“Ah, Mouse…”
His raspy salutation lifted the corners of her mouth. He wriggled his arm, only freeing it when Alex shifted her shoulder.
Licking his lips, he broke into a wide smile. “It is a good morning, pinned to the bed by my girl.” He extended his half-asleep arm and claimed her once again, enveloping her naked body and pulling her on top of him. His hand stroked the soft curve of her waist.
“Mmm, morning stranger.” Alex raised her head, kissing him. The bedroom shifted, thanks to her hangover, and she cuddled into the nook of his neck. “Babe, just lie here. Don’t move.” Her hand crept across his smooth chest, desperate to pull him closer, desperate to feel the comfort of his beating heart again. “I need gentle this morning.”
Mark smirked. “Hmmm, that’s not what you growled in my ear a few hours ago, tiger!”
“You’re kidding, right?” Alex whispered into his neck.
“Nope. You ambushed me. I feared for my safety.”
“It’s all so fuzzy…” She glanced up at him, careful not to move too quickly.
“It was…” Mark playfully rolled his eyes back into his head. “…ravenous, but the second time…” He bit his bottom lip, his finger skimming her hip. “I couldn’t string together a coherent sentence afterwards, it was so off-the-charts ah-may-zing—it’s almost like you were trying to convince me to miss my flight.”
Spinning room be damned. She lifted her head, a beaming smile rising. “Did I? Convince you, I mean?”
“Almost.” Mark frowned. “You know I would if I could.”
Alex’s heart sank along with her cheeks. Tears stung her eyes, so she hid her face in his chest. Mark was leaving again, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it, but she could avoid saying good-bye. Good-bye always reminded her of their first fight, before they were lovers, on the stairs of the National. It was the first and last time she had said good-bye and walked away from him. She had made a promise to herself that she would never say it to him again, and she had noticed that Mark never said it to her, either. He parted with ‘see ya soon’, but never ‘good-bye.’ She hated the foreverness of it, and maybe Mark did, too.
“I wish you could come with me, see Lake Altaussee. The mountains are bloody breathtaking.” A loud yawn escaped his mouth. “And you could watch me doing my thing, hanging upside down from a horse.”
“Like that makes me feel better,” she mumbled into his chest. “I wish you would go back to doing theatre. Movie stunts terrify me.”
“They only let me do the easy ones, the bastards. My stunt double earns his wage, believe me, but never mind that. Tell me more about your attachment. How do you feel about it coming to an end?”
“I’d kill for a few more weeks. I love being back at the National. It still feels like our place.” She pressed her lips to his neck. “It’s been hard work, but worth it. I’ve cried and pulled my hair out over Upton Park, but it’s definitely better for it. They’ve really pushed me.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard they’re tough. I’m proud of you, Mouse. A hundred quid says they’ll add your script to their development roster.”
“Even if they don’t, I should be able to shape it into something another theatre might want.”
“Exactly. This experience will lead to other attachments, meetings, creative relationships…”
“And I have that meeting next week at the Garrick about developing something, too. I would love to work with them.”
“It’s all happening!” Mark smiled. “Next thing you know, Whishy will be performing your words. I can see it now…”
Alex grinned. Always her biggest cheerleader, Mark really did think Ben Whishaw would star in one of her plays one day.
“Well, if that’s not inspiration to keep writing, I don’t know what is.” Her finger traced heart shapes on his chest. “I need to keep busy so I won’t miss your pale Irish ass so much.”
“I’ll be back in three weeks.” He hugged her tightly, burying his nose in her messy hair. “And we’ll have time together before I leave for Newfoundland.”
“Yeah, two days.” Alex sniffed beneath her bangs.
“We’ll make the most of them.” Mark glanced over at Sherlock chipping away the seconds, the minutes, like the hands on a doomsday clock. Each click of his arms ticked closer to their own personal midnight when they would be ripped from each other yet again.
Mark’s fingers tenderly moved the hair from her face. “I’ve got an hour before I head to Gatwick.” His eyes bore into hers. “How about a repeat performance?”
“I wish. There’s a jackhammer in my head. I don’t think I can sit up, let alone…”
“I know what might help.” Mark rolled Alex onto her back and lowered himself on top, carefully holding up his weight with his left hand while his right hand stroked her cheek.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled, forcing Mark’s arm to give way and his full weight to drop on top of her. They both groaned and laughed breathlessly, their smiles mirroring each other.
Mark brushed his lips against her mouth. “And here I thought you needed gentle.”
She inhaled his breath and held it, feeling every inch of his body pressed against her skin. “I love you, Mark, always.”
He tilted his head, kissing her softly until Alex let him in, opening her lips and showing him how much he would be missed. She drew him closer, each deepening kiss masking the ache in her heart. He was still there and yet the dread and loneliness of living day-to-day without him was there, too, back again, tarnishing their final hour together. She spread her legs and kissed him faster, harder, desperate to feel the moment and nothing else, but a breathless sob broke through her lips.
“Lex?” Mark panted, his lips soft against hers. His right hand left her ass and trailed over her hip, across her thigh and between her legs, his fingers caressing, circling. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
Alex trembled and kissed him, her damp eyes afraid to blink, afraid to lose him—every minute, every second had to count.
“I love you, Lex, always.”
He kissed her ear, neck, and breasts, sending shivers along her spine. Each press of his lips on her skin, each flick of his tongue…Alex hoped it helped him memorize every freckle, every hollow. Her nails dug into his back as his hand continued to tease.
He looked up and smiled, hovering over her mouth again. “Didn’t I say this would help?” He lowered himself to her lips, parting them quickly with his tongue. The kiss was urgent but caring, needy yet gentle, expressing how he felt when words wouldn’t do. He pulled away and shrugged off the bed covers.
Patient kisses down her stomach gave way to his warm tongue flirting lower and lower, continuing what his fingers had started. Alex shuddered, her breath catching in her throat. She bit her lip, lost in dizziness.
“Mark—oh, God…”
She gasped and arched her back, pressing her head into the pillows. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as she moaned and clutched fistfuls of Mark’s mussed-up hair like she was holding on for dear life.
Eight
Nine days later
Alex squeezed through the noisy patrons of the Marquis Cornwallis. The Bloomsbury pub offered little breathing space; tourists fresh from the British Library and University of London students seeking a boozy distraction from coursework hogged the tables and most of its floor space. She grabbed a stool at the bar. A sickly knot, an unwanted souvenir from thirty minutes before, wouldn’t budge from her throat.
She called Mark.
“Hello. Sorry, I’m not here right now…” Her heart sunk. Truer words were never spoken. “…please leave a message. Promise, we will speak soon.” BEEP.
“Hey, it’s me. Everything okay? I…haven’t heard from you in three days. I had that meeting this morning, so…call me when you can? Love you.”
Her finger jabbed the disconnect button then she typed a quick text to him: Marmalade.
Five minutes passed—nothing. S
he blinked, holding back the rising tears that threatened to breach her eyelashes.
Instagram would have to do. She flicked through #MarkKeegan, desperate to feel close to him, even if it was one-sided and two-dimensional. Despite pleas from his BBC publicist, Mark had never buckled, holding firm on his pre-fame decision to steer clear of all social media platforms. He still had his rarely used Facebook page, but it was locked down to a handful of friends and family, and two months before he had said no to an official website.
Scrolling along, several funny Mark-inspired memes appeared along with fan selfies from his film shoot in Thailand the previous April. Mark smiled back at her through the photos, his sunny expression reassuring, like he was telling her, “Don’t worry, Mouse.” Travelling deeper into the hashtag, a series of sneaky photos from their picnic in St. Stephen’s Green and Tom and Naomi’s wedding crept up the screen, blurry and crooked, snapped on the sly without permission.
“Hey babe, sorry I’m late. Did you order me a pint?”
Alex wiped her nose and slapped her phone down on the bar. “Yep.”
Lucy dropped her satchel on the floor and whipped off her puffer jacket, barely stopping for breath. The glasses she didn’t need but wore for work still sat on her nose. “Today’s been a total pisser. There’s this anti-kale movement spreading on Twitter and Pret’s trying to fend it off.” She shimmied onto a stool, shoving the flyer advertising the pub’s Christmas party availability out of the way. “My boss told me to deal with it, and I think I made it fucking worse. I always enjoyed social media, but now that it’s my job—” Her thumb frantically swept over her phone, searching. “Now customers on the other side of the argument are posting #hailtothekale all over the place. It’s chaos. I hate all vegetarians, even Simon. They’re always hangry—”
Alex’s silence snapped Lucy out of her rant.
“Ah, what am I like? Sorry, Lex. You don’t need to hear this shit. How’d it go?”
She shrugged and didn’t dare speak—opening her mouth would also open up the floodgates, and crying in public was so two years ago.
Lucy wrapped an arm around her friend as the bartender returned with their beverages. “Aw, Lex. Let’s get that drink down ya.”
The rushed bartender placed their meals—burger for Lucy, fish finger bap for Alex, and fries for both—on the bar.
“Want custard with those fish fingers?” Lucy smirked. Her black turtleneck and high-waisted indigo jeans made her look like a hip cat burglar.
Alex smiled, grateful for the attempt at some Doctor Who-flavoured levity. She had better enjoy this meal—it was lunch and dinner. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“It’s nice to come somewhere new for a change. Why this place?”
“I was watching Pride again last night.” She loosened the tie-neck of her blouse. “Gay’s The Word, the real bookshop in the film? Just down the street.”
“Ah, okay, so I have been here. I thought it looked familiar.” Lucy scattered salt on her fries. “You and your daft movie location hunts.”
“No, Mark and his daft movie location hunts. He’s the one who got me into it.”
“You’re both certifiable. Running around London finding all the Pride places, did me in. Never. Again.” Lucy set the saltshaker back on the bar.
“We haven’t done one in a while. The last one was months ago—Scandal.”
“The Cate Blanchett film?”
“You’re thinking of Notes on a Scandal. No, Scandal is from the eighties. Ian McKellen, John Hurt…it’s about the Profumo affair?” Alex shook the bejesus out of the vinegar bottle, dousing her fries. “It’s a good film, stars Mark’s fave actors. I can see why he liked it as a thirteen-year-old—naked women and lots of sex. He came across it on late-night TV.” She tasted a fry and continued the vinegary soak-a-thon.
“I bet he came across it!”
“Lucy!” Alex blushed and abandoned the vinegar bottle.
“You walked into that one, and I made you laugh.” She smiled. “So, come on then…what happened?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“What?” Lucy strangled the squeezy ketchup bottle, shooting a huge blob of sauce on her fries.
“I didn’t get it, the Garrick thing.”
“But…they were going to develop something with you.”
“Yeah, were. Their budget’s been allocated. They’re going with big names—Sir Kenneth Branagh or me, who would you pick?” Shallow breaths escaped from her mouth. “They suggested I submit now for consideration within the next three years, which I will do, but…I’m desperate. I need something now, especially with the Donmar commission being…rejected.”
“Rejected? But you said—”
“Yeah, I know.” She bowed her head. “It’s not in the rewrite stage. They decided not to move ahead with my play two weeks ago. With Naomi’s wedding, it wasn’t the time to… I was too upset to tell anyone.”
“Oh, Lex. What did Mark say?”
Alex flinched. “I haven’t told him.”
“Why not?”
“You know what he’s like. If he knew, he’d probably take on another job to make up for my financial problems. He’s already away far too much.” She looked down, warm tears blurring her vision. “I didn’t think I’d have to tell him, at least not for a while. The fee from the Garrick would’ve made up for missing royalties from the Donmar, but assuming the Garrick thing was in the bag was stupid. I’ve only had one play performed—I’m hardly Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
“Thank God.” Lucy grabbed a napkin, knocking over the saltshaker. “Shit.” She chucked a pinch of salt over her left shoulder. “I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t deal if I didn’t know when my next payday would arrive. Luckily Mark’s earning—”
“You can’t say anything, Lucy.” Alex wiped her nose. “I can’t mooch off him. Have you ever asked a boyfriend to pay your rent? I’d feel pathetic. He already pays more than I do. No, I got myself into this mess, and it’s up to me to climb out.”
“Any chance you could get your old job back at the National?”
She shook her head. “I already asked. If I knew seven months ago what I know now, I would never have quit.” Alex stabbed a bunch of fries with her fork. “I should swing by Mare Street on the way home—maybe the ol’ Tasty Munch café is hiring.”
Lucy snickered through a mouthful of ketchup and fries. “It’s not gonna come to that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. ‘You can make a killing in the theatre, but you can’t make a living’…remind you of someone?” Alex pointed at herself and stuffed the forkful of fries into her mouth.
“I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Robert Anderson,” Alex mumbled through her mouthful. “He’s an American dramatist.” She swallowed. “That line isn’t a quote, it’s a mirror held up to my life. I can’t even rely on my agent for leads. I asked about sending Thirteen to New York and she said it was a waste of time. It’s ridiculous—she signed me because of Thirteen! I’m sick of her passive-aggressive bullshit. I’m seriously thinking of dumping her.” A heavy sigh left her lips. “I guess I could submit to theatres myself.”
“Why don’t you call Isabella? Ask for a favour? That’s what mentors are for.”
“Last I heard her commission in South America wasn’t going well. She goes off the radar when things aren’t working.”
“Maybe the National will snap up Upton Park now that your attachment is over? Who wouldn’t want a play about a female teacher inspiring disadvantaged East End kids?” Lucy winked, thrilled Alex’s work in progress was set in her old neighbourhood. “Something is bound to come up. Your writing’s too good.”
“Hopefully, but waiting won’t pay my bills or overdraft.” She furrowed her brow. “The Hackney Empire usually hires extra ushers for pantomime season. Maybe I can get something short term there? I know it’s not writing, but it’ll help pay the bills.”
“Close to your flat, no shit commute, theatre related�
�do it.” Lucy played with her ruby and gold ring, a beloved piece that used to sparkle on her gran’s left hand. “You know what else we should do? A graphic novel. I know there’s no money in it—yet—but your words, my art…can you imagine?”
“The arguments? Yeah, I can.”
“I promise.” Lucy crossed her heart with a fry. “I won’t boss you around too much.”
“Cross your heart and hope to fry?” Alex chuckled.
“We should swear on carbs—it’s a promise we’d both keep.”
“But I thought you were too busy with freelance?”
“Not if I stop. I’ll miss the money, but I wanna draw my own stuff. I’ve learned so much, penciling for other people.”
“It would be fun. After Christmas?”
“Defo.” Lucy blew a raspberry. “I’d like to see Sir Kenneth bloody Branagh write a graphic novel.”
A burly construction guy hammering back the last of his pint beside Alex discarded his crumpled copy of the National Mail on the bar and exited through the noisy wall of people. She chewed her fries slowly, lost in the tabloid’s sensational headline.
“The morning after the wedding, that article you texted me…” She hid behind her hand. “I looked tragic.”
“We’ve all been there,” said Lucy.
“But you haven’t had your splotchy face plastered online for the world to mock.”
“The best part was the title.” Lucy snapped up her phone. “Let me find it—”
“No. Don’t.”
Lucy tapped her screen twice. “Here it is.”
“What? You bookmarked it?”
“It still cracks me up. ‘Highland Fling: It’s Back on For BBC Hunk and His American Love.’ Nice fact-checking fail, Mail.”
“If they haven’t papped you in a month, the relationship is dead.” Alex chomped her last fry. “The editors must’ve busted a gut, choosing these photos.” She pointed at the screen. “I mean, look.”
There it was, the ridiculous leaf waving from her fascinator as she tugged on the back of her coat. This shot looked like she was picking underwear out of her ass.
London, Can You Wait? Page 7
