Page 41 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“So what do you suggest, hmm?”

“I suggest you take a deep breath and remind yourself who you are.”

“Secret, shitty witch who turned her manager into a cat? American actor incapable of doing a romance because she can’t get her magic under control?”

“Strong, thoughtful woman, capable of anything,” she said, staring straight into me with her marble-green eyes. “Maybe one who’s doing a little too much whining right now, but a powerful one nonetheless. And if you ever forget that, we’re both doomed. So time to buck up and put your game face on, Willow James. You’re not the only one in this mess, and I’m counting on you.”

“No pressure,” I said, and laughed. “Thank you, Vera.” She knew exactly what she was doing. If I couldn’t gather courage for myself, I could at least do it for her. And part of what made her such a great manager was that she always knew exactly what I needed to hear, and that hadn’t changed just because she was a cat.

And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, Oliver might have also had a point. I couldn’t spend the next six months thanking them incessantly for something they volunteered to do and frankly, with the exception of Oliver himself, seemed excited about. I would drown in the feeling of being a burden, and there would be no way I could muster the strength to turn Vera back.

I needed to remember that my success (or lack thereof) didn’t define me, and I could be a good witch even if it was hard. And that I could be someone who accepted help from willing strangers whom I would trust not to judge me for the lack thereof part.

I squared my shoulders, swiped on another layer of lip gloss, settled Vera in her spot in the window with a room-service branzino and aSex and the Citymarathon, and slipped out the door into the cool London night.

We’d agreed to meet at a quiet park near the Notting Hill Gate Tube station, hoping anyone who might recognize me would befarther into the hustle and bustle of the city and not hanging out in some unknown local spot without so much as a picnic table.

It was a perfect plan for more reasons than one. Back home, Vera was constantly whisking me to parties and galas and openings and birthdays and events whose purpose I couldn’t even remember. This kind of social calendar came with the territory, and Vera busted her ass to get us in front of all the right people wearing all the rights things and I couldn’t complain about any of it, nor did I want to, most of the time. I was living the life younger me would have killed for.

But on the quiet walk by myself through the city, past the Victorian homes with their pillars and their checkered entryways, past the old couples and young families out for the night in this charming part of the city, without cameras or couture gowns or champagne that cost more than my rent, I felt like myself again.

Like the me before the films and the fame and the spell that changed everything.

If only for a second, I was the sensitive, curious Willow of my youth, wide-eyed and entirely unaware what would happen next. That kind of blissful ignorance that only feels good when you’re too young to know how blissfully ignorant you are.

The feeling didn’t last long, but it was enough that when I arrived at the park, I was cracked open with vulnerability. The kind that makes you emotional at even the slightest act of kindness from a stranger, never mind the waving hands and the open can already in front of a spot on a picnic blanket where I was meant to sit.

“You made it,” Oliver said, scooting over on the blanket and stretching out his long legs as I approached. “Figured you’d be a pale ale kind of girl. Hope I wasn’t wrong.”

“You a mind reader?”

“No such thing.” He smiled, and I rolled my eyes.

“Glad you’re here,” Lola said, reaching over Oliver’s lap and touching my knee.

“You sure this park isn’t a pain? I’m not sure where you usually go, but it is kind of quiet here...” I looked around, clocking no more than a few young couples and a group of kids who didn’t look a day older than thirteen sharing a cigarette.

“We love it here,” Minho said. “We’re regulars.”

“You are not.”

“I’m serious. Found this spot when Lola was trying to hide from an ex years ago and loved it so much we kept coming back. It’s never too empty that it’s creepy, but it’s never crowded, either. Even on the rare two days of the year when the weather’s nice. Perfect spot to have a bev and watch the sky.”

“Did the ex find you?”

“Like hell she did,” Lola said. “She thought she was too good for parks in Zone 2.”

“Didn’t she live in like, Ealing?” Oliver asked.

“She was the worst,” Lola said, waving her hand.

“Which explains why you dated her for, how long was it? Two years? Three? Min, do you remember?”

“Why have you chosen violence today, hmm? Are you off your meds?”

“Piss off,” Oliver said with a laugh.

“Willow gets it,” Lola said. “You’ve had shitty exes, haven’t you? I’d say we all have, but these two only have like, one and a half exes combined, so.”