London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  One loyal companion from her old zip code was settling in just fine: Paddington Bear. As a child, Alex loved away Paddington’s fur and eyes, leaving him threadbare, so every birthday her dad gave her a new bear—until she turned six and he moved overseas. Invested with fifteen years of unconditional love, this cherished toy had comforted Alex through her parents’ traumatic split and beyond. He chilled comfortably on the futon, a paw’s reach from her bouquet of pink and yellow snapdragons, smiling their lopsided grins and lending much needed joy to the bland space.

  The Sunday stillness of the abandoned flat beckoned Alex to tell a story. She hugged Paddington, burying her nose in his matted fluff. Returning the bear to her pillow, she curled up with her laptop, its keyboard letters scuffed from years of typing and its scratched case decorated with half-peeled superhero stickers. She eyed the hardcopy of her suffragette play, lying on top of her laptop bag with its cover page bent backwards. Olivia must’ve read it last night. She placed it on top of her thesaurus, opened the saved version on her laptop, and started typing.

  Nine

  The shower’s taps squealed, waking Alex on her first Monday morning in the flat. She turned over, dozing until a new sound assaulted her ears—the urgent stutter of Olivia’s high heels. Their sharp clickclickclick meshed with Harry’s stern voice instructing someone over his phone. He paced in the hall and then wandered out of earshot. Alex tossed the covers over her head and closed her eyes, hoping to squeeze out another twenty minutes of sleep.

  The front door slammed shut. Silence. Alex waited fifteen minutes in case Tom stirred, but the flat remained still. Perhaps he never came home last night.

  She wandered through the lounge and into the kitchen where Harry’s cup and tea bag, and Olivia’s lipstick-kissed mug sat abandoned near the sink. A plate of half-eaten toast smeared with strawberry jam grew cold, a lone fly plodding across its stickiness. Thai food cartons, new additions to the lingering mess from Friday, lay jumbled in the sink. How do they live like this? Alex dumped the trash into the smelly bin and loaded the dishwasher.

  Still no sign of Tom. Alex grabbed a pen and scrap of paper from the counter, and scribbled a note, displaying it prominently on the kitchen table:

  ‘Morning, Tom! I hear you’re coming with me to the Royal Court this evening. Curtain rises at seven thirty, so I’ll meet you back here at five. Alex’

  The bathroom was finally hers, the shower dousing her skin warmly this time. Bliss. Thank goodness for a late start and a replenished water heater. She missed the wake-up call of American-level water pressure, but at least her teeth didn’t chatter while lathering up today.

  The cleaning lady arrived at ten o’clock in the midst of Alex’s last milky spoonful of Lucky Charms. She spoke to the middle-aged Polish woman, but the lady just smiled and nodded. Alex grinned politely, loaded her bowl and cutlery into the dishwasher, and flew out the door to tackle her to-do list. The most pressing tasks: sorting out her health care number with the National Health Service and the purchase of a new SIM card for her phone.

  On route to her first errand, Alex spotted bright red letters screaming ‘Help Wanted!’ from the window of a small café on nearby Mare Street. The part-time job sounded ideal—a few hours mid-morning until after the lunch rush, leaving most of the afternoon free to write. She completed her application for the crinkly-eyed owner and flashed her brightest American customer service smile.

  Alex and Tom rushed into the Royal Court Theatre just ten minutes before the play’s start. Tom couldn’t be trusted to show up on time. Next time—if there was a next time—she’d meet him at the venue and spare herself his contagious lateness. She rubbed her jaw. It still ached from clenching it tightly on the packed Tube journey.

  Excited theatre patrons swarmed the lobby and streamed up the stairs from the downstairs bar. Alex envied them, soaking up the pre-theatre atmosphere, sipping drinks, and browsing the theatre’s bookstore. She purchased a program at the door and followed Tom straight to their seats, her blue flowery blouse, black knee-length skirt, and crisp beige trench coat fitting in with the dressy-casual vibe.

  She gave tardy Tom the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps an audition or meeting with his agent ran long. “Hectic day racing between auditions?”

  “Auditions? You’re kidding, right?” He shoved the arms of his black blazer up to his elbows and shifted his denim-clad butt back into his seat. “I was lending Harry a hand at Bespoke.”

  Tom gave off a pungent whiff of alcohol as he spoke. If lending a hand meant tasting the libations on offer, then his tale was true.

  Seated seven rows from the stage in the stalls, Alex’s head scanned up and down, back and forth, like a curious owl surveying new territory. Tom looked up from his phone. “You’ll give yourself whiplash craning your neck like that.”

  “I can’t believe I’m here!” She clasped his forearm, giving it a shake. “The Royal Court, Tom. I’ve waited years for this moment.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re a freak. It’s just an old building.”

  Alex took a break memorizing every corner, every row of the theatre and flipped through the program.

  “This is crazy.” Alex pointed at a page. “This thing has every single line from the play. It’s not a program at all. It’s a proper book. They should do this on Broadway. So much better than a Playbill.”

  Tom shook his head, his finger swiping up a storm on his Tinder app. “It’s a play text, Alex. It’s hardly the second coming.”

  The theme to BBC’s Sherlock blared from somewhere. Alex didn’t notice, engrossed in the book’s cast bios. When the music didn’t stop, Tom elbowed her in the ribs. Whoops. She fumbled in her bag and muted the ringer, sending the call to voicemail. She didn’t want to be that person.

  Alex ambled outdoors into the brisk May air, play text hugged to her chest and Sharpie in hand—tools of the fangirl trade—hoping to meet the play’s star, Amanda Abbington. She adored Amanda’s portrayals of Mary Watson in Sherlock, and Miss Mardle in Mr. Selfridge but TV roles didn’t match the magic of watching her on stage. Amanda’s live performance imbued the playwright’s words with an icy passive-aggressiveness that made the audience despise her character. The play was satirical and thought provoking, the kind of story that tumbles around in your mind for days afterwards.

  Several other enthusiastic theatregoers gathered in the stage door alleyway, as did four paunchy ‘professional’ autograph hunters, equipped with binders of eight by ten publicity photos. These slimy guys—all beer guts and baseball caps—gave theatre geeks a bad name. Once signed, they’d hawk the promotional photos on eBay at exorbitant prices. Not cool. Neither was it cool to show up at the stage door when you hadn’t even seen the play. A cluster of ‘fans’ ran out of the Sloane Square Tube station and joined the queue. The theatregoers in front of Alex shook their heads and grumbled into their chests.

  “Tom, when Amanda, oh…where are you?” Also not cool—Tom’s disappearing act.

  Alex peered around the dark alley and couldn’t see him. A clique of pretty girls, underfed and willowy like a gang of runway models, swarmed the side entrance of the Royal Court, smoking, posing, and tossing their glossy manes. When three of the tallest members shifted, she spotted Tom ensconced in the middle of the group, bumming a cigarette and flirting. Typical.

  She stepped out of line. “Tom, when Amanda comes out, I’ll need your help. Make sure you’re beside me, okay? I’d love a photo with her, a proper one on my camera, not my phone. Its flash isn’t bright enough.”

  He nodded and waved his hand in dismissal. His fan club of seven rolled their eyes and chuckled behind their hair at Alex, and then continued with their discussion about Mayfair’s trendiest clubs.

  Alex shivered intermittently, the spring chill amplifying her nervousness. She smoothed her bangs. Thank goodness that pimple on her forehead was no longer mountainous, but now just a mere pink dot, easily covered with foundation. No filters would be needed to make her look half-
decent in the photo with Amanda. To pass the time, she checked the voice message left before the curtain went up. A jocular Cockney voice burst through the phone. The part-time café job—hers, starting Wednesday—two days from now. Alex smiled. Things were looking up!

  She leaned towards a short woman with curly blonde hair wearing a black beret. “Excuse me, I’ve never done a stage door in London before. How long’s the wait usually?”

  “My friends were here last week. Amanda came out quickly, within twenty minutes. Shouldn’t be—” Squeals erupted a few feet ahead, cutting off the girl’s answer.

  Alex’s eyes flew towards the red stage door. Amanda! In the flesh. Goosebumps tickled her neck while her mind danced with questions: Did Amanda spend time with the playwright during rehearsals? Did they collaborate? How does she feel about working with new writers?

  Alex’s two passions, playwriting and fangirling, were colliding so spectacularly this evening. How often do you get to bend the ear of a favourite actress?

  Fans took turns receiving autographs and photos. Amanda chatted with each person and doled out hugs. Alex held back, tapping her foot and looking back towards the theatre. Where’s Tom? He and his girl gang must have snuck away to the Royal Court’s downstairs bar. She yanked open the lobby door and galloped down the steps.

  Her heart plummeted. No sign of him.

  Screw it! A badly-lit selfie would have to do.

  She raced up the stairs and tripped on the top step, crumpling in a painful heap against the glass door. Did anyone notice? A rip in the knee of her tights mocked her attempt at a graceful recovery. She smoothed down her skirt and dashed outside.

  Laughter hung in the cool spring air as fans happy with their autographs and photos headed towards the Tube entrance next door. Her chest heaving, Alex bobbed through the dwindling crowd. Her reward—a glimpse of the theatre’s security guard closing the stage door firmly behind him.

  She threw her arms up in the air. “Great. Thanks a lot, Tom.”

  “No worries! Thanks for what?”

  Tom strolled out of the shadows behind Alex, casually rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He struck a match, its sharp glow briefly illuminating the abandoned alley. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and broke out into a carefree grin. “Those girls are hilarious, trying to drag me to a new dance club.”

  He tilted his head, blowing smoke at the stars. “I was halfway down the road and thought, Bugger—I’d better check with you first in case you want to tag along—”

  She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. He didn’t even offer a whiff of an apology. Enough of this tomfoolery. “No, I don’t. Just go. I’m going home.”

  Tom stared at her with squished eyebrows. “Suit yourself, Miss America. Laters!” He turned on his heels and loped off into the darkness.

  Alex stomped towards the Sloane Square Tube entrance, muttering a vow under her breath. The next time she tried a stage door, she wouldn’t place her trust in someone else. It was always the same old story.

  You can only rely on yourself.

  Ten

  Texts, Twitter retweets, and Instagram images flew back and forth in the week since Alex and Lucy crashed back into each other’s lives. Old inside jokes were resurrected and debates on who was the hottest actor picked up where they left off two years before. But best of all, this relationship originally cultivated online was blossoming into a tangible friendship, and Lucy brought with her a ready-made posse; today on the final Saturday in May, Alex would meet Freddie Ryan.

  To Alex, meeting new friends was almost as thrilling as meeting a potential boyfriend. While growing up, Alex didn’t have the largest pool of friends to rely on, just a casual group of kids she hung around with on the soccer field or at swimming lessons. She’d have a best friend here and there, someone to share secrets, crushes on boys, and dreams for the future, but too often the best friend moved away or eventually dumped her for someone cooler. Unfortunately, a love of reading, writing, and theatre didn’t top the popularity charts with the in-crowd at her sports-loving American high school. And during her senior year at Emory, many of her classmates fell by the wayside, too, casualties of their mutual friendships with Devin and Taylor. Alex was used to making friends and then losing them. She had joked to her dad that she had a degree in solitude, having spent so much time alone over the years.

  She hoped life in London would put an end to all that, and this Freddie fellow’s advance billing was stellar. By day, he toiled as a TV program scheduler for the BBC. By night, the twenty-three-year-old morphed back into his devoted fanboy persona, hanging out in theatres and cinemas. Lucy said he loved James Bond films, romantic comedies, pub quizzes, and dancing. Alex was already enamoured.

  “I wouldn’t share Freddie with just anyone.” Lucy scratched at the shoulder of her blue ‘Impossible Girl’ tee and plonked down on Alex’s futon, picking up her friend’s suffragette play.

  Alex was half-dressed in cotton bikini briefs and a thin, long-sleeved striped sweater, its blue hue making her eyes pop. She straightened her hair frantically while Lucy kept the conversation flowing. “He means the world to me. I know he’ll fall head over heels for you. How could he not?”

  “Aw, thanks.”

  With straighteners in one hand, Alex reached towards her tea on the floor with the other. She reached around the dwindling burst of snapdragons, careful not to bump into the book towers teetering close by, but her awkward stretch creased a big L-bend into her locks. “Damn it.” She clamped the flat iron’s plates back into position along the kinked section of hair, but it just made the curve worse.

  “Sorry, Lucy. We should’ve been on our way by now. Can’t believe I slept through my alarm.”

  “No rush. Take your time. You’re probably still getting over jet lag.”

  Alex shook her head. “No, it’s all Tom’s fault. He’s such a shag monster. He’s had noisy sex four out of the eight nights I’ve been here. I feel dirty hearing everything through the wall, but it’s impossible to block it out, even wearing earbuds. I finally fell asleep around three fifteen this morning. One thing’s for sure, the guy’s got stamina.”

  Lucy laughed. “Lucky girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend? I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word. A different chick stumbles out of his room each morning. He’s such a man-whore!”

  Lucy flopped over onto her stomach, her denim-covered legs just missing the leaning wardrobe. “Geez. You weren’t kidding. Even a Hobbit would feel claustrophobic in here.”

  “I know, right? I feel like I’m in solitary confinement. No daylight. No space. I keep bumping into my stuff, but the rent’s practically non-existent, and London Fields is to die for. I’m trying to focus on the positives.”

  Lucy flipped to the first page of Alex’s play. “Good idea. Just don’t let that bohemian rhapsody in the lounge give you a headache. So many patterns…”

  “Blame Olivia,” said Alex. “Tom said she fashions herself as some sort of bohemian culture vulture. She used to be obsessed with Kate Moss and Sienna Miller, making inspiration boards out of British Vogue clippings. Now ten years later, that boho vibe’s overtaken her home décor. She hasn’t even been to Marrakesh.”

  Lucy sneered. “Typical.”

  “I don’t care how the flat’s decorated. I’m just happy I found a job close by. That’s a big worry off my shoulders.”

  “Now we can have proper fun—nights out, theatre, films,” said Lucy. “Watch out, London!”

  “My pay cheque’s not much, but it’s something.” Alex slipped the flat iron along the last section of hair, resisting the urge to rush. “The worst part’s coming home smelling like egg salad sandwiches. I swear I made 100 of them on my first day.”

  She unplugged the straighteners from the wall and began a struggle with her skinny jeans, jumping up and down on the spot. A final tug brought them up over her hips. “I want to impress Freddie. Is that weird? And he works at the BBC. How cool is that?”

&
nbsp; Lucy’s stomach cried out as she glanced up from the page she was reading. “Freddie’s the last person to call himself cool. He’s a total geek. There’s no need to avoid pervy discussions about Hiddleston or Cumberbatch either; he’s all in. Chill, girl. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  Alex kept fussing. “I hate this top. I think I left some clothes in the dryer. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time. Your suffragettes are keeping me company.”

  Late morning crowds had already sprung up around the piazza of Covent Garden. Alex rubber-necked under her burgundy-hued umbrella at the rows of shops and a pair of street performers wearing suits and top hats, covered in silver paint.

  Both girls upped their speed. The persistent mist teamed with unseasonable gusts made their walk a chilly, windswept chore. Alex kept tabs on her black Converse, splashing along the slippery cobblestones, hoping to clear the square without a twisted ankle.

  She pouted. “I shouldn’t have bothered straightening my hair. I’ve gone all frizzy.”

  She held Lucy’s umbrella while her friend gathered her wet flyaway curls into a low ponytail. “Tell me about it. Story of my life. I’m glad you did it, though. It gave me time to read your suffragette play…it’s riveting.”

  A drenched, overly theatrical magician hollered at a swarm of passing tourists. Alex was unsure what Lucy said. “You liked it?”

  “Loved it, so far. I felt like I learned something, too.”

  “Really? Thanks.” Alex always felt relieved when people complimented her writing—receiving criticism left her cold. Her back usually went up with suggestions for improvement. “I did a ton of historical research for authenticity.”

  “Do you submit your work to anyone, to theatres?”