London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “Not yet. I keep finding things to change. Once I start revising, I can’t quit. I’ll submit it once it’s ready. It’s got to be perfect, though.”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you’re not just delaying a decision? At some point you should see if your ideas fly. Maybe you’re not finishing your work so you don’t have to face rejection? Or you’re worried that it’s not good enough? Just a thought…”

  Alex’s eyes widened. She admired Lucy’s blatant honesty, but when it came to her playwriting, she was protective and stubborn like a momma bear hovering over her cub. Lucy’s words stung somewhat, but she knew her uncensored remarks rang true. She always worried if she was up to the task—in relationships, in writing, and everything else.

  “No, it’s not that…it just needs a few final tweaks. And I have to find the right place to send it.”

  The girls weaved through the throng in Covent Garden and into a Boots drugstore. Lucy cooed at a big nosed monster smiling manically from a colourful bag of crisps. “C’mere, big boy.”

  Alex’s eyebrows tightened into a knot. “What the hell is that?”

  Lucy did a little dance, waving the bag under Alex’s nose. “It’s Monster Munch. Otherwise known as today’s breakfast. These corny hands will do nicely.”

  She wasn’t kidding. The yellow snacks were shaped like four-fingered hands.

  “Brits eat strange things.” Alex purchased a packet of Cadbury chocolate buttons and tore it open as they stepped back onto bustling James Street.

  Lucy juggled her umbrella, chomping through her breakfast. “So how’s the glamorous flatmate? Is she helping your writing quest?”

  “Not really. I mean, she told me about playwriting workshops, and I think she had a quick read of my play, but I haven’t seen her much this week.”

  Alex reloaded on chocolate buttons. “And when I have, she’s been a total grump, so there’s been no chance to ask her opinion. We haven’t had a proper conversation since last Saturday in Pret. Tom says she can be moody. So far, he’s right. She’s up and down like a yo-yo.”

  “She sounds high maintenance,” said Lucy, crossing Long Acre to reach Neal Street. “Maybe it’s a good thing, not getting too close? I don’t know if she’d be supportive. Just a feeling I get.”

  “I think it’s too early to tell.” Alex crumpled up the deflated purple Cadbury’s wrapper, stuffing it in the pocket of her red raincoat. “I’ve seen both warm and cold Olivia. And not just with me—with Tom and Harry, too. If she hated me, why give me theatre tickets? Maybe she’s having a tough time at work or her writing isn’t going well. You never know. I get grumpy when my characters aren’t cooperating.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Lucy balled up her empty bag. “But speaking of cooperating, I think you should send some of your work in for critique or to those workshop sessions. You never know. Something might stick.”

  Lucy flung her arm around Alex’s shoulders like a geeky Willy Wonka, ushering her theatrically inside Forbidden Planet on Shaftsbury Avenue. “Welcome to Fandom Heaven! All your obsessive desires—graphic novels, anime t-shirts, posters—await inside these doors. And like the TARDIS, it’s much bigger on the inside…”

  London geeks were out in full force. Alex had never seen a comic book and collectables store so rammed. They squeezed past shoppers standing four deep just inside the front doors, all gawking at a wall of glass cases displaying intricately designed statues and busts of all the major fandom players: Batman, Loki, and Frodo—to name just a few. Most were limited edition and all boasted jaw-dropping price tags.

  “My God, Lucy. The prices! Please tell me this isn’t a window shopping expedition?”

  Lucy squeezed Alex’s upper arm. “Not to worry, my fangirl friend. There’s plenty we can afford, and when we’re done, we’ll do Show-and-Tell in the pub.”

  Around the corner to the left, Doctor Who memorabilia owned several shelves and crept up the wall to the ceiling. Action figures, t-shirts, mugs, even stuffed toys—the shop had all Whovian merchandise covered. A tall wisp of a guy wearing a black suit jacket, grey t-shirt, and black skinny jeans stood in the middle of the display, carefully stacking a series of small boxes into a pile purposely placed out of reach from two boisterous ten-year-old boys. Lucy rushed forward.

  “Freddie!”

  His head jerked to attention, sending his floppy fringe of dark brown hair cascading into his green eyes. His face lit up with a broad grin. “Lucy Hardy, if my eyes aren’t deceiving me. Late as always, darling. I was about to audition a new best friend, but the potentials were devastatingly boring.”

  He drew his pal into a tight hug, but released his grip to focus on Alex, fidgeting with her dripping umbrella. “Alex, I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t be shy. Give me some lovin’.”

  She willingly tucked beside Lucy into Freddie’s group hug. All week Lucy had rambled on about him, so Freddie felt more like an old friend than a stranger.

  In the midst of the embrace, Freddie crooked his head over his left shoulder to check that his stash hadn’t been pilfered. “You’ve caught me in my natural habitat, ladies. Hunting for blind box Doctor Who Titan variants. I’m shameless in my pursuit.”

  Lucy grabbed his stubbly chin. “Yeah, shameless and a little bit stupid. You know you’ll end up with the figures no one wants. It’s a total gamble, and you always lose. That’s the problem with blind boxed collectibles; you never know what’s inside when you buy them. Don’t throw your money down the drain.”

  “Yes, it’s a gamble, but one I enter willingly. I’ve got to get my kicks somehow. Care to place your bets?” He picked up one of the boxes and held it up to his ear as if it might whisper its secret, held within. “Will this box contain the elusive green-windowed TARDIS or the ultra-rare eleventh Doctor with blue shirt?”

  Freddie shook and listened to each small box. Lucy guffawed. “Stop it. That looks weird.”

  She nudged Alex. “Last time he did this blind box thing he got three blobby Adipose figures—all identical—and a clockwork robot. Hardly worth shouting from the rooftops. He frequently hits his overdraft limit buying these things. Freddie, you’re such a shopaholic.”

  “Ye of little faith. You’ll see when it’s Show-and-Tell time. I’ll amaze you with my uncanny ability to uncover the best collectables in the store.” He spun around, and embraced his stockpile of small boxes. He strolled towards the Star Wars figures, muttering, “Please be a green-windowed TARDIS, please be a green-windowed TARDIS…”

  “You’re a nutter,” laughed Lucy as she dodged out of the way, escaping the lunging advances of a sticky three-year-old dressed as Spiderman. “I’m going to show Alex the Sherlock and Walking Dead stuff. Meet you downstairs by the graphic novels?”

  After Forbidden Planet, Freddie made them all grab lunch at the baked potato van in Covent Garden’s piazza. Such odd fast food choices. First, triangle-boxed sandwiches, and now hot baked potatoes, slit open from end to end and heaped with cheese, chili, baked beans or chicken curry. While Alex stuffed her face with melting strings of cheddar cheese and starchy spud, Lucy pointed to the sign above the counter—jacket potatoes. If only Brits and Americans spoke the same language.

  In the three hours that followed, no corner of Covent Garden remained unexplored. The shopping trio scoured the Apple Market, Paperchase, Benjamin Pollock’s Toyshop (Alex especially loved their toy theatres), the Moomin store, the London Transport Museum, and the seven streets of Seven Dials that stretched outward from the junction into the West End like spokes on a bicycle wheel. Worn out from battling the Saturday afternoon hordes, they decamped northwards atop an iconic double-decker bus. Destination—Freddie’s one-bedroom flat on Holloway Road in Archway. He had plans to see a play with his friend Mark later and welcomed the opportunity to drop off his purchases before setting out again.

  “How British is this? You live above a fish and chip shop!” The comforting smell of crispy beer-battered cod hung in the air of the narro
w stairwell to Freddie’s flat. Alex’s mouth watered as they trudged up the stairs, past the pockmarked and scuffed walls; scars from moving nightmares of the past.

  “Yep. It’s like having room service downstairs,” said Freddie. “Greasy carby goodness.”

  “Mmmm, carbs. You know what a load of carbs is? A food hug,” said Lucy.

  Alex laughed. “It is. My happy place. I could get used to fish and chips twenty-four-seven though.”

  “I swear one of my recent flings only stuck around for those delectable fish and chips,” said Freddie. “I yearn for him whenever I catch a whiff of mushy peas.”

  “Freddie, do you need a flatmate? I’m ever so tidy and don’t mind sharing household chores.” Half joking, anything would be an improvement over the windowless prison cell Alex currently slept in.

  “Sorry, hon, but I’ve got the perfect set-up.” Freddie shook his umbrella one last time, splattering raindrops on the dingy dirt-encrusted linoleum. “My flatmate’s rarely here. He’s a medical resident at University College Hospital. He kips on the sofa-bed when he can’t get home to Reading. I only see him once or twice a week.”

  Lucy tugged on the back of Alex’s raincoat. “And before you change your address, dear Lex, I’ve first dibs on this place. I’ve bored Freddie into submission complaining about my annoying flatmates and their grating band.”

  “You live with a band? How cool!” said Alex.

  “Oh, it’s so not.” Lucy crowded Alex on the top step. “They’re a couple, a folk duo called Cider with Rosie. Their hippy-dippy cooking and vomit-inducing pixie music is doing my head in. I’d leave today if the rent wasn’t so affordable.”

  “You mean downright cheap, Lucy.” Freddie winked at her and unlocked the door. “Make yourself comfy, girls…but not too comfy. I just need to feed Jim Moriarty, and then we’re off.”

  Freddie’s flat was little more than a small box with a row of shoulder height windows along the back wall. The sparse lounge, painted lavender, contained a grey sofa that might uncomfortably seat three people, and a secondhand oak coffee table. White floating shelves hovered along the far wall, showcasing his Titan collection, carefully curated novels, and his favourite DVDs. A large framed photo with Lucy smiled brightly on the middle shelf, hugged by selfies with Kit Harrington and David Tennant. A small flat screen television clung to the wall facing the sofa along with a framed Madonna poster from her Sticky and Sweet world tour. Underneath, a low wooden rectangle supporting a turntable and speakers housed a sampling of vinyl—albums by the Stone Roses, the Charlatans, and the Happy Mondays lay scattered on the beat-up hardwood floor.

  To the right, his kitchen was an afterthought. A row of three Tiffany-blue painted cupboards hung above a short, white counter with a single sink, a tiny fridge, and a two-burner cook top. It faced a breakfast bar, crowded with a crumb-covered toaster, kettle, a pyramid of Pantone mugs, and a plastic mountain of stuffed shopping bags from Topman, Beyond Retro, and Forbidden Planet. His tiny bedroom and a bathroom—with just a shower, no tub—were just to the right of the front door.

  Lucy stomped into the flat like she was trying to scare away evil spirits. “Keep that thing away from me.” She planted herself at the far end of the sofa. “I hate black cats. They’re creepy soul stealers.”

  “Your cat’s named after Sherlock’s Moriarty?” asked Alex.

  The suspicious feline darted underneath the single side table. Alex stooped down, her hands trailing through his velvety hair. “Awwww, I miss our cat so much.”

  Moriarty purred and slinked up against her bent knees. “It’s the perfect name, too. You’re a man after my own heart.” Alex laughed. “Marry me, Freddie!”

  “Aw, if only, my love, if only.”

  “Cats, Moriarty, Doctor Who, you’re my perfect match. Damn it. Why are all the good ones gay?”

  “Bless,” said Freddie. “If only you were muscular and male.” He sighed. “One day my dream fella will commit, and I’ll be blissfully ensconced in my little love nest.”

  Lucy snorted. “Freddie, you are such an incurable romantic … and a drama queen, but a pretty one at that.”

  Alex pivoted to face Lucy. “And you’re a superstitious spaz. What’s next, avoiding ladders, stepping over cracks in the pavement?”

  “Always. I have a thing about spilt salt, too.” Lucy created a battle scene with a cluster of Titans on Freddie’s narrow coffee table. “I really hate that black cat. I’m glad you’re on the scene now, Lex. You can be his friend.”

  Freddie bent down to set Moriarty’s bowl on the floor. “He needs all the friends he can get. You hate him. Mark’s allergic. My poor fur baby. Okay, let’s go!”

  “Not so fast, Titan terror. Did you forget Show-and-Tell?” Lucy sprung from the sofa. “If you’re not bringing your toys, you have to open them here. Now. I’m not letting you sneak away from this embarrassing moment.”

  “I suppose I have to give in otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it. Must be quick, though. Can’t keep our Mark waiting.” Waving his arms with a flourish, like a cheesy magician, Freddie snatched Titan box number one from the breakfast bar, singing an old show tune about luck being a lady tonight…

  Eleven

  A rowdy but jovial crowd basked in the late afternoon sunbeams stretching through the large windows of the Castle pub in Islington. Freddie planned to meet Mark around six at the Pentonville Road hangout for a relaxing pint, before heading to the Old Red Lion Theatre down the street.

  Lucy’s hunger pangs proved impatient and wouldn’t wait for their final guest to arrive, so she ordered barbecue chicken wings and fries to share with Alex. Freddie opted for the massive Angus beef cheeseburger. He purchased the first round of drinks at the yellow-painted bar and ambled behind the two girls towards the last available table, tucked into a discreet nook between a wall and the pub’s side door entrance.

  “All right, bitches, it’s selfie time.” Freddie scooted the tray of drinks across the distressed wooden table and plonked down on the banquette. He pulled out his phone, snapping a burst of photos cuddled together with the girls—drinks aloft, silly faces, and falling off Lucy’s lap.

  He shifted to a vinyl-padded chair on the vacant side of the table. Lucy pushed the banquette’s yellow, purple, and green throw pillows out of the way and pointed at the price of the cheeseburger on the menu, giving Freddie an incredulous stare across the table.

  “What?” Freddie shook his head. “I’m starving, and there’s nothing worse than a grumbling stomach during a quiet spell in a play.” He grabbed the menu from her hand. “And I know how expensive it is. I’ll curtail my alcohol consumption accordingly, so I won’t overspend, but thanks for the warning, Miss Moneypenny.”

  A budgeting lecture from Lucy was coming, so Freddie changed the subject. “So, Alex, I hear you have a Manchester connection? I love the place! Went to uni there.”

  “His ex lives there, too,” said Lucy.

  “He did. Not sure he still does.” Freddie looked back at Alex. “When are you visiting your dad?”

  “Don’t know. I want to be settled first. If I don’t have things clicking along, he’ll nag me about staying in London when I could live up there rent-free.” She fiddled with her necklace’s clasp, returning the A to its spot above the rounded neck of her blue and white-striped Breton top. “I don’t think he’s realized that I’m twenty-one, not twelve. And he worries about me. A lot. It’s actually quite sweet because Mom never does.”

  “I know what that feels like. My mum only worried about her empty rum bottle—the lush.” Lucy handed napkin-wrapped bundles of forks and knives to her friends. “So that’s where your worry wart genes come from.”

  “Yep. Blame Dad. I’d be lost without something to fret over.”

  A rushed server ducked through the crowd to place two hot plates on the table.

  “Feeding the greater London area tonight, Freddie? That thing’s massive.” Lucy chuckled at the mountainous burger.

&nb
sp; “Sod off! At least I can eat all of this and not put on a pound.” Freddie spun the plate around, finding the burger’s best side. He captured its magnificence on his phone.

  Lucy pouted and dipped her fries into a metal pot of ketchup. “You and your bloody metabolism. I’m so jealous. That said, if we’re still hungry after all this, let’s share the warm chocolate brownie with ice cream. I don’t care if I can’t button up my jeans tomorrow.”

  “Sometimes I order dessert as my meal if I don’t like anything on the menu,” said Alex. “And it has to be sinful and chocolatey. No fruit allowed—ever.”

  “But you’re downing vodka—and orange. You must like some fruit, then?” asked Freddie.

  “I like strawberries, bananas, orange juice. Love citrus scent. Can’t get enough. But eating the actual orange segments? That gross stringy white skin? Hurls-ville.”

  “Says the chick from bloody Florida.” Lucy elbowed her friend. “You freak!”

  Freddie clasped Alex’s hand across the table, prompting a smile to creep across her cheeks. “Pleeease, Lucy? Can we keep her? We can be freaks together.”

  When their laughter abated, Alex caught the last strains of Habits by Tove Lo over the pub’s sound system. A chill embraced her heart. She was back in Devin’s car—feeling loved, feeling content, holding his hand, singing along at the top of their lungs. She stared at her hands, empty in her lap. She had to let go—she knew that—but her heart still needed to catch up to her head. Devin played that damn song all the time, and even here, over 4,000 miles away, she couldn’t escape it or how it made her miss him.

  “…See, Lucy? You’re wrong. I don’t have a big gob.”

  A welcome distraction came with Freddie’s comical attempts to eat his monster burger. He raised the stack of beef, cheese, and tomato to his lips but couldn’t stretch his mouth wide enough. He fumbled with the cutlery cocooned within a tightly wrapped napkin and scowled. The pub’s playlist shuffled onto Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. His scowl grew into a snarl. “Nooo. I despise Gaga. Bring back what you were playing earlier …the Monkees, Taylor Swift…I’ve lost my appetite now.”