You must wish we never met. I deserve your disappointment, your disgust in me. It mirrors mine. Love always, Mark x
She stared at the paper, hovering over the last line: no good-bye. Mark knew. He knew how much they both hated saying that word.
She looked back inside the envelope and gasped what felt like her last breath. Her hand slipped inside the bubble wrap sleeve, her fingers meeting cold, jagged metal—surrendered, never to be held in Mark’s hand again.
A sob let go in her throat, releasing wave after wave of tears.
The final thread connecting her to Mark had been severed. Mark Keegan, loving boyfriend, was now Mark Keegan, the next big thing. All news of him would be gleaned from Google or maybe a slip of Freddie’s lips. No more kisses. No more rapturous reunions or easy smiles. The next time she’d see his face would probably be through a TV or cinema screen—you can look, but you can never touch. He would land bigger roles, collect even more enthusiastic fans—and probably have a new A-list girlfriend. He was no longer hers.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It wasn’t supposed to end at all.
She swallowed, digging out Mark’s keys. The landlord would be happy…at least someone would.
One key. Two keys. They were Mark’s unspoken, unwritten good-bye. Her whole body ached.
She reached in again, but her hand came back empty.
Mark was always careless, losing things; his silver keychain that matched the one in her hand wasn’t there.
“I guess it’s official then…” Alex gulped for air, sinking into Lucy. She released her grip on the beloved object. “I’m one of those people, left behind, forgotten.”
Through a veil of tears, her eyes settled on her palm: the June 5, 2015 indentation from the keychain was fading fast from her skin.
Twenty-Seven
Three and a half weeks later
“Lex, I’ve always thought of you as my little sister—albeit a perfectionist, pain-in-the-arse of a little sister—so I can’t help being protective…” Harry stretched back into the onyx leather booth. “Please, let me take care of your rent.”
“You sound like a broken record.” Alex smiled. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m not changing my mind.”
Her eyes strayed to the Bespoke waiter arriving with two plates. He slid Alex’s lunch—posh mac ’n’ Gruyère cheese—on the table with oven mitts. “Careful—don’t get burned.”
“Thanks.” Alex waited for the guy to walk away. “You’re not paying for this.”
Harry unfurled a smile along with his black cloth napkin. “I knew you would say that.”
“Paddington and I may end up living in a box, eating untoasted Pop-Tarts under Marble Arch, but at least it will be on my terms. Just think of the writing material it will generate—and maybe even the headlines: Homeless Playwright Brings Down the House with Olivier Win!” Digging her fork through the breadcrumbs, parsley, and cheesy pasta, wisps of steam evaporated from her plate.
“An Olivier Award won’t keep you warm at night.”
“No, but it would make a handy weapon to fend away any junkies coming after my Pop-Tart stash…”
Harry scooped up a mouthful of his grilled potato, salmon, and lentil salad, careful not to spill any on his suit. “Look, think of it as a loan—”
“Harry, I move next week.” She blew on a forkful of pasta and took a delicate taste. She closed her eyes, savouring the hot cheesy happiness on her tongue. “Mmm. Want some?”
Harry sipped his sparkling water. “No, thanks. I’m watching my figure.”
Alex snickered. “So is Lucy.”
“That’s why the mustard cream sauce is on the side.” He tapped his fork against a small bowl riding shotgun with his plate.
“The furniture’s been sold. Even the bed’s gone. Simon’s been a huge help. He even dropped everything to fix my leaky sink. He’s a good guy, despite what Lucy says.”
“I think he just wanted to show off his old plumbing skills, and he’s Team Alex. He has always had a jealous hate-on for Mark.”
Alex exhaled heavily.
“You know it’s true.” He flicked through his salad with his fork. “Actually, I’m coming around to Si’s opinion. I mean, I don’t hate Mark, but I hate what he’s done to you, and his behaviour lately is not like the bloke I know at all.”
Alex scooped up some pasta. “Harry, you don’t have to choose sides. You and Mark are such good friends, I—”
“Were good friends. Hurt my loved ones or betray a trust like that? Sorry, I want nothing to do with you.” He smiled softly. “There’s no competition. I am, and always will be, Team Alex.”
“Harry, do me a favour?”
“Anything, little sis!”
She cocked her head, wincing. “Stop saying Team Alex. It’s cheesier than this pasta.”
He laughed. “Done!” He watched Alex eat, choosing his words carefully. “Have you contacted him?”
“No.” She squinted. “Have you?”
“No. Would you tell me if you had?”
“Did Lucy put you up to this?”
“No.”
She pinched her lips tight and swallowed, abandoning her fork. “I never knew I could I miss someone so much.”
Harry reached for her hand across the table. “Oh, Lex—”
“I can’t leave the flat…those Lairds posters are everywhere, and a red Vespa will pass and I…” She stared at her plate. “London feels tainted…all the places we’ve been…”
“It’ll take time.”
“I can’t watch TV in case I see him—or hear him.”
Harry nodded. “I thought that was his voice on those Irish tourism adverts.”
“And stupid little things. I can’t eat Nutella, or Jaffa Cakes, and sleeping alone in our bed…knowing he’ll never come home…” Her eyes began to well up. “I couldn’t sleep it in anymore. I had to get rid of it. So, despite what everyone thinks, I’m trying everything I can to forget him…because clearly he’s forgotten me.”
Harry squeezed her hand.
She sniffed back tears. “I know…I’m the one who said it was over, but he was the one who broke us up. I thought maybe he’d email me since he took his stuff but…” She shook her head. “I haven’t emailed him. I haven’t searched his name on social media. I haven’t even Googled him. Why would I? To hurt more? Like that’s even possible.” She took in a shuddering breath. “I stopped wearing his necklace…”
“I’m sorry, Lex, I didn’t mean to make you cry—”
“Can we talk about something else, please?” She pulled her hand away and used her napkin to dab at a stray tear.
Harry let out a sympathetic sigh. “Sure. How’s your writing?”
“Good.”
He smiled kindly, not buying her response. “Lex…”
She looked up from her plate.
“That bounce you get when you’re passionate about something? Still missing.”
“That’s why I’m going to Dad’s—a fresh start. A change is as good as a rest, right?”
“Right—” Harry did a double take over Alex’s shoulder and dropped his fork. “Bloody hell?”
Alex followed his gleeful stare.
Harry couldn’t climb out of the booth fast enough. “Mate! I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Come here, ya pillock.” The tall stranger manhandled Harry, yanking him into a bear hug punctuated with back slaps. They laughed like a pair of naughty schoolboys.
Their smiles were contagious. Alex fought it, but she broke out into a grin, too.
Pulling away, the new arrival locked eyes with her. “Hel-lo.”
“Tarquin Balfour, meet Alex Sinclair, my unofficial little sister from America. Alex, meet Tarquin. This bastard is the bane of my existence.”
Alex was sure his face matched a name she had seen commenting on Harry’s Facebook.
“Harry’s telling porkies.” Tarquin’s accent was an odd mix of upper-class polish and lad-on-the-p
iss. He scratched his scruffy reddish-brown hair and smiled.
Holy cheekbones and dimples…you could fall in and never climb out. Realizing she was staring, Alex’s eyes darted to her plate.
“I’m his brother from another mother, his partner in unspeakably salacious crimes…” Tarquin gave Harry a playful smooch on the mouth and laughed, his face giving in to an even wider grin, dimples in full effect.
Harry wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve been stuck with this berk from day one. We were born on the same day in the same hospital ward!”
Tarquin winked conspiratorially at his friend. “Come now, Harry…that’s not all we’ve shared.” He swooped down, all charming and gregarious, kissing Alex on both cheeks. He smelled fresh like soap…regular drugstore soap.
“Lovely to meet you, Alex. I’ve heard all about you, so I’m sure Hazza’s filled you in about me…”
Hazza? Alex squinted.
“Nope, spared her. Sit. Have a drink.” Harry waved over the bartender. “You hungry?”
Tarquin shook his head and planted his jeans-clad butt beside Harry. He dropped a packet of cigarettes on the table and dove back into his blazer’s pocket, pulling out a ratty cocktail napkin. A silver ring on his thumb caught the light. “Look what I found from my leaving do.”
“Is that…from three years ago?” Harry pointed at a phone number written in smudged ink.
Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “You know it, my friend.”
“Why on Earth would you save that?”
“Oh, come on! It’s not every day you shag a WAG.”
Alex scrunched her eyebrows. “WAG?”
“Wives and girlfriends…of footballers.” Harry leaned across the table. “In this case, emphasis on wife.”
“Oh.” Her mouth pinched.
Harry nodded at the bartender, an immaculate brunette with a bouncy ponytail. “Pint, Tarq?”
“Sparkling water, please. I’m picking up my Porsche after this.”
“No booze?” Harry smirked. “You’ve been in America too long.”
Tarquin waved the napkin. “I kept this because it’s the football wives who control the purse strings.” He looked at Alex. “Her husband is England’s captain. You never know, maybe they’ll be in the market for a penthouse or something. I made a list of potential properties.”
“Tarq only played football to meet girls. Like father like son.”
“You’re just jealous because Olivia had you on a short leash. Alex, let me tell you, before Olivia got her hooks into him, dear Harry and I dropped more panties than Agent Provocateur. We bedded most of the field hockey team before we graduated from Eton.”
“Talk about overachievers.” Alex smirked. “Your parents must have been so proud.”
“Oh!” Tarquin chuckled. “Remember that time, Hazza, when I DJed that uni bash?”
Harry hid under his hand. “Don’t remind me, DJ Klimaxxx.”
Alex gasped. “DJ what?”
“Klimaxxx—with three Xs.” Tarquin snickered. “My old DJ name in uni.”
She groaned.
“Hey, I earned that name!” He scratched his chest where his v-neck t-shirt met a hint of sparse chest hair. “It was brilliant. Then Olivia came on the scene and ruined everything.”
“Says the bloke who was supposed to be my best man.”
“Happiest day of my life was when you broke it off, mate. Granted, I missed out on delivering my brilliant speech. I had some great lines that would have left Olivia’s knickers in a twist.”
“You win some, you lose some.” Harry shoved his friend.
“Anyway, I come bearing gifts. Property for your Manhattan club.” He turned to Alex. “Despite what this bellend is spinning, I’ve been working on property deals in New York for Budgie the past two and a half years. Life isn’t all drinking and fornicating as delicious as that sounds.”
He raised his eyebrows, digging for a reaction from Alex. She didn’t bite.
“So, what’s next?” Harry rested his arm on the back of the booth. “Dad’s Docklands project or the Square Mile skyscraper…”
“Both.”
“I figured as much.”
“Well, if you hadn’t gone rogue with this place, these plum assignments would’ve been yours.”
“I’m just happy Dad has someone he can trust. You’re the next best thing.”
Tarquin burst out laughing. “It’s great to be back.” He cocked his head, his eyes returning to Alex.
“Did you get that Tower Bridge flat?” Harry nodded to the bartender as she set Tarquin’s water in front of him.
“It’s stunning.” Tarquin’s eyes followed her ass back to the bar. “You can practically reach out and touch it.”
Alex felt the weight of Tarquin’s gaze fall on her again. “Where do you live, Alex?”
She didn’t look up from her plate. “Manchester.”
Harry stepped in. “Lex is off to Manchester next week, staying at her dad’s for a month—and if she stays any longer, Lucy and I will storm his house and drag her home.”
“Lucy?”
“My new girlfriend. She’s an artist. You have to meet her.”
Alex smiled. Harry didn’t hesitate to refer to Lucy as his girlfriend or an artist. She couldn’t wait to tell her.
Tarquin’s phone buzzed. “Hold that thought. I should take this.” He excused himself and walked towards the exit.
Alex waited until he was out of sight and leaned over her plate. “How are you friends with someone like that?”
“The vulgar, laddish crap? He’s just having fun.” Harry chuckled. “He’s showing off because you’re here.”
“Like I’d be attracted to any of that.”
“If you weren’t here, it would be much worse.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“Nothing personal, don’t worry! He knows how close we are. He knows you’re the antithesis of Olivia. He hated her, she hated him—”
“Wow. I actually agree with Olivia on something.”
“It didn’t help that he dated her best friend and it ended badly. Remember Rosamund?”
“No wonder. If he disposes of women like used condoms—”
“Actually, she cheated on him.” Harry spied his friend walking back to the table. “He’s a good guy and a lot of fun. Actually, I bet you’d have a laugh with him—”
“Hazza, you’ve outdone yourself. This place is smashing.” Tarquin sat back down and pulled out a cigarette and matchbook.
Harry shook his head. “You can’t smoke in here.”
He lit up anyway. “Oh, it’s okay, mate—I know the owner.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “A few puffs then, Balfy, but no more.”
Alex wrinkled her nose.
Tarquin leaned back, smiling at her. “Know what you need, Sincy?”
Only one person ever called her Sincy. She narrowed her eyes.
“Unadulterated, no-holds-barred fun—”
She glared back, refusing to look away first. “Tarquin, I have zero interest in ever sleeping with you—”
“Blimey!” Tarquin raised his hands in defence. “I don’t mean sex. I mean fun…you know, cinema, nice dinner out? Harry said you need cheering up.” His cigarette smoke collected over his head like an ironic halo. “And I always deliver on fun.”
Harry nodded. “I did say that. You do, and he does.” He grimaced. “Sorry, Lex, I meant to talk to you about this today—”
“See?” Tarquin blew smoke over his shoulder. “Hazza knows best.”
Alex stared at Harry. “Does he now? I never thought”—her fingers made air quotes—“Hazza would pimp me out—”
“Lex, I’m not setting you two up, I just want you to have some fun, forget you-know-who for a few hours.”
Alex winced.
“Look, I’d take you out, but I’m drowning in meetings. As it is, I don’t see Lucy enough.”
Tarquin’s face became a picture of concern. “Mate, what hav
e I told you? Never ever settle for a wank.” He stopped the act. “Seriously, Hazza—always make time to see your woman.”
“Believe me, I’m trying.” Harry looked at Alex. “How about it, Lex? Tarq needs to go to restaurants, galleries, work some new business contacts—”
“And not as Billy No Mates.” Tarquin flicked an ash onto a spare side plate.
“I don’t have time to accompany him, and you…you have nothing but time, in a way—”
“Thanks a lot!”
“You know what I mean. You write all day then, what? Write all night, too? That’s not healthy.” Harry’s eyes pleaded. “It could make perfect sense. He needs you, you need him.”
“That’s a bit rich,” said Alex.
“I am, actually, but don’t let that put you off.” Tarquin’s smile taunted her. “You might be interested in this…I know the producer of Sir Ian McKellen’s play.”
Harry sat up. “Really?”
Alex pretended not to listen, digging through her pasta with intent.
“Yeah, she took a shine to me.” Tarquin stubbed out his cigarette on the side plate. “I have two freebies for Friday, third row. I know it means breathing the same air as me for three hours, but I’ll get the champers and ice creams in at the interval. How ’bout it, Sincy?”
Alex clenched her jaw and stabbed the air between them with her fork. “Keep calling me Sincy, and you’re leaving here without a testicle.”
“Good thing I carry a spare then, eh?” He winked.
Harry jumped in, redirecting the conversation. “Lex, you did say earlier you wanted to see that production—”
“So I’m a charity case now.”
Tarquin smirked. “Au contraire, ma chère, I’m the charity case here.”
Eyebrows raised, Harry gazed across the table, like he was trying to do a mind-twisting Derren Brown on her. “Come on, Lex. Do it…for me?”
Harry rarely asked favours; how could she say no? And she did want to see that play…third row, too…
“Fine, but I’m paying for my ice cream.”
“You’ll come?” Tarquin jerked back.
“I’m doing it for Harry, not you.”
His lips snaked into a confident smile, turning on those dimples. “Meet me at the theatre for half six?”
London, Can You Wait? Page 22