London, Can You Wait?

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  “We won’t stay long.” She let go of his hand. “You might surprise yourself—you might have fun.”

  “Hanging with self-absorbed C-list celebs?” He stuffed the ticket back in his pocket. “I knew I should’ve packed a flask—”

  “I told you…you didn’t have to come—”

  “I want to support you, Lex…”

  Whining? Some support… She rolled her eyes. “Well, why are you so pissy, then? Is it your mum? Was she invited tonight?”

  “Now, there’s a boner killer.” He flung his head backwards on the seat, staring at the SUV’s ceiling. “No, she wasn’t.”

  Alex shook her head and looked away. The SUV slowed to a stop.

  “Hey…” Tarquin pulled her in, kissing her cheek. “What am I like? I’m being a dick. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She half-smiled. “I know you hate these things, but sometimes they’re part of my job…sometimes I have to socialize with these people…”

  “I know, it’s just…I didn’t want to share you tonight. Two weeks apart, Lex…? I’m going to miss you.”

  “I know. I’m going to miss you, too.”

  He left a kiss on her shoulder and glanced out the window. “Uh, why aren’t we moving?” He leaned towards the driver. “Excuse me, mate, is there a problem?”

  “Paparazzi at the backstage entrance,” the driver replied, looking in his rearview mirror at Tarquin. “Someone up ahead just got ambushed from the looks of it.”

  Tarquin lowered his window and leaned outside. “Blimey.” He blinked several times. “They’re surrounding an accessible van. That’s not cool.”

  Alex climbed across his lap and stuck her head out the window. Her stomach flip-flopped. “It’s Niamh!”

  “Who?”

  “Mark’s mum.” She frowned.

  The photographers, at least twenty or more, baited Mark and crowded closer.

  “Mark, mate! Pose with our old mum!”

  “Mrs. Keegan, you must be proud of your son? Give us a smile, eh?”

  “Mark! Just need the one shot—hug your mum and girlfriend. Happy families, yeah?”

  Face like thunder, Mark tried to shield Niamh’s wheelchair from the swarm, but he was outnumbered. “Guys, come on, would ya back up! She can’t move. Give her space. Please!”

  Fallon appeared through the scrum, waving the pushy paps away. A few fans stormed the crush, including the notorious Daisy—no surprise there.

  “Niamh must be here for Mark…for Lairds. He’s introducing the salute to Scottish TV.” Alex swallowed. “She’s a sweetheart. She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Tabloid wankers…she looks frightened,” said Tarquin. “Should…I help?”

  Alex’s mouth opened and closed, unable to find the words as her past tugged at her heart.

  Mark posed briefly with his mum and Fallon, giving the paparazzi what they demanded. Amidst a storm of flashes, Fallon beamed warmly as Niamh attempted a nervous grin. Not a hint of a smile graced Mark’s face. Satisfied, the photographers cleared a path, allowing Mark to steer his mum into the hall’s entrance.

  “Lex, you okay?”

  Alex retreated from the window and Tarquin’s lap. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

  Tarquin smiled, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair, and closed the window.

  “Tarq…” Alex leaned onto her date’s chair and squeezed his arm, jolting him awake. “I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get to the restroom.”

  The event’s host bleated on and on about tax credits for TV productions.

  “Make a run for it. Save yourself.” Tarquin mimicked shooting himself in the head.

  She chuckled quietly and snuck past, joining a wave of women with the same idea. Unfortunately, the restrooms at the Royal Albert Hall weren’t large, and the famous Loggia boxes where Alex was seated shared toilet facilities with the extensive stalls section. The line snaking into the women’s restroom was long and barely moving.

  Alex popped open her clutch, took out her phone, and got lost in Freddie’s non-stop backstage texts. He was there tonight with Simon volunteering as talent wranglers.

  Fuck me sideways. I’m wrangling bat-shit crazy, you know, that red-nosed car show host? He’s drunk already!

  Simon got the diva from Dance-Off. Hopefully she’ll teach him some moves. Don’t tell him I said that!

  Freddie and Simon, along with several of Freddie’s BBC co-workers, were each assigned a TV star, and their task for the night was making sure that their ‘talent’ got from point A to point B during the program—“celebrity babysitting” was how Freddie described it. From his texts, he was the worst talent wrangler ever.

  Shit! I can’t find him!

  Idiot stole some bloke’s disability scooter, found him doing doughnuts backstage!

  They’re trying to get it off him now. He wants to drive it away. Train wreck!

  Alex typed a response:

  You get all the excitement! I’m in the loo queue behind a barmaid from Eastenders.

  Three minutes passed. Alex didn’t get a response or hear if the boozy presenter with the stolen scooter made a clean getaway. She hoped he did.

  Dumping her phone in her clutch, she spied a small packet of chocolate Buttons: her emergency reserve. She tore it open and munched, oblivious to the mascara-coated glances coveting her rapidly disappearing chocolate stash.

  Inching closer, the line dancing was non-stop: a step to the left and a slip to the right, allowing access to the sinks and mirrors. The loud roar of the hand dryers to Alex’s immediate right overpowered polite conversations and a burst of dirty laughter. She stuffed the chocolate wrapper in her clutch and smiled, turning towards the hilarity.

  Shit! Fallon?! She was with two friends, talking excitedly in her sing-songy Irish accent. With the drone of the dryers and background noise, Alex couldn’t catch a word. At least they hadn’t seen her.

  A glint drew Alex’s eye. That’s not…is it?

  The petite diamond ring from Mark’s backpack—Niamh’s ring was there…on Fallon’s hand, sparkling under the pot lights as she waved it back and forth underneath a hand dryer. Alex’s heart threatened to thrash through her ribs. She inhaled, but the sudden tightness of her chest didn’t allow further breaths to depart her lips.

  Wait… The ring was on Fallon’s right hand.

  Alex gasped for air and clarity as the dryers continued their thundering drone. What are they saying? Damn! I can’t hear anything! Only three women stood between Alex and an empty stall. Figures, the line would speed up now.

  The dryers’ howling abruptly ceased.

  “—story behind the ring.” Fallon’s friend placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, my God, Fal. It makes me want to cry.”

  You want to cry?

  “I know, right?” Fallon stared at her hand. “I can’t believe it’s mine now.”

  The woman behind Alex nudged closer—so close her breath tickled Alex’s neck. Shit. Alex stepped ahead, next in line for a free stall. Her eyes darted back over her shoulder.

  Fallon beamed at her friends, unaware of Alex a few feet away. “Of course, I have to wear it on this hand, otherwi—”

  “Uh, excuse me?” An elderly woman’s voice invaded Alex’s ears.

  Alex squinted. Otherwise? Go on!

  “Hello? Excuse me…if you’re not going to use that stall, would you mind letting me go ahead of you? I have a urinary tract infection, and my doctor says that…”

  Fuck fuck fuck! Alex’s eyes widened at the close-talker complaining all over Fallon’s story. She slipped sideways, waving UTI lady ahead, Alex’s need to pee overtaken by the need to hear Fallon. What came after ‘otherwise’?

  Fallon tossed her hair over her shoulder and for the first time, clocked Alex. She dimmed her wide smile and nodded awkwardly, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.

  Shit! Spotted! Each second felt like an eternity. Alex froze on the spot, her legs heavy and uncooperative, like they were made of lea
d. She couldn’t escape anyway; all the stalls were occupied.

  Hiding the surprise guest star on her finger, Fallon turned away and followed her friends out the door.

  Walking away from the restroom, Alex loitered outside the entrance to the Loggia boxes, hastily typing ‘Mark Keegan engaged’ into her phone’s browser. A story date-stamped that evening popped up: A Promise Spoken: Irish Star and First Love Set to Wed.

  No! Her knees started to buckle.

  Fresh from the set of A Promise Unspoken, the Dublin movie that rekindled their teenage romance, Mark Keegan and Fallon Delaney, both 26, are set to become co-stars in a real-life love story. Friends say the Irish lovebirds are secretly engaged. “Fallon and Mark are thrilled to be back together and aren’t wasting any time,” said a source close to the couple. “Expect an engagement to be announced before Mark leaves for Mexico in August to begin Full Throttle 3.”

  “He proposed,” Alex gasped quietly into her hand, tears welling up beneath her eyelashes as she took in new photos snapped at the hall’s backstage entrance.

  “Excuse us.” Two couples squeezed past, making their way back into the hall.

  Alex blinked repeatedly, swallowing her sadness. Now was not the time, nor the place. She couldn’t let the Channel Four people see her like this—or Tarquin.

  Mark’s no longer your concern. He isn’t yours, Lex. YOU broke up with him.

  Alex drew a deep breath to calm herself; she felt more numb than angry. She walked through the doorway to the boxes and paused, her eyes locking on the stage. Mark was strolling up to the microphone and she stared, unable to look away. He began to introduce the Scottish TV segment, but Alex didn’t hear a word he said.

  Mark’s getting married. Mark’s happy…without me.

  Forty-One

  “Morning, Sunshine.” Tarquin rubbed his sleepy eyes and smiled, catching Alex in his en suite’s soaker tub. “Care for company?”

  “Sure.”

  She shifted forward and Tarquin climbed over the tub’s side, easing himself slowly into the warm bathwater. “I thought you were going to have a lie-in.” He sat down behind Alex and stretched his legs out around hers.

  “I did my packing instead.”

  He kissed the back of her head. “Want to talk about last night? You seemed…distracted—”

  “Did I?” A Stormtrooper rubber duck bobbed past her elbow. “Sorry, I was just…annoyed it took so long to get back to you. I missed most of the show.”

  “Consider that a blessing.” Tarquin pumped the bottle of body wash. “Thanks for not prolonging my agony.”

  “Agony?”

  “Yeah.” He lathered up his hands and slowly massaged Alex’s shoulders. “You barely sat down before we made our excuses and left. And here I thought I was the one desperate for a steamy sesh between the sheets. Wow, Lex, last night was…”

  She sighed quietly and submerged the rubber duck under the water.

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She released the bath toy and stroked his thigh, feeling guilty for letting her past cloud their present. Enough!

  “You know, I could change my plans…fly out next weekend instead of two weeks’ time, be there for your birthday…”

  “My birthday…well, yeah…” She smiled. “…but aren’t you too busy—”

  “I’ll have to cancel some meetings, stack up a few conference calls…but what’s more important than your birthday?” He squeezed her shoulders. “Can’t have you celebrating turning twenty-five on your own.”

  “Can’t have that!” Alex leaned back into him and giggled. “When Harry and Lucy arrive the week after, you guys can hang out while we finish our book.”

  “How hot is that? My girlfriend…creating graphic novels.”

  “You find that hot, you big nerd?”

  “Can’t you tell?” He pressed hard against her lower back as he groaned and kissed her neck. “Lex, while we’re in New York…as a birthday present, I want to take you away for a long weekend. A beach—Bermuda, Virgin Islands, Barbados—wherever you want to go, as long as it’s hot, romantic—” He gasped into her hair. “Secluded.”

  His offer was a kind one, but Alex hated roasting in the sun, and with work, the timing wasn’t ideal. “Tarq…uh, isn’t it a little early for romantic trips? We’ve only been dating two weeks—”

  “Seventeen days—I’ve been keeping a tally.” He washed away the soap from her shoulders with a cloth. “Lex, when you know, you know.”

  She blinked rapidly, her arms gliding under the surface, rippling the water. “Tarq…”

  “Quick: name the Quality Street chocolates that you love and hate.”

  “What?”

  “Just name them.”

  “I love the orange cream. I hate the toffee penny.”

  “I despise the orange cream!” he said gleefully.

  “And?” Alex scrunched her nose.

  “The key to a happy, compatible relationship is finding someone who likes all the Quality Street that you hate…you hate the toffee penny—my favourite—and I always leave your fave in the tin. See, we’ve passed the Quality Street test. Compatible as fuck.”

  Eyebrows raised, she looked over her shoulder.

  Tarquin broke into a laugh. “Sorry! Just trying to lighten the mood! Do you really think I’d base our compatibility on what chocolates we like and dislike?”

  Alex winced. Shame compatibility wasn’t that simple, but after two weeks of dating, she felt uneasy discussing vacations or their future. “I really like you, Tarq, but I don’t think I’m ready—”

  “Lex, I don’t want to hide things, not from you.” He left a kiss in her hair. “I mentioned the holiday because I’m falling for you, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  She knew it; hearing it out loud made it real, though. “I thought you had a fear of…falling.”

  He hugged her from behind. “Look, I get it. I know it might take a while before you can reciprocate my feelings, and that’s okay.” He smiled. “Truth be told, I’ve had a bit of a head start. I spotted you on Harry’s Facebook page a year back. When I found out you were The Girl Who Slayed the Dragon, I wanted to meet you: looks, brains, courage of conviction? Sign me up!”

  Alex shifted out of his embrace to face him, unintentionally splashing water over the tub’s side. “Dragon?”

  “Olivia.” He smirked. “When Harry broke off their engagement, he told me about her stealing your play, how you took her down in front of your mentor. Hearing that, I knew you were a bit special. Plus, duh—you’re gorgeous.”

  “Tarq—”

  He pulled her close so she straddled him. “Lex, don’t be freaked out. I’m having a great time and want whatever this is to continue. Forget about the holiday, no pressure. We’ll go another time, when you’re ready, okay?”

  “Okay…but don’t think that I don’t like being with you, Tarquin, because I do—I really like you…a lot, and I don’t want to see anyone else…” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Good, because the last thing I want is to scare you off.” He placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

  She slipped a hand under the water and down between his thighs. “Does this feel like I’m scared?” Her mouth covered his, kissing him slowly, with intent.

  Tarquin’s hand swept down her back and squeezed her waist. He inhaled sharply as her hand found a rhythm between his legs. “Does this mean I can have your toffee penny?”

  Alex bit her lip. “You can have more than that.”

  “What kind of a boyfriend lets his girlfriend board a seven-hour trans-Atlantic flight without a homemade breakfast?” Tarquin spooned golden batter into his professional-grade waffle maker as Alex, fresh from the bath and wearing just a bra and panties, sauntered into his kitchen.

  She cuddled him from behind and softly kissed his back. “You spoil me.” With a squeeze, she left him to it and raised herself up onto the counter across from him. She swung her legs from he
r perch, her eyes strolling down Tarquin’s muscular bare back to his tight butt, clad in navy boxer briefs. “Tarq, I can’t wait for you to join me in New York.”

  He closed the lid and turned around, grinning. Alex giggled. Tarquin was wearing his May the Forks Be With You apron she had bought for him—now he never cooked without it.

  “See, Sunshine?” He pointed at his temple with the spatula. “My Jedi mind tricks worked like a charm this morning. Now, you want the next week to fly by at lightspeed, too.” He joined her in a soft kiss. “Waffles will be ready in two minutes.”

  He stepped backwards, taking her in, and with a sigh, turned back to his culinary work in progress. Alex grabbed a piece of crispy bacon and dipped it in the maple syrup flooding her plate. She chewed, savouring the salty sweetness.

  “Lex, when you get to the loft, remember to turn the air conditioning on straight away.” Busy with his back to her, Tarquin cracked open a jar of blueberry compote. “It takes a while to cool with the twelve-foot ceilings.” His phone on the counter vibrated against Alex’s hip.

  “I will.” She looked down at the screen, her smile contorting into a twisted frown. “What the…hell? Is someone playing a joke?”

  “Sorry?” Holding a melon, Tarquin looked over his shoulder.

  Alex stared at the image. Her jaw dropped: two breasts straining through a wet bikini top, sent from a 646 area code…from Olivia Chadwick-Smythe.

  “Why is Olivia sexting you?” She lifted the phone to show him. “Of all people!”

  Tarquin dropped the fruit. “Fuck!”

  “Fuck is right. Is THIS why you’re always ignoring texts?”

  “Lex…” Tarquin blinked rapidly, his fingers flying to his forehead. “It’s not…listen, we…dated in New York—”

  “What?!” She squeezed the phone.

  “—but, it’s over, has been for ages. She’s trying to lure me back, but I’m not interested! I’m with you now.” He reached for her hand.

  Alex flinched, abandoning his phone. “I have a flight to catch.” She scrambled off the counter.