The girls laughed.
“Only if Chloe Grace Moretz portrays me. And Lucy gets Freema Agyeman.”
“Martha, playing me? She’d be great,” said Lucy.
“Perfect casting!” Alex clasped their hands. “Thanks for the fun birthday. It’s the best one I’ve had since…well, I can’t remember!”
“Think we’re done? Nope.” Freddie dug around in the left pocket of his blazer. “Just a little something I thought you’d like…” He handed Alex a tissue wrapped bundle about the size of a ten pence coin. She chipped at it with her short fingernails.
“Freddie’s bad gift wrapping strikes again. Too much tape. Let me have a go.” Lucy pulled it out of Alex’s hand and snagged a corner.
Alex tore at the hole in the tissue. A small round brown button with ‘Stage Door’ in white lettering emerged.
It found a new home on her bag. “It’s super cute. Thanks, Freddie.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m now officially part of your stage door/red carpet/comic con squad.”
“Wait. There’s more.” He pulled out a blind boxed Doctor Who Titan from his other pocket. “I didn’t wrap it in case the tape stuck to the box’s artwork.”
“Did you pick this one out specially, Freddie?” A crooked smile lit up Lucy’s face. “Prepare yourself, Alex. I fear you’re about to be plagued with…”
“…an Ood!” they announced simultaneously. They crumpled into each other, chuckling.
Freddie scoffed and pushed up his glasses with mock indignation.
Alex popped open the box and pulled apart the seal on its blue and silver foil packet.
“Freddie, I think you did good…yes, REALLY good.” She waved the three-inch plastic figure in the air. “It’s a fez-wearing Matt Smith.”
“Of course it is,” said Freddie, pouting.
Lucy doubled over with laughter, sloshing wine on the cement.
“Want to keep him? I didn’t spot this one at your flat.”
Freddie bit his lip. “Tempting, but…he’s all yours. Maybe this means our luck has changed. You’ll be the toast of the West End, Lucy wins a contract with Marvel, and I meet the man of my dreams.”
“Blind date go badly the other night?” asked Lucy.
“The less said about that, the better.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Not fair, Freds. You’re always nosey about my love life. Or lack thereof.”
“What’s wrong with everyone? You’re both great catches in my eyes,” said Alex. Talking about dates and partners, her mind swung around to a certain someone.
“Isn’t Mark working here now? Maybe we could go say hi?”
“He is, but we can’t,” said Freddie. “The workaholic’s shooting a TV advert in Wales.”
Lucy noticed Alex’s sigh, and pulled a flat square from a plastic bag. Wrapped in colourful London scenes, it looked like it might be a vinyl record. “And here’s my gift.”
The wrap clung together with only two small strips of tape. Alex opened it effortlessly.
Ben Whishaw’s eyes peeked out between shreds of paper. “It’s genius! Is it a colouring book?”
“I made it.” Lucy beamed. “The National’s bookshop sells colouring books for Hiddleston, Redmayne, and Cumberbatch, but not Whishy, so I made one.”
Freddie raised his glass to Lucy. “Putting those artistic skills to good use! Nice work, Hardy.”
“It looks so professional. Thanks so much!” Alex flipped through the pages. “Lucy, you should go back to art college. You could create your own graphic novels.”
“Maybe. One day. But for now, my creativity’s for your eyes only.”
“Before I forget…there’s one more card.” Freddie handed Alex a magenta envelope.
“More? You spoil me.”
Freddie rested his hand against his heart. “It’s not from me.”
“Moriarty gives birthday cards, too?” Alex chuckled. Her eyes swept over the celebratory sentiment, pausing to smile at the cute cat juggling cupcakes on the cover. She flipped the card open…
‘I was all set to jump out of your cake, but my agent (party pooper) called with a job. So I’m stuck in Wales with sheep by my side instead of you, and I’m cursing my dumb luck. How ’bout a rain check? Another Vespa adventure? London is yours—if you want it! Happy Birthday, Lex. Mark x’
Her lighthearted appreciation floated away on the warm breeze, lost along with her breath. She blinked several times. Yep, that ‘x’ wasn’t a mirage. She stroked her neck absent-mindedly as she poured over the handwritten message again…and again.
Mark’s words, committed in ink to paper, like a promise—unlike a text dashed off on a whim, only to be sent and instantly forgotten. Every looping vowel and crossed T offered a glimpse of his personality and sincerity.
Despite teasing from Lucy, Alex regularly sent handwritten cards for birthdays, Christmas, or just because. Having the tables turned—by Mark of all people—was a delicious surprise.
Life in London had been isolating and grim as of late, but this card and the efforts of her friends temporarily lifted the double-decker bus flattening her heart.
Leaning behind Alex, Freddie edged closer to Lucy and shielded his mouth with his hand. “Just look at her. I think our gifts have been overshadowed.”
Lucy elbowed him. “Can you blame her?”
Nineteen
That birthday glow began to fade, and within a month, Alex was in the shadows again. When an unexpected bus of famished tourists unloaded at Tasty Munch, bringing rushed orders for eight all-day breakfasts and six cheese omelets, a sneaky panic attack began to rise. If everyday stressors were triggering her attacks, how would she survive writing rejections or demanding theatre producers?
Negative fixations on unimportant things, such as the schizophrenic English weather and the mess left behind by her estranged flatmates, tested Lucy and Freddie’s patience. At least Alex still had her crush, but Mark’s birthday offer of another Vespa adventure had yet to materialize. They’d exchanged the odd text, but she never saw him. Alex didn’t dare ask Freddie about his whereabouts—girls probably bugged him all the time about his Irish mate with the killer smile—but one evening when Mark blew out plans to catch a film, Freddie joked that the only mistress in Mark’s life was his work. Well, since Freddie went there…Alex dived in, tossing Julia the Voicemail Girl back at him over her popcorn. Freddie’s floppy fringe shook defiantly; he denied that Julia was to blame—they only went out twice. He was adamant; it was Mark’s hectic whirlwind of auditions and bar shifts keeping him at arm’s length. It all conspired to quash Alex’s creativity. Her writing inspiration…gone on summer vacation with no forwarding address.
On the second Saturday in August, Lucy and Freddie dragged her to a London comic con in the hope that cosplayers, comics, and autograph sessions would revive her drowning spirit.
“Isn’t this brilliant? Your first British con. Look, it’s our tribe,” said Lucy, dressed in head-to-toe PVC as Storm from X-Men.
A child hidden in a Dalek costume wheeled by, accompanied by a tanned Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and a pair of tall Hobbits. “If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, I’m not sure what will.”
Alex frowned at the Sailor Moon cosplayers clustered nearby. “It’s kinda crap. This con can’t compete with the events back home. It doesn’t even have any major actors for autographs or photo shoots. The guy who played Ewok number six in Return of the Jedi? Hardly a must-see, is it?”
“Do you enjoy being a buzz kill? Seriously, Alex. You’d be more into it if you were cosplaying. Why didn’t you wear your Wonder Woman gear?”
Alex shrugged, her eyes flitting over her Batman tee and jeans.
“Not feeling any chirpier, then?” asked Lucy.
Alex flipped through a bunch of graphic novels on a vendor’s table. “I’ve been thinking about things a lot lately…it feels like the universe is telling me I’m not supposed to be here…in London.”
Lucy slammed a Watchmen graph
ic novel down on the table, the force of its reunion with the other volumes causing the whole display to shake and a skittish Pikachu cosplayer to scurry. “Oh, come on. I know you’ve been out of sorts since the fundraiser, but that’s no reason to second guess everything.”
“But if it was meant to be, wouldn’t it be easier?” Alex caught the crossed arms and cocked head of the vendor—dressed as Rorschach—and slinked away towards the Tower of T-shirts display. She tripped over the foot of a burly Angel wannabe and scowled at him.
“On my first day here, Tom mentioned how hard it is to break in. Take it from the failed actor. He knows how the industry chews people up and spits them out.”
“It’s not the industry at the heart of your current troubles, though, is it? It’s your psycho flatmate with a jealous streak. Don’t let that bitch piss on your bonfire,” said Freddie, dressed as a dapper eleventh Doctor with a red fez atop his rebellious hair.
“You’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. Nothing worth achieving is easy or quick,” said Lucy. “I think you told me that, smart arse. Yeah, wasn’t it some quote you wouldn’t shut up about online?”
“Probably, but…nothing’s worked out as I hoped. London’s been a clusterfuck from day one.” She pulled a half-eaten Dairy Milk bar from her bag. “Lost luggage, the box room, a deranged flatmate, writer’s block. And Harry. He’s a bit different on his own turf. I think he really believes all that class garbage. If I knew from the outset I was just his latest charity case, I wouldn’t have moved in.”
She snapped a piece off her chocolate bar. “Everything sucks.”
“Gee, thanks.” Lucy threw her hands up in the air. “What about us—me and Freddie? Are we Scotch mist?”
“I didn’t mean you guys.”
“I should hope not.” Lucy crammed a Supernatural top back into the t-shirt display.
Freddie draped his arm over Alex’s shoulder as they squeezed through the feeding frenzy at a popular collectables table. “I get it. You’re missing home. But I think that’s partly because you’re not feeling welcome in Hackney. It must be exhausting to work so hard to avoid spending time there—you’re practically part of the furniture at mine and Lucy’s after work. Not that you’re not welcome…”
Alex nodded. “But it’s not just that. If the theatre community here is as cliquey as it seems, I don’t think I’ll ever establish the right connections to be a success. Being American, the odds are even more stacked against me. I was supposed to fit in here, but I’m even more of an outsider than I was at home.”
She flicked a stray shard of chocolate from her tee and crumpled up the wrapper, shoving it into her back pocket.
Freddie squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe, but you’re not alone. We’re outsiders, too, in our own way.”
“Sounds like you’ve forgotten all the reasons why you left the U.S. in the first place.” Lucy raised her eyebrows and adjusted her white wig, peeling its damp strands from her forehead. “I thought you hated Tallahassee.”
“I do, but there’s always New York City or somewhere like that. At least I wouldn’t be circling the drain like I am here.”
“Circling? Well, at least you haven’t been sucked down,” said Lucy. “Stop being so negative. Bring back the balls-out Alex who knocked me flying at Pret. Where’d that girl go? The one determined to write her own happy ending. The one who made things happen instead of sitting around waiting for fate to do the hard work.”
“Yeah, where did she go? If you see her again, let me know.” Alex half-joked, picking up a Jon Snow figure.
“You’ve got to move out of that hell hole of a flat. I thought you guys were viewing some places this week?” Freddie lifted his arm away from Alex so he could study a Sherlock Pop! Vinyl figure up close.
“We did, the past two evenings after work. Put it this way, if that’s all I can afford, I’m moving under London Bridge. I’ll probably become known as the Shopping Trolley Lady—barking at tourists, feeding invisible pigeons…”
Lucy wiped perspiration off her forehead and upper lip; wearing PVC in August wasn’t her smartest idea. “I can put up with noisy neighbours or drafty windows—not a lot bothers me—but the three flats we visited were a horror film come to life.”
Freddie’s eyes widened.
“One flat had black mould growing on all the walls. The carpet actually squished when you stepped on it,” said Lucy.
Alex interjected. “And the drains reeked.”
“Another had cockroaches and no hot water after 6 p.m. In the third place, the landlord had fifteen women living in a basement flat. They shared one bath and the kitchen was just a mini bar fridge, and a hot plate.” Lucy crossed her arms. “It gave me the willies.”
Alex leaned into Freddie to allow a girl dressed as Harley Quinn to push through to the front of the table. The cosplayer’s oversized inflatable mallet skimmed Lucy’s head. “I tried, but anything better is too expensive,” Alex shrugged. “Even with flatmates, I can’t afford a half decent place on what I’ve saved, not to mention what I earn.”
“London sucks for affordable flats,” said Lucy.
“I’d suggest staying with me, but the doctor had a huge domestic with his girlfriend. He’s been sleeping on the sofa-bed most nights. He’s totally cramping my style. Moriarty hates him,” said Freddie.
“I know what you’re going to say, but…there’s always my loveseat,” said Lucy.
Alex frowned. “And a cramped neck…and a folkie sing-a-long at two in the morning…”
A swarm of Trekkies clad in red command uniforms overwhelmed the Star Trek Titans to Freddie’s left. He spun around to let a determined Worf join his Starfleet crew.
“What about asking your dad for financial help?” said Freddie. “Take a weekend trip to Manchester? If you need moral support, we can come along.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. He’s already on the hook for my student loans. And besides, asking him for help makes me feel like a failure.”
“Does he even know what you’re going through?” asked Lucy.
Alex shook her head again.
“What about a better paying gig?” Lucy pursed her lips at Harley Quinn’s poor mallet control. “Making egg and chips isn’t going to cover first and last month’s rent. Have you looked for something better paid?”
“No.” Alex ran the zipper up and down on her bag. “Outside of making chip butties and writing, avoiding Harry and Olivia has been my main job lately.”
A TARDIS sound reverberated within Freddie’s pocket. He looked at his phone and then tucked it away again. “Sorry. Just Mark. He says hi, by the way.”
Alex’s face lit up. “How’s he doing? How’s the job?”
“Four weeks in, so far so good. He says the people are fantastic; they’re cool with him getting time off for auditions—and he’s had plenty lately.” Freddie settled on a Moriarty figure, handing the vendor twenty pounds. “If you’re escaping the flat to write, why don’t you head to the National? You can type away to your heart’s content and talk to Mark about any jobs going there.”
Lucy scratched her wig. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because I’ve got the looks and the brains, darling,” said Freddie.
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and squeezed her way out of the crowd.
Alex followed Lucy out of the throng, losing her smile along the way. “But it’s so far to go each day…” Each syllable, each word, pushed her friends further away. Her heart hated that she was doing it, but her head screamed self-preservation.
Lucy yanked at the neckline of her PVC costume, desperate to cool down. “Well, if you keep nit-picking and making excuses, nothing will change, will it?”
Alex pouted and shuffled to the next table, alone.
After elbowing crowds all day at the con, Alex craved a quiet night with Paddington, a cup of tea, and a stockpile of Cabin Pressure BBC radio episodes. Benedict Cumberbatch’s hilarious Captain Martin Crieff always boosted he
r spirits. She dove her hand into a box of Lucky Charms, her dinner of choice when laziness took hold.
She finished listening to the final episode in series three and took a washroom break. The flat stood empty. Only the ticking of the carriage clock and the white noise from the fan in Tom’s room, slicing through the humid August air, kept her company.
When she stepped back into the hall, a tall, shady figure approached from the lounge. Alex’s heart leapt into her throat; the distinct scent of sweet raspberry and peonies…
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
Olivia strode into the hall, and stood arms crossed and legs splayed wide, blocking Alex’s path to her room. The brunette’s gauzy sundress sprinkled with daises contradicted her ‘I mean business’ demeanour.
Alex leaned against the wall, mirroring Olivia’s crossed arms. “I have nothing to say…”
“Well, that’s convenient because I have plenty to say. Guess who I bumped into at work yesterday?”
Alex shrugged.
“Isabella. We caught up over coffee, and as luck would have it, our conversation turned to you. She remembered you. Unfortunately, it’s for all the wrong reasons…no tangible ideas, crumbling under pressure…”
Alex released her arms and tugged at the bottom of her t-shirt. “Would you move, please? You’re in my way.”
Olivia chuckled, her bare feet remained planted. “Reputations are everything in the theatre community. They’re built on how you deliver—when you’re granted a golden opportunity to impress. We both know your reputation crashed and burned on the runway. It didn’t even make it into the air. That’s one of the many differences between you and me. I don’t let those chances to impress go to waste…”
Exhaling heavily, Alex shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Your little suffragette idea’s taking me to Isabella’s exclusive Mentorship Program this winter. Granted, the writing’s quite good, but do you want to know the main reason it got selected?” She placed a hand over her heart. “It made an impression because of the reputation of its author—Olivia Chadwick-Smythe. People know me. Everyone likes me—”
London Belongs to Me Page 17
