London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “I’ll tell you what…” She began to write on the back page of Alex’s program. “Here’s my office email address. I can’t offer you a place in the current sessions, but why don’t you send me a sample of your latest work? I could have a quick look, give you a few brief pointers.”

  Alex’s eyes couldn’t open any wider. “That would be awesome.”

  “My pleasure. We have to support each other. God knows there are enough people out there trying to squash the arts.” She handed the program back. “But most importantly, keep writing. The more you explore your stories, the better you’ll tell them. And don’t be afraid to be emotionally honest or raw. Audiences respond to what’s real. Grab them by their hearts, and their heads will usually follow.”

  “I will…thanks. I’ll send you something on Monday.” Alex hugged her program.

  Isabella nodded. “Thanks again for coming.”

  Outside, the collective wattage from the smiles of Freddie, Lucy, and Alex rivaled the brightness of the Christmas decorations strung along Upper Street.

  “She’s lovely,” said Lucy. “I wasn’t going to let you sneak away without saying hi. You do amaze me sometimes. We opened the door for you, and then—surprise—you walked right through it, chattering away.”

  She poked Alex in the ribs. “See, it’s okay to accept help. If you were here on your own, you’d still be hiding in the corner. Admit it. You needed us.”

  Alex adopted a hard smile, hesitant to admit the truth. “Maybe.”

  “It’s not a sign of weakness to accept or ask for help, you know?” Lucy pulled her into a side hug. “Silly Lex.”

  A rush of wind pushed them towards the road. Alex pulled both Freddie and Lucy closer. “Oh my God, you guys! Can you believe it? Me, Alex Sinclair…has Isabella’s email address. How will I sleep tonight? I’m sending her an excerpt as soon as I can. There’s no time to make it perfect, but it’ll have to do. I can’t mess up this chance.”

  “Aren’t you the girl who said a few months ago that ‘everything sucked’?” Lucy tussled with her bag, her fingers digging deep inside for her Oyster card. She yanked at something stuck in its way, and a colourful postcard escaped skyward into the wind. It danced and taunted the trio above their heads for half a block.

  Freddie jumped into the air, legs akimbo and arms stretching towards the stars. “Bugger. Almost had it.”

  Alex joined in, running down Upper Street, snatching at it with the hand that wasn’t clutching her signed program.

  “Just leave it! It’s not important,” yelled Lucy.

  The wind took a breather, dropping the tattered postcard in an abandoned shop doorway clogged with curled brown leaves and discarded red Starbucks cups.

  “Got it.” Freddie wiped off the card, giving the photo a once over. “Ooh, someone’s having a grand time on the French Riviera.”

  He flipped it over. His smile caved in.

  “Alex. It’s yours?”

  Lucy bit her lip and sank into her wool scarf.

  Alex peered at the image. Yep, the photo on the front was all sandy beaches and sturdy palm trees. Strange. Her forehead crinkled as she turned it over.

  ‘Lexy. I’m taking a page out of your book (or should I say, play) and fearlessly travelling solo beyond my comfort zone. Keep showing us how it’s done. I’ll be leading the standing ovation. Much Love, Devin x’

  Alex glared at Lucy. “Why didn’t you want me to see this?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Hello! Lexy? He’s just one bloody pen stroke away from adding Sexy.”

  “But it’s my mail. You have no right hiding it.”

  Freddie stood silent with his arms folded, his eyes volleying back and forth between his two friends.

  The wind began to whistle again. “I’m baffled why would you even want it!” said Lucy.

  Alex closed her eyes. “Not all of us move on as quickly as you do.”

  “And what good has it done, eh? Getting all sentimental? Reliving old heartbreak. Wounds never heal if you keep picking at them.”

  “I’m not lingering over old feelings. I’m finally making sense of them. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to move on. I’ve realized that what I’m missing is the idea of him, how things used to be before everything blew up,” said Alex. “I know that person—that time—doesn’t exist anymore. I need to let go. Devin asking for my forgiveness is a step in that direction, but I’m not there yet.”

  “Forgive? You’re thinking of forgiving him? Why don’t you forgive Olivia, too, while you’re at it? Fuck, forgive everyone who ever stomped on you.”

  Freddie stepped closer. “Actually, forgiving’s a good idea. Not only forgiving Devin, but also forgiving yourself, Alex. Give yourself a break. You’ve been blaming yourself for too long.”

  Both women ignored him.

  “I thought I could run away from Devin and my problems…but it’s not that simple. They end up following you, no matter how far you run. I can’t change what’s happened, I know that…I just hope I’ll learn from it.”

  “I hope you do, too.” Lucy backed down slightly. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hidden the postcard. You know I only did it to protect you, right?”

  “Yeah, I know, Mother Hen.” Alex looped her arm through Lucy’s and looked up at the red and white burger sign behind them. “C’mon, chips are on you.”

  Thirty

  Alex’s eyes flew to the Long Bar as if on autopilot. Mark hadn’t been at work for a week and a half. Even Freddie didn’t know his whereabouts. His absence meant no more hiding behind tour participants or awkward sprints through the lobby. Life at work in early December clicked along at an easier, less emotional pace, but it was also dull and lonely. Alex hadn’t spoken to him since that cringeworthy chat on the National stairs on November 23…seventeen days ago. Not that she kept track.

  Weaving past arriving theatergoers, Alex ducked out of the National and inhaled the frosty evening air, the strings of lights stretching between tree branches along the South Bank, twinkling like strands of precious jewels. She patted her laptop bag, now her constant companion, writing before and after her shifts and through much of the night. Her obsession paid off. In the frantic week since chatting with Isabella at the Almeida, she had completed the first drafts for both her Waterloo Bridge and time travel plays.

  It had been eleven days since Alex emailed Isabella an excerpt of the bridge play. Since hitting send, every ping from Alex’s inbox sent her madly clicking between programs. Her pulse would race and then stagger to a crawl once she clued in that the new arrival wasn’t from the playwright. The cycle repeated again and again, but she remained hopeful. As a writer herself, surely Isabella remembered what it was like to be awaiting feedback.

  The time travel piece had veered off in a more heartwarming direction. Isabella’s simple advice seeped into Alex’s core. She poured much of her own heart and soul into this work—a flood of prose had flowed through her fingertips and across her laptop screen without any coaxing into the early hours of each breaking day.

  Alex craved some downtime. Lucy was meeting her in Soho at the Curzon cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue for the seven o’clock showing of The Lobster, Ben Whishaw’s latest film. The Tube offered little breathing space. Early Christmas shoppers and their cumbersome bags of holiday cheer filled her carriage, jammed against cranky commuters, like cattle in a paddock. Alex fought the urge to ‘moo’ ironically. Thankfully, the crush didn’t cause any delays between Waterloo and Leicester Square stations.

  Dodging black cabs while crossing Gerrard Place, Alex spotted Lucy outside the Curzon, hopping from one foot to another, her gloveless hands tunnelling under her arms like two mice seeking shelter. “Hiya, Lex. God, I love my boss. He let us leave an hour early to get a jump on Christmas shopping. We’ve all been in the pub.”

  She spotted Alex’s laptop bag. “Were you writing today? I thought the two plays were done.”

  “Just the first drafts, but I can’t leave the bridg
e one alone. I keep finding things to tweak.” Alex held the door open for her friend.

  “I finished reading your time travel play.” Lucy pulled out a folder containing a thick bundle of pages from her satchel. “It’s even better than the suffragette one. I ugly-cried on the Tube this morning.”

  “Aw, I hoped for tears. I knew you’d love the grandmother…” Alex noticed blue smudges on the heel of Lucy’s left hand. “Wait, what’s that? Above your wrist…”

  “Oh, just some marker. Got bored in a meeting and sketched the VP, as you do.”

  “Hmm. Most people doodle in meetings. They don’t sketch. That’s the artist in you screaming to escape.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes as she trotted down the steps to the cinema’s lower level, still embracing Alex’s play. “So, it’s based on Joan, right?”

  “Yep, she said something about going back in time, what she’d tell herself at age twenty if given the chance. It felt like a neat playwriting exercise. Basically, it’s a love letter to her.”

  The girls stopped at the bar, Alex treating Lucy to her ticket, M&Ms, popcorn, and bottled water. It was the least she could do after being such a grumpy hermit since her argument with Mark.

  “Joan will get a kick out of seeing her younger self choosing theatre over an early marriage and kids. I know she loves your dad to bits, but she must wonder ‘what if’ sometimes. The play’s really uplifting. I felt empowered afterwards. Would it be okay if I read it again?”

  Alex put away her change. “Sure, go for it. I’m not showing it to Joan yet. It’s her Christmas present.”

  “It’s really good, Lex.” Lucy hugged the folder against her chest. “Please promise me, though, you won’t hide it when it’s done? Share it. Show it to Isabella, enter it into a competition—something?”

  Alex shook her head. “Maybe one day, but right now my focus is on the bridge play. I’m dying to hear what Isabella thinks. I usually hate constructive criticism, but her advice could make a huge difference going forward.”

  Lucy gathered their snacks, glancing at the growing cinema crowd. “We better take our seats. The show’s about to start.”

  The sunny, crisp afternoon on the second Saturday in December gave Alex the perfect excuse to bring Freddie and Lucy to Broadway Market in her old neighbourhood. Sharing the congested road with local hipsters, young couples toting bundled-up babies, and dogs hoovering discarded morsels off the ground, they were spoilt for choice. Stalls selling artisanal fudge and posh Scotch eggs rubbed shoulders with vendors peddling handmade scarves and antiques, while tables boasting handmade holiday decorations and spicy mulled wine did a brisk trade.

  “Did we have to come all this way to find a Christmas tree? I bet we could’ve bought one near our flat.” Lucy tightened her scarf. “We’ll be really bloody popular on the Tube home.”

  Alex dropped fifty pence into the box belonging to four craggy old gentlemen singing carols near the northern end of the market, their warbling voices wrapping the street in festive cheer. “When I lived at Harry’s I never brought you guys here, and look how freaking amazing it is. Shut up and eat your lunch. It’s not every day I spring for food.”

  “This sandwich is to die for.” Lucy chomped a fried egg, maple bacon, and cheddar creation stuffed into a steamed Bao bun. “Want to try?” She nudged her lunch towards Alex.

  She scrunched up her nose. “Ew, as if.”

  Lucy laughed. “I knew you’d say that, Picky Pants. More for me.”

  “Not so fast.” Freddie quickly chewed his pork dumplings. Lucy scowled, but handed over her sandwich.

  Alex rolled down the lip of a green and white paper bag, revealing a pasty. “The lady in the Percy Ingle shop remembered me, wondered where the crazy cheese and onion girl went to. It’s nice to be missed for a change.”

  She took a bite, and several pastry flakes fluttered down onto her wool coat.

  “Hey, I finally heard from Keegs this morning,” said Freddie.

  Alex brushed her coat and poked her knitted hat away from her eyes.

  “So, he remembered we exist, then?” asked Lucy.

  “He’s been filming a TV series in Aberdeen. He got the call on November 30, and was on a train three hours later. Showbiz madness.”

  “There goes my theory that Naomi had him handcuffed to her headboard. Kinky bitch.” Lucy wiped a smear of gooey cheese from her chin. Alex shot her a dirty look. It flew away in the breeze, unnoticed.

  Freddie pointed to a stall three-deep with customers. “Let’s hit that Crosstown Donuts place, get a box, and overdose on sugar in the park.”

  Alex tugged the sleeve of his leather jacket. “No donuts will be consumed until we find the Christmas tree guy. I read that Whishy bought his tree here last year, so we’r—”

  The Sherlock theme cut her off.

  “Hello?…Yes, this is Alex…Hi!” Her eyes opened wide as she mouthed ‘Isabella Archer’ to her friends.

  “…You liked it?…” Alex stashed the half-eaten pasty in her coat pocket.

  Both Freddie and Lucy stopped eating. When Alex didn’t say anything for twenty-five seconds, they inched closer.

  “…Really?…Stamford Street…Will do. Thanks, thanks so much…Bye.”

  Alex fist pumped the air. “Fuck, yes!”

  “Ooh, rare F-bomb klaxon.” Lucy grabbed Alex’s arm. “What’s so fucking amazing, then?”

  “Guess who’s been added to Isabella’s workshop?” said Alex in a sing-songy voice as she bounced in her biker boots.

  “How?” said Lucy.

  “One of the playwrights dropped out because of a family illness. Isabella doesn’t want to waste the spot. She liked my bridge excerpt, so I’m in! Next Friday night.”

  “Bloody hell, it’s alllll happening. Come here, you!” Freddie pulled Alex and Lucy into an awkward embrace of arms, food, and plastic cutlery.

  “It’s at the Coin Street Neighbourhood Centre—that’s close to the National—I can walk there after work. Fucking hell! I can’t believe it. I’ve missed the first sessions, but I can catch up. I’m so doing this.”

  “Won’t Olivia be there, too?” asked Lucy. “Aren’t you worried about that?”

  “What choice do I have? Of course I’ll be annoyed seeing her there—with my suffragette play, but…it’s hers now. I can’t control that situation, so why try? I’ll just burn out from frustration. It is what it is.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you finally say that. Enough is enough.” Lucy nibbled her sandwich.

  “At least I have something Isabella likes that I can shove back in Olivia’s face. I’m no charity case. I belong there. Enough time has passed, I hope she’ll leave me be and just get on with it. Frankly, I’m too excited to care about all that right now.”

  “As you should be. Screw the donuts.” Freddie tossed his empty food container in the trash. “Celebratory drinks—now!”

  Thirty-One

  “Why the fuck not me?”

  – Mindy Kaling

  Six days later

  Alex arrived at the workshop fifteen minutes early, fueled by nerves, excitement, and too much sugar. The meeting room in the Coin Street Centre was clean and bright with three long tables configured into a U formation. A smaller desk sat in the opening at the end, reserved for Isabella. Alex set up her laptop on the far table in front of the windows, taking the seat closest to Isabella’s spot. Two male playwrights—one ginger, the other bald—followed Alex into the room and claimed their seats at the table across from her. A small Asian guy arrived five minutes later, choosing the lone spot in the bottom of the U; the only seat remaining, beside Alex to her left.

  Just before seven, the sound of female laugher reverberated down the hallway and floated into the room. Isabella walked in first; wearing a white turtleneck sweater, black wide leg trousers, and a grey wool cape that draped below her hips. On her heels, chatting a mile a minute and auditioning for the role of Teacher’s Pet, was Olivia in a cobalt blue jumpsuit and over-the-k
nee black boots, her long camel-coloured coat hanging on her shoulders for dear life. Alex thought the outfit would look ridiculous on anyone else, but the brunette managed to pull it off with style and aplomb. Alex swallowed slowly. She adjusted her red tartan pencil skirt, and the three-quarter length sleeves of her black v-neck sweater, then gripped her keyboard with both hands.

  Olivia’s gaze landed on Alex, her heels stuttering almost to a halt. Alex sat up straight and jutted out her chin. With any luck, the trapeze act swinging in her stomach would take notice and dismount.

  Alex smiled widely like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, sorry…did I take your place?” She spoke loud enough for Isabella to hear and hoped the irony wasn’t lost on her rival.

  “No need to move. There’s room for everyone,” said the award-winning playwright.

  Olivia glared at Alex and set her Grande coffee cup on the table. Under the room’s watchful gaze, she rested her coat on the chair, released her shiny laptop from its bag, and pushed her black leather Mulberry Piccadilly holdall to the side.

  Isabella stood behind her desk, eyes absorbing the U. “Welcome back. Unfortunately, Gemma had to return to Scotland because of a family emergency, so we have a new recruit. Please welcome Alex Sinclair.”

  Three of the four writers grinned, nodded or looked pleased. Olivia frowned behind a sip of her coffee.

  “As I mentioned three weeks ago, this workshop requires your utmost commitment. I’m not here to dish out compliments or hold your hands. I’m here to push you, to make you better writers. We’re working on Olivia’s play tonight. I trust that everyone’s read it. If you haven’t, you shouldn’t be here…”

  Alex’s eyelids stretched open, catching Olivia’s confident smile in their sights. Isabella the teacher was a different beast than Isabella the stage door idol. She didn’t expect her to be such a hard-ass.

  Isabella handed her a photocopy of the play. “Alex, my fault—I forgot to email your copy last weekend, so please work off these sheets and jump into the discussions where you can.”