Alex picked apart the tape, preserving a section of paper Paddingtons for safekeeping.
A white box with a familiar logo stole her breath. “Oh…my God…” Her mouth gaped open as the last shred of wrapping gave way, a tremble travelling to the tips of her fingers.
Lucy set down her pamphlet and leaned into Alex. “Now that’s a gift. Take a bow, Joan.”
Alex’s vision blurred. “Joan!” She handed the box to Lucy and bounced to her feet.
“Wow, it weighs next to nothing,” said Lucy. “Freddie, lift it.”
Alex dove into Joan’s arms. “It’s incredible, but these laptops cost a fortune…”
“I’ve missed out on years of treating you. Just say I’m making up for lost time.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
Joan’s eyes shone. “You want to thank me? Keep writing. Make me even more proud, love.”
“But how did you know what to get?” Alex leaned out of the hug. “Did the instructor at your seniors’ computer class help you out?”
“The instructor? Love, I am the instructor!” She shook joyously with a throaty laugh that drowned out the Carpenters. “Those coffin dodgers do my head in, though. They’re so slow on the uptake sometimes.”
Freddie and Lucy burst into laughter.
“I booked an appointment at the Covent Garden Apple store for when you get home,” said Joan. “They’ll transfer everything you’ve saved on your external drives. And do me a favour, Alex, back up daily to the Cloud from now on.”
“I won’t make that mistake again.” Alex opened the box’s lid just as a phone buzzed and scooted across the coffee table.
“Alex, yours.” Lucy handed the smartphone to her friend. “One guess.” She nudged Freddie’s leg with her foot.
Alex sat back on her heels as she read the text:
‘Someone’s naughty! Tickets to Les Liaisons Dangereuses at the Donmar tucked into my card? You weren’t supposed to do that. Love it! Thank you. Happy Christmas to you and your family. Wish I was there keeping you warm under the mistletoe. I’ll make it up to you on New Year’s Eve, I promise. Missing you, Mouse. Mark xo’
The message arrived with a photo of Mark wearing a crooked red paper hat from a Christmas cracker, captioned ‘Honey, you should see me in a crown.’ He might be out of the loop on all things Doctor Who, but he got her BBC Sherlock fascination…and if his text was anything to go by, how much she fancied him.
She re-read the text twice and swallowed, easing the lump in her throat. “It’s Mark. He’s wishing all of us a Happy Christmas and says he’ll see us at New Year’s.”
“Aw, bless,” said Joan. “I think I’d like this Irish fellow. Send him our love.” She grabbed the two photo albums that stuck out of Alex’s red National Theatre tote.
“Ooh! I knew I forgot something…” Helen set off towards the dining room.
“Anything else you’d care to share, Lex?” said Freddie. “Kisses, hugs, declarations of true love?”
The blonde stopped texting. Her furrowed brow instructed Freddie—not in front of her family.
He crossed his arms. “Spoil sport.”
“Leave the girl to her crush.” Joan waved Freddie and Lucy over. “Come see these photos. Our Alex, such a cutie in her pigtails and striped t-shirts.”
Helen returned, carrying flowers in a simple vase, tied with a wide silver ribbon. “Sorry, my sweet. I forgot to give you these earlier.”
Alex did a double take and dropped her phone in her lap. A snug bundle of snapdragons—as red as a London post box—rose above the glass, their unique blooms bouncing up and down like the jaws of chatty teenagers.
“They arrived yesterday along with a note from Mark, asking us to give them to you today.”
Alex swooned. “They’re gorgeous! But how did he know? I never told him…”
Lucy high-fived Freddie. “Yes!”
“You guys!” A wide smile spread across her flushed cheeks. She pressed one of the soft velvety flowers with her finger, its jaw snapping the tip.
“Seems like a nice lad,” said Michael, patting his daughter on the shoulder.
“And he supports United, Dad! He’s a Red.”
Michael grinned from ear to ear.
Alex kept one arm wrapped around the vase while she resumed texting with her free hand.
“Joan, Lex still rocks striped t-shirts. Can’t keep her out of them,” said Freddie, taking ownership of the second album.
Alex hit send on her text to Mark:
‘Snapdragons! So beautiful! Thank you. They’d be rather fetching with your majestic red crown—if only you were here. Please wish your mum and family a Merry Christmas. I’ll be waiting impatiently on New Year’s. I’m easy to corrupt, remember? Lex xo’
Freddie howled. “Ooh, and there’s the obligatory nudie photo in the bath…”
Alex snapped out of her reverie. “Oh, good God. I wish I left these books in the back of my closet—better yet, back in Florida.” She set her phone and flowers on the table. “Let me see…”
She shuffled on her knees towards the tree and playfully yanked the album from Freddie’s hands. A bundle of stapled papers flew out of the album and across the lounge. It landed underneath the coffee table like a disheveled butterfly.
“What’s this? The Secret Diary of Alexandra aged ten-and-a-half?” Lucy fetched the splayed pages and twirled the sheets around so the cover page faced up. Her eyes bugged out of her head as if she had just seen a ghost. “Holy shit. Lex?”
Alex continued flipping through the album with Freddie. She figured that Lucy’s find was another cringeworthy slice of her Floridian past. A bunch of old notes passed to her best friend in grade six? A childhood story typed one letter at a time on her mom’s old typewriter?
Lucy swallowed, her eyes still wide. “It’s your play…the original suffragette play. Look.” She stuck the pages underneath her friend’s nose.
Alex dropped the photo album into Freddie’s hands and grabbed the stapled document. Her eyes poured over the title page. She spotted her name, her play’s title, and smudged March 2015 date stamps from Emory University, as well as comments and her grade—an A—left in red pen by her professor.
Her hands shook as she turned the pages over one by one, the words all too familiar. Bringing up the rear, her complete play notes, listing sources used in her research and a brief synopsis on why this subject matter was important. The hardcopy hadn’t been snatched after all.
Freddie hovered over Alex’s shoulder, staring at the pages. “I thought Olivia took it. How is this even possible?”
“Maybe she read it and made a photocopy?” said Lucy. “You said the version she had in Isabella’s workshop was identical, right?”
Dazed, Alex could barely speak. “Yeah…every word. Even the notes…”
Michael leaned in, getting a better look. “Bloody hell.”
“She replaced the title page, it had her name and everything, but yeah…she must’ve copied it and put the original back. But when? I came home the night she read it and it was in my room. The front page was folded back, but apart from that, everything was just as I’d left it…”
“All she’d have to do is scan it on her printer using OCR, and she’d have a text file. I can’t believe someone would stoop so low as to steal like that,” said Joan.
“I still don’t get how it ended up in your photo album,” said Freddie.
“Didn’t you say Harry has a cleaning lady?” asked Lucy.
Alex nodded.
“Maybe she moved it. How many times did you knock over those book stacks? I bet the cleaning lady crashed into them hoovering your room. Stuck the play in the largest book she saw?”
“Oh, Lucy. Stop it. I’m getting aroused. You sound just like Benedict, deducing like Sherlock.” Freddie fanned his face.
“Freddie!” yelled Lucy. Joan laughed.
Alex scratched her brow and stood up. “I guess it’s possible. She had a heck of a
time in there. I always knew when she’d knocked over the books because I’d find them piled up differently when I came home. And Olivia never claimed to have the original hardcopy, so…” She sank down beside Joan.
“But she still took the play and said it was hers,” said Joan. “I would stick it to her. Tell that writer lady what that girl’s done.” She pointed at the papers in Alex’s hands. “You have all the proof you need right there. It’s even got your teacher’s marks all over it.”
“Never mind New Year’s. Here’s the real fireworks.” Lucy unwrapped a Quality Street orange cream. “Do it. Show Isabella. Can you imagine Olivia’s face? Man, I want to be there.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” said Alex. “After she stole it, you persuaded me not to get into a battle with her, she’s so well-connected…”
“Things are different now. Olivia destroyed your laptop, all your work. Now you’ve got Isabella’s ear and the hard evidence to take the bitch down.”
“Lucy’s right,” said Michael. “Olivia can’t argue against solid proof like that. Blow the bloody doors off. I would.”
“But how would I even bring it up to Isabella, though? And what about Harry? What will he think?”
“Who cares!” said Freddie. “If anything, you’ll be doing him a favour, exposing his fiancée’s true colours.”
Michael adjusted his glasses. “He’s engaged to her now? Christ…”
“You don’t have to make your mind up now, love, but think about it,” said Joan. “You have options now. Ten minutes ago, you didn’t. There’s nothing better than a surprise gift at Christmas, is there?”
Thirty-Four
Freddie and Lucy fell asleep on the butt-numbing Sunday afternoon journey down to London. With the heat pumping on the bus and the lolling motion along the motorway, they were goners within twenty minutes of their Manchester departure. But not Alex. The unexpected surprises of the past two and a half days were the gift that kept on giving. Her mind wouldn’t rest. She still couldn’t believe Joan’s generosity or the miracle wedged into her childhood photo album. The unexpected text and flowers from Mark were the icing on the Christmas cake. Her lifelong hatred of surprises ebbed away with each passing mile.
She wouldn’t forget this Christmas break for a long time—lounging around in PJs, eating her weight in chocolate, and playing tipsy charades—it all served to temporarily push the anguish of the workshop to the far reaches of her mind, if only for a while.
The two or three times she had felt on the verge of a funk, Freddie and Joan cheered her up with their gut-busting double act. Thinking back, Alex chuckled out loud and clutched her ribs, still sore from the hilarity that ensued Christmas night. With her dad and Helen safely ensconced at the neighbourhood pub, Freddie cracked open Cards Against Humanity, daring Joan to join in—a challenge she wholeheartedly accepted.
The semi-detached house shook with politically incorrect laughter for hours. Alex wheezed like a bagpipe gasping for air, and Lucy had to run upstairs to the bathroom, frightful that she was about to pee her pants. At one point, the neighbours banged on the common wall, demanding that the Sinclair household shut up or they’d call the cops—the crowning moment to an epic night.
But now her biggest challenge lay ahead—Wednesday, January 6—the date of the next workshop. Still a week and a half away, but there it loomed, not budging from her path, snarling like a rabid dog. Her breath grew short.
What to do?
She pulled the hardcopy of her suffragette play from her tote bag. Two years of determination, passion, and plenty of tears lay within its pages. The frustration. How she’d pull her hair out when characters wouldn’t cooperate or the story arc unraveled on a whim.
Would it be so wrong to stick to The Plan—to let the play and its tangle of emotions and memories go for good? To remain at a distance and let the story live on in Olivia’s hands? Alex tried to analyze her own motives honestly…self-preservation was a biggie. She had never met anyone as intimidating as Olivia. And then there was saving Harry from the upset of exposing his girlfriend. The path of least resistance—avoiding conflict, running away…before Alex arrived in London that had always been her M.O., so why change now?
Besides, she’d resigned herself months ago to the idea that she’d watch the play’s progress in silence from the sidelines, only a select few knowing that she gave life to those characters.
But that was before Christmas—before she had options and damning proof, back when her dusty photo album kept its secret at the bottom of her overstuffed closet on Henshaw Street.
Alex recalled her dad’s words:
“Blow the bloody doors off.”
She flipped through the crinkled pages of the first act and then the second. Strong confident women spoke her words under the bus’s dim night-light. Forget the superheroes that she loved and often imitated in cosplay; these characters—some invented, most pulled from the pages of history—were the real wonder women.
Something clicked.
All three of her most recent plays—the suffragettes, Waterloo Bridge, and Joan’s time travel adventure—were populated with trailblazers, outsiders, and rebels…women who fought the good fight and shook the foundations of society. They lived with fervor and courage, overcame seemingly insurmountable odds, and ultimately succeeded. How ironic that she hadn’t taken a page out of one of her own plays…
Until now.
Alex looked at the page open on her lap and blinked several times, fighting sleep. As she closed her eyes, the characters seemed to whisper, ‘Don’t let us down.’
To Alex, December 31 had a hugely exaggerated reputation. In her life, only two New Years were in any way ‘happy’—the two she spent with Devin. Their first was at a house party off-campus, only memorable because it was the first NYE far from home with a boyfriend, while the second unfolded at a four-star hotel in downtown Atlanta. Devin didn’t spare any expense, booking VIP tickets to an exclusive bash seventy-three floors above the city. That night, after dancing for hours and downing enough champagne to make Alex hiccup, giggle and sneeze simultaneously, Devin gave her a small black velvet box at midnight. Inside she found her beloved silver A necklace resting on a bed of purple satin. Following their prolonged midnight kiss and another twirl around the ballroom, they continued their revelry between the sheets in their hotel room. Despite the heartbreak that followed just ten months later, Alex still wasn’t sure another New Year’s Eve could match it.
But this afternoon, she felt hopeful…out with the old, in with the new. With Freddie throwing his annual year-end celebration in his flat, and Mark promising to make their reunion special, this New Year’s Eve took on new significance. And to Alex’s delight, for the first time ever, her attendance was requested at more than one venue; Harry had also invited her to Bespoke’s private party, but she begged off, blaming co-hosting duties at Freddie’s as the reason why she sadly couldn’t make an appearance.
The National gave Alex a half-day off, so she surrendered fully to the NYE cause—to look and feel confident, gorgeous, and sexy. Nails polished, hair pin-straight, legs and bikini line waxed, smoky-eye makeup applied—she wasn’t sitting back, letting the new year fold in around her. Nope. She would kick it into gear with her amazing friends and a passionate kiss with Mark. She had one wish for tonight—to pick up where they left off at Zippers, but without her drunkenness and Devin’s shadow looming over them.
She arrived at three thirty that afternoon to help Freddie set up. Lucy would follow after work, and Mark was due after that—his flight from Dublin landing at six thirty. Co-workers from the BBC and Pret, friends from Freddie’s clubbing exploits, and a few mutual stage door buddies of Lucy’s were also expected to join the festivities around nine o’clock.
With Prince’s Greatest Hits blaring at full volume, Alex danced around Freddie’s flat, dusting his shelves and swaying her ass, all the while breathless in anticipation, her mind stuck on nothing but Mark’s return and that longed f
or midnight kiss. It created the most welcome distraction, something exciting to dwell on, shifting the January 6 workshop out of mind.
The previous seven months had been tough, but optimism wiggled its finger, urging her to enter January with a bounce in her stride and a fresh mindset. As a first step, Alex accepted Devin’s Facebook friend request. There was no longer any love there, or anything to yearn for where he was concerned. She was ready to close that chapter of her life—for good. What better time than a new year to move on, forgive, and remember the lessons learned along the way? She felt lighter, more confident, cutting away all the anger and sadness that had been twisted like barbed wire around her heart. And Freddie was right—she needed to give herself a break, too.
She eyed the navy sheath dress she’d worn to the Bespoke dinner hanging from Freddie’s bedroom door. Though pretty, it was meant to be the understudy, not the lead. The day before the December 18 workshop, she had purchased a shimmery black and silver dress from Topshop, but after the destruction of her laptop, spending hard-earned cash on clothing was unjustifiable. The dazzling party frock was swiftly returned for a full refund. At least her faithful navy number had won Mark’s approval once before.
Around half past four, Lucy bundled through Freddie’s door, carrying a garment bag and an old shopping tote from Marks and Spencer, a bottle of something tucked under her arm
“Hey, auld acquaintances? You didn’t forget me, did you?”
“Ask me that question tomorrow morning. Memory loss is a sign of a good time.” Freddie popped out of the bathroom, a damp sponge in his rubber-gloved hands. “Let me ditch this cleaning crap, and I’ll help you with that.”
“I’ll take the bottle. I’ve got the drinks trolley organized, and I don’t want it messed up.” Alex rolled a blue IKEA cart from behind the breakfast bar of Freddie’s kitchen. “We should get one of these things, Lucy. It’s so cute. We could fill it with baking supplies.”
“Right. I may have to rethink my New Year’s resolution to bake with you. Can you imagine the arguments? And honestly, I bet more of the icing will end up in your gob than on the cupcakes.” Lucy disappeared with her bags down the hall to Freddie’s bedroom. She returned a minute later with a de-gloved Freddie by her side.
London Belongs to Me Page 29
