Come Friday, Alex wobbled into work. Despite the dark circles and ghostly pallor, she donned her black pinstriped trousers, slim-fitting pink sweater, and flats, and acted the part of a happy, confident tour guide. Chatting with visitors boosted her spirits and by the end of her final tour at quarter to six, a slight smile warmed her cheeks.
Coat and phone in hand, she walked along the lip of the bookstore’s entrance, keeping her distance from the Long Bar. A girlish howl filled her ears, coaxing her eyes where they didn’t want to linger. There was Naomi, head thrown back, laughing and dusting something off Mark’s chest. Fuck. Alex’s delicate stomach deflated like a punctured Yorkshire pudding. Rubbing it in, a familiar chorus of Snow Patrol’s You Could Be Happy taunted her from the bookstore’s speakers. Great—one of Mark’s favourites. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.
A buzz tickled her hand, halting her getaway.
‘I see you! Got time for a brew? Harry x’
She scanned the foyer. There he was in a three-piece black suit, striding towards her from the main entrance. Any chance of escape, gone. His face lit up with a huge grin, and his eyes shone bright like a sunny afternoon.
“Hello.” Harry pointed at the National Theatre security pass dangling from Alex’s neck, and pulled her into a tight clinch. “Alexandra Sinclair, are you working in an actual theatre? I knew it would be just a matter of time.”
“I’m a backstage tour guide. I’m moving on up.”
“I’d say. Do you sleep here? I can’t see you ever leaving this place. It’s your church.”
Alex smiled.
“What’s with the visit? This isn’t your ‘hood.”
“We’re seeing the play in the Lyttleton tonight. I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d wander around the South Bank. Actually, that’s not true. I needed a wee, so I came in here.”
Alex chuckled.
“Olivia won’t be here for at least an hour, and Tom—God knows when he’ll show up. Fancy a tea or a slice of cake or something? We need to catch up.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Sure…I’m done for today.” She threw one more look towards the Long Bar and herded Harry into Kitchen.
“So, what’s new? How’s the flat? You and Lucy aren’t killing each other, I hope.”
“Very funny. No, we’re perfect housemates. We’ve worked out a pretty good system. I clean. She cooks. Everyone’s happy. And then Freddie comes over and messes the place up and eats our food.”
“And how’s your writing going?” They circled around the centre table piled high with wooden slabs covered in cakes, cookies, and squares built from chocolate and marshmallow.
“Good. I’ve almost finished first drafts of two plays. I went all anti-social to really focus. I’m pleased with my progress, though. Two months ago, I only had a few scenes completed, but they’re finally coming together.”
“I’m not surprised. I blame our small room for all your writing problems. I don’t know how anyone could be creative stuck in that cave. I’m still sorry about that—I should’ve taken Tom to task about it.”
“Don’t be,” said Alex. “You gave me a place to crash. That’s all that matters.” The old ease of chatting with Harry flooded over her. She missed it.
“Olivia’s been writing up a storm, too. Remember her suffragette play? She’s workshopping it with Isabella. They’re raving about how good it is. Olivia mentioned a potential slot in some new writers’ showcase at the Old Vic. I pressed her for more info, but you know Livvy…she plays her cards close to her chest. She’s loving the program, though…I’m sorry that you couldn’t be there, too.”
Alex bit her tongue, thankful that Harry’s attention was on the baked goods and not her face. “Sometimes it’s not meant to be.”
“Oh, your time will come. You’re much too good to be ignored.”
That’s the old Harry she knew and loved—supportive, caring, like a big brother. Maybe she could ramp up the nerve to tell him about the suffragette play after all.
Harry chose a slice of banana bread. Alex plucked a container of strawberries from the cooler.
“What? No cake? No cookies? You feeling all right?” He playfully felt Alex’s forehead.
“It’s been a rough week. I’m trying to eat healthier. Baby steps.”
“I’m impressed. Little Alex, you move out of my place and become all grown up.”
“You sound like a parent.”
“Got to get my practice in somehow.”
“What?” Alex grabbed his arm. She swallowed and did a double take. She wanted to say ‘Harry, did that bitch trap you?’ but instead whispered, “Olivia’s pregnant?”
Harry laughed. “No! Well, not that I know of.” He handed a twenty-pound note to the cashier to cover both of their snacks. “And a tea, please. Alex, want one?”
“Sure. Thanks. Three sugars.”
He nodded at the cashier and placed their two teas on his tray. “But I do have news. Come sit.”
They walked out of the café and past the bookshop, Harry choosing a small table hugged by two white scoop-back chairs, its vantage point offering a sweeping view of the National’s lobby—and the Long Bar.
Alex’s heart pounded in time to the fast circles she made with her spoon in the teacup.
“I’ve asked Olivia to marry me…” Harry beamed.
Alex halted her frenzied stirring, sending a hot jet of tea onto the table. Not the announcement she expected. Record booze sales at Bespoke, opening another club, even buying a larger flat…anything but a baby…or this.
“…and she accepted.” Harry’s eyes yearned for a reaction.
Alex dug deep, mining her theatre training to paint a convincing smile on her face. “Of course she did. Congratulations, Harry. You look thrilled.” She blotted up the spill with a tissue.
“I was fit to burst.” Harry leaned in. “The proposal came off even better than I imagined. I took her to Paris under the pretense of sourcing a new French wine supplier. I’d be in meetings all day, and she’d exercise her credit cards on Avenue Montaigne. She completely fell for it. Any chance for a designer shopping spree, right?”
Alex nodded. She’d never been on a designer shopping spree in her life.
“I booked the penthouse at the Hotel George V. It has this incredible 360-degree view of the skyline and a private terrace overlooking the Eiffel Tower.”
“Are you sure you weren’t a wedding planner in a previous life? Wow.” Alex sipped her tea, unsure what more she could say.
He chuckled. “I arranged for fresh white lilies and roses, and candles to fill the space, and hired a string quartet. Perfect for the future Mrs. Manville. Olivia was speechless when she came back that evening.” His eyes sparkled with joy and maybe a few tears.
“I thought the opening of Bespoke would be my proudest, most memorable moment this year, but this trumps it. She’s made me the happiest guy on earth.”
“Oh, Harry…”
His words kicked Alex repeatedly. In the glow of his euphoria, she couldn’t be honest about Olivia. Not now. His princess bride had slammed that door shut. Why did she listen to Lucy in June? Now it was too late. She’d never knowingly hurt Harry, and on the heels of his gushy engagement story, that’s exactly what she would do if she shared her secret.
“Of course, she wants the extravagant gown, historic church, all the wedding trimmings fit for royalty.” He popped a piece of banana bread into his mouth. “And knowing her mother, it’ll top all the society pages. I think they’ve already spoken to an editor at Hello!, can you believe it?” He chuckled.
Alex didn’t just believe it; she expected it. She nodded with polite approval behind her cup.
“If Olivia gets here soon, you’ll see her ring. I think everyone in London has seen it by now.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Actually, let me text her and see how long she’ll be…”
Alex nearly choked on a strawberry. “No! Please don’t.”
Harry blinked rapidly.
Her eyes watered. A few breaths helped her regain control. “Please don’t disturb her. She’s probably still at work. I’m sure I’ll see it soon.”
“It’s a beauty. You’ll be proud of me.” His hand retreated from his pocket, empty. “But enough about my love life. What’s new with you? Put a spell on any English blokes yet?”
She inhaled deeply and peered over to the Long Bar where Naomi served a customer. Alex shook her head and stabbed another strawberry. “No, but Devin showed up unannounced.”
“Seriously?” Harry blurted out amidst a mouthful of food. “The cheeky bastard.”
“He’s travelling around Europe and dropped in to apologize.”
“I hope you told him where he can stick it.”
Alex nodded between bites.
“Did you get, you know…anxious?”
“I was on the cusp, but I held it in. Just. I think I was more angry than freaked out. Afterwards, I completely lost my mind on Jack and Coke. Not my finest twenty-four hours.”
“But justified, I’m sure. I’m proud of you, though, keeping it mostly together.” He pulled her sideways into a hug.
She plunged into the embrace and glanced towards the Long Bar, this time locking eyes with Mark. Damn pink sweater—like a lighthouse on a dark night, it made her easy to spot. His pinched expression shifted to Harry, then back to Alex; it hurt like a knuckle-punch to a bruise.
“You could’ve called me afterwards.” Harry released his grip. “We might not live under the same roof anymore, but I’m still here for you. I mean it.”
“Same here.” Alex bit into another strawberry, but instead of sweetness, it oozed sourness. Why did he have to show up and be so honest, kind, and supportive again? Their friendship had never been tainted by secrets and lies, but now it was—and she was the guilty party.
“And look who it is…” Harry looked past her and shot to his feet. Alex froze, her tummy capsizing from his wave of excitement.
Tom strolled into view, his typical disheveled yet chic self. “Hiya, mate…and Alex? My God, Miss America.” Tom gave Harry a slap on the back.
Alex let out a staggered breath. No false fawning over engagement rings—yet.
“Gimme a hug, gorgeous. It’s been too long.” Tom yanked her from the chair, and planted a kiss on each cheek.
She squished into his navy wool coat. “Hey, Tom.”
“I’m gagging for a drink. Want one?”
“Well, I…” She scrambled for an excuse.
“You can choose at the bar. C’mon.” He threw a lanky arm around her shoulders.
She could see Naomi and Mark serving a cluster of customers. “Actually, Tom. I’d love to, but I’m working at the market research firm this evening. I should probably get a move on.”
Alex hadn’t worked there in over a month.
“Another time?” She shrugged her arms through her coat’s sleeves.
He smiled, untying his black and navy checked scarf. “I’ll hold you to it, darling.”
“I still need that wee.” Harry shimmied past Alex’s empty chair. “Tom, grab me a pint. I’ll meet you there.”
He squeezed Alex. “I’m so glad I bumped into you. Let’s not leave it so long, okay? And thanks for listening to all my soppy engagement talk. What am I like?”
Tucked into his hug, Alex frowned into her arm. “You’re the happiest man on earth.” She pulled away with a smile and shuffled towards the exit.
Twenty-Nine
Alex and Lucy hustled along Upper Street towards the Almeida Theatre. Both wearing black dresses and tights underneath their winter coats, they bundled together for warmth in the nippy late November wind.
“I was worried earlier in the week when you were puking every five minutes,” said Lucy. “The play’s completely sold out, so you would’ve missed it if you were still poorly.”
“I would’ve crawled here on my hands and knees.” Alex pulled her wool coat tighter. The thought of talking to Mark for the first time in five days made her shiver more than the persistent gales. The more she thought about it, the more it became clear that avoiding him this past week was juvenile and cowardly.
Pushing through the Almeida’s glass doors, Lucy spotted Freddie to her right, leaning over the box office counter.
“Made it with lots of time to spare.” Lucy launched herself onto him. Alex smoothed her unruly hair.
“Hello, my darlings. Gorgeous as always. I’m glad you made it.” He twirled to receive Lucy’s hug. “Shame the same can’t be said for Keegs.”
Lucy pouted, looking at Alex. “He’s not coming?”
Freddie shook his head. “I just spoke to the box office manager. They’ll take his ticket as a return and sell it. They’ve got a waiting list on the go since tonight’s sold out.”
Alex blinked rapidly, her mind a million miles away. She removed the tickets from her wallet, handing the fourth one to Freddie.
“I got his text just before you walked in. His boss called him into work. It’s great he’s making lots of cash, but their scheduling is seriously taking the piss and interfering with our social calendar. It’s rubbish.” Freddie tilted back towards the box office counter and surrendered the unused ticket.
“Mark must be pissed off,” said Lucy.
Alex’s eyebrows peaked. “Why?”
“Freddie said he really wanted to see this play. Wild horses couldn’t have kept him away.”
Alex swallowed and scanned the small rectangular-shaped lobby. Mark belonged to someone else, but that didn’t excuse her behaviour this past week. Did her presence tonight make him feel so unwelcome that he couldn’t bear to join them?
Maybe wild horses couldn’t keep Mark away, but it seemed she could.
All two hours and fifteen minutes of Isabella Archer’s play proved disturbing and unforgettable. It’s dark, supernatural theme fitted perfectly with the season’s dwindling daylight and London’s chilly descent into the grip of winter.
Alex, Freddie, and Lucy stretched their legs in the minimalist white lobby, watching parched theatre fans pound back drinks at the Almeida’s bar. The stage door, located just to the left of the box office, and down a few steps, flew open now and again to allow actors and production staff access to the lobby.
“Well, that was a bit weird,” said Lucy in a hushed tone, leaning on the shuttered box office counter. “I know she’s your idol, Alex, but she does come up with some nightmarish crap. I may have developed some new superstitions after watching that freak show, so be warned.”
Alex shrugged. “I loved it. The thing she did in the script with the ghost and the farmer? I think it was a nod to Banquo’s Ghost in Macbeth. It’s unlike anything she’s written before. It was so innovative. Must’ve been so challenging for the actors.”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“It was bonkers. But in a good way,” said Freddie. “Mark’s gonna be pissed when he hears about the complex performances. He loves those meaty roles. Maybe I’ll lie and tell him it was rubbish.”
Alex stared down at her shoes.
“That’s what I’ll tell him. No lies necessary,” said Lucy.
Freddie jabbed her with his elbow. “Shut it, we’ve got company.”
Isabella, cloaked in a knee-length black and white houndstooth coat, walked up the few steps from the stage door into the lobby. Most of the remaining theatregoers didn’t recognize her, but Freddie, Lucy, and Alex snapped to attention.
The playwright strolled to the bar where she greeted a cluster of people, friends most likely, with hugs and kisses.
Alex looked for an escape route, her lungs begging for air. “Shit! You guys…” She hid behind Lucy.
“I know. I know. But you have to say hi,” said Lucy, over a shoulder.
“I can’t. Can we go now?” Alex tightened her coat’s belt.
Freddie fluffed up his hair. “I’ll do it.” He strode towards the bar, and pretended to mull over the cocktail menu, waiting for a break in Isabella’
s conversation before pouncing.
“Excuse me, Isabella?”
She turned, surprised that someone recognized her. “Yes?”
“Hi. My friends and I saw your play this evening. We loved it. Would you be so kind as to sign our programs?”
“Absolutely, what’s your name?”
She took Freddie’s pen and program and began signing. Alex was still impersonating a statue—albeit a quivering one—so Lucy tugged her along.
“Isabella, meet my friends Lucy and Alex. Alex is a playwright, too.”
Alex’s heart threatened to run away. Why did Freddie have to mention the P word? It was like painting a target on her forehead.
“Lovely to meet you both.” Isabella stopped mid-signature on Lucy’s program and gave Alex a double take. “Actually…you look familiar. Have we met before?”
Alex gulped. Time to ‘fess up. “Uh, yes…briefly. In late spring?”
Isabella took Alex’s program from her sweaty hands and began signing the cover. “Well, it’s great to see you again and thanks for coming. I’m flattered you hung back to say hello. I’m not here for most performances, so it’s a treat to meet theatre lovers afterwards.”
Alex quietly exhaled. All that worry…for what? Isabella didn’t remember her. Sure, her face seemed familiar, but that was it. All that nonsense from Olivia about bumping into Isabella at work and her remembering the horrific meltdown at the fundraiser? Total fiction. Her mind clicked into gear with question after question; it was like a starter pistol had gone off, and she was first out of the blocks.
“Isabella, I’m working on two plays at the moment. What advice would you offer to someone like me who’s starting out and has zero connections?”
Lucy and Freddie exchanged glances.
“Well…don’t shy away from writers’ workshops. I’m currently holding one for five up-and-comers. New ideas and the people who create them fascinate me—plus it helps me keep my own inspiration topped up.”
She paused to look directly into Alex’s eyes, smiling warmly.
London Belongs to Me Page 25
