London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  Alex nodded.

  “Smashing.” He stood up. “Must be off. My chariot awaits.”

  Harry laughed. “Get out of here.”

  “See you Friday, Sincy.” He snatched his cigarettes and walked away.

  She exhaled heavily.

  “I know what that means.” Harry dropped his napkin on the table. “Look, you really are doing me a massive favour. Tarq’s been away for too long. He used to be the life of every party, but now it’s like everyone has moved on, you know?”

  “I know he’s your best friend, but he just seems all flash and no substance.”

  “I’m not blind. I know he can be full on and inappropriate at times, but there is a good heart buried under all that testosterone. He just hasn’t had many opportunities to show it, especially around women.”

  “Please! It sounds like he slept with all of Kensington!”

  “No, I mean, in terms of real relationships. He’s only had one. Final year at Eton.”

  “Rosamund?”

  “Nope. Some girl from a nearby village, none of us ever met her. They lasted maybe five months, and when they split, he snapped back to his old ways—flings without strings.”

  “I was half expecting you to say he fell for a buxom gym teacher.”

  “Oh, she was hot. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Alex pursed her lips. “Honestly, if you weren’t such a good friend, I wouldn’t go anywhere near him.”

  “Lex, you need to get out, have a laugh. You never know, you might thank me.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “Aw, now that feels better.” Tarquin stroked his leg.

  Alex groaned and rolled her eyes. Typical.

  “What? My legs went to sleep!” He stood up straight.

  Jeez, he really was tall—taller than Mark, definitely taller than Harry’s five foot ten.

  He pointed at his grey trousers. “My kecks? They’re too tight. Blame my footballer’s thighs. Last time I buy off the bloody rack.” His eyes roamed down their row. “Are you enjoying the play?”

  “Yes.” A hint of a smile brightened her face. “I love Sir Ian McKellen.”

  “Good. So, no dramatic exit, then?”

  “Not yet. You said there’d be ice cream.”

  He waved a hand. “Follow.”

  They shimmied through an obstacle course of knees and feet in the third row. Once in the aisle, Alex caught up to Tarquin. “The ice cream dude is…back there.”

  “Thought we’d grab some drinks first.”

  She smirked. “Why? So, I can get sozzled, forget being here with you?”

  “No, because it’s on me and my platinum card needs a workout.”

  “I haven’t touched a drink since New Year’s.”

  “Ah, right—the famous New Year’s. So how is Liam Neeson?” Tarquin led the way, weaving through an endless stream of patrons carrying glasses of wine.

  “Who?”

  “Your ex—the Irish action star.”

  “His name is Mark, and for the record, Liam Neeson is from Northern Ireland, and he’s much more than an action star.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  Alex ignored his question as they joined the crush at the bar.

  “You need to stop pining. He sounds like a self-absorbed prick.” Tarquin jammed his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Takes one to know one…” she murmured.

  “Sweetheart, if no one has your back, pick up that slack.” Tarquin laughed. “Hey! That sounded a bit Dr. Seuss, didn’t it?”

  Alex’s expression pinched. Ow. Her blouse…its label was attacking her neck. “Ahh, so that’s your reading level, is it? Second grade.” She shrugged, but the label poked even more.

  “Ooh, salty! If looking after number one makes me self-absorbed, so be it. At least I’ve never put my job ahead of someone I supposedly loved—”

  She glared sternly. “Who made you a relationship expert?”

  Tarquin ignored her question. “This Mark bloke definitely put his career before you.”

  Alex narrowed her eyes and shoved her purse under her arm.

  “Oh, I’ve heard it all, Sincy. Cancelling a third holiday on the trot, desperate to fanny around in costume? That’s selfish.”

  “He didn’t.” Alex twisted, trying to reach the label under her collar without elbowing the people breathing down her neck.

  “Weren’t you supposed to be in Florida this month? If you were still together?”

  “Yeah…so? What’s it to you?”

  He shook his head, eyebrows raised.

  “We cancelled Florida because we broke up.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah. Lucy was cancelling it for me, but Mark had already taken care of it.”

  “Yep, but when did he take care of it?”

  Alex stiffened: the itchy label, the suffocating crowd, Tarquin being an annoying dick…her heartbeat began to race. “What? Does it matter?”

  “It does, yes.”

  “Tarquin, if you want to slag off Mark, just do it, okay?” She clenched her jaw. Stupid label! “I’m in no mood to play games—”

  “He cancelled on January 4th.”

  Alex’s brow furrowed. “What? How would you know?” She snatched her hair off her neck and fanned her face with the program. Too many people in too tight a space, and her throat—so parched; forget ice cream, she could drink the Thames dry.

  “When did you dump him?”

  A few theatregoers squeezing past recognized her with grins and hellos. Alex let go of her hair and reciprocated with a flashed smile. “Oh, hi…hello…hi…”

  “When, Alex?”

  “January 12th. There! Happy now?” she sneered. Causing a scene in front of influential theatre folk was the last thing she wanted. “I thought you were getting drinks…”

  Tarquin gave an I-told-you-so smirk.

  “What?” Alex slowed her furious fanning.

  “Do the maths, dear.”

  “No…” Alex blinked, her mind filled with twelve minus four. She cleared her throat, but it began to tighten. She swallowed again, her program upping its furious pace. A man at the far end of the bar caught her eye and nodded with a smile. Is that…the artistic director of the National? She waved back, and then felt silly for doing so.

  “He cancelled a week before you broke up. Why is that?”

  Flustered, Alex looked at Tarquin. So hot in here. Cramps rolled like waves through her lower abdomen. Is the restroom nearby? She clutched her stomach with her free hand. “We weren’t talking…” The label clawed her neck. “I don’t know…” She gasped as the program grazed her cheek.

  “I do: Mark knew he had a play coming up, the one he’s rehearsing now. He must’ve accepted the role before January 4th. I bet he knew before Christmas. God knows what else he wasn’t telling you…”

  She asked herself that question constantly.

  Tarquin leaned into her, allowing a portly man, his hands held hostage by three wine glasses, to exit the drinks’ scrum. “If you were still together, you wouldn’t be in Florida right now. Mark would be on stage, stroking his ego while you wondered for the millionth time if he would ever put your relationship first. If that’s not prickish and self-absorbed, I’m Drake.”

  Alex inhaled deep breaths but came up short each time, an out-of-body sensation tingling her temples and twisting the sound of Tarquin’s words into a garbled, underwater warble. You wouldn’t be in Florida…Mark would be on stage…

  Black spots peppered her vision as the floor dissolved beneath her heels. “I don’t feel—”

  A boa constrictor was crushing Alex’s bicep. Her eyes jolted open. “Where am—oh!”

  A paramedic, pumping a blood pressure cuff, smiled. “Hiya Alex, you’re at the theatre. You fainted, do you remember?”

  Tarquin hovered sheepishly. “You fell just as I was about to get the drinks in. If that wasn’t a protest vote for ice cream, I don’t know what is.”

  The
paramedic tore the Velcro strap from Alex’s arm. “You’re going to be fine, love. Keep taking deep breaths: in through the nose, out through your mouth. Lucky your boyfriend caught you, so you didn’t bang your head.”

  “Boyfriend…”

  A woman wearing a name tag stepped forward. “There’s no rush, Miss Sinclair. Stay until you feel better, okay?” She turned to the paramedics, thanking them while they packed their cases.

  Still groggy, Alex looked around. Somehow, she had been transported to a chaise lounge in…a backstage space? The area was stuffed with racks of costumes and spare props. She shifted up onto her elbows, but the room swayed, nudging her head back down on a silk pillow.

  “Oh, God. I’m so embarrassed. Of all the places to pass out…”

  Tarquin winced. “The house manager did say he loved your play—”

  Nametag Lady jumped in. “Thirteen? Oh, yes it was wonderful.” She smiled and escorted the paramedics towards the exit.

  “Shit!” Alex hid behind her hands. “Did the National Theatre guy see me fall, too?”

  “National?” Tarquin looked puzzled. “A few people rushed over, but…I didn’t catch any names.”

  She pulled herself up. The evening had just gone into the record books as the most humiliating ever. At least the panic attack two years earlier in front of Isabella Archer hadn’t ended with her collapsing at her idol’s feet.

  Alex waved him away. “You should go, catch the second act.”

  “And cut off my circulation again? I don’t think so.” He smiled and handed over a bottle of water. “Relax. Once you feel better, I’ll drive you home. It’s the least I can do.” His dimples flirted. “I’ve never had a girl fall for me like that.”

  “I didn’t swoon, I fainted. Trust me, you’re not my type.”

  “Ouch.” Tarquin grinned. “Someone’s feeling better.”

  “I’ve had anxiety and panic attacks my whole life.” Maybe that will get rid of him.

  Tarquin shifted from one foot to the other. “Ohhh, blimey! I’m…sorry…if I caused this one, shooting my mouth off. It’s the old Eton debater in me. I can be a bit heavy-handed—”

  “Tarquin, what was that all about?” Her face pinched. “How would you know when Mark cancelled our holiday?”

  He frowned, avoiding eye contact. “Fuck, my big mouth. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He turned to Alex. “Look, I’ll spill, but you’ve gotta promise to tell Harry that tonight was a success. We had a good time, I cheered you up—job well done? Please?”

  Alex sat up straight. “Fine, I promise.” She crossed her fingers underneath her thigh.

  “I was just trying to make you see, in my not very tactful way, you absolutely did right getting shot of the actor. I know what it’s like, when you keep having second thoughts after a split, wondering if you could’ve done something different, but you did the right thing, everyone says so…”

  Her eyebrows creased. “Everyone?”

  “I met Harry and Lucy last night for dinner. They filled me in on everything…well, not everything, of course—nothing girly or private! But Lucy did say that when she called the travel agent, they confirmed the trip had been cancelled much earlier. That was all true…sorry.”

  Alex’s face fell. “Well, at least I know. But Lucy should have told me…” she murmured.

  “She was going to—eventually. She said you were barely functioning the day she found out, so she just let it lie…”

  They sat in silence awkwardly.

  “So, these panic attacks…what’s the deal? I want to be more…careful—to avoid them next time.”

  Next time? Alex shook her head. “Stress triggers them, but they also happen when everything seems fine—when I’m buying groceries, at the cinema, anywhere. They sneak up on me.”

  “Does it happen a lot?”

  “It varies. I’ve had more since last April, though.”

  “What happened last April?”

  “What didn’t?” Alex squeezed the water bottle. “I quit my job, moved in with Mark, and his new agent, Wink—”

  “His name is Wink?!”

  “His surname is Winkler…he prefers to go by Wink.”

  Tarquin shook his head. “Wink! What a wanker.”

  “Yeah, wanker sums him up perfectly. Wink convinced Mark to take a last-minute shoot in Thailand. That film cancelled our holiday—the first time. Mark was gone for a month.”

  “And is fainting…the norm?”

  “No. This was only the second time.”

  “You scared the shit out of me! I almost didn’t catch you. You got a bigger audience reaction than the play’s murder scene.”

  Alex winced. “Great! I’ll be forever known as the playwright who gets the vapors.”

  “Maybe it just adds to your mystique.”

  “Mystique doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “There is that, but you’re not alone, you know. Most people have something. Maybe they’re just better at hiding it.” He beamed. “Hey, I grew up with a fear of heights! I pissed myself on a Ferris wheel at Alton Towers once when I was eight. Figures, right? I end up building skyscrapers for a living. Shhh! Don’t tell Budgie!”

  Alex smiled briefly, despite her annoyance.

  “Listen, you promise, yeah? We’ll tell Harry tonight was a success? If he hears that I made you pass out—”

  “It’s fine—”

  “I hate disappointing him.”

  “You really care what he thinks, don’t you?”

  “He’s my boy.”

  “I know what you mean.” She exhaled heavily. “Yes, Tarquin, we had a fun time.”

  He smiled. “You know, actors never make good partners. They’re all about trying new people, new faces on for size. Then, boom, straight out the door—onto the next one.”

  “You sound like Lucy.”

  “That’s the first compliment you’ve given me. She’s spunky—love that.”

  “I’m a bit pissed she didn’t tell me that you were having dinner last night. Conspiring…”

  “Spoilers, sweetie!” He grinned. “See what I did there?”

  Alex snorted.

  “What? Only you and Lucy can share Doctor Who humour?”

  “You’re seriously a Whovian?”

  “The best people are, gorgeous.” He leaned against the chaise. “Maybe Lucy didn’t say anything because she wants you to make up your own mind about me.”

  Alex glared.

  He held his hands up, palms facing her. “Seriously, don’t worry, Lucy didn’t betray any confidences. All I know is that she wants you to be happy again—and actor boy definitely wasn’t the man for you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Tarquin, if you’re trying to get into my pants, you are so wasting your time.”

  “I’m not trying to get into your pants…” He grinned, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I just want out of mine! Well, these cheap trousers at least. I can’t sit down. When you’re ready to leave, just say the word. I’m dying for a smoke.”

  Alex scooted to the seat’s edge, desperate to send Tarquin, his cigarettes, and his contempt for Mark off into the night along with their disaster of an outing. The world ‘shame’ didn’t begin to cover it. How dare a panic attack take her down there—of all places—at the theatre…her safe place.

  She knew how anxiety burrowed into her mind, how it left behind spores of doubt to feed and grow another attack. She would do just about anything, even the absurd, to dodge situations or places associated with anxiety meltdowns. Once an attack happened, that place was tainted, on her no-go list, a hall of shame that was long and riddled with lowlights. The memories made her grimace: the Florida store where she had fainted, the laundromat near college, Heathrow terminal three arrivals, Bridgewater House—even London’s Boris bikes. She and Mark took a spin once, and the insane traffic roundabout near the IMAX on Waterloo Road left her a hyperventilating puddle on the curb. Now, new to the list, her beloved theatre.

&nbs
p; Alex pouted. There was no way she would allow panic to tarnish the theatre or banish it to the growing tally of places to be avoided. Hell no! Something else—someone else—would shoulder the blame. Her eyes crept up the towering figure standing in front of her, watching crew members shift a piece of unused scenery past the doorway.

  Avoiding the theatre was out of the question. Avoiding Tarquin? Her answer.

  She snatched her purse. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  Trudging up three flights of stairs, Alex shoved her key in the lock and pushed inside her dark flat, setting her purse on the chair where it shared real estate with mail yet to be posted: Tom’s birthday card, packages addressed to two London theatres, and a box destined for the States.

  The flat’s eerie quiet weighed her down; only a vague cry from the infant next door punctured the silence. She looked around the space, purged of belongings, spare three boxes of books, two lonely suitcases, a backpack, her laptop bag, and the dishes she had yet to pack. Her happy, heady life with Mark was being erased and stored away like it had never happened. In five days, another couple would call this place home, collecting memories, reaching milestones, and building a future…together.

  Her nose prickled. No. She wouldn’t cry. She had never felt more alone…or determined. She started texting Lucy.

  Hey. Need a favour. Here are my social media passwords. Please change all of them, and keep the new ones to yourself.

  Twenty-Nine

  Manchester suburbs, ten days later

  Alex sat on the edge of the comfy blue couch, reading over two handouts: one about anxiety, the other, panic attacks. The radiator in the cosy office hummed calmly, almost drowning out the unrelenting March rain and the splashing car tires on the road outside. A perky box of tissues and a full glass of water rested on the low table, just in case.

  Waiting patiently with a warm smile, Catriona, a psychologist specializing in anxiety disorders, jotted notes down on a pad.

  Alex looked up, biting her cheek. Her eyes darted past the window and over the serene flower photographs hung on the walls. A quote she had spotted spray-painted on a derelict building on the way there popped into her head: ‘Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.’ She fiddled with the cuff of her sweater. Ralph Waldo Emerson better be right.