London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “You’ve got a good thing with Mark. Don’t spoil it by fixating on the future or dwelling on what could go wrong. You’re with him now—that’s what matters. He’s totally committed to you, and any idiot can see you two were made for each other. And hey, the next time you’re feeling anxious, please talk to me, okay?”

  Alex nodded.

  Another ABBA tune blasted from the speakers—“Dancing Queen” this time—and Naomi took centre stage on the dance floor. Lucy screwed up her face. “Fuuuuuck, the queen of shameless self-promotion strikes again.” She turned her back. “I guess it’s my job to remind Naomi that she’s a swing in Mamma Mia!, not the lead. She’s taking the piss.”

  “Didn’t she tell you?” Alex shouted over the music as a sweaty Freddie bounded over. “After the honeymoon, she becomes an ensemble member and the understudy for the role of Sophie. She found out this morning.”

  “Now we’ll have to go see it.” Freddie stuck out his tongue. “Bloody musicals. Better pack an EpiPen. I may keel over in my ice cream from anaphylactic shock.”

  Looking past Freddie and Lucy, Alex’s face lit up.

  “You’re only excited because you like cheesy tunes and jazz hands,” said Freddie.

  Mark swooped in and laid a sweaty arm over Alex’s shoulder. “Hey stranger.” His lips didn’t hold back, reclaiming her mouth and ignoring all the distractions that lurked only an elbow away: their friends, the reception—the world—could wait.

  Her free hand slipped through Mark’s hair, its messy chaos impossible to resist.

  He broke away with a smile, helping himself to Alex’s champagne. “That Caprice grabbed Si’s butt. She’s so drunk, she can’t even tell he’s gay.”

  “Excuse me, Mark?”

  Mark, Alex, Freddie, and Lucy turned towards the posh voice. A thirty-something brunette with gravity defying breasts bursting from a low-cut designer dress hovered with a cocktail napkin in her hand. “Can I have your autograph? I’m a huge fan.”

  Alex gave the woman a smile, but the fan ignored her like she was invisible.

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.” Mark disentangled himself from his girlfriend and handed back her glass, empty. “Bride or groom?”

  “Wha—oh, ha! You’re so adorable.” The fan grasped Mark’s forearm. “Groom, I’m Tom’s cousin.” She thrust her bulging chest towards him and chatted incessantly in his ear while pressing a pen and the napkin into his hands.

  Alex felt like a third wheel. She drummed her fingers on the champagne flute. “Bar?” She snatched Lucy’s free hand.

  They weaved through the partiers, leaving Mark with Freddie and the woman.

  “Talk about boob-a-palooza,” Lucy sniped over her shoulder.

  “She’s out of luck if she thinks Mark will be impressed. He’s more of an ass man.”

  “TMI, Alex!”

  She glanced down at her A-cup chest. “Well, he must be, right? If he’s with me?”

  “Doesn’t that woman have any class? He’s at a private party—leave him be. Tom should’ve had a word with his creepy relatives.”

  “It’s his wedding day, he’s got more important things to worry about than being Mark’s bodyguard. Anyway, that’s my job.”

  Lucy laughed, watching Freddie leave Mark’s side. “And you suck at it.” She stared, not afraid to be obvious with her stink eye. “You should’ve told her to back off. She’s taking loads of selfies. Even Freddie’s had enough.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I say. Mark won’t stop until she walks away.”

  Absorbed in their conversation, Mark took his time, signing three more autographs for the woman, his kind eyes making her feel like the most important person in the room. Alex always joked that her boyfriend’s superpower was charisma. Funny or not, it was true—people were drawn to Mark and loved talking to him.

  “Keegs is impressive,” said Lucy. “He asks questions—and actually listens. If I were in his shoes, I’d scribble my initials and be off.”

  “You and me both.” Alex turned back to the bar.

  “This must piss you off to no end, though.”

  “It was cool in the beginning and didn’t happen too often, but now…” She smiled, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Our time together is so rare. We’ll be having a private moment and suddenly get interrupted. It’s unsettling and scary. These people feel like they know Mark, but they’re strangers. I guess for a guy it’s not frightening, but it freaks me out a bit. This one’s Tom’s cousin, so…”

  “God, she’s practically drooling. Mark should’ve worn wellies.”

  Alex looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, women like her, they don’t rein it in when I’m standing right there. Imagine what they’re like when I’m not in the room.” She didn’t elaborate—she didn’t have to. Alex had learned to trust Mark; women hit on him all the time, but he never took the bait.

  “She’s called her friends over now.” Lucy crossed her arms as Alex turned around.

  The Kensington squad draped their Pilate-toned arms over Mark’s shoulders and around his waist, desperately clinging to him for photo after photo. He chatted, posed patiently, and accepted more napkins to autograph.

  A short brunette, no older than fifteen, eased into the scrum and asked Mark a question. He leaned forward, his undivided attention all hers. The booming bass on the dance floor made it difficult to think, let alone hold an easy conversation. He shook his head and encouraged the teen to repeat her query in his ear.

  A smile rose from Alex’s lips. This fan, polite and respectful, wasn’t like the others, grabbing at him, looking for their pound of famous flesh. Moments like this one made Alex proud to be a fan and even prouder to be Mark’s girlfriend. She relaxed against the bar. Mark grinned warmly, answering the teenager’s question while signing her paper.

  The thumping music faded as Naomi stepped forward. “It’s time, ladies!” She waved her bouquet. “Before I pass the torch to the next bride-to-be, Tommy and I would like to thank everyone for celebrating with us.”

  Naomi’s new husband snuck up behind her, an unlit celebratory cigar in his mouth and a finger pointing at the shiny platinum band on his left hand. The guests howled with laughter, the notion of Tom married unthinkable just a few months ago. Naomi jutted out her chin and smiled. He was hers, and she was his, their vows and wedding rings, like Kryptonite repelling anyone who deemed otherwise.

  “We couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful sendoff. We wish we could spend more time with you, but the beaches of Bora Bora beckon.”

  The crowd oohed with mock envy.

  Tom yanked the cigar from his mouth, snaked his arms around Naomi’s waist, and kissed her neck like no one was watching.

  “Maybe that will be me and Mark soon, eh?” Alex’s eyes met her boyfriend’s in the crowd of glowing faces. He winked and resumed signing an autograph.

  Lucy held Alex’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “Now would all the single ladies—”

  “And poofs, darling!” Freddie shouted from the far side of the bar. He handed his camera to Simon with instructions to video the flower fight for his fledgling YouTube channel.

  “And poofs.” Naomi laughed. “Gather here now, please.” She raised her eyebrows not so subtly at Alex and Lucy.

  “Come on!” Alex dragged Lucy by the hand. “It’ll be a laugh!” She looked over at Mark, who was now free of female company and deep in conversation with Harry.

  Alex and Lucy lurked behind Freddie, who was jockeying with the competition—a gaggle of late-arriving Mamma Mia! castmates fresh from their curtain call, the pack of Kensington heiresses post Mark assault, and a hiccupping Caprice, tangerine arms outstretched, ready to pounce on the prize and the marital promise held within its petals.

  Tom stepped aside as Naomi turned her back for the toss. “Un…deux…trois!”

  The bouquet shot over her shoulder, barely clearing the festive bunting strung below the pub’s ceiling. Squealing women reached out with imp
atient hands, clawing and scratching for position, their feral efforts jostling Alex aside. Caprice swatted in desperation, but her booze-addled balance sealed her fate. She careened sideways into Lucy with such force that the bouquet of posies catapulted off her head and landed safely in the arms of Freddie.

  Seven

  By two A.M., Alex was feeling no pain. Chattering non-stop and sliding around the back seat of the Uber SUV, her spaghetti arms kept slipping off Mark’s shoulders, his pleas for her to hang on lost in another fit of uncontrollable giggles. She clutched a cookie wedding favour in one hand while unsuccessfully fumbling with Mark’s belt buckle with the other.

  Five minutes later, he delicately carried his tired girlfriend up the three flights of stairs to their flat in London Fields and closed the door on the night’s excitement. Setting her down atop wobbly legs, he tossed his keychain on the black chair by the door, dropped his backpack on the floor, and removed her coat and his suit jacket, laying both over the nearby armrest of the sofa. He pulled Alex in and held her there, murmuring in her ear. “Sorry, Mouse, but your floppy bunny routine is cancelling any action tonight. I’m willing and able, but you’re—”

  “Gagging for it!” She dropped the cookie and lunged, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

  Mark laughed and shook his head. “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Alex loved a challenge. She perked up as if she had been magically infused with three large cups of black coffee. “OH, YES IT IS.”

  Her eager hands woke up along with the rest of her body, her fingers sliding down his chest and stomach. She clicked open his belt buckle, popped the button on his trousers, and forcefully shoved them towards the floor as her lips hungrily reached for his mouth. She slipped a hand under his shirt, following the dark hair trailing downwards from his belly button and underneath the band of his boxer briefs, her fingers exploring, teasing.

  Mark left Alex’s lips ever so briefly, gasping, his body responding to her touch. “Lex…it’s so good to be home.”

  Alex didn’t waste any time, reclaiming his mouth while unbuttoning his shirt with her free hand. If Mark was only there for ten more hours, she had to make the most of it.

  He abandoned his trousers in the living room and grabbed her by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder for the few steps to the bedroom. Within seconds, Mark’s tie, shirt, underwear, and socks mingled on the blond hardwood with Alex’s dress and panties. Entangled between the sheets, Mark traced his fingers over Alex’s warm skin, relearning all her curves, all her secrets, the distance between them vanishing with each deep kiss and breathless moan.

  A sliver of golden sunlight snuck through a small gap in the bedroom curtains and crept across the clothes-strewn floor. Alex and Mark snoozed soundly, oblivious to the earnest chorus of robins chirping outside the window. The wall-mounted radiator hummed in unison, its seasonal tune overtaken by the sharp buzz of a smartphone. Alex jolted awake, her mind too cloudy to recall if it was Friday, Sunday…Monday?

  A clumsy hand landed on the bedside table, just missing Mark’s surprise gift of fresh snapdragons—his preemptive apology two days earlier in case work kept him from the wedding—and her alarm clock. The long plastic arms of Benedict Cumberbatch clicked through each passing second, his knowing smirk taunting Alex with a dose of attitude. Back in July, Freddie’s birthday gift of a homemade Sherlock alarm clock seemed hilarious, but right now, waking up to a judgmental ‘Batch so early in the morning didn’t tickle her funny bone one bit. Shoot, it’s already twenty past eleven? Only one hour and forty minutes left…

  She jerked up onto an elbow, snatching her phone from the table, only to catch a text from Lucy—something about the National Mail—fading from the screen. The room spun like an overwound top. Ergh. She fell back into the comfy nest of pillows, her stomach off kilter and her temples throbbing from—so—much—exertion. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; no toothbrush or paste had passed her lips before she fell asleep. She swallowed twice, but the stale taste of champagne wouldn’t fade, punishing her for the excesses of the night before.

  Text unread, she abandoned her phone in the sheets and shifted her head cautiously. Damn. Smudges of last night’s mascara and eyeshadow decorated the edge of the top sheet, and a torn condom wrapper surfed the comforter. Across the pillows, Mark dozed deeply, his long, dark eyelashes flickering every few seconds, keeping him locked into whatever adventure he was running through in his sleep. Alex smiled and cuddled into him, her bare breasts riding the rise and fall of his chest. She inhaled. Mmmm. A faint trace of his cologne remained, mixed with his natural scent. If only she could bottle the heavenly smell. It was the first thing she had noticed about him when they locked eyes on one another that fateful May afternoon in the Royal Court’s lobby almost two and a half years ago.

  Looking back now, that serendipitous meeting felt like a fairy tale, and in just eight weeks’ time, their two-year anniversary would arrive along with a New Year’s Eve countdown, popping champagne corks, and “Auld Lang Syne”. Two years. Alex smiled at Mark, lost in memories that still made her swoon. When they’d first gotten together, the fledging playwright and not-yet-famous Irish actor had always been attached at either the hip or the lips. Countless hours were spent sharing their dreams, working under the same roof at the National Theatre, and exploring London, their loved-up dates taking them to plays, music festivals, karaoke in Chinatown, and so much more. Alex’s hobbies began to blur into Mark’s pastimes and vice versa, causing Freddie and Lucy to refer to their smitten friends as Marlex.

  “Are Marlex dragging us to Ultimate Frisbee tomorrow?”

  “Fucking ace, Marlex got us tickets to watch The Lost Boys in Regent’s Park!”

  Five months into their relationship, Mark’s television debut in Lairds and Liars arrived. Once the first episode of the six-part drama series aired, Alex and Mark’s quiet, under-the-radar life evaporated. Mark’s raw portrayal of Callum McKenna, a twenty-two-year-old former soldier striving to avenge his young wife’s death in 18th-century Scotland, stole the nation’s hearts. Forget Ross Poldark; so long, Jon Snow; bye-bye, Jamie Fraser—dashing Callum relegated all such competitors for fangirl affection to the back of the line.

  Mark quickly left his National bartending job to dive into acting full-time. Gone were Alex and Mark’s shared breaks, late-night cinema dates, and lazy weekends intertwined in bed. Without warning, it seemed like Mark no longer belonged to just Alex. Everyone wanted a piece of the show’s breakout star—casting agents, directors, fans—and the job offers flew into his agent’s inbox faster than they could be considered.

  For the next seventeen months, his skyrocketing popularity meant stints back in bonnie Scotland, slaying enemies on muddy fields and kissing dairymaids, as well as trading punches with tough guys on film in far-flung locations such as South Africa and California. Sharing her boyfriend had become the new normal, like it or not.

  Alex softly kissed Mark’s neck, his heart beating strongly beneath her chest. She snuggled deeper into him, wishing she could pin him down, stop the clock, and make him stay. Their reunions were becoming shorter and less frequent. Although they talked most days, they were lucky if they shared a meal or bed once every four weeks. Alex had adopted, with a touch of irony, Amy Pond’s nickname from Doctor Who, The Girl Who Waited. Alex’s deep-seated fears of abandonment, nudged to the dark corners of her mind since they had started dating, were tapping her on the shoulder once again.

  She took a deep breath, her glance flitting around their bedroom. Had they really been living together for seven months now? Well, seven months on paper. The reality was actually thirty-nine days out of two hundred and eighteen—she had counted.

  Their one-bedroom open-plan flat on Martello Street in London Fields, just down the road from Harry’s old place, still needed a paint job. The bedroom was home to a bed, two hastily built IKEA nightstands and a dresser (the construction of which had almost killed their relationship), and a shared closet s
o overstuffed it needed an enter at risk of death sign. Stacks of books sprouted towards the ceiling, and a vintage bar cart held Mark’s turntable and the vinyl collection that used to belong to his dad. Maybe in the new year they could both put work aside for a week or two and decorate properly, not just adding a candle here or a throw there. Yeah, right. When Mark returned home, the last thing they wanted to do was traipse around John Lewis or Debenhams.

  Alex loved their London Fields neighbourhood and longed for Mark to grow fond of it, too. He lived out of a suitcase most of the year, so Alex wanted him to feel settled and truly at home in their little love nest overlooking the park. If only he didn’t have to rush away in an hour’s time, she would take him for a relaxing swim in the heated London Fields lido, and then for a delicious Sunday roast at the Cat and Mutton pub down the road. If his free time stretched into Monday, she could picture him now—playing footy in the park with the local kids after school, showing off his goal-scoring prowess before heading to the pub’s weekly quiz night with their friends. She snickered. Freddie’s quiz meltdowns were legendary. He would always dispute wrong answers and descend into a prickly mood if their team didn’t win, and—much to Simon’s annoyance—only Mark could coax him out of it.

  Alex exhaled quietly, her smile wavering. In less than two years, their lives had shifted so dramatically. She was writing but spinning her wheels, having had no luck getting a second play produced after Thirteen, while the bartending, jobbing actor she’d fallen in love with was now appearing on TV weekly. She couldn’t walk along the street without spotting her boyfriend’s face, his eyebrows furrowed with determination, staring down from a Lairds ad on a double-decker bus. Her heart threatened to burst with pride, but a growing hollowness in her stomach hinted that their time was running out.

  Mark stirred. His eyelashes fluttered several times before his eyes focused, first on the comedy and tragedy masks tattoo on Alex’s shoulder and then on the tumbleweed of blonde hair nestled below his chin. His left arm lay trapped underneath her body.