“Harry, please…”
He stormed out of the room. A cluster of eavesdropping actresses and the other playwrights swung their heads back and forth between Harry’s exiting blur and the three women. Olivia scrambled to collect her belongings, dashing towards the doorway.
“Olivia, your actions cannot be tolerated. Until I can investigate further, and make a phone call to the professor at Emory, your involvement in this workshop is suspended,” said Isabella. “I also don’t take kindly to threats. I suggest you refrain from any actions, legal or otherwise, until you hear from me.”
“I was only trying to protect what’s mine,” Olivia shouted, amidst tears as she clicked down the hall.
“Yeah, so was I,” said Alex.
Thirty-Seven
One week later
Perched on a wooden bench beside the front window of Freestate Coffee on Southampton Row, Alex took a quick sip from her soothing cup of hot chocolate, waiting for her guest’s arrival. She arrived before the lunch rush to grab this perfect spot, knowing she could lose herself in the passing double-decker buses and impatient black cabs. Eight months on from her arrival last May, she was still smitten.
A friendly face waved from the doorway, prompting Alex to stand up.
“Thanks for meeting me.” Harry hugged her quickly. He eased out of his Burberry coat, but Alex noticed something was up. Normally well-groomed and fashionable, Harry looked like he had grabbed whatever clothes were lying on the floor of Tom’s room. His grey point collar shirt was wrinkled and buttoned up incorrectly, and a rare five o’clock shadow crept above his lip and along his cheeks and chin. His usually sparkly blue eyes were sombre and sleepy, sinking into purple circles. He didn’t smell clean and sweet like Harry, either. If Alex didn’t know him better, she would’ve assumed he’d been on a bender.
“I love this place.” Alex smoothed her black sweater and skirt as she sat down. “I don’t get to stop in too often, but it came to mind when you suggested somewhere off the radar.” She couldn’t avoid the obvious. “Harry, you look shattered.”
“I’ve had better weeks.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let me grab a tea, and we’ll catch up.”
A few minutes later, he returned with his Earl Grey, a plate crowded with two large chocolate brownies, and a pair of shiny forks.
“Someone’s trying to butter me up.” Alex laughed.
“It’s nice to be in the company of a woman who eats without counting calories.”
“Why bother? I’m terrible at math.” Alex dug into her brownie, scooping a bite too large for the fork. “I’m glad you texted. I thought I might never hear from you again. You wouldn’t be in this mess if I had stayed in the States.” She savoured the chocolate’s brief sweetness and swallowed.
Harry looked down at the table. “You should’ve told me about the play earlier, but I understand why you didn’t. Olivia has a talent for making people do exactly what she wants. Once upon a time, that was one of the things that made me fall for her, the way she knew her own mind, her self-confidence.”
“How’s it at home? I bet she’d freak if she knew you were meeting me.”
“That’s why I wanted to meet somewhere she doesn’t frequent. Another confrontation is the last thing I need. Home’s been good, actually. Best thing I did was chuck her out of my flat.”
“You threw her out? Tom, too?”
“Yep. We had a huge row at home after the workshop. I told her that she had to be gone by morning. Tom was great. He just shrugged in his typical style and offered to move on, but Olivia begged. That wasn’t pretty.”
“Ouch,” said Alex.
“It’s done; we’re officially…over.” He exhaled heavily, swirling a spoon in his tea. “Her stealing and bullying—it was horrible, completely inexcusable. What she put you through, Alex, I’m horrified you were put in a position where you felt you couldn’t tell me. And if you thought you couldn’t trust me, then who have I become? Olivia didn’t exactly bring out the best in me. I see that now.”
His eyes wandered towards the window, staring into nothing. “The fact that she doubted my fidelity and commitment to her was the last straw. I can’t be in a relationship with someone so easily poisoned by jealousy. Shame it took me four years to figure that out.”
With a frown, he plunged his fork into his brownie, chipping away a miniscule bite.
“Mmm. Now I know why you like this place. Delicious.” He didn’t return for another taste, but his hand clutched the empty fork.
“I’m ashamed of how I got sucked in. I never saw how manipulative she could be. She was charming, popular, a beautiful girl with everything going for her. And best of all, she was crazy about me. Obviously, a little too crazy as it turns out. I thought I knew her, but—”
“Harry, cut yourself some slack. She was obviously on her best behaviour whenever you were around.”
“Probably. I’ve been thinking about it a lot…what turned her into such a scheming, possessive mess. Before we began dating, I was never without female company—and I mean, never. I lost my virginity at thirteen.”
“Harry!”
He rolled his eyes and looked sheepish. “I know, eh? I was quite experienced by the time we got together, and she didn’t have the best role models for a healthy relationship—her dad had an affair with her nanny when she was a kid.” He stabbed at the brownie with his fork with no intention of taking another bite. “God, I’ve been so blind.”
His chin shot up, his eyes capturing Alex’s gaze. “I’m not making excuses for her. Whatever happened, it still didn’t give her the right to bully or steal from you. Or accuse you of sleeping with me.”
Alex smiled softly. “She made me feel guilty even when I wasn’t.”
“You too?” He half-laughed, shaking his head. “I never cheated on her. That’s the kicker. Any hook-ups, secret snogs, it was all in her imagination. I never looked at another girl. I thought she was The One, that we’d spend the rest of our lives together…”
He blinked, but not fast enough for Alex to miss a tear or two moistening his eyes.
“I’m ashamed and so sorry. About everything, looking back. The terrible box room, the fundraiser embarrassment…”
He dropped the fork and pushed his hair back, kneading his forehead as if each squeeze might dissolve the upsetting memories. “And I had your friend fired, too. What the hell was I thinking? I did it for Olivia. She was in meltdown mode and seeing her so distraught tore my heart out—she played me like a fiddle. I’m usually a pretty fair guy, but I didn’t even give him a chance to plead his case. I had no clue that you knew him…until Tom mentioned it last week. The bloke must hate me.”
“I think it bothered him for about a day, and then he moved on. Mark’s not one to dwell on stuff like that. He’s pretty positive,” said Alex. “A good guy.”
“He sounds it.”
Harry did a double take. “My God, Alex. I could use that glow to light my way through London Fields at midnight. Is there something you care to share?”
“Maybe.”
“I think wee Alex has got herself an English fella.”
“He’s Irish.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, he’s a lucky Irishman. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled through her next bite of brownie. “What are you going to do now? All those wedding plans to cancel…”
He sighed. “Ahh, it’s only money. Better to lose a couple thousand quid than have a lifetime of marital misery. I haven’t been off the dating track or without a girlfriend since I was twelve. Time to fly solo for a while. I’m looking forward to it, actually.” His tentative smile tried to convince Alex—and himself.
“And I’m also hoping we can still hang out, despite my stupidity and terrible track record in fiancées?”
“Absolutely.” Alex smiled warmly, covering his hand with her own. “Maybe it’s time we tricked a few people on this side of the pond with our brother-sister act. You game
?”
Thirty-Eight
Alex, Lucy, Freddie, and Mark pressed through the crowds to join the long queue for a photo with Sherlock himself, Benedict Cumberbatch. The actor and his co-stars, plus the cast and creatives from Doctor Who, were in the midst of a weekend-long comic con in late January at the ExCel in London’s Docklands.
“I was worried your old uni professor may have fucking died or something. Two and a half weeks to respond to Isabella?” Lucy scratched the shoulder of her red pleather jacket, her Martha Jones cosplay in full effect. “Thank God he finally came through yesterday and backed you up.”
“He’d never forget me; I was such an annoying perfectionist,” said Alex. “I bet he was happy to see me graduate.”
“So, now that the suffragettes are yours again, does that mean you have two plays getting the Isabella treatment?” Freddie admired his recently autographed Martin Freeman photo.
Alex nodded. “Yep, Isabella said it’s not the norm for a student to have two entries, but then nothing about the Olivia situation was ever normal.”
“Wow.” Freddie raised his eyebrows. “Such an overachiever. Do your workshop mates have a hate-on for you? Making them all look lazy…”
“Hardly.” Alex smacked him on the butt. “Actually, I think they’re relieved. She spends so much time taking me to task—they get away scot-free. Honestly, though, I’d take her tough love over compliments any day. Wait, did I just say that? I never thought those words would come from my mouth. Anyway, her criticism is improving my writing, big time.”
Mark pulled Alex into the chest of his cozy navy sweater, giving her a lingering peck on the top of her head. “It sounds crazy, but your battles with Olivia kinda prepared you for everything Isabella’s throwing at you—you’re not getting bowled over by it, right? That’s a victory in itself.”
“Should I send Ms. Chadwick-Smythe a thank you card?” Alex straightened her red tartan kilt, careful not to bend the signed photo with Steven Moffat in her hand. Her white blouse, black cardigan, tights, and ankle boots completed her Clara Oswald Christmas 2013 cosplay outfit. “It feels good speaking up, standing my ground. I’m definitely not fretting as much as I used to or feeling the need to control every little thing. Not sure if it’s connected, but I’ll take it.”
“And no more panic attacks. I’d say it’s connected.” Lucy stepped forward with the queue.
“I think it has more to do with you guys.” Alex smiled warmly. “I’ve finally found my London family, and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m home at last. You’re stuck with me.”
Freddie adjusted his black tie, channeling Jim Moriarty in his choice of outfit. “America’s loss is Britain’s gain.”
“And ours.” Mark gathered his girlfriend into a kiss.
Lucy elbowed him in the ribs. “God, Keegs. Save some for later.”
A loud roar erupted from the curtained-off area where a special effects panel was taking place. The applause and whoops from the hidden audience continued for a few minutes, blending in with the Sherlock theme.
“Moffat was lovely—discussing writing with me.” Alex smiled at her signed photo. “I just hope the organizers sort out the conflicts. Capaldi’s photo op is at the same time as Andrew Scott. I can’t have th—”
“Alex? Is that your phone?” asked Lucy. “I thought the theme was coming from the panel, but your bag won’t shut up.”
“No one I know would call at a time like this. Don’t they realize that Cumberbatch lurks behind that wall?” Alex frowned, spotting ‘caller unknown’ on the phone’s screen, and answered.
“Hello? …Yes, speaking…”
Freddie, Mark, and Lucy carried on behind her, laughing at Freddie’s photo with Rupert Graves. The Sherlock actor, grinning wildly, was giving him a precarious piggyback.
“I’m fine, thanks…” Alex covered her other ear with her free hand. She glared at her noisy gang, motioning for them to hush.
“Who is it, then?” asked Freddie, not really expecting Alex to answer.
She remained riveted to the mysterious voice, her eyebrows reaching their upper limits with no further space to roam. The absence of blinking and breathing drew Mark’s concern. He stared at his girlfriend, hoping to catch the gist of her conversation, but Alex turned her back, desperate for quiet and privacy amid the noisy line of fans.
“I bet it’s Isabella.” Lucy tugged on the con lanyard around her neck. “That woman’s a robot. She has no social life. It would be just like her to hassle Lex over the weekend.”
Alex turned around, facing her friends. “When?…Sure, I can, yes…and thanks again for the call…Yes, you, too. Bye.”
The line surged forward, but Alex didn’t budge, tears brimming in her dazed eyes. She bobbled her phone trying to stuff it into her bag. “Oh my God. Oh my God…”
“What’s wrong?” Mark moved closer, offering a gentle one-armed embrace. Alex grasped at his hand resting on her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest chasing breaths lost during the phone conversation.
“You’re freaking me out. Who was it?” asked Lucy.
Alex covered her mouth with her hand. “The literary manager at The Royal Court Theatre.”
“Seriously?” Lucy’s voice squeaked.
Freddie yanked his glasses from his face. “No way!”
Alex nodded, a wide smile lifting her cheeks and sending her tears on a happy slide down her face. “My time travel play. They read it, somehow, and want to put it into production this summer.”
“In production? Not workshopping or adding you to a playwriting program? Actually performed on stage with actors …in front of a paying audience?” asked Freddie.
She wiped away her tears. “Yes, in the Jerwood Theatre.”
Mark hugged her tightly. “Holy shit! I love their upstairs space. So intimate—only ninety seats. The actors are so close to the audie—”
“Not upstairs.” Alex peered up at him through her bangs. “The Jerwood Theatre, downstairs.”
Her cheeky grin grew brighter by the second.
“Bloody hell! That’s the main auditorium. Four times the size…” Mark trailed off, speechless.
“I thought it was a joke at first, but they knew the play. They want me to come in next week to discuss possible edits, meet the director. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to let on that I didn’t even submit it—”
“Hang on—so how did they read it?” asked Freddie.
An uncharacteristically shy hand rose from their huddle. “I did it. I sent it in.”
Alex pulled away from Mark’s hug, her jaw slack. “What?!”
“I worried that you’d just show it to Joan and that would be the end of it—but it was so good, Lex—”
Freddie’s eyes bulged. “Lucy, you crafty little minx!”
“Look, I know I should’ve told you,” said Lucy. “But I fell in love with it. Not just the grandmother stuff—all of it: love, regret, second chances, chasing your dream…I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so when you let me hang on to it, I might have made a few copies and mailed them off…”
She laughed, rubbing the ink stains on her left hand. “What can I say? I’m pushy! And besides, you named it Thirteen, for fuck’s sake! I had to get it out of the house, try to override its bad mojo.”
Alex yanked Lucy into a tight hug. “You superstitious freak! I promise I’ll never make fun of your weird phobias ever again. But, I’m shocked they liked it as is. I planned at least two more rounds of edits. I guess we’ll discuss that next week.”
“Remember I told you months ago that your perfectionist tendencies might be holding you back? Yeah…that,” said Lucy. “Not everything has to be 110 percent shiny and polished, you know.”
“I’m starting to realize that…” Alex chuckled, her damp face leaving Lucy’s shoulder. “I’ve spent so much time the last few years trying to be perfect…and independent. And in the end, a rough draft and my friends made the differenc
e.”
She blotted her eyes. “Thank you—for having so much faith in me. I can’t believe you did this, Lucy.”
“I didn’t do anything. It was all you.” Lucy grinned. “It’s your writing they fell in love with. I just gave it a friendly shove out the door.”
Thirty-Nine
Thursday, July 21, 2016—7 p.m. PRESS NIGHT
THIRTEEN
By Alexandra Sinclair
14 July – 3 Sept
Jerwood Theatre Downstairs
Tickets: from twelve pounds
Playwright Alexandra Sinclair makes her London debut in the Royal Court’s Jerwood Theatre Downstairs.
After a week of previews, the buzz surrounding Alex’s play hit a fever pitch just in time for its press night, every leather seat filled by ticket holders, invited guests or theatre critics—all eager to see what the young American playwright had to offer. Alex’s worries proved to be unjustified. Two standing ovations and rumours of a four-out-of-five-star review had the theatre company popping champagne corks and sighing with relief at the after-show bash in the downstairs bar.
“That looks perfect. Smile!”
A photographer was wrapping up a quick photo call with Alex and her cast in front of the red wall overlooking the Royal Court’s main bar. Two acclaimed actresses in their mid-sixties shared the spotlight with a handsome twenty-something actor, a blonde starlet just out of RADA, and Naomi.
“The photos and review will be featured on our What’s on Stage website by morning,” said the affable shutterbug. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of admirers this evening. Enjoy it, love.”
“I’m still trying to catch my breath. Thanks so much.” Alex smiled, running her hand over the cowl neckline of her purple lace pencil dress, anxious to be reunited with her loved ones. This moment had to be shared. Her actors shuffled back down the few stairs to the dimly lit bar, but Naomi stayed by Alex’s side, giving her a peck on the cheek.
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