I’m not ready for it to end.
I’m just turning back toward the spot I’m supposed to meet my driver, eyes scanning the cul de sac where the sleek black car was parked. It’s not there. With a frown, I reach for my phone in my pocket and—crash!
I bump right into a solid, warm wall of muscle. I’m just thinking how nice he smells, when I notice the wetness. Something orange and sticky spreads across my chest and in my hair, and all down the front of my dress, rapidly soaking through the fabric. “Shit.”
“Bugger. Bugger. I’m so sorry. I’m—Miss Owens?”
I look up. Of all the worst times to be spotted. But I’m looking into the sheepishly handsome face of the book shop owner. “You!”
He winces. “Me. I’m terribly sorry.” He reaches toward me with a paper napkin, right toward my chest and we both recoil. “So sorry.”
I shake my hands, uselessly trying to shake off some of the orange juice. Of course, nothing beyond a few drops budges. I’m covered in juice and I can already feel it drying into a mess in the ends of my hair. “Where’s my car? What am I supposed to do now?”
“Please, if you’ll let me, I'd love to help. I live right near here. I could take you home and get you cleaned up and back on the street in... in the uh not prostitute sense, because I’m definitely not accusing you of being a prostitute...” There’s this adorable moment where he pauses and just looks at me, cheeks coloring. “I should really stop talking now.”
Despite everything, he’s made me smile again. “How far are we talking?”
He points to the opposite side of the street at a pink terrace house with a bright blue door. “About one hundred meters—uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is in yards.”
“That’s OK, I get it. It’s close. Fine. But let’s make it quick.” I can already feel eyes on me. If we don’t hurry, I just know someone’s going to whip out a phone and send a picture to Hello magazine, or The Sun, or whatever trashy tabloid will pay the most.
The guy turns and quickly leads me toward the house. He takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door. I glance over my shoulder, but no one seems to have taken any notice. Then we step inside a tiny hallway and he closes the door behind us.
It’s instantly much quieter. Most of the hustle and bustle of the street is shut out by the heavy wooden door, and we look at each other for a moment. The small space means we’re standing very close together. He’s so tall I have to look up at him, which is unusual for me. Most actors I play opposite have to stand on something or I’m made to go barefoot in any scenes we have together to disguise the fact I’m taller than most of them. This guy is just the right height for me to stretch up on tiptoes and kiss.
He coughs. “Can I just say again how sorry I am? Please come in.” He leads me into an adorable dining room with a small round table nestled beneath a bay window and on through a small galley kitchen. “The stairs are just through here and the bedroom is on the second floor. Not that I’m trying to get you into my bedroom. It’s actually a guest bedroom. That is...” He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Forgive me. I’m horribly nervous.”
I laugh. It’s fine. “Let me go get changed.” Thankfully, I have a new outfit in my shopping bag I can switch into. It’s really more of an evening outfit, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“First door on the left.” His voice follows me up the stairs.
I push open the door, uncertain what I’m going to find. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a neatly made bed with a homely checked coverlet tucked in at the end and two sets of pillows. On the wall is a large picture of a duck that makes me smile. There’s a little trio of ducks on the mantelpiece as well and a large wooden duck in the corner.
OK, someone has a thing for ducks. Still, better than trash or weird erotic art or something, I guess.
In the ensuite bathroom, I quickly wash the worst of the orange juice from my hands and hair. Then I switch into my glittery evening gown and shove my orange juice-stained clothing into the shopping bag. I look like someone tried to drown me on the way to the Oscars, but that can’t be helped. At least I’m no longer sticky.