Free From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually by Ali McNamara Page B

Little Italy on the Lower East Side.
    ‘My family originally emigrated from Italy to New York many years ago,’ he tells me as we tuck into our pasta and pizza.
    ‘Did they? I never knew you were Italian.’
    ‘On my mother’s side, yes. My great-great-grandfather emigrated here in the early 1900s from Italy. It was my wild grandmother who later came to England, and brought disrepute and shame to the family by moving there with a man she wasn’t married to. That’s how we ended up in London with the surname St James.’
    ‘That’s your real name?’ I ask in surprise. ‘I always thought it was for effect.’
    Oscar purses his lips. ‘Darling, I cannot deny that I do many, many things for effect in my life. But my name is not one of them. I’m proud of my family. What’s left of them.’
    Oscar never spoke that muchabout his family. I knew that his house in Notting Hill had been left to him by a rich aunt, and that from the rest of her estate he’d bought and set up his shop on the King’s Road. But other than having a sister, Jennifer, I knew little else about him, aside from the fact that his parents had both passed away some years ago. Oscar was one of those people who left nothing to the imagination on the outside, with his bright, bold clothes and flamboyant personality, yet kept an awful lot hidden on the inside.
    ‘So what was your Italian name, then? Do you know?’
    Oscar pushes the last of his pizza crust around his plate.
    ‘You
do
know, don’t you?’ I press him. ‘What was it? Come on, tell me.’
    ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’ Oscar says, eyeing me across the table.
    ‘Why would I laugh? Italian names aren’t normally funny. They’re usually romantic and exciting like Ferrari, or Maserati, or Lamborghini,’ I suggest weakly, beginning to struggle.
    ‘How about Fiat, if we’re going for makes of Italian sports car?’ Oscar laughs.
    ‘I must have spent too much time watching
Top Gear
with Sean. Come on,
tell
, what is it?’
    ‘De Costa,’ he says, taking a sip from hisglass of white wine.
    ‘What’s wrong with … oh wait,’ I clasp my hand to my mouth to try and stifle a giggle. ‘So you would have been called …’ I literally have to bite my lips together now.
    ‘Just get it over with,’ Oscar says, rolling his eyes. ‘Oscar de Costa, yes.’
    ‘Oh, Oscar, I’m sorry, it’s not really
that
funny,’ I try to say seriously as I feel a fit of giggles begin to build inside of me. But, as we all know, the more you try and stifle laughter like that, the worse it gets, and the hand-over-mouth technique really isn’t hiding anything now as I convulse, the supressed giggles erupting inside me.
    ‘Please, miss, allow me,’ I hear a calm yet forthright voice behind me say as I feel two strong arms tighten themselves around my waist. ‘I know the Heimlich manoeuvre.’
    I feel myself being forcefully lifted from my chair. ‘No, wait!’ I shout before the two arms can squeeze even tighter. ‘I’m not choking!’
    The arms immediately loosen their grip. ‘Oh, do pardon me. I’m so sorry.’
    I turn around and see a tall, grey-haired man wearing a suit and tie. He’s in his mid-to-late forties, and by the feel of his grip just now, and the fit of his suit, it looks like he works out regularly.
    ‘It’s fine, really,’ I say with a half-smile. ‘You thought you were trying to helpme.’
    He still looks mortified by his mistake. ‘It’s just, when I saw you convulsing with your hand over your mouth, I thought …’
    ‘Please, really, just forget about it. I was trying not to laugh at my friend’s name, that’s all.’
    The man looks puzzled. I can’t say I blame him; I’m not really making much sense. ‘Well, as long as you’re OK, I’ll leave you to return to your dinner. Again, my sincerest apologies.’
    I smile properly at him now as he returns to his table, and I take my seat with Oscar again.
    Oscar shakes his head. ‘I don’t know how you do it,