“How long have you been here?”
“A few hours.”
“You haven’t given it a chance.” Alex began walking down a winding path, the park’s famous pond to their left.
Mark sped up and tucked the water bottle under his arm. He lifted his cap. His hair fell past his eyes, reaching his nose. He swept it back, hiding it away again under his hat.
“So you’re saying I didn’t see the best of New York, camped out outside that theatre?”
“You camped out waiting for me…on that hot sidewalk?”
“Yeah.” He winced. “For two and a half hours. Sorry if that sounds stalky, I didn’t want to miss you. Simon was great, but he wouldn’t give me the address of where you’re staying. Shit, listen to me—that sounds even more stalkerish.” His ramble took a break for another large gulp of water. “This is more like it.” His eyebrows lifted approvingly as he took in the mature trees and green grass along the path. “It’s amazing how the street noise is muted. It reminds me of St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin—only massive. So…how are you?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Freddie said Thirteen is going ahead off-Broadway. Alex, that’s so incredible. I’m so happ—”
“Thanks.” Alex stopped and crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Mark, I know about New Year’s. Really, you should have just FaceTimed from set—”
“Lex, I know you know about New Year’s. That’s not why I’m here, and I wasn’t on set. I came from Dublin.” His hand squeezed the water bottle. “I dropped out of Full Throttle 3 two weeks back.”
“What?”
“Turns out it was an offer I had to refuse.” He smirked.
“A million-dollar refusal? Must have hurt.”
“You know I don’t care about the money, and you were right…the Full Throttle script was absolute fucking shite.”
“I never said it was shite.” She nudged her sunglasses up her nose.
“You didn’t have to—the look on your face at the Court did.”
“So, if you’re not doing Full Throttle 3, what are you doing?”
“Figuring stuff out.” He swallowed heavily, playing with the sunglasses hanging from his collar. “Look, there’s something I have to tell you…”
Alex inhaled deeply. Was this the truth Niamh said Mark owed her, so they could move on? Knowing Mark, if she sent him away, he would wait patiently for another opportunity. She didn’t want him sitting outside 59E59 again.
“Okay…follow me.”
She led Mark to a secluded bench with a view of Gapstow Bridge and the pond. Several pairs of Mallard ducks quacked and playfully wiggled their tail feathers in the murky water while tourists sought shade and ice cream.
Mark sat down heavily and rested his backpack on the ground. His left foot stepped on top of his right, which fidgeted underneath. He half-smiled at Alex and looked away, opening and closing the cap on his water bottle several times.
“After the truth about New Year’s came out, I needed time to think, somewhere away from London. Staying with Mum made sense. I was still attached to Throttle, so I hired a trainer there to continue my prep. I sought proper help for my stomach ulcer, too.”
“Stomach ulcer? Since when?”
His eyes found Alex again. “Since October. I was diagnosed in Austria before Tom’s wedding.”
“Seriously? You’ve had it that long?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t always bad, but when it flared, I would slink away to the loo, hide in a stall, gritting my teeth until my pain meds kicked in.”
An ulcer, not drugs…an ULCER. Another one of my assumptions—wrong! “Mark, you should have told me.”
“I had to hide it.” He yanked his ball cap farther down over his eyes. “You would’ve told me to pull back on work, take a holiday.”
Alex pursed her lips.
He looked down. “And you would’ve been right. I just didn’t want to hear it—or slow down. Thing is, my body made that decision for me. By mid-June, I could barely climb out of bed.”
“You should have listened to your body earlier—”
“I know, but the biggest movie of my career was coming up. I should have been feeling like I was on top of the world, right? Nope. I felt completely numb, detached from everything going on around me. I was in a really dark place but didn’t know why. It scared me. I couldn’t see a way out. So, six weeks ago—on your birthday, actually—I decided I needed help.”
“What kind of help?” Alex lifted her sunglasses, leaving them on top of her head.
“A psychologist. I’ve been going twice a week.” He tossed back the last of his water and took a deep breath. “Lex, I have to tell you something…a secret, one Freddie doesn’t even know.”
She swallowed. “Okay.”
“I know you’ll have questions. I promise, I’ll answer every one, but…just listen, okay?”
“Okay.” Alex wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt.
“In 1990, my uncle died. Dad inherited his pub, called Keegan’s…”
Alex nodded. “Yeah…”
Mark looked down at his shoes. “And remember I told you my middle name was Kieran? It’s not…I lied.”
MARK
Eighteen years earlier
Dublin, New Year’s Eve 2000
Keegan’s was a popular, family-friendly pub with a pretty back garden boasting three picnic tables and enough room for kids to run around. Mark’s earliest memories were of the pub filled with Celtic music, dancing, and raucous laughter. His dad, Finn, played guitar and sang in a band that performed Beatles and Van Morrison covers twice a week. Customers raved about his wonderful voice. When Mark was five and Grace was eight, Niamh became pregnant and had their baby brother, Kieran.
Like his older brother, the littlest Keegan was smiley and wouldn’t stay still. Grace gave him the nickname Squig because he was always ‘squiggling about’, inquisitive and playful. She abandoned all her stuffed animals and colouring books to dote on him, smothering him with kisses. Mark tried to protect Kieran from Grace’s overzealous efforts—having experienced them himself as an infant—and would cart him away to his room, showing off his toy cars and football posters. Their male bonding would end, though, when Grace showed up in Mark’s doorway, and their loving tug of war over their adorable brother would begin again. A day didn’t pass that the pub wasn’t filled with the sweet sounds of the three Keegan children laughing.
When Kieran began walking and talking, Mark and Grace would rope him into their adventures, splashing around in their wading pool or hiding in the nooks and crannies of their large flat above the pub, jumping out to surprise him. He would squeal with a hilarious high laugh and beg his siblings to do it over again.
By the time he turned three, Kieran was Mark’s constant shadow. He couldn’t escape to the bathroom without Kieran banging on the door. Eight-year-old Mark loved him to bits and always made time to watch his silly TV shows, play with his cars, and make him laugh.
New Year’s Eve was one of the busiest nights of the year for Keegan’s. Before opening for the lunchtime crowd, Finn and his two sons enjoyed the crisp morning sunshine, kicking around a football in the frost-coated garden. Niamh and Grace were out on the hunt for a party dress, so the Keegan boys took full advantage, shouting and getting covered in dirt without female interference.
“Quick, Mark, pass it over!” Finn darted in front of their impromptu goal—two well-spaced flowerpots—but before he could claim the ball from his eldest son, his phone rang. “Oh, slipped my mind. Food delivery’s out front.” He waved at his boys. “You lads carry on. Kick it like Georgie Best! I’ll be but a minute. Mark, look after your brother.”
Mark kicked the ball softly to his mini-me.
“Mine, now!” Kieran giggled and ran after the rolling ball.
“Oi, Keegan!” The older boy living next door shouted from his bedroom window. “You’re shite! Betcha a Mars bar
you can’t do ten keepsie upsies.”
Mark squinted into the sunlight. The ten-year-old kid always picked him last for neighbourhood footy games and would rag on him non-stop in front of mutual friends: ‘What do ice skates and Keegan have in common? They’re both useless on a pitch’…‘I don’t know why coach compared you to Roy Keane. Keane’s not crap.’
Mark had to show him. He had to wipe that smug grin off his fat, pimply face. “You’re on, you tool!”
If I concentrate enough, I can do it!
He hopped over to his brother and claimed the football. “Hey, Kieran, watch this!” Mark went at it, bouncing the ball up in the air from foot to foot, keeping it off the frozen ground. He counted each strike aloud. “One…two…three…four…five…” He didn’t take his eyes off the ball. “…eight…nine…TEN…ELEVEN…!”
He kicked the ball higher for a header then caught it in his hands. “YES!” He shouted towards the house next door. “See that, ya idiot?!” The mouthy neighbour responded with a sneer and his middle finger then slammed his window closed.
Mark tossed the football in his hands, his smiley eyes looking over his shoulder. “Squig, whatcha think of—”
The garden was empty…and silent.
“Squig?” Mark spun around. “Where’d ya go?” Mark peeked under the picnic tables and glanced over the leaf-filled wading pool. “Are you hiding again, Squig? Okay…this time, you’ve really got me.” He opened the small garden shed and looked under the shelf where Kieran would sometimes curl up into a ball, playing hide-and-seek…but he wasn’t there. Mark backed up, scratching his mop of black hair.
“Squig? Okay, you can come out now. You win!” He chuckled as his eyes swept the garden. “You can have that Mars bar…if I ever get it…” Mark looked over the back fence into the neighbour’s yard. “Kieran…where are you?” He dropped the football and jogged around the side of the pub.
Mark’s dad wasn’t there. He must have gone back inside, putting away the pies that had just been delivered. Maybe Kieran was with him? But Mark didn’t dare ask…if his dad found out he wasn’t watching his brother like he had asked—no, he would find him, himself and avoid being told off.
Mark swung around, his eyes darting down the street and across the road. “Kieran! Kieran! Stop playing hide-and-seek—NOW.”
A cheeky giggle rose from…somewhere. Mark leapt towards the small garden in front of the pub. No sign of Kieran. He turned back to check next door.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. The delivery truck lurched into reverse in the pub’s driveway.
Mark’s stomach dropped.
I wasn’t watching Kieran…Keiran wasn’t watching me…
Mark’s eyes widened as he froze in horror.
“WAIT! STOP!”
Fifty-Three
Tears tumbled through Mark’s dark eyelashes as he looked down at the Central Park bench. “My brother died from his injuries six hours later…on New Year’s Eve.”
Alex sat still, frozen in shock. She couldn’t imagine Mark’s grief or how he had bottled it up for so long—what does something like that do to a person? She felt her resolve, her determination to keep him at arm’s length and out of her heart, melt.
Her tears made him all blurry. “Oh, God! Mark…” She threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in. His body shook against hers, lost in unrelenting sobs. She tightened her embrace, desperate to give him the privacy and sympathy he deserved. He hid his face in the nook of her neck. “It’s okay. It’s okay. God, I’m so sorry.”
She cradled the back of his head and slowly rubbed his back, wishing more than anything that she could take away his pain. They hugged for several minutes with only their tears speaking for them.
Mark pulled away slightly, wiping his nose. Her hand lingered on his arm, hesitant to release him entirely.
“I blamed myself. Kieran wouldn’t have wandered away …wouldn’t have died if I had just done what Dad asked—“Look after your brother.” But no, I had to show off to that stupid kid. Mum told me over and over, it wasn’t my fault. Dad said so, too, but only once—at Kieran’s funeral. I remember like it was yesterday. He kneeled down, pulled me close, and whispered to me, “None of this is your fault, lad. None of it.” But I couldn’t see his face during the hug, Lex. How could I believe him if I couldn’t see his face?”
Tears swelled in Alex’s eyes, imagining eight-year-old Mark, desperate for absolution, for the love of his father to erase the horror and guilt tormenting his young mind. She squeezed his arm and reached in her bag for tissues for both of them. “I’m sure your dad meant it, Mark. It wasn’t your fault. You were just a little boy…”
He gently shook his head and accepted a tissue. “Our family fractured, trying to cope. I felt detached from everyone, lost in my own bubble of guilt. Mum would go overboard with hugs, asking if I was all right every ten minutes. I always said yes, so she wouldn’t worry. I had flashbacks…nightmares. I regularly mitched off school with stomach upsets. Gracie wouldn’t eat and locked herself away in her room, refusing to play or see her friends, but it was always worse at night, when I’d hear Mum sobbing through the wall. Dad became a shell of his old self…didn’t sing anymore. Late on weekends when he thought everyone was asleep, he would drink himself into a stupor in front of the telly. All the while, I knew it was my fault. He wouldn’t have been sobbing if…if I had just watched Kieran.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks as more tears fell, quickly sweeping them away. “Mum decided she couldn’t bear to live in the pub anymore. They argued about it for months until we moved to our house. We tried to rebuild our lives, but couldn’t catch a break. The jerk who bought the pub for less than it was worth leveled it and built a block of flats. I know Dad was gutted. Mum got diagnosed with lupus in 2004 and couldn’t continue her job mending clothes at the Delaney’s dry cleaners…” He leaned his head back, blinked a bunch of times, and inhaled a shuddering breath.
Silent tears rolled down Alex’s cheeks.
“Dad died two months later…I was twelve.” Mark bit his lip, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his emotions. “I overheard Mum telling Mrs. Delaney once…she said it wasn’t a heart attack that took his life, it was a broken heart from losing Kieran.”
Alex grasped his hand. “Your poor family. I can’t even begin to imagine…” She sniffed back her own tears, but it was no use. They raced down her warm cheeks and fell, seeping into her blouse.
Mark gathered a slow breath. “I don’t know how Mum carried on after that. I really don’t. She thought about taking us to London for the holiday Dad had planned but couldn’t face it without him. Mrs. Delaney pitched in: making us meals, cleaning our house. She rehired Mum, giving her the full-time cashier position. That job was a godsend.” He dried his eyes with a tissue. “Me, though…I was the opposite of helpful. I went right off the rails, drinking, hanging with a bad crowd. I was letting my whole family down, until our Gracie beat some sense into me one day.”
Alex grinned through her tears. “Sounds like her. You’re lucky to have her, Mark.”
A faint smile curled his lips. “Yeah, I am, and Mum. She sat me down that night, and I thought, I’m in for it now. But she didn’t yell—she hugged me, and cried. We both did. I hadn’t cried since the day she told us Dad had died.”
Alex could imagine Niamh: loving, but firm, trying to put herself in Mark’s shoes, to understand his torment. “You have such a great mum.”
“Yeah. She wasn’t a pushover, though. I knew some kind of punishment was coming. Pulling me out of football seemed the obvious choice, but she put me in afterschool drama classes.”
“Like you said in your email…”
He nodded. “Mum thought drama would help me. At the time, I didn’t get it. I thought drama class was just goofing around, but it meant a lot to Mum, so I wanted to really give it a go, for her…”
“And did you take to it, right away?” Alex smiled.
“Ahh, Lex, I loved it. I loved
being part of a group, a team really, creating something together. I loved playing with accents, getting lost in my imagination—being someone else for a while. Drama became my escape. Plus, I was good at it. People I didn’t know clapped and cheered. I couldn’t get enough. When I was up on that stage, I wasn’t that sad little kid anymore, the one who let his family down, the boy everyone felt sorry for—losing his brother and dad. I knew it made Mum happy, seeing me throw my heart into something…positive.”
As the tears faded from Mark’s eyes, Alex spotted something else: determination. She squeezed his hand. He reciprocated by rubbing hers gently with his thumb.
“I’m still that twelve-year-old kid in a lot of ways. I think a part of me will always feel guilty, but the psychologist helped me see that Kieran’s death was just a tragic accident—it wasn’t my fault. And Dad…he was proud of me…I didn’t let him down. I’d like to think he would be proud of me now, too, you know?”
“Mark, he would be. He is.”
“I hope so. I figured speaking to the psychologist might get my stress and ulcer under control, but I had no idea he would make me relive my childhood. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Lex.”
“You’re strong—stronger than you think. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of you.”
Mark smiled. “Thanks. I always thought I was working non-stop for noble reasons: to make sure Mum was looked after, to lay a foundation for my life with you…but my therapist blew that theory out of the water.”
Alex blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand…”
“My guilt about Kieran and Dad’s deaths was feeding my need to work non-stop. He said I’ve been using the adulation from fans and audiences as a sort of Band-Aid, to feel better about myself and soothe my guilt over losing them. His words bowled me over. They also made me think about when I gave Mum her new house.”
“Really…why?”
“That initial happy feeling…being able to do something so BIG for Mum? I think part of me hoped it might dissolve my guilt for good, but it didn’t. On some level, I needed another hit of ‘Well done, son!’ My therapist said that’s why I didn’t even consider saying no to anything Wink was putting in front of me. I desperately needed the praise that new projects, new press might get me. I’m basically a praise junkie, chasing jobs non-stop to feel better about myself. The bigger the project, the bigger the audience; the bigger the audience, the more approval; the more approval, the easier it is for me to bury my guilt—for a while, anyway…”
London, Can You Wait? Page 35