London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  Mark chuckled. “Oh, crap. You’re not gonna go all Swifty on me, are you?”

  Alex folded the confirmation. “She only writes about exes, silly.”

  He leaned farther over the table, his face bright. “I’ve booked us a gorgeous hotel, too…”

  Sure, but isn’t all this just an apology? For tearing up our holiday, not once, but twice this year? It was a far-away consolation prize, and like so many things with Mark, it involved an anxiety-filled wait to see if it would materialize.

  We can see the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall, check out Macy’s holiday windows…” He sounded like a tourism website advertising NYC. “Happy, babe?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Me too. It’s you and me, Mouse, always.”

  “Mark?!”

  Alex’s eyes jagged upwards as Mark turned to his right, a familiar voice in his ears. A tall hulk of a girl around Alex’s age hung over Mark’s shoulder. Her hands juggled a phone, a deck of promotional Lairds and Liars cards, and a Sharpie held aloft in expectation.

  “Daisy…hi,” Mark mumbled.

  “Oh, my God! What a coincidence, bumping into you here.” Daisy smiled.

  To Alex, this fangirl’s almost complete lack of self-awareness was annoying and rude and certainly not new. Daisy seemed to operate without a filter, overstepping the line between fan and stalker. Too many times, this self-declared ‘#1 fan from Belgium’ showed up in the right place at the right time…

  Fuck! My tweet two days ago, about visiting the markets, the huge Santa—and my boyfriend. FUCK! I left Daisy breadcrumbs, and she must have followed me here.

  Alex eyed the plastic bag swinging from Daisy’s elbow. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “I did, thanks.” The fan lurched closer, bumping the table with her thigh.

  Mark shifted the gingerbread snowman Alex had bought him away from the edge of the table.

  Daisy’s nosey glance poured over the flight confirmation, the sandwiches, as well as the wallpaper on Mark’s phone—a photo with Alex at Thirteen’s press night. She waved her cards. “Can I have an autograph?” Her tone was more assuming than asking, assuming Mark would have no problem pulling out of his private conversation to shower her with attention. In a way, she wasn’t wrong: Mark never seemed able to say no to fan requests.

  This girl had taken up so much of their time over the past eighteen months, hogging the stage door, camping out for TV interviews, showing up on the street, and asking for autographs…every…single…time. How many autographs did one fan need? Daisy always wanted something, even if Mark was tired, in a rush, or having a private moment—like right now—and her long-winded letters were creepy. Mark had shown Alex a few where Daisy had rambled on obsessively about their ‘friendship’, and yet in person, Daisy barely spoke. She only asked for signatures or photos, never asking questions about Mark’s work or making small talk. Alex almost felt a little sorry for her. Perhaps, she had nothing else in her life…

  But today was one demand too many. Alex raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of lunch…”

  Daisy turned her back to Alex and pouted. “Please, Mark?”

  Alex didn’t have to see Daisy’s face to know she was staring at him all big-eyed pleading like Puss in Boots from Shrek.

  Mark surveyed the room, pushing his cap down over his eyes. He nodded at Alex with a look that said, Sorry Mouse, and stood up. “Sure, but be fast, Daze. Can’t annoy the other customers.”

  The fan dwarfed Mark by six inches, half of that hair. Five cards were stuffed into his hand, each one with a different publicity image. Just like that, Daisy’s request for ‘an autograph’ multiplied to five. When he handed the cards back, all personalized and signed, Daisy stretched out her arm, phone in hand, and squished her uninvited greasy face against Mark’s cheek for a selfie. She snapped a photo burst, then another.

  Alex rolled her eyes underneath her bangs and chomped her sandwich, the best way to silence her tongue.

  “You good?” Mark offered a slash of a smile, not wishing to encourage Daisy any further.

  “Oops, I blinked.”

  Alex chugged Mark’s water. Yeah, right.

  Daisy clicked another burst as five more teens with phones at the ready flew out of nowhere like pesky wasps at a picnic.

  Alex leaned back in her chair. More?

  “Mark! Oh, God.” Mancunian accents flew fast and furious. “Pose with me?”

  The shortest girl in the pack shoved forward. “I love Lairds. Your accent rocks.”

  Alex blew out her cheeks. “Sorry, but could we finish eating first?”

  The girl launched a death stare at Alex. Face to face with her crush’s significant other, her manners melted quicker than a 99 Flake ice cream on a sunny Brighton beach. “Mark doesn’t mind.” She started to video record Mark with her phone. “He loves spending time with us.”

  Mark ran a hand over his chin and met Alex’s eyes. “Sorry,” he mouthed.

  Another girl nudged his elbow. “Mark, say hi to my friend Ronnie in Leeds.” She held out her phone, the dial tone bleating from its screen. Alex’s jaw dropped. This girl was dialing Ronnie in Leeds, fully expecting Mark to FaceTime right now.

  Daisy hovered with her five autographs and countless selfies, clueless that her moment in Mark’s spotlight was over. She scrolled through Instagram but kept squinty side-eye on the girls flirting with her ‘friend’. Alex noticed Daisy stopped the Voice Memo app on her phone—she had recorded their conversation!

  Alex shoved her toastie against her empty crisp bag. Where did all the polite fans go? Were Lucy, Freddie, and her the last of a dying breed, valuing respect, empathy, and self-awareness? Mark didn’t owe these fans anything apart from common courtesy and a polite hello, but they all seemed to think being interrupted, prodded, and grabbed was part of his obligation as an actor on their TV screens. How could he not love it? And who the hell was she for standing in their way?

  After several minutes of high-pitched squeals, additional autographs for friends of friends, and snarky glances at Alex, the pack slunk away. Following Daisy’s lead, they bought cola and sweet ‘n’ salty popcorn then sat a few tables over, riveted in their seats, watching Alex and Mark as if their lunch date was the latest Netflix smash hit. These girls had no shame.

  “Fangirls, eh?” Mark winked.

  “I’ve got another name for them…” Alex swallowed hard.

  She bowed her head. Mark picked at his sandwich. No further conversation passed their lips.

  Thirteen

  Manchester suburbs, four days later, Boxing Day

  The double bed had surrendered its duvet and most of its plump pillows to the floor, and a discarded white top sheet lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. Damp with perspiration, Mark laid his head down on Alex’s bare chest, his breathing still ragged. “That…was the best Christmas gift…ever.” His fingertips traced small circles over the slight slope of her breast.

  Alex hugged him and wrapped one leg around his hips, pressing him closer. “Better than the signed George Best football when you were eleven?”

  Mark looked up, eyebrows deep in thought. “Hmmm…okay, maybe not that good.”

  “Ungrateful!” Alex pushed Mark off and onto his back. She climbed on top of him, straddling his abs, her mouth crushing his with a hard kiss. “Give it back, then.” She leaned back, leaving the dare between them.

  “Oh, I will.” His hands slipped up her thighs. “Once I catch my breath…” He stretched upwards from the bed, kissing her just as hard.

  Alex wrapped her arms around his neck. “We were a bit loud. God, I hope Dad didn’t hear, and we’ll have to hide the condoms in the trash again. I don’t want Dad seeing them.”

  Mark played with her hair where it pooled over her shoulders. “I think your Dad knows we have sex…”

  “I know, but still. I don’t want to draw him a picture. Let’s be quieter next time, okay?”r />
  “Don’t tell me, tell the ancient springs in this bed. I think it’s older than Joan.” He leaned in closer, his gaze intense and wanting. “I’ll show you how quiet I can be.” His hands pulled her back down on top of him and then travelled up into her hair.

  Bruno Mars burst into song from the floor.

  Alex jumped, and Mark broke away mid-kiss. He sighed loudly, his hands taking flight.

  “Leave it.” Alex returned to his lips and pinned his hands under hers, pressing them into the mattress.

  “I can’t.” He eased himself out from underneath his girlfriend and followed “Locked Out of Heaven” to his jeans, lying in a heap on the floor. He squatted quickly and stood back up, rifling through the pockets and giving Alex an unobstructed view of his bare ass.

  He was a bit leaner than the last time she saw him. A wolfish smile overtook her face. God, he was hot. Please be a wrong number. She was desperate to resume what he had started.

  Mark looked back at her. “It’s Freds…Hey, mate! What’s up?”

  Goose bumps tickled Alex’s arms and chest. Without Mark’s warmth against her skin, the room felt chilly. She pulled the duvet off the floor and wrapped it around her, flopping back down on her stomach, stretching out like a starfish on the bed.

  An ear-to-ear smile rose in the midst of Mark’s stubble. “Bollocks are you! Up here? Should I alert the authorities…” He sat down on the bed, listening intently. “No worries, mate. I’ll let Alex and Michael know. Hold tight, see you soon!”

  Alex stretched, scooping up a Quality Street orange cream from the bedside table, her crinkled brows wondering why Freddie was holding tight. “Everything okay?”

  “Not sure. Something happened yesterday with Simon, and Freddie’s at the train station with Lucy right now.”

  “I’m sorry for just showing up like this.” Freddie’s eyes darted from Alex to her dad, Michael. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Michael patted Freddie’s shoulder. “Our door is always open.”

  “It was awful. Si’s parents flew over from Montréal to surprise him for Christmas. I answered the door in a bath towel, said I was his flatmate. I made up a story about meeting Si volunteering—there was no way I could tell them we met on Grindr.” Freddie slipped out of his slim wool coat as he ambled beside Mark, who was walking hand in hand with Alex.

  “Sorry, mate. That must’ve been bloody awkward.” Mark gave Freddie a tight-lipped smile as his eyes followed framed images of local football legends David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and Gary Neville passing by. This corridor at Old Trafford, home to Manchester United, was carpeted, accessorized with potted plants, and buzzing with smartly dressed hospitality representatives and well-to-do football fans—no terrace chants, sloppy drinkers, or vulgar language here. Michael, Alex’s step-mum Helen, and her grandmother Joan walked closely behind, all agog at the foreign surroundings inside their favourite football ground. They had sat outside, shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow die-hard Reds in the Stretford End on occasion, but this…this posh experience was a world apart.

  “Awkward, times a thousand.” Freddie hugged his coat against his chest. “Every time I opened my mouth, I worried I’d drop Simon in it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Lucy saved me.”

  “That was the first and last time I pretend to be your girlfriend, Freds.” Lucy unzipped her puffer and threw Alex a fed-up look. “Worst Christmas ever. When I wasn’t fawning over my ‘boyfriend’, I was hiding photos—shots of them smooching, shirtless holiday snaps—”

  “Yeah, all there on display for parental disapproval.” Freddie smiled at her.

  “And to top it all off, just like Simon, they talked all the way through the Doctor Who Christmas special.” Lucy scowled.

  “I literally screamed when you appeared on screen.” Freddie leaned into Mark.

  “Yeah, that didn’t help,” said Lucy.

  “You should talk,” said Freddie. “You practically wet yourself.”

  “Yeah, well—our Keegs with The Doctor!”

  Mark glanced down at Alex and a proud smile lit up her face. She swung his hand, giving it a squeeze.

  The group stopped just short of an open door. The roar of seventy-five thousand football fans mixed with “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division—an Old Trafford favourite—echoed into the hallway atop a frosty midday breeze.

  “Mr. Keegan, hello.” A suited and booted United hospitality employee appeared in the doorway and extended his hand. “Welcome to your private box.”

  “Thank you.” Mark shook his hand warmly and turned to Alex’s father. “Happy Christmas, Michael.” He stepped back, allowing Michael to enter the east stand executive box first.

  Michael gasped and nudged his eyeglasses up his nose. The sight of United’s vibrant green pitch outside the window left him dizzy with delight. “Jesus, Mark. If you were thinking of asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage, now’s the time. If she says no, I’ll marry ya…”

  “Dad!” Alex squeaked, her face sizzling, no doubt as red as the United shirts Mark, Joan, and Michael wore. Don’t look at Mark. Don’t look at him! She winced and scrunched her eyes as her throat tightened, threatening to strangle her. If only Harry Potter would magically appear with an invisibility cloak. Freddie burst out with a laugh while Joan and Helen exchanged glances, horrified. Lucy froze on the spot and swallowed heavily, cringing for her best friend.

  “Um…well…” Mark stammered and scratched his head, an uncomfortable grin raising his cheeks. He quickly looked sideways at Alex and then at her dad.

  “Michael Sinclair, what are you like? Leave the boy alone.” Helen folded her coat defiantly over her forearm.

  He squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “I’m just teasing him, honey.” He smiled at Mark, sheepishly. “Seriously, Mark, you shouldn’t have spent so much. I feel guilty, like I’m taking advantage.”

  “It’s me taking advantage, more like.” Mark pulled Alex close. “You’ve been like a dad to me these past two years…it’s the least I could do.”

  “Well, it’s appreciated by all of us, son.” He slapped Mark on the back then grasped Helen’s hand and they walked out with Joan to the private outdoor balcony to wait for the players’ warm-up on the grass below. Joan proudly removed her winter coat, revealing her United shirt from the legendary 1998-99 season. Freddie wandered over and threw his arm around her shoulder, covering up BECKHAM spelled out in white letters.

  Alex hid in the nook of Mark’s neck, refusing to meet his eyes. “Sorry about that.” Her voice cracked.

  “I’m just happy he’s happy.” He smiled. “Hey, look at me.” He nudged her chin upwards with his finger and looked her into the eyes. “I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  “I love you, too.” Alex didn’t know what more to say, so she kissed him.

  “Hey…” Lucy shuffled over.

  “I’m gonna pop to the loo before it starts.” Mark gave Alex a peck on the top of her head, dropped his coat on a chair then slipped away, his United shirt bearing the name of his favourite midfielder as a kid—KEANE.

  Lucy waited, making sure he was gone. “What is he waiting for?”

  Alex shrugged, unzipping her coat.

  Lucy’s eyebrows raised the alarm, even if her voice didn’t. “What did he give you for Christmas, then? I knew it wasn’t the ring when you didn’t text.”

  “A designer dress. It’s pretty, but so bodycon—panty line is guaranteed—and…” She opened her jacket. “…this necklace from Tiffany.”

  Lucy leaned in. The silver scooter charm dangled from a delicate chain. “Super cute, but…it’s not THE ring.”

  “Lucy, shhhh,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “It threw me for a second when he brought out the little blue gift bag…I thought he had swapped his mum’s ring for Tiffany. I thought it’s all happening. Even Joan thought so. She elbowed me and said ‘Oooh, am I gonna need a new hat?”’

  “Fuck. What did you say?”

  �
�I ignored Joan, opened it, and said, ‘It’s gorgeous, thank you!’—what else was I supposed to say after that? It was awkward. Mark fidgeted with his tie and wouldn’t look at me.” Alex’s eyes stung. “Shit. I don’t want to cry again.” She ducked her head just as Mark bounded through the doorway. His hand trailed over her back as he strode past, heading to the outside balcony. Alex grasped Lucy’s arm and guided her closer to the suite’s entrance, where Irish ears couldn’t listen in.

  “You cried in front of him?” Lucy whispered, handing Alex a tissue.

  “No, later in my room. They went to the pub after lunch. Mark begged me to go, but I wasn’t in the mood so I lied about calling Robbie. Mark doesn’t know I started those anxiety pills. He would’ve asked why I wasn’t drinking.”

  Lucy turned her back to the balcony. “And Joan might have asked if you were pregnant.”

  Alex blotted her nose quickly with the tissue, her eyes unwavering from the big white 16 on Mark’s back. Don’t turn around. Don’t catch us…

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She played with the charm. “I absolutely adore this. It symbolizes our first date, Mark’s Vespa rules—‘hop on, hold tight, and remember to enjoy the ride’. I love it, I really do—”

  “But it’s not what you expected.” Lucy frowned.

  “Am I fooling myself? I’ve been so stupid. Mark’s already spoken for—he’s married to his job, not me.”

  “Oh, babe.”

  “I’m holding on, making sacrifices…for what? Every time commitment—a proper commitment—is mentioned, he chokes.” Alex’s eyes bounced to Lucy. “You’ve just seen it.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for your anniversary.”

  “I’m getting tired of waiting. Nothing’s going to change.”

  “It’s only a few days away, Lex.”

  “I’m tired of missing out on normal couple stuff, you know, everyday things? Waking up together, quick kisses in the kitchen, making each other laugh after a tough day. I even miss going to yoga class with him, and I hate yoga.” Alex winced, watching the balcony again. “And after weeks apart, we’re back together—briefly. Our reunions are always so bittersweet, so fleeting, like there’s a stopwatch on us, counting the minutes we’ve got left before he has to leave again. It doesn’t play nicely with my anxiety. I worry if I bend any more, I’ll break.”