Her eyes popped. “Seriously? Tickets for Isabella’s play?”
Freddie beamed. “Am I good or what? See, I’m much more than just a pretty face and a pert arse.”
“Aw, thanks, Freddie. November 28 just can’t come soon enough. It’s all happening!” She flung her arms around his neck, knocking him backwards on the mattress.
“Actually, I can’t take credit. Blame Mark. He picked them up.”
“So all four of us can go!” Alex untangled her arms from his neck and shoulders. “I’ll have to text him to say thanks.”
“Mark’s been working on getting tickets for a while. The run sold out, so I think he practically traded a kidney in exchange for them.” Freddie ran his hand through his hair. “You were so low before the trip up north; we figured it might boost your spirits.”
“It has!” Alex wasn’t sure what thrilled her more—having tickets to Isabella’s play, or the fact that it was Mark who got them for her.
“Did you know, it was a month ago today that I moved out of Harry’s flat. I love it here, but my commute to work—ugh!” Alex mimed sticking her finger down her throat. She slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and walked down Henshaw Street.
“Welcome to London commuting hell.” Lucy stifled a yawn. “I guess rolling out of bed on Martello Street and showing up behind the café counter in a few minutes looks pretty good right now.”
Alex nibbled the edge of a barely toasted bagel. “I didn’t think my new commute would be almost an hour long. It’s double yours. Leaving our flat at seven thirty is killing me. It’s just another incentive to find a new job.”
They turned onto Balfour Street, barely dodging an older man and his hyperactive corgi storming out from the Victory Community Park. “I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into Olivia in your old ‘hood.” Lucy hopped back onto the sidewalk.
“Greasy spoons aren’t her style, darling,” joked Alex, kicking her biker boots through a heap of crunchy brown leaves. “But yeah, it’s just a matter of time.”
“Have you spoken to Harry?”
“Once, last week. He asked about the flat, my writing. It still felt weird, not being honest about what went on with Olivia. I mentioned taking my laptop over to the National to write. He got excited by that, so that’s all we talked about.”
Lucy yanked at her black pencil skirt underneath her trench coat. “Sod it! This thing keeps twisting with every step.”
“You look professional and pretty.” Alex sighed at her jeans, and red and blue t-shirt underneath her open jacket. “I’d gladly trade places with you. I can’t wear anything nice. It all gets covered in grease spatters and coffee stains.”
Lucy tugged at her waistband once more and gave up the battle. “Are you headed to the National after work?”
Alex looked ahead as they turned onto New Kent Road. A parade of five double-decker buses with steamed up windows chugged towards Elephant and Castle Tube station. “Yeah, but it’s a pain. From London Fields station, it takes forty minutes to get there.”
“Well, go somewhere else. You don’t have to travel all that way.”
“No, I like it there. I just wish it were closer. By the time I arrive and unpack my laptop, it’s already two o’clock.”
“You’re just going there to see Mark.” Lucy nudged her with her elbow. “Smitten kitten, gagging for a snog!”
Alex squinted. “I am not. I’m going there because it’s a quiet, inspiring place to write.”
“Think I was born yesterday? I’ve seen you stalk his Facebook page. So what did you drool over most? The shirtless vacation photos from Majorca? The shot of him giving his sister away at her wedding? No, I know! I bet you went all gooey over the picture of him riding his Vespa.” Lucy sang out of tune. “Memories…”
Alex suddenly became very interested in chipping nail polish off her thumb.
“All his posts are tags from friends, funny that…well, if you do go, ditch that ponytail. Your hair looks much prettier down,” said Lucy.
Alex squeezed her ponytail. “For your information, I’m making good progress on the play I started in June. The one about the women who built Waterloo Bridge.”
The Tube station loomed straight ahead. Both girls pulled Oyster cards from their bags.
“But you never talk about it. I think that means it’s not grabbing your heart like your suffragette play did. You used to blab on about that one all the bloody time.” Lucy looked at her friend. “There’s no passion with this new idea, I can tell.”
Alex waved her Oyster card above the ticket barrier’s yellow disk and slipped through its gates, waiting on the other side. “I am passionate about it. It’s still early days. But I’m also working on an outline for another idea in case the bridge story doesn’t pan out. The new one involves time travel.”
Lucy lifted her satchel through the barrier. “Ooh, Doctor Who influenced. Nice.”
They stepped onto the escalator headed downwards towards the Northern line. Lucy sneered at the posters sailing by, advertising the latest Halloween slasher flick.
“If Olivia’s theft taught me one thing, it’s that I should have more than one idea in the works,” said Alex. “It was naive to put all my eggs in one basket. Live and learn. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Alex arrived at the National Theatre just shy of two o’clock. Normally, she would have four and a half hours before theatregoers started to overwhelm the halls, but today being Wednesday, a matinee had just begun in the Olivier Theatre. The place would be still until the play’s interval in about an hour’s time.
The cavernous building boasted many quiet nooks and corners spread out over several floors. Today, Alex picked a ground floor table just to the right of the theatre’s bookshop. She released her hair from its high ponytail, her roots sighing with relief. A quick hair toss and make-up check in her compact’s mirror…
“She lives.”
Alex jumped, bobbling the compact. Mark stood in front of her, dressed in a blue t-shirt and black jeans, carrying a large box sagging with wine bottles. She followed the curve of his biceps, flexed hard under their weight. His brown eyes sparkled in the dim light. A car could have crashed through the lobby, and Alex wouldn’t have noticed.
“It’s been a while. I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.” He smiled warmly.
“Hello, stranger.”
“Hey!” Alex waved enthusiastically and then felt silly for doing so at such close range. The lost compact on the floor could wait. “It’s great to see you.” She shot up to hug him, but he half-laughed and juggled the heavy box to get a better grip. Awkward.
Alex sat back down, her cheeks getting warmer. “I’m usually writing on the second floor by the windows, but workmen are repairing the heating in the ceiling there. How are you?”
Mark nodded. “I’m good, yeah. I wasn’t scheduled to work today. A friend’s at an audition so I’m covering for her.”
Her? Jealousy pinched Alex’s stomach.
“My turn’s next week. I’ve got an audition for a TV series. Just a small part, but the director’s a favourite of mine.”
“That’s amazing!” Alex angled forward. If her smile stretched any further, it would need a French postcode. “I can’t wait to see you on TV!”
Mark tipped his head back and broke out into an eye-crinkling grin. “Thanks. We’ll see.”
“Text me, and let me know how it goes?”
Whoops. Too much? Alex dialed back her enthusiasm a notch. She felt like a popcorn kernel about to burst. What was it about Mark that made her so…giddy? She last felt like this three years ago when she fell for Devin.
“I will, but actually, I’m a bit of a Luddite with smartphones and social media. It took me an hour to figure out how to text you those photos.”
“The wait was worth it, though,” said Alex. “That shot of you balancing the Shard on your head? Classic.”
“Ha, yeah, well, my favourite was the one of you pull
ing Big Ben up from its point.”
“You’re wasted as an actor. You should work for the London Tourism Board.”
“If I don’t win a BAFTA soon, I’m making that switch.” He laughed. “Nah, who am I kidding? I’m a social media nightmare. I lasted on Twitter for a day. And why do people post photos of their meals?”
Alex snickered, but made a mental note to quit posting snaps of cake slices from Patisserie Valerie on Facebook and Instagram.
“I’m an old soul when it comes to techy stuff. I’d rather talk face to face, you know?”
“Yeah, nothing beats chatting face to face.” Alex slipped under the spell of his smile. “It’s more intimate.”
“Exactly. See, you get me.”
Alex blushed. “I do. And that’s why I must thank you again for the play tickets…no texting emoji can match this face-splitting grin. And all the trouble you went to…”
“No trouble at all. I knew how badly you wanted to go,” said Mark.
“I’ll see you there, right?”
“You will. It’s a date.”
“Can’t wait.” A date! Alex lost the ability to blink…and speak. Damn that wine box…her body vibrated with the urge to touch him.
Mark raised his eyebrows at her laptop. “Wow, that’s an oldie but a goodie. It’s almost as old as mine. How’s your writing coming?”
“It’s getting there. I’ve been devoting every spare moment to it.”
“I bet you’ve written some great stuff. I’d love to read it when you’re ready to share…”
“Maybe you could act it out? Well…as long as you don’t mind playing a woman.”
“I’m nothing if not open-minded. I did a production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show once. My legs look smashing in fishnets and heels.” He winked. “So, how’s work?”
“Okay. Though, I’m looking for something better paid or theatre-related. There’s not a lot out there.”
He repositioned the box in his arms. “I heard someone talking the other day about upcoming postings for backstage tour guides. Sounds like a cool gig. It also involves working in admin and at the stage door.”
Butterflies fluttered in Alex’s belly. “Really? That would be perfect.”
“Most of the jobs here require an online application, but I can put a good word in for you. It can’t hurt, right? A few of the higher-ups drop by the bar on Fridays after six, and if the jobs haven’t been posted yet, maybe you can get a jump on the queue.”
Alex bounced in her seat, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, God. That would be awesome. Thanks! I’d love to work here. I know it inside out.”
Mark laughed. “I heard. Freddie says you could teach the current guides a thing or two.”
“I doubt that…”
“It would be a great fit. No promises, but leave it with me.”
He nodded at a bartender who strode past. “That’s my supervisor. I should get back before the interval. Maybe the next time I see you, we’ll both be working here.”
Mark sauntered off towards the Long Bar and looked back over his shoulder. Alex didn’t peel her eyes away fast enough. He caught her gaze and unleashed a heart-stopping grin. She slid down in her chair and hid behind her hair.
Twenty-Five
One month later
“Did you know that some of the National Theatre’s props and costumes are available for hire?”
A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” slipped from the lips of Alex’s tour group of twelve theatre fans.
“With over 60,000 costumes in the theatre’s collection—all crafted in-house—your fancy dress dreams can become reality. If you’re looking for an enchanting Elizabethan gown or a knight in shining armor for a party or your Christmas celebrations next month, you’ve come to the right place. Why should the actors have all the fun?”
“Exactly,” said one excitable American visitor.
“And with a return to our starting point, this ends our backstage tour of the National Theatre. We hope you’ve enjoyed your afternoon with us. Thanks for coming, and we hope you’ll see one of our productions soon.”
The group enthusiastically applauded Alex for a job well done.
“I’d love to rent something for my themed wedding,” said a breathless bride-to-be as she handed Alex the fluorescent orange bib that all tour participants must wear. “Imagine dressing up in a gown worn on stage by Helen Mirren.”
“We’ll definitely look into it,” said her doting mother.
Alex grinned as they headed towards the bookshop. Mark was right. This job was a perfect fit. Her enthusiasm and extensive knowledge of the National made her popular with visitors and her bosses. She had only been handling tours for two weeks when she was pulled aside by her supervisor and praised for her professionalism and breezy presentation. Her favourite perk—besides helping at the stage door and interacting with the actors—was the free ticket to every production at the National. In order to provide insider commentary, tour guides had to be up-to-date on every play performed. Watching Britain’s best actors never felt like work.
It also didn’t hurt that with this job, she saw Mark more often, too. She spent more time with him on her breaks and after her shifts than she did writing on her laptop on the second floor.
She grabbed her peacock-blue wool coat from the cloakroom and skipped to Kitchen, the National’s café. Freddie munched on a half-destroyed piece of red velvet cake near the window, overlooking the South Bank terrace.
“Did you give away all the National Theatre’s deepest darkest secrets?”
“Every single one of them.” Alex sat down, adjusted her black pleated miniskirt, and let out a satisfied sigh. “You’ll never guess what happened this morning. I touched Benedict’s costume from Frankenstein. God, I love this job.”
“I filed countless dusty copies of ancient BBC scripts. I almost sneezed myself inside out. Look! My eyes are still bloodshot. Envious?”
“Not a smidge, sorry. But tell me…how was Moriarty’s appointment?” Alex looked at her phone. “It’s only twenty past five. I didn’t expect you here so soon.”
Freddie handed her a fork. “He’s fine. Turns out, his version of The Reichenbach Fall only resulted in a surface wound. Silly cat. I take a half day off, and it’s a false alarm.”
“Better to be safe than sorry, though.” Alex pulled her coat over her shoulders to kill the November chill creeping through the window.
“True. I would’ve bawled if it was serious.”
He shoved a large forkful into his mouth, mumbling through the cakey goodness. “But being stuck in the vet’s waiting room did have its benefits. Guess what I spotted on Twitter? A huge con combining Sherlock and Doctor Who in January.”
Alex gawped at him, dropping cake on the v-neck of her ruched purple blouse. “Seriously?”
“It looks pricey. Tickets go on sale next week, but I’m soooo going,” said Freddie. “I’ll deal with the financial punch to the face later. You’re in, right?”
“I hope so.” She swatted the cake crumbs from her boob. “The question is will my chequing account play along? I’m still waiting for my first payday.”
“Borrow off Lucy. Get her to crack her rainy day fund. If there ever was an emergency, this is it. You were excited touching Cumberbatch’s costume. How about touching HIM?”
“Cause of death: Benedict Cumberbatch.” Alex licked icing from her fork. “But actually, I’m more excited to meet Andrew Scott. They can’t leave out Moriarty, can they?”
Freddie’s fork flashed as he stabbed the last bit of cake. “He got swarmed at Sherlocked. They’d be fools not to include him. Maybe this time I’ll remember to show him a photo of my Moriarty.” He glanced upwards. “Speaking of Irish actors…”
Mark strode over to their table. “There you are.”
He nodded towards the foyer. “Lex, there’s a guy asking for you at the bar. He went to the box office first and had no joy, so he came to us.”
“Oooh, Lex! A myster
ious admirer,” said Freddie. “Hey, Keegs, does he have a telly in his belly and answer to Tinky-Wink—”
Alex kicked him under the table. “A guy?”
Mark looked blankly at Freddie and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him before. He’s American, has a shaved head?”
Alex rose from the chair and draped her coat over her arm. “Must be from my last tour.”
Mark laid his hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the café. Alex caught her breath. Mark’s hand. There. The hairs on her neck silently stood to attention, craving so much more.
“By the way, I meant to warn you about next week. Isabella’s play sounds totally off-kilter. We might have a ‘rollercoaster situation’, if you know what I mean. You’d better hold me tight—just in case.” Mark’s eyes wouldn’t leave Alex’s face. And his hand…now firmly planted on the curve of her waist.
“Not if I grab you first.” Alex devoured Mark’s gaze as his hand coaxed her closer. Her hip bumped his thigh, but neither pulled away. If only the American demanding her attention would vanish. She hated him already.
They approached the soft benches directly in front of the bookshop. A stocky guy dressed casually in beige cargo pants, a blue plaid shirt, and North Face windbreaker shot to his feet. A St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap dangled from the strap of a black backpack that rested on the seat.
The intoxicating smolder teasing Alex’s body abruptly fizzled.
Devin.
Mark didn’t clue in and reacted like nothing was wrong. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.” She swallowed, trying to wash away the lump in her throat. She didn’t want Mark to leave her on her own…with him.
Devin swooped in for a hug. Alex stepped back sharply, her jaw snapped tight.
Mark’s eyes narrowed. He slowed his pace towards the Long Bar and doubled back. “Lex, are you—?”
His supervisor intercepted his return, waving a list. “Mark, give me a hand with these cocktails for the Lyttleton reception…”
He half-listened to his boss, nodding while his eyes darted between Alex and Devin.
London Belongs to Me Page 21
