Niamh wrapped her arms around her frightened kids.
Why is Mum crying? Was that her doctor calling? Is she getting sicker?
“I just had a phone call…from Germany.”
“Dad?” Mark frowned. “Is he going to miss my match, Mum?”
“Mark, Gracie…” Niamh inhaled a shuddering breath. “Your dad…he’s had a massive heart attack.”
“What?” Mark squinted. “Is he going to be all right? Are…Are you going to see him? Can we go, too?”
“Mark, love…” Tears spilled from her eyes. “He died.”
Mark’s body froze in ice-cold shock. His stomach felt like it did just before leaping off the highest diving board at the public pool: scared…sick…alone…
“But…couldn’t they do something?” Grace began to tremble within her mother’s warm embrace. “A girl…at school, her dad had a heart attack. He had an operation…”
Niamh shook her head. “The doctor said he died instantly, darlin’, unloading his truck. There was nothing anyone could have done…”
Grace’s eyes scrunched up, tortured with tears.
Mark struggled to catch his breath, his chest tight and stuttering. Sobs burst from his lips. “H-He’s never…coming back?”
“No, love. He’s with the angels now.” Tears streamed down Niamh’s face as she pulled her broken children closer.
Ten
London, Friday, November 24, 2017
Alex lunged at an electrical cord dangling from the headboard between her side of the bed and the wall, stuffing the plug into the wall socket. Three strings of intertwined fairy lights came alive, arching over the head of the bed in a soft, romantic glow. A trio of white candles in glass vases on the dresser was next. A quick strike of a match, and Alex set each wick alight—best to take care of that bit of business now since her hands would be otherwise occupied once Mark arrived. She happily blew out the match. The scene was set, and everything was ready, spare one Irish actor.
She exited the bedroom and stepped into the open-plan living room, which gave way to the small kitchen tucked into the corner. Chocolate mousse chilled behind the door of the under-the-counter fridge, the appliance’s surface papered in love notes and private photos of Mark and Alex that the paparazzi would probably kill for. Soda bread made from scratch rested on the counter beside a bottle of red wine, and a hearty Irish stew—Mark’s favourite—bubbled in the oven, immersing the flat in the comforting aroma of thyme and onions. Alex had followed Niamh’s recipe exactly, dicing carrots and potatoes until her hands were sore. That was the easy part—she had also fought her gag reflex and shed a few tears while chopping up raw lamb into precise cubes. Everything had to be perfect. She had been so determined to get the freshest ingredients, she’d charged the whole lot to her already over-extended credit card. The things we do for love.
Mark was due home any minute, no doubt tired from the previous night’s wrap party in Vienna. He had texted earlier before boarding his final flight…something about a white-knuckle journey on a prop plane from Tyrol to Vienna and an airsickness bag.
If only he didn’t have to start his next movie in Ireland on Monday…but an early Friday night supper followed by unlimited kisses and a weekend in bed was just what they both needed.
She dove her hands into a pair of plump oven mitts and opened the oven, carefully placing the covered casserole dish on the stovetop. One last taste test, just the veggies and broth, not the—ugh—lamb.
A key clicked into the flat’s lock, right on time.
The taste test could wait.
She whipped off the mitts, tossing them onto the counter. With a cheek-busting grin, she ran to the door.
“Thanks, mate.” Mark dropped his keys on the chair and smiled at the taxi driver who rolled his two large suitcases into the flat. “Mouse! I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“I’ve got one for you!” She lunged at him, airborne.
Catching her, Mark clenched his jaw. “Oof! Careful.” A burst of laughter left his lips as he reunited her feet with the floor. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Don’t be shy—I brushed my teeth on the plane.”
He kissed her eagerly and squeezed her butt. “Mouse, I’ve been dying to tell you: I’m whisking you away for the weekend…to the Birmingham comic expo!”
“Er, the what?” She looked flummoxed.
“The con in Brum. I’m a last-minute special guest. We’ve got just enough time to toss some things in a bag and go. The train leaves Euston in an hour.” He squirmed out of Alex’s embrace and gingerly lifted his backpack from the extended handle of one of the cases.
“But, Mark…we’ve got dinner…I-I made your favourite …”
“Oh, I thought the flat smelled like onions. I’m sorry, Mouse. I had no clue you were going to all this trouble.” He hobbled to his left and through the doorway of the bedroom—still wearing his mud-crusted boots—pulling magazines and headphones out of his backpack. “Stew will keep, though, yeah?”
“I just vacuumed…” Alex muttered, following his footsteps. She crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me in your text?”
Mark dropped the magazines, headphones, and the little yellow Matchbox car he always had in his bag on the freshly made bed. He opened a dresser drawer, scavenging for socks and boxer briefs. The flames of the white candles bowed with each shift of the furniture. “The arrangements were all last minute. Plus, I wanted to surprise you.” His hunched shoulders turned around, his hands grasping her crossed arms, tugging her closer. “A con, a nice weekend away together…it’s all good, right?”
Alex frowned.
Mark winced, running his fingers over the Doctor Who ‘We’re all stories in the end…’ quote on the inside of her forearm. “Or so I thought?”
“Aw, babe. My surprise was better. Two days, just us, wine, home-cooked meals…somehow a weekend of hand sanitizer, scary fan-drawn portraits, and greasy con pizza doesn’t measure up.”
“I thought you’d be excited.” Mark let go and returned to the drawer. “Once a fangirl, always a fangirl. You love cons.”
“I do.” She accepted the socks he handed over. “But I also love spending alone time with you, and we’re never alone…and I sweated over that meal for hours. I touched raw lamb…”
“Lex, I’m sorry, but Wink thinks it’s a great opportunity to promote my guest spot in the Doctor Who Christmas special. Now, I know you’re excited about that!”
“I am—really excited—but I’ve been so looking forward to it being just us.” A ghost of a smile raised her lips.
Mark stuffed three pairs of boxer briefs in his backpack and pointed to the socks in her hands. “Can you put those in here?” He strode stiffly to the closet and opened a slim garment bag hanging from the back of the door. “I’ve got a gorgeous hotel suite—there’s a bloody great soaker tub with your name on it.” He selected a navy blue button-down shirt and turned slowly with a wink. “Dirty girl.”
“It’s no fun if I’m on my own.” Alex did as Mark asked, stowing his striped socks in the bag. “And you’re away again Monday afternoon…”
“Ireland isn’t Newfoundland. It’s easy to visit.”
“A visit isn’t the same as a whole weekend at home.” Alex ducked over the candles and blew them out with quick bursts of breath. A dark swirl of smoke curled slowly towards the ceiling. “I’m really pissed about this, Mark…”
“Babe, I think you’re making too big a deal out of this. You’ll have fun once you’re there—”
“It IS a big deal! This isn’t like when you eat all the Jaffa Cakes. This is the first weekend we’ve had together in months, and you’ve chucked it—to work. So much for balance…”
He slipped the navy shirt into the garment bag along with two others. “Mouse, I couldn’t just say no to this, and I can’t disappoint the fans, paying good money…”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Yeah, better to disappoint me than a bunch of people you don’t even know.”
He closed his eyes, his lips a tight slash. “Alex, are you coming or not?”
Alex stared at him, shaking her head. She bent down and pulled her backpack out from under their bed.
Eleven
“I’m counting on you to save me from your fangirl kin.” Mark adjusted his belt and smoothed the front of his navy shirt. A final tuck into his skinny jeans, and his smiling eyes returned to Alex.
“You’ll be fine. They adore you.” Alex grinned, resigned. This comic con fell way short of her planned romantic weekend at home, but at least they were together…in between meet-and-greet sessions, autographs, photo ops, and panel discussions. They would make it work.
A loud chant of “Mark! Mark! Mark!” rose above the partition, his impatient fans urging him to make an entrance.
“Hear that? Bonkers.” Laugh lines gathered by his eyes. “Lex—”
“Ready to sign your life away?” A smiley BBC press rep barged in, slapping Mark on the shoulder.
Mark winced with a barely audible gasp. It passed his lips so quickly, the BBC guy didn’t clue in, but Alex did. Her heart kicked up its pace. What was that?
“I haven’t seen so many fans queuing for autographs since Cumberbatch.” The rep laughed. “Got your game face on?”
Mark’s posture was tense, but his smile suggested otherwise. He shot Alex a confident look. “Let’s do this!”
A bubbly con employee rushed over, his toothy smile and earnest eyes reminiscent of a children’s TV host. “Showtime, Mr. Keegan. Follow me, please.”
He pulled back the curtain and Mark ducked through, his beaming smile welcomed by a roar of voices from the surging crowd. He sat beside a con employee in a yellow t-shirt and with a simple hello and handshake, he magically turned her pale complexion bright pink.
Alex followed, lingering in the opened curtain, not sure where to go. The publicist stood beside her.
“Mark saved my neck, stepping in like this.” The BBC suit nodded. “I didn’t think we could get anyone to replace you-know-who on such short notice. When I called Mark Thursday, I really didn’t expect he’d say yes. If I were dangling from cable cars all week, I would be chilling on my weekend off.”
Alex sighed. “Exactly.”
He returned his attention to the line, now double in size. “Want a coffee, tea?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to wander.”
“Smart. These signing sessions are bum-numbingly boring.” He vanished through the curtain.
Alex’s furrowed gaze darted through the swarm. How would Mark deal with all of this? She had seen him handle a few fans on the street or a crowd of thirty or so program-clutching girls at a stage door, but nothing compared to this disorganized con chaos threatening to engulf his tiny table.
She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag. Is it hot in here? Her fuzzy black sweater stuck to her chest. She glanced at Mark—he wasn’t sweating—and then back at the crowd, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Cancel that…
Never mind Mark—how would she deal with all this? The noisy, demanding mob, a beast boasting hundreds of prying eyes and just as many expectations rattled her like she was a cornered animal. Time seemed to slow to an unbearable crawl and yet, her chest pounded quickly as if in a race it was desperate to win. Each gasp from her lips grew short and increasingly shallow, mimicking a hectic response that was becoming all too familiar again.
Fuck! Not here! Not in front of all these people…how…how do I get OUT of here? She swallowed heavily as the room swayed around her.
Crap, everyone’s looking at me.
Texting ‘marmalade’ was no use here, not now.
Mark turned around and smiled sweetly, beckoning her forward.
Mark…thinks everything is okay. I can’t let him think it isn’t…I can’t do that to him. A false grin stretched her lips.
He didn’t see through Alex’s act and turned back to his Keeganites.
Everything will be okay, right? If Mark believes it, I should, too…
You…can do this…
She focused on her boyfriend, not the mob…perhaps it was her best chance at riding out this attack?
You can do this. She released her stranglehold on her bag’s strap, her knuckles so white they practically glowed.
Mark gracefully accepted fan art, not once stifling a laugh at how hideous a few of the portraits were. He was effortlessly charming, engaging…interested in every person without being superficial. Shy little kids dressed like Mark’s TV character hid behind their parents, too bashful to say hello. Mark leaned over the edge of the table with a welcoming “Hi, mate!” while coaxing them out from behind a thigh with high fives and compliments about their costumes. He held hands with girls all aquiver and lost for words. He was so good, so patient. His calm demeanour was contagious, even to Alex—her crazed heartbeat, gulps for air, impromptu sweats, now receding…
You can do this…you CAN do this…
You’re…going to be okay—phew!
Each fan arriving at the table left with much more than an autograph—they left feeling heard, understood, and appreciated. Mark’s ease with the fans, his kindness wasn’t something that could be taught. To him, it was as natural as breathing. To Alex, it was just another of his traits that she loved and made her heart swell with pride.
But witnessing fandom from the other side of the autograph table felt surreal, like she had hopped into a TARDIS and time travelled to a strange, parallel universe. Girls crying over her guy, the actor who wasn’t famous when they met, the one who, like a typical boyfriend, dropped clothes around their flat, ate Nutella with a spoon straight from the jar, and left whiskers all over the bathroom sink.
Alex slipped through the curtain and walked along the ‘backstage’ hallway. She squeezed through a break in the perimeter’s bank of tall white panels where the roving rainbow of cosplayers, comic book aficionados, and pop culture purists on the floor of Birmingham’s National Exhibition Centre swallowed her up anonymously. Alex completely relaxed. These folks were her people. Take away the theatre world’s plaudits, the now-celebrity boyfriend, and intrusive paparazzi buzzing around her relationship, and she was still a geek at heart.
She bought some greasy chips in a paper cone and strolled aisle after aisle, window shopping collectibles, superhero sketches, and sartorial offerings for cosplayers. A puckered face drew her in. It was a spooky, over-the-head latex mask of the Silence, one of Doctor Who’s scariest villains. In the Whovian lexicon, the Silence had the ability to make people who looked away from them instantly forget their existence. Alex always thought they resembled the freaky younger brothers of the tortured figure in Edvard Munch’s famous painting, The Scream: a bulbous head, narrow chin, protruding cheekbones, and deep-socket eyes. The only difference between the two beings was the Silence’s pinched mouth, and for the most part, they never uttered a sound, let alone an existential scream.
Alex hadn’t cosplayed for at least a year; her Wonder Woman outfit was balled up in the back of the closet she shared with Mark. Hmm. The mask was tempting, a chance to wade back in without a big commitment. She surveyed the crowd milling past: Spider-Man, or make that Spider-Men—ever so popular, Finnick from The Hunger Games, Catwoman…she’d always wanted to put together a Catwoman costume but had never got around to it. The cosplaying itch flared, but would her oversized sweater and dark jeans look too casual to pull it off? The Silence always wore black suits…
She stuffed several chips into her mouth, the saltiness making her salivate. A finger tapped her shoulder.
“Um, hi?”
Her bulging cheeks turned towards the voice.
“You’re Mark Keegan’s girlfriend, Alex, right?” A freckled-brunette about Alex’s height and barely sixteen years old, dressed in a Hogwarts uniform, stared at her through round eyeglasses that pinched her button nose.
Alex raised a hand to her lips and swallowed the mouthful of chips. “Yes?”
“We thought so!” T
he girl giggled with her friend, a teen with wide-set eyes and scraggly dark blonde hair, the ends dip-dyed sea foam green. They eyeballed her from head to toe.
“You are SO lucky. You and Mark, I mean…talk about OTP.”
Aw, fangirl slang—one true pairing, a perfect couple. Alex always thought her and Mark were OTP, but then, she would.
“Can we have a selfie?”
This was new. “Ah…sure?”
The pair swooped around her, grinning for the smartphone.
“Thanks, Alex. You’re so cool!” They scampered off, eyes glued to the phone’s screen, reviewing the image just snapped.
Alex knew they didn’t really like her, not for the right reasons, anyway. Her only relevance to their world was the fact that she had bagged their favourite actor, a clear case of celebrity by proxy. She was a curiosity, nothing more.
She turned back to the latex Silence mask, promptly stuffing her credit card into the seller’s hand. Hidden underneath this getup, she could wander around incognito. The Hermione wannabe seemed harmless, but the encounter left Alex exposed and longing for anonymity.
She tossed her half-empty chip cone in a bin and pulled on the mask. Ugh. The thing stunk. A sneeze flirted with her nose but never came, the plastic-y aroma of new shower curtain meets stinky feet flooding her nostrils. She set off into the crowd, invisible.
At half past twelve, Alex turned the corner to autograph alley. The line snaking its way to Mark’s table looked shorter now but was still a few dozen deep and buzzing with excitement. Aw, bless. Still signing his heart out, hunched over glossy publicity photos. He looked stiff, cramped. Mark would definitely need Nurse Sinclair to work her magic with a massage that evening.
Grinning inside the mask, she sidled up to the queue. The Keeganites were still out in full force. Pink-cheeked girls pushed past her, clutching signed mementos and squeeing on a Mark-fueled high. The line inched forward, so Alex did, too.
“The queue ends here.” A stocky guy with bulging pecs, threatening to do a Hulk through his t-shirt, closed off the line behind her. “If you’re holding afternoon tickets, line up at half two.”
London, Can You Wait? Page 9
