London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  Lucy snickered. “I shouldn’t laugh, but…it is funny. ‘A Wedding Wedgie to Be Be-Leafed.”’

  Alex crossed her arms. “That’s it, you’re fired—”

  “Punny headline of the year.” Lucy elbowed Alex.

  “—for being a crap friend.”

  Alex scrolled through the photos: caught mid-blink with hair stuck to her flushed face; the straps of her dress shifting under her coat, threatening to expose much more than a shoulder; her mouth agape in a laugh—were those her tonsils? There wasn’t a single photo that showed her in a flattering light.

  “I wasn’t slurring when we left. I was tired and a bit giggly, but I wasn’t fall-down drunk.”

  “True. Keegs still had his clothes on.”

  “It’s been ages since I’ve done that.” Alex stretched one of the photos with her fingertips, enlarging it on the screen. Its caption: ‘Keegan’s a Mark-ed Man: Girlfriend is Stage Five Clinger.’ But it was Mark’s arm holding her tight. How badly she had wanted to get home at that moment, to be in their flat, alone together where she could show him how much he meant to her. Mark looked gorgeous—as always—sharing a laugh as they walked towards their Uber SUV. Loosened tie, shirt partially unbuttoned, eyes bright at two in the morning…he looked content, in love, hers—but the paper was determined to serve up a different story, one that its millions of readers devoured. The fugly pictures and snarky captions were still attracting hurtful comments eleven days later.

  “Don’t read any further.” Lucy covered the phone with her hand. “It’s a bloodbath.”

  “I read them last week. At least Mark survived unscathed.” The comment trolls were like schoolyard bullies, kicking her self-confidence to a pulp, albeit anonymously. “Maybe I should start telling random people walking down the street that they look hideous, fat, and stupid—it’s no different than leaving crappy comments like this. I’m not a robot. I have feelings, too.”

  “People can be such fuckwits, and the paps just feed their trolling.”

  “It’s so different from when we first got together.” Alex handed back Lucy’s phone, a slight smile taking over her lips. “Riding his Vespa, walking along the South Bank, clubbing with you guys—we could have private moments wherever we went.” She stabbed ice cubes with her straw. “But now, a lazy afternoon lounging on deck chairs in St. James’s Park would be splashed across the tabloids. Mark can’t sneeze without a camera capturing it, they’re so sneaky.”

  “He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though, right?”

  “He finds it funny that people are interested in him. Paps follow him to the shops and he’ll be chatting away about football or whatever. I’ve told him not to encourage them, but he says he’s just being polite—‘You can take the boy out of Blackrock, but you can’t take Blackrock out of the boy.”’

  Lucy shook her head. “If some shutterbug was following me around, making chitchat, I’d take his camera and shove it right up his arse.”

  “I find it intrusive…creepy.” Alex shivered, setting her glass aside. “I get panicky just thinking about it. The photographers are only interested in Mark, but I end up being collateral damage. Out on my own, they don’t care who I am.”

  “Mark’s fans definitely know who you are.”

  “The Keeganites know everything. They probably knew Mark was going to be at the wedding before we got our invite.” Alex shook her head at Lucy’s French fry massacre. Had she left any ketchup in the bottle?

  “You know who should’ve been papped post-reception?”

  “Oh, God, yeah—Simon! That split in his trousers, zipper to ass—he was totally balls out.” Alex howled. “And Freddie kept snapping photos!”

  Lucy creased up. “Si’s designer suit…” She struggled for breath.

  “If you’re going commando, skip the slut-drop dance moves!” Alex held her tummy, much needed happy tears dampening her eyes. “I like Simon a lot, but he’s SUCH a bad dancer.”

  Lucy’s smile faded. “Actually, though…I’m worried about Freds. I wasn’t bothered when he ditched his secondhand clothes, but dropping out of cons and packing away his collectables?”

  Alex sighed. “Freddie needs to stop letting Si call the shots. Did you notice what he ate at the reception? Nothing fun, just broccoli.” She munched a fish finger pensively. “He’s becoming Si’s clone…”

  Fries eaten, Lucy dunked her finger into the leftover flood of ketchup and salt on her plate. “It’s like he’s playing a real-life game of Simon Says. Those crisps at the wedding? I bet he got ten demerit points for that.”

  “I’d never change for a guy.” Alex shook her head and slid her plate away.

  Nine

  The FaceTime ringtone trilled from Alex’s sofa as the apartment door closed behind her. With the determination of a Premier League goalkeeper, she flung her body across the sofa, arms outstretched, snatching the iPad hidden underneath a Time Out magazine. Her leap sent her keys flying across the cushions and the opened parcel in her arms—a care package from her brother Robbie in Florida—to the floor. Six packages of Twizzlers slid in all different directions on the hardwood. She pushed the iPad screen’s green connect icon, a smile racing through her freckles. “Perfect timing. I was just out with Lucy.” She straightened up, lifting the tablet to chin level as she wrestled one arm out of her coat.

  Mark’s screen jerked abruptly, distorting everything in view like a funhouse mirror. A tall floor lamp appeared, then a blurry glimpse of his bare feet walking across burgundy carpet, and then a flash of charcoal-coloured curtains.

  “Hey str—” Mark’s greeting crackled as the iPad’s picture continued to warp and lose sync with the audio. The camera sailed over a decorative blanket then the screen froze on a shot of his neck.

  “Whoops.” Alex frowned. “It’s breaking up.”

  She leaned forward, pulling her other arm free, and something sharp jabbed her bottom. She shifted and spied the bum pincher—her keychain, the one that matched Mark’s.

  “Hello? Mark?”

  The image released, revealing Mark propped up on a puffy white duvet. “Ah, there you are. I’ve waited five days to see that gorgeous face…sorry, Lex, the Wi-Fi here’s a nightmare. Did you get my texts?”

  “You texted? No. Did you get mine?”

  “No. Bloody mountains.” A smile brightened up his pasty complexion. “It’s so good to see you. I love you, Mouse. Here, there…everywhere, just like that old Beatles song.”

  “Aw!” She smiled. “I love you, too, babe.”

  “So, how’s Lucy?”

  “Crushing on her flatmate, upset about kale.”

  “Kale?” Mark rubbed his eyes with his fists.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call this morning. I did text…” Mark exhaled loudly and shifted backwards into a cloud of white pillows, plumped against the bed’s headboard. Deep creases travelled across his favourite Manchester United sweatshirt, the same top Alex stole on a regular basis. Random tufts of his hair stood up when he laid his head against a pillow. “I was working with the fight director at four-thirty this morning, and then filming started at six. Talk about COLD…”

  Alex balanced the tablet on her thigh. “You look exhausted.”

  “Yeah. Only another week or so, and then I’m all yours for an entire weekend. I could lie in bed for days, but…” He raised an eyebrow. “I know you won’t let me.”

  “Oh, I’ll let you. Whether you’ll get any sleep, well…”

  Mark chuckled. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Me too.” She reached under her skirt and began pulling down her tights, a coquettish smile growing. “I know what might help—”

  “Ah, I can’t, Mouse. Not tonight. If I weren’t so knackered, I’d be up for more than just a chat.” He winced as his hand crept underneath the stretched neckline of his sweatshirt.

  Her shoulders deflated. Not tonight, not tomorrow—lately, sex over FaceTime or Skype was as rare as a play commission.
No doubt Mark didn’t tell Freddie that.

  “Our call time got moved forward tomorrow morning. Snow is forecast, and we’re riding horses again.”

  “Mark, be careful—”

  “I’ll be fine. I always am.” His heavy lids barely blinked. “So, tell me how the Garrick thing went.”

  “It went.” Eyes watering, Alex looked down. “I didn’t get it. I’m not even on their radar.” She picked lint off the knee of her tights. “Sorry. I didn’t want to cry, but with all this, I wish you were here…” She rubbed her nose and glanced back up at the screen, but her boyfriend was frozen, one eye closed. “Mark?”

  “Al—” His voice crackled.

  “Mark?”

  “Mo—se. I didn’t catch tha—”

  “We’re stuck. It’s cutting out. Damn.” She scowled at his distorted image. “Can you hear me?”

  Mark’s video blipped to black. Alex’s fingers scrambled to reconnect, but a new request to connect filled her screen.

  “Hello? Hello? Mark?”

  “Sorry Mouse. All good now?”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Yeah, but I didn…”

  His picture flickered again.

  “We’ve got a bad connection.” Alex sniffed. “Fuck!”

  “What did you say?” Mark ran a hand through his hair. “You froze.”

  “We’ve got a bad connection.”

  He shook his head, annoyance creasing his forehead. “No, the Garrick. What did they say?”

  Alex sagged into the sofa. “Try again.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry. Looks like bad timing, that’s all.” He yawned through his words. “I’m proud of you, though. You’re handling it so well.”

  Alex averted her eyes and picked at an imaginary thread on the sofa. “Yeah…”

  “They’ve actually done you a favour. You’ll be free when the National calls in Upton Park, and you can give the Donmar project your full attention. When the Garrick sees those new plays, they’ll be begging for their own Alex Sinclair commission. You’ve got a real knack for writing strong female characters. They should be biting your hand off.”

  She shrugged.

  Mark bit his lip. “I’ve got something big that will have you singing the “Happy Happy Joy Joy” song—”

  “I thought you said you were too tired—”

  “No, not that.”

  Alex scratched her head. “You’re bringing home chocolate?”

  “It’s better than that.”

  “Nothing’s better than that.” Alex broke eye contact.

  “Well, this is. What if I told you the Promise Unspoken shoot is changing again?”

  Alex gritted her teeth. “Urgh, Mark—”

  “Wait, hear me out.” He leaned forward. “The location is changing. It’s been switched from Canada to Ireland.”

  She caught her breath. “What?”

  “Yup. Add the production’s senior accountant to our Christmas card list, babe. He’s our new best friend. Apparently, he convinced the producer that a move to Ireland would save tons of cash—”

  Alex launched herself upwards with a jubilant squeal. She pictured running into Mark’s arms, his stubble riding that cheeky grin, his lips crushing hers, ecstatic to be together again. She bounced on the sofa, sending the tablet floor-bound. Mark got a good view of the ceiling.

  “You okay?” He laughed. “They have to recast a few roles because of the change, and we’ll be stuck in front of a green screen a lot, but it’s worth it. I was dying to tell you earlier, but I couldn’t get a signal—”

  “We so needed this!” Alex whooped, scooping up the iPad. Her shoulders felt lighter; the weight—the worry—of being without Mark for months while he played an 1840s Irish immigrant tackling the wilds of Newfoundland…gone.

  “You can visit the set often, and I have several days off at Christmas, so we’ll be together. Obviously we can’t go to the States, but maybe Manchester? See your dad?”

  “What about your mum?”

  “Gracie’s taking her to Malta. They always go away over the holidays.”

  “Oh, she’ll love that!” Alex beamed. “Dad will be thrilled! I’m so happy, my cheeks hurt.”

  “Ha, yeah, I know. Can’t wait to have your step-mum’s bacon sarnies again. I can’t stop smil—” His image froze while his voice warbled into a garbled mess. “—be together—”

  “Mark? What?”

  “—regularly”

  “Sorry?”

  The picture distorted into low-resolution squares, and then Mark reappeared again. “You’re sorry?”

  “No, the… I missed what you said.”

  “The change means I can check in on Mum regularly, make sure all is well at the house.”

  “Good idea.”

  He yawned again and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Ah, I’m fading…”

  Alex inhaled deeply. “I don’t want to let you go, but…” His screen locked again. “Looks like I have no choice.”

  “Mouse?” Mark’s picture came back to life. “Best to wrap up before this thing crashes for good.”

  “I love you, Mark. Call me tomorrow?”

  “We’ll be in the mountains, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me first thing. When we’re back here, I’ll let you know I didn’t lose anything important to frostbite.” He winked. “I—”

  The screen went dead.

  MARK

  Thirteen years earlier

  Dublin, August 1, 2004

  “You awake, ya monkey?” A few hours before sunrise, Finnigan Keegan popped his head around his twelve-year-old son’s bedroom door.

  Mark was half awake, hoping to catch his father before he left on a three-day trip delivering local beer to Germany. “Yeah, I wish you didn’t have to go…”

  “I wish I didn’t have to either, son, but if you want to see Keano and United play in London, it’s off to work I go! All these extra shifts will pay for that holiday, right? Think of it this way: by the time I’m back, London will be less than a fortnight away.”

  “I can’t believe we get to see United play at Chelsea’s ground—and fly on a plane!”

  Finn perched on the edge of his son’s bed. “Well, you and your sister have waited long enough for a proper holiday, not just another day trip to Killiney. Besides, I think Gracie’s excited enough for all of us. She didn’t stop for breath at dinner, yammering on about Buckingham Palace, all her Prince William stuff…thank Christ us boys’ll have the footy, eh?” Finn smiled warmly. “Look, I don’t like being away either, Mark, but money doesn’t grow on trees. I promised we’d go, and us Keegans always keep our promises, right, ya rascal?”

  Mark nodded with a yawn. “Yes, Dad.”

  “Now, listen, while I’m gone, you’re to be good, and look after your mum, okay?”

  “I will, but Dad…this lupus thing Mum’s got now…” Worry clouded Mark’s eyes. “Is she…going to die?”

  Finn placed a comforting hand on his son’s foot. “I know it’s scary, but she’s not going to die, son.”

  “But she had to quit work…”

  “It’s just the…stiffness…it gets to her hands and wrists so she can’t sew anymore. She’ll be okay, lad, but that’s why she needs to take it easy, so you and your sister—best behaviour, yeah? You’re the man of the house while I’m away, right?”

  “Right. I’ll look after Gracie, too. I promise, Dad. You can trust me—I won’t let you down.”

  Finn smiled at his son, but even through the darkness, his eyes betrayed a flicker of sadness.

  “I know you won’t, lad.” Finn stood, ruffled his son’s hair, and kissed him on the forehead then walked to the door. “I’ll see you Saturday in time for your footy match. Good-bye, son. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  The next day

  Brring, brring!

  Mark’s thumbs clicked away on his PlayStation’s controller, ignoring the non-stop ring of the telephone downstairs.

&nbs
p; Brring, brring!

  “Gra—ccccie?” He hollered from the edge of his bed, his eyes glued to FIFA 2004 on the tiny television in his room. “Can you get that? I’m…busy!”

  A Chelsea midfielder tackled his Manchester United striker. “Shit!” he shouted at the screen. He only had an hour before dinner to play—every second had to count.

  Brring, brring!

  “Gracie!” Where is she? Helping Mum make dinner? Why aren’t they answering the phone?

  With an exaggerated huff, he paused the game and tossed the PS2 controller on his pillow. He lunged off the bed and opened his door as his mother’s voice rose up the stairs.

  “Hello? Yes, this is Niamh. How may I help…”

  His mum’s tone was kind yet professional, like she was talking to someone selling something.

  Mark spun back around, quickly closed the door, and leapt onto his bed. Time to finish off Chelsea! Scooping up the controller, he dove back into his videogame, sending Roy Keane and Ryan Giggs up the pitch. Clicking furiously, his thumbs sent the ball sailing past the goalkeeper and into the net.

  “YES!” he yelled triumphantly as the animated fans on the screen cheered, celebrating his best ever score: 5-2 United. He couldn’t wait to tell his dad when he called later.

  He rifled through the videogames scattered behind him on his bed. What to play next? The on-screen football supporters continued shouting and carrying on.

  His door flew open and he threw a perturbed look over his shoulder. “Gracie, don’t you ever knock…” His words and annoyance drifted off.

  Gracie was stood there, looking pale and worried, her headphones looped around her neck, but it was their mum who stole Mark’s attention. Her shoulders were bowed as if straightening up would be slow and painful. A shaky hand covered her mouth, partially hiding her damp, red cheeks.

  Niamh clasped her fifteen-year-old daughter’s hand and slowly walked into Mark’s room. “Kids, I need to tell you something…”

  Mark pushed his videogames away, making room for his family on the single bed.