London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “Fancy a little London adventure? Ever ridden a Vespa?”

  Alex bounced up on her toes. “Really? I’d love to!”

  “It’s your lucky day then.” Mark handed the helmet to her. “Put this on. I’ve only the one, but I’d feel better if you wore it. Hop on and hold tight.”

  Alex eased a leg over the seat, her chest brushing against Mark’s back. Her open knees grazed the outside of his upper thighs. She inhaled, seduced by the light Burberry scent lingering on his neck. She held her breath and wrapped her arms around his waist. The muggy weather meant he wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a black button-down shirt paired with dark jeans. Her hands felt the outline of toned abs underneath the fabric—not too bulky or six-pack perfect—Mark was just right. She felt self-conscious, hugging him so closely…so intimately.

  “Don’t be shy,” said Mark, reading her mind. “Hold tighter. I can’t risk losing you, can I?”

  Mark took advantage of the chance to give his new Anglophile friend a proper taste of London. He zoomed through Hackney and Cambridge Heath towards Whitechapel. He pointed out the pubs where Jack the Ripper was rumoured to have stalked his victims and then sped off towards central London.

  Pressed against Mark’s back, Alex was deliriously giddy. She couldn’t blame the sights whizzing past her. Mark’s intoxicating scent, and the heat of his body underneath her arms, her chest, her cheek…such a heady cocktail. She worried about hyperventilating—so unattractive!—but Mark’s gentle words, wafting over his shoulder at every red light, checking to see if she was okay, calmed her runaway imagination. He was so much more than just a pretty face.

  They stopped for an ice cream outside the Tower of London, stumbled across St. Bart’s Hospital—scene of Cumberbatch’s famous ‘Reichenbach fall’ in Sherlock—and got sore necks gazing up at the heavens inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  “You’ve got to see the old narrow streets across from St. Paul’s.” Mark hopped back on the Vespa. “Bow Lane, just off Watling Street…you’ll feel like you’re in a Dickens novel…well, apart from the hairdressers and take-aways.”

  “How do you know all these cool hidden streets?”

  “Perks of being an actor, I guess. My cast mates dragged me to the Ye Olde Watling pub after our one-off performance at the Bridewell Theatre.”

  “A closing night party…for a one-off? That’s hardcore.” Alex stretched a leg over the Vespa’s seat and lifted the helmet above her head.

  “Welcome to London, kid. Any excuse to end up in a pub,” said Mark with a laugh.

  The Vespa dodged double-decker buses, honking taxis, and tourists stepping blindly into traffic. Trafalgar Square, guarded by its pride of four bronze lions, begged for a photo op. Who was Mark to decline? He snapped several selfies with Alex, the two of them huddled between a lion’s mammoth paws.

  They zipped through the majestic Admiralty Arch, down The Mall with its Union Jack flags waving in the breeze, and around the sweeping roundabout in front of Buckingham Palace. At Alex’s insistence, Mark parked and let her treat him to a thank you lunch from a refreshment kiosk in St. James’s Park. They lazed in two of the park’s famous green and white striped deck chairs, soaking up the unrelenting sunshine while ducks bobbed and swans honked in the nearby pond.

  “You’re a bad influence, Mark Keegan. I should be hunched over my laptop, surrounded by coffee-sipping hipsters, not eating cheese sandwiches in the park.”

  “You were surprisingly easy to corrupt. I like that in a woman,” said Mark, raising a cheeky eyebrow and stealing her sunglasses to try on.

  Warmth flooded Alex’s cheeks. She refreshed her parched mouth with a sip of cola. “Don’t let this innocent face fool you. Maybe it’s the other way around…I’m corrupting you.”

  “Really now?” His brown eyes popped over the rims of her sunglasses. “Hmm. Well, I did have a monologue to learn this afternoon, but I couldn’t disappoint you. Your eyes! When you sussed my Vespa, they lit up brighter than Blackpool Illuminations. I had to snatch you away.”

  “Perceptive! Yep, you got me—guilty as charged. I’m using you for your wheels. I love scooters. Can’t get enough of Quadrophenia.”

  Mark gasped with a smirk. “You only want me for my Vespa? Shame, that.” He took a swig of his lemonade. “But if we’re being honest, full disclosure…I only like you for your American accent…”

  “I thought Europeans hated Americans?”

  “Not this one.” He shook his head and handed back her shades. “I’d love to visit one day. What’s Florida like?”

  “Warm, sunny, and crammed with tourists.”

  “Kinda like London is now.” Mark squinted into the cloudless blue sky. “Do you miss it?”

  “I don’t, well, at least not yet. Still feels like a holiday.” She raked her hand through the thick grass. “Do you miss Ireland?”

  “I do, yeah, sometimes. Late at night when I’m alone, or when it rains. I miss the smell of rainy days in Dublin. And I miss my family. When my older sister got married last year, she moved to Wales, so our mum’s on her own. I get back as often as I can.”

  Alex smiled softly. “I bet Dublin’s beautiful.”

  “It’s lovely, yeah. St. Stephen’s Green—the park in the city centre—that’s my favourite. I could people watch there all day, great for an actor…well, for anyone, really. Maybe one day I’ll show you around.”

  She leaned forward, nodding like one of those bobbing dogs in the back of a car. “And I’ll take you to Disney World in Orlando…”

  A few steps away, a toddler dropped his ice cream in the grass. He slipped, landing with a thud…a face-plant in the gooey pink mess. He wailed on contact, all distraught milky strawberry tears. His impatient parents snatched his sticky hand, dragging him away. A rambling Jack Russell caught wind of the sweet scent and followed in hot pursuit.

  Mark and Alex looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “…Just don’t make me go on the rollercoasters,” said Alex. “I hate them.”

  “How can you hate rollercoasters?” said Mark. “They’re thrilling, fast, a great excuse to scream like a girl…”

  “Like a girl?”

  “Shit. Now you know my secret.”

  Alex giggled. “Well, if that’s the case, I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t offer to ride with you…and maybe—maybe—I’ll let you hold my hand for safety.”

  “Deal,” said Mark with a wide grin.

  Bruno Mars began to warble from Mark’s deck chair. Alex put on her sunglasses while Mark stretched, fishing his hand into his front jeans pocket. A scowl greeted the phone screen. He jabbed the glass, sending the call to voicemail. “I lost all track of time. It’s just gone four, so I really should head back. Sorry to break up our adventure. It’s been ace.”

  Alex’s heart dipped. If only they could steal another hour or two. She twisted strands of hair around her finger. “You’re a wicked tour guide, Mark. Thank you. I’ve loved every minute.”

  “Oh, before I forget…our photos are on here. How ’bout you type in your number so I can text them to you?” He slid his phone into her palm.

  It was still warm from his thigh. Alex bit her lip.

  And the screensaver? A photo of a muddy soccer team. “I didn’t know you were a soccer—sorry, football fan. What team’s this?”

  “Mine. Well, my old one back in Ireland. I lived on the pitch. But as a jobbing actor, I can’t show up at auditions on crutches, or with a concussion. Sometimes you have to move on, you know?”

  Alex sighed. “So true.”

  She saved her digits as Bruno sang again, an incoming call from a ‘Julia’. Alex handed his phone back, but Mark ignored the caller.

  “My family, the Manchester side, is football mad. My dad even named me after Sir Alex Ferguson, much to my mom’s annoyance.”

  Mark threw his head back, laughing. “That’s fucking brilliant! Your dad’s a legend. I’m a lifelong Red, too.”

  They both sto
od up, shaking off sandwich crumbs and the laziness of the afternoon.

  “Can I give you a lift home?”

  Alex swallowed the ‘yes’ that threatened to escape from her lips. She couldn’t take advantage of his kindness. “It’s kinda far, isn’t it? I don’t want to make you late.” She threw their trash into a bin. “I can find my way back. Part two of my adventure.”

  “At least let me drop you somewhere. St. James’s Park station is close by.” He checked an app on his phone. “The Circle line will take you to Liverpool Road and the Overground to London Fields. Can’t have you wandering about…God knows who else you’ll corrupt.”

  Forty minutes later, Alex floated through the door of her flat. Fueled by Mark’s impromptu London tour and with two hours remaining before meeting Lucy and Freddie, she felt inspired to write, her latest brainwave based on a conversation she overheard in the café two days earlier. Three hard-hat toting workers, ploughing through their Full English Breakfasts, were discussing Waterloo Bridge and how women were largely responsible for its construction. The topic sounded too good to ignore and possibly too good to be true, but a quick Google search on her phone while frying eggs came up trumps—it was true!

  Since her discovery on Wednesday, her fingers had flown over her keyboard, doing research and outlining the facts for a potential play. And the timing couldn’t have been better. Earlier in the week, she smacked into a brick wall with suffragette edits. Alex always found that the best way to climb out of writer’s block was to put the troublesome piece aside and start something fresh. The Waterloo Bridge idea—so cool, so London—was the perfect diversion.

  But first, she had to contend with a jagged stack of books threatening to keel over. Some of the largest books in the tower, originally at its base, now leaned precariously from the summit. Every time the cleaner visited, she knocked something over. Bless her. The fact that she even tried to clean Alex’s box room was a huge ask. There was barely any floor space to vacuum and yet she made the effort. The kind lady had tried to rebuild the stack, but it was one nudge away from bludgeoning Paddington. Alex had ignored it yesterday when she got home, in such a hurry to write, but the breeziness of today made her take the time to fix it, and return her con photo with Matt Smith to the top.

  A few minutes later, Olivia and Tom burst into the flat, fracturing Alex’s quiet refuge. Olivia’s young playwrights fundraiser was tonight, and she barked commands at her older brother. Alex couldn’t tell through her closed bedroom door if Tom had screwed up or whether Olivia was just super-stressed about the weighty responsibility. They thumped and squabbled around the flat and…vanished. Welcome silence settled in their wake.

  Alex ventured into the stuffy kitchen and filled the kettle. Discarded clipboards, revised guest lists, and torn up name cards were left behind by the Chadwick-Smythe whirlwind. Did they ever pick up after themselves?

  A few minutes later, a key clicked in the lock.

  “Honey, I’m home,” joked Harry, as he strode through the door.

  “Your honey’s gone out with Tom,” Alex hollered from the kitchen, unplugging the kettle.

  “Ahh, I thought I might miss her.” He walked in and rested four large bouquets of white and pink lilies on the counter. Alex’s jaw dropped. Did he knock over a florist?

  “The Piccadilly line was murder. There was a power outage for a while, and it backed up all the trains.”

  He reached into a cupboard above the stove and removed two large vases. Alex whirled a spoon round and round in her tea, the three lumpy teaspoons of sugar hesitant to dissolve. She watched Harry fight with the crinkly cellophane wrap cradling the blooms.

  “Olivia will be pleased with these when she comes home tonight,” he smiled. A final pull released the elegant flowers from their plastic prison. The burst of fragrance prickled Alex’s nose.

  “Ah—choo!…ah-choo!…ah-choo!”

  “You done yet?” Harry laughed, filling the vases with cool water and then dunking the stems. Eyes watering, Alex pushed open the kitchen window; the influx of fresh air calming her sneezing fit. Several houseflies took advantage of the open window and sailed inside on the June breeze.

  “What’s wrong with you Brits? Haven’t you heard of window screens?” Alex swatted the air, urging the bugs to leave while submerging her nose in a tissue. “Those flowers are epic. What’s the occasion, or are you in the doghouse?”

  “Nope. These are ‘congratulations on a brilliant event’ flowers. You see, I’m officially a great boyfriend. Now, time to clean myself up and get going.”

  Looking at Alex, he did a double take. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  Alex glanced down at her comfy combo of jeans and Batman t-shirt, and scrunched up her face. “Like this? Why? What’s wrong with it?” She slouched against the counter.

  Harry shot her an expectant look. “Aren’t you going to the fundraiser tonight? You’re young. You’re a new playwright. This party’s made for you.”

  “Well you see, Harry, there’s this thing called an invite—and I don’t have one. It’s no big deal; I’m not bothered. Besides, I have plans with Lucy and Freddie.”

  “No, you don’t. Call your friends and tell them you’ll meet them later tonight.” He plucked the mug out of her hand and chucked its contents into the sink.

  “Harry, wait—” Alex hated surprises, especially surprises involving dressing up at the last minute, big crowds, and—worst of all—schmoozing with strangers.

  He gently pushed her towards her room, continuing his hard sell. “Olivia’s had a lot on her plate; your invite must’ve slipped her mind, but we’ll fix that.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to fix it…”

  Harry wasn’t taking no for an answer. He kept nudging her until they reached her wardrobe.

  “This event’s a huge deal. Trust me, you need to be there. All the movers and shakers will be in attendance, and it’ll give you the perfect opportunity to toss your name into the playwriting ring. You want these people to remember you.”

  “But…I’ve never been to a fundraiser…thing,” said Alex with a pinched expression. “What would I even wear?” She rubbed her eyebrow, searching for a pressure point. “God, I hate wearing heels…”

  “A dress would be perfect.” He browsed through the clothes hanging up in her wardrobe. “It doesn’t have to be expensive, but choose something summery. This weather’s glorious, and let’s face it, you should be spending tonight outdoors with us, not shut away in a pub.”

  Thirteen

  “Thanks, darling.” Harry winked at the hostess with the guest list as he and Alex sailed through the front door of Bridgewater House. Alex craned her neck, gawking at the ornate glass domed ceiling of the Great Saloon and the huge murals adorning a far wall. This place was no ordinary London address. The Victorian mansion overlooked Green Park and shared its posh neighbourhood with several royal residences, including St. James’s Palace and Clarence House.

  “I knew you were good at this stuff, but I didn’t realize how good,” said Alex in a hushed tone, her eyes washing over his Richard James pale blue linen suit. “Should I call you Prince Harry from now on?”

  Harry chuckled and got down to business. “Look, here’s the one rule you need to know for tonight. Have your elevator pitch ready. There are all sorts of producers, directors, and theatre money here.”

  Alex gulped and wrapped the delicate chain of her clutch around her finger.

  “Don’t worry, Alex. Just be your charming American self. They’ll love you.”

  The wide cement patio and lush green garden of the imposing building reverberated with laughter, conversation, and plenty of clinking glasses. Harry whisked two champagne flutes off a passing silver tray and handed one to Alex. She took a large sip, keen to quench her thirst while gaining some much needed courage. The bubbles tickled her nose and throat. A Coke or mixed drink was more her style, but she didn’t want to leave Harry’s side to search for the bar.

  Sh
e stuffed her clutch under her arm and adjusted the gaping v-neck of her light blue and purple dress. At least if she fell out of it, no one would notice—the only advantage of small boobs. Harry picked up on her fidgeting. “Don’t fret. You look lovely.”

  His kind words coaxed Alex’s pale pink lips into a smile, but her outfit was in a lower league than everyone else’s. The other women in attendance looked immaculate. Not all wore designer threads—far from it—but the many who did lived on another planet as far as Alex was concerned. Stilettos were a popular choice, despite the garden party theme.

  She glanced down at her own feet clad in simple black flats. “Don’t these women realize they’re going to sink into the grass wearing heels?”

  “I think that’s the least of their worries. They’re here to be seen. Fashionable, rich, and a supporter of the arts—that’s their M.O.”

  Harry squinted through the crowd, somewhat agitated, as if late for a meeting. “Most won’t leave the safety of the patio. That way they’re closer to the booze and their Jimmy Choos can live to see another party.”

  “I’m surprised you know what Jimmy Choos are,” said Alex.

  “You can’t date a woman like Olivia and be in the dark about such things.”

  A muffled ping escaped from Alex’s clutch, then another …and another.

  “Is that yours?” asked Harry, watching the door.

  She snapped open her bag. Like an attack of hiccups, her phone interrupted every few seconds.

  “Sorry. Can you…” She handed her champagne to Harry. “Thanks. Must be spam. I’ll mute it.”

  She caught a photo of Mark dodging fountains at Somerset House. Then one of herself hugging the ice cream van outside The Tower—each text message, a different shot taken by Mark: Alex pointing at The Monument, Mark lying on the ground where Sherlock fell at St. Bart’s, Alex in front of the gates of Buckingham Palace…The final text included a message:

  ‘Alex, a few mementos from our London adventure. Shame I didn’t capture that toddler face-planting into his ice cream! I hope you had as much fun as I did. London is definitely better with you in it! See you soon, Mark’