London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  Jacquelyn Middleton is an award-winning freelance writer. She previously worked in television broadcasting, and lives in Toronto. When she’s not writing, you can find her hanging out in London, waiting in a comic con line with her husband, or chasing after her very bossy Schipperke. ‘London Belongs to Me’ is her first novel.

  Follow Jacquelyn on Twitter @JaxMiddleton,

  Instagram @JaxMiddleton_Author, or visit her webpage at www.JacquelynMiddleton.com

  KIRKWALL BOOKS

  USA – CANADA – UK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  London Belongs to Me

  ISBN: 978-0-9952117-4-2

  Copyright © 2016 Jacquelyn Middleton

  First Paperback Edition, October 2016

  Kirkwall Books supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and allows authors to make a living. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book – you are supporting writers and allowing Kirkwall Books to continue publishing stories for readers.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions of this work.

  Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  If you enjoyed this novel, please leave a review…

  For Mum—my heart, my inspiration, the love of my life.

  Miss you. xoxo

  One

  “Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

  – J.K. Rowling

  Alex couldn’t understand the public address system’s garbled instructions. The distorted voice, amidst the din of several hundred passengers in the baggage claim area of London’s largest airport, sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Tucking her shoulder-length waves behind her ears, she slowed her pace, but the announcement didn’t repeat. She held her breath, her eyes darting from passenger to passenger, searching for a reaction.

  Panic? Raised voices? Tears?

  Nope.

  She shrugged and tossed her long bangs out of her eyes, continuing on her way. Slow walkers, and abandoned suitcases stacked high on carts like a haphazard Hadrian’s Wall, threatened to impede her progress, but she dodged around the obstacles like a Super Bowl-winning running back. Her feet barely touched the floor.

  A beloved line from poet Friedrich Schiller popped into her head—’In thy breast are the stars of thy fate.’ Inspirational quotations rocked. Alex rattled them off like Drake reeling off rhymes, her Pinterest collection tailor-made for moments like this one. Sitting back waiting for fate to come calling? Not her style. Destiny may sprinkle clues along your path, but it’s up to you to act on them.

  Her latest leap of faith—flying here to London, a city she loved from afar but had never visited.

  ‘Passengers arriving on Jet America flight #429 from Miami, please report to the courtesy desk in baggage reclaim beside carousel twelve’

  The announcement echoed through the hall. Alex’s ears pricked up. Like a sprite on a sugar rush, she veered off-course from Heathrow’s luggage carousels and bolted towards the courtesy desk, her knees buckling as her backpack—almost double her size—thumped against her back with each stride. A deke past a doddling family here, a swerve around a barrier rope there, and the jostling mob of passengers fell in line behind her. She draped her small frame over the counter, shifting her bottom-heavy Doctor Who laptop bag across her body onto her hip. She greeted the airport employee with a grin her freckles couldn’t control.

  “Hello! My name is Alexandra Sinclair. I was on the Miami flight.”

  A tall, middle-aged woman with straw-coloured hair twisted into a harsh bun squinted over the rims of her glasses. She referred to a computer printout in her hands.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. May I confirm that your air travel began yesterday on Thursday, May 21 at Tallahassee Regional Airport in Florida? And you made a flight connection at Miami International Airport for London Heathrow?” Her plummy accent sounded like Lady Mary from Downton Abbey.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Alex couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s thick dark roots.

  “I’m sorry to inform you, but there was a problem at Miami Airport. The checked luggage from the Tallahassee aircraft was transferred to the wrong trans-Atlantic flight. Your two checked cases haven’t arrived in London, Miss Sinclair.”

  Alex’s smile slipped from her heart-shaped face. No, no, no.

  The tall metal walls of the terminal leaned in, squeezing all the air out of the room. The beat of Alex’s heart accelerated, as if it wanted to break free of her chest and make a run for it. Perspiration glistened on her palms, and each swallow pulled her throat into a tighter knot. She yanked at the overstretched neckline of her faded Captain America t-shirt, causing its damp threads to peel away from her slumped shoulders, exposing her small comedy and tragedy mask tattoo.

  “What? I don’t understand. Can you check again, please? This must be a mistake. Please…check again.” Nauseating waves bubbled in her stomach, and a tinge of sourness assaulted her tongue. “How can my stuff be missing? Where… where is it?”

  The woman with the inky roots curled her lip. Now she’d done it. Pissed off the clerk. The employee spoke again, but her words floated and vanished in the air like soapy bubbles blown into the wind. Alex didn’t catch any of them, her mind tethered to the worst-case scenario.

  Don’t faint. DON’T FAINT. Not now!

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “What am I supposed…to do?”

  “Fill out this form with your address and phone number in the UK, and give it back to me. NEXT.”

  Alex grabbed the form as an arm shoved her backpack out of the way. The navy blue sleeve belonged to a squawking New York accent, having a go at Ms. Dark Roots. Alex’s load teetered, jerking her sideways, her leg kicking into the air. A swarm of rampaging travellers elbowed her back onto both feet and devoured the small pocket she had just occupied against the desk. She rebounded through the herd, clutching the crumpled paper like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  She dumped her backpack on the floor, giving her rubbery legs a reprieve. A nearby wall offered welcome support. Her damp back bounced against its surface as she slid down to the floor, her eyes overcome with stingy tears. She whispered a mantra she relied upon to combat her panic attacks: “You can do this. You can do this.”
<
br />   Her trembling hands juggled her cell phone. Hugging her knees to her chest, she pressed a saved number. A familiar voice with a British accent drifted through the speaker.

  “Alex, honey! You’ve arrived. You’re finally on our side of the pond.” It was her dad, Michael.

  His daughter failed to respond, shifting his jubilant tone to worry, her gasped half-breaths a concern. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

  “Dad, my luggage … they lost it. Something happened in Miami. I…had two checked bags…all my clothes, books… gone…” Her voice trailed off, replaced by a wheezing rattle.

  “Alex, listen. Everything’s going to be okay. Breathe with me; take slow…breaths. You’re going to be all right.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Michael swallowed, stifling his worry. He chose his words cautiously, careful not to send Alex into a deeper anxiety spiral. “We’ll get through this, love—together…one breath at a time. We’ve dealt with a distance larger than 200 miles, haven’t we? I’m here for you. Now, what belongings do you have?”

  She blew her nose three times into a tissue, flinging the room into a jerky spin reminiscent of an out-of-control amusement park ride. “I have my laptop, one of my plays… but my playwriting books, my notes for my latest projects… are lost. I need them for what I’m writing now…”

  Alex stalled for air, dropping her head on her knees.

  “Aw, sweetheart. You’ve got your laptop and your play—that’s what you need most, isn’t it? Do you want us to come down there? We can catch the train and be in London in a few hours.”

  Tears played follow the leader down Alex’s cheeks. She craved a hug from her dad and step-mum Helen, but having them travel down from northern England on a rescue mission? No way. That would prove she couldn’t look after herself. Besides, she hated asking for help. Ever.

  “No, Dad, really…it’s okay. Hearing your voice makes me feel better. I pictured my arrival differently, you know? I hope this screw-up isn’t a sign that moving here’s…a mistake. I…can’t go back…”

  “I know, love, I know. It’s easy to feel like everything’s against you when something unexpected happens, but things will be okay. You’re doing great; I’m so proud of you…did you speak to an airline rep?”

  “They gave me a form…”

  “Honey, fill out the form, hand it in, and then go to the flat. Your luggage will turn up. The airline will be tracking it, but you need to be at your flat to receive it. Is Harry meeting you?”

  Harry Manville was a twenty-three-year-old British exchange student Alex met last September during her senior year at Atlanta’s Emory University. She had spotted the tall fellow standing alone, his shoulders rounded and his eyebrows scrunched over a map. When she asked if he needed assistance, his gloomy frown melted away into an eager smile. Lost on campus, he couldn’t locate his business lecture hall. His posh London accent captured Alex’s heart. How could she not help this charming British stranger?

  That moment sparked a deep friendship. Harry offered Alex brotherly advice and in exchange she teased him like the cheeky little sister he never had. They even looked alike: their blond hair and blue eyes often misled people into thinking they were siblings, an untruth they playfully adopted with over-the-top Cockney accents on more than one occasion.

  Harry’s arrival in her life felt like serendipity, a happy accident. His companionship came when she needed it most. Just before Halloween, Alex suffered a betrayal by the person she trusted most, the one person she believed would never hurt her. The discovery ate away at her; the ‘Freshman Fifteen’ she had carried for two years whittled away, and she considered dropping out of college. Harry lent a sympathetic ear at all hours of the day and night, held her hand through panic attacks, and pulled her back from the brink. He also suggested that she follow her passions for writing, theatre, and London, and move abroad after May graduation. She could stay in a spare room in his flat, a temporary home until she could find something permanent. With barely a year’s rent money saved in her pocket, his hospitality would grant her twelve months to make her mark. Harry offered an escape from her problems, and a glimmer of hope for the future.

  Now aged twenty-one, the ink on her Bachelor of Arts degree still wet, Alex had taken that leap, turning her back on the only life she had ever known, looking for a new start. Arriving in London was the first piece of the puzzle and each decision, each chance taken, would snap into place, unlocking her picture perfect future.

  Talking about Harry, Alex’s gasps for air lessened, and the room no longer resembled a Tilt-a-Whirl, but the receding attack left her with the usual souvenirs—self-consciousness, exhaustion, embarrassment.

  “Yeah, he’s meeting me. I can’t wait to see him. I wish I had a change of clothes though. I’m stuck with yoga pants, a baggy tee, and my denim jacket. Talk about making a terrible first impression. I’m meeting his girlfriend for the first time today. She’ll think I’m a total loser.”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s lucky to be meeting you. Now…are you feeling better?”

  “I am. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Fill out that form and go see Harry. Call me tonight once you’re settled?”

  “I will. Love you.”

  Alex tapped the screen’s red button and blew her nose one more time. She peered into her compact’s mirror and cursed the pimple sprouting above her right eyebrow, as well as yesterday’s decision to wear mascara. Raccoon eyes stared back at her. She dampened a tissue with bottled water and dabbed her eyes, the melted black makeup staining her hands. Several tries later, she almost looked human again.

  The lost baggage form proved tedious, but Miami’s airport code had a sense of humour—MIA. MIA luggage? A tired giggle escaped from Alex’s throat. Oh, the irony. She rose to her feet, shaking the pins and needles from her legs. She pushed through the restless throng suffocating the courtesy desk and handed her completed form to the now frenzied airport worker.

  “Miss Sinclair, your bags will arrive at the address provided within seventy-two hours. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a more precise ETA. Your patience is appreciated.” Ms. Dark Roots pulled her thin red lips into a taut pout and with a single finger jab sent her sliding eyeglasses back to the summit of her ski sloped nose. Fancy an argument? Like a Rottweiler guarding a juicy bone, her expression snarled ‘approach at your own risk.’

  Alex raised her right hand in surrender and backed away, her nerves still on high alert. She scraped her hair into a lopsided ponytail, then dragged her backpack and laptop bag towards the elevators leading to the high-speed train into Paddington Station. Hunger growled in her stomach, leaving it hollow and tight—a wobbly combination. So much for her breezy trans-Atlantic re-invention.

  She sagged into her seat on the train, hauling her bags to safety under her feet. She opened Facebook on her phone. Wonder Woman smiled back at her—Alex’s profile photo, complete with black wig and corset, taken during cosplay at last year’s Florida comic con. Her alter ego, the woman she wanted to be: in control, powerful, confident with nary a worry. If only life could imitate art. Her thumbs flew over her phone’s keyboard, drafting a status update when an unexpected text burst onto the screen.

  “Alex. Welcome to London. So sorry. Last minute change of plans…”

  Two

  It was Harry.

  ‘I have an emergency at the club. I’ll be stuck in Mayfair today. Don’t worry. Tom’s home. He’ll give you the grand tour! See you later. H x’

  Alex gulped. Shoot. A stranger—instead of Harry? Who’s Tom? Harry had never mentioned a Tom. She played with the silver A charm on her necklace. Is Tom the landlord? A roommate? Harry and his girlfriend lived there, but did others as well? Alex rubbed her throbbing temples. She’d only been in London for a few hours, and old demons were yanking her backwards. Get a grip, girl.

  She turned to a favourite companion—the London Underground app on her phone. She greeted the yellow, blue, red, green, black, and pink Tube lines that zip
ped and twisted across the map like old friends. Back in college, she had studied the map dozens, probably hundreds of times. She could pinpoint specific Tube stations in her sleep. If that made her a London transport geek, so be it.

  One by one, the charming station names—Oxford Circus, Pimlico, Chancery Lane—danced across her phone’s screen, but Alex meant business. She selected a saved journey within the app, reminding her that once she arrived at Paddington Station, it would take roughly forty minutes to travel eastward across the city to her final destination where Harry resided—London Fields, in the borough of Hackney. A few train and platform changes were on the cards, but several transfers meant more time exploring the Underground. Day made.

  The express ride into Paddington took less time than a pizza delivery back home in Florida. She followed the other passengers off the train and into the concourse. Such a circus! London’s commuters stamped, shoved, and sneered through the station’s roving obstacle course of lost tourists, weaving suitcases, and skittish pigeons. No wonder Paddington Bear had such an unsettling introduction to London at this station.

  Aw, Paddington. Alex needed her luggage to arrive if only to rescue her own Paddington Bear, a stowaway in one of her missing cases. Even an aspiring playwright about town needs her scruffy childhood pal on an overseas adventure. He would’ve made a rather fitting selfie accomplice right now, too.

  Alex dodged many of the rampaging Londoners, but her swaying backpack had a mind of its own, body-checking commuter after commuter.

  “Sorry! I’m so sorry. Whoops,” she said, cringing at the “Tsks!” “Watch its!” and “Heys!” of its victims.

  She spotted the iconic London Underground sign and zigzagged towards it. Standing in front of the ticket wicket, she plunged her hand deep into her laptop bag to grab cash for an Oyster travel card, but her British bank notes played hide-and-seek.

  Her chest tightened as she scrambled to free up space in her crammed bag. She fumbled and dropped her laptop charger, a loud plastic clack rising from the station’s floor. Klutz. She snatched it up by its cord and fished further into the bag, yanking out her headphones, chewing gum, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer, but still no wallet.