Alex’s eyes bulged. “People are coming over tonight?”
Tom peered past Alex, distracted by a clattering racket coming from the bathroom. “Yeah, Friday night…time to let loose after a busy week.” He picked up several magazines and loped towards his bedroom.
The unemployed actor needs to let his hair down.
“Can I have a quick shower first?” asked Alex.
“Sure.” Tom wandered down the hall ahead of her.
The bathroom door remained closed; Olivia must be inside. Alex entered her tiny room to squirrel away her purchases. True to his word, Tom had moved his sister’s hoard of shopping, so the floor gained maybe ten square feet of space.
He stuck his head back around the doorway. “Towels for the pretty lady and a top to put on afterwards. Sorry it’s a football shirt. I haven’t got round to doing my laundry, so clean clothes are scarce.”
The back of the shirt read Terry with a number twenty-six—a Chelsea Football Club shirt. She couldn’t walk around in just her bra. “Thanks. My dad would freak if he saw this. He’s a lifelong Manchester United fan. The Mancs despise Chelsea.”
“Tell me about it. And for the record, the feeling’s mutual.” Tom winked.
Alex hugged the towels and popped open her shampoo. A familiar whiff of citrus filled her nose. Home in a bottle. In a few minutes, the shower’s warm water would wash away all the day’s dirt and, she hoped, all of its drama.
“I’ve made the worst first impression. I wouldn’t blame your sister if she hated me.”
Tom scrunched up his nose, dismissively.
“No, Tom think about it. Some random girl you don’t know invades your home, and wrecks your clothing? I’d hate me, too.”
He patted her back. “Get cleaned up and then we’ll get pissed. Let’s forget today.”
She scooped up her toothpaste and hair care products, and shuffled into the now vacant bathroom, but the claw-foot tub was already occupied—with a jagged mountain of ice cubes. Alex frowned and sank down on the tub’s edge.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you wanted a bath,” said Olivia, strutting into the bathroom with her arms filled with bottles and cans. “Curse of the small fridge. We’re chilling the beer and wine in here, but you can still freshen up. I’ll get you a flannel for a quick wash at the sink. People will be here in just over an hour, so best be quick.”
Five
English muffins popped out of the toaster, their edges scorched. Alex’s hunger didn’t care. She spread a thick layer of butter into their crevices and then cracked open her jar of Nutella. The nutty chocolate flavour would overpower any burnt bits.
She checked her phone. 11:15 a.m. May 23. A Saturday. How did she fall asleep and miss the entire party last night? It must’ve been a rager. Discarded lemon wedges, wine glasses, and bottle caps lay strewn across both counters, and the smell of stale smoke and weed hung in the air. Two trays of half-eaten crackers, rubbery veggies, and goopy dips junked up the top of the stove. Empty bottles of wine and Jack Daniels hid behind the trash can in the corner. A cricket bat rested on the lounge floor beside the shiny bike, both surrounded by toppled beer bottles. Clearly, she was dead to the world last night.
So dead, she also broke her promise to phone her dad. One moment, she was checking Facebook at 6:30 p.m. while testing out her lumpy futon. The next, jolting awake this morning in a strange room. Blame drama and jet lag. She dashed off a text to her father:
‘Dad, fell asleep and didn’t wake up until this morning. Hope you didn’t worry. No luggage yet. Haven’t seen Harry, but am ok and getting settled. Speak soon. Alex xo’
She owed her mom, Geraldine, a message too. Letting her know that she had arrived safely in London—the mature thing to do. She’d rather skip it. The clashes between Alex and her mom were legendary in the Sinclair family. They fought over everything: clothes, Alex’s picky eating, panic attacks—but her playwriting aspirations ranked as her mother’s favourite target.
Geraldine always championed her older children, Kathryn and Robbie, who were twelve and ten years older than their youngest sibling. Alex never quite measured up to them despite her solid grades and talent for storytelling. Her mom didn’t value Alex’s artistic flair. To Geraldine, a career with prospects, status and a big pay cheque—impressing friends, family, and business associates—was the only path to take. It’s all about the bragging rights.
Michael insisted that Alex follow her passion at college. Forcing her into law or medicine to become a corporate attorney or emergency room doctor like her sister and brother, would be a cruel waste of her creative gifts. He didn’t have the heart to impose such an agenda on his baby girl, and as a result, Geraldine viewed Alex as her ex-husband’s problem. He could worry about her, pay the tuition, and support her when her writing dreams amounted to nothing.
Her mom’s harshest words were burnt into Alex’s memory: “A job in the arts isn’t respectable. You’ll struggle for years with nothing to show for it. You’ll embarrass yourself, Alex—and worse, you’ll embarrass me.” She desperately wanted to prove her mother wrong, and was determined not to return to Florida until she had made her mark.
Geraldine didn’t deserve a blow-by-blow account of her new life abroad, but if Alex shirked this one small responsibility, she’d never hear the end of it from her dad. Old habits ran deep. She’d walk barefoot over shards of glass to avoid upsetting him. His voice rang in her ears: “It wouldn’t kill you to send one text, or leave a quick voicemail message.”
The five-hour time difference meant that a text or call would wake up her mom or interfere with her early morning gym session. Alex chose the least invasive option—a Facebook update. Her mom could read it at her leisure, and Alex could avoid speaking to her. Besides, most Saturdays her mom had back-to-back real estate viewings with her clients. Alex would be lucky to hear from her hours from now, if at all.
She typed a quick status update and set her phone down on the small kitchen table, its surface littered with lipstick-ringed cigarette butts, corks, and a woman’s telephone number jotted down on an ATM slip. She tugged open the under-the-counter fridge. How do Brits make do with such teeny refrigerators? It looked like a mini-bar. She bent over to get a better look.
Two hands, cloaked in fuzzy black sleeves, tickled her waist from behind.
“Arrrrgh!” She flicked her hair out of her eyes…
“It’s you.” Alex’s grin could’ve powered half of London’s East End.
“Ha ha. I didn’t mean to startle you. I can’t believe you’re actually here…in my flat making breakfast.” Harry let her go and tightened his plush black robe, his dark blonde hair pointing in all directions. He smelt like freshly laundered towels.
Alex bounced on the spot, her eyes taking in all five foot ten inches of him. Even though they had last been together two weeks ago, their separation felt like an eternity.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. The beer supplier for the club fouled up our order and with it being the start of the weekend, I had to fix it in person. Then we had a leak in the ladies’ room, and the hostess quit without notice. One disaster after another.”
He pulled open a canister holding tea bags. “I didn’t get home until gone three. Fancy a cuppa?”
Alex nodded and sat down at the table with her chocolate-coated English muffins. Harry’s sugary tea was legendary. In college, they shared many an evening ranting about their course work over a comfy mug of tea and a plate of cookies—or biscuits, as Harry called them.
“The party was on its last legs when I got in, so I only saw Tom and Livvy briefly. He mentioned your luggage was missing. And I can see he tried to help you out. Nice Chelsea kit, Manc girl!”
Alex stuck her tongue out at him just as Olivia sauntered into the room. His girlfriend made a point of hugging Harry tightly from behind, giving him a lingering kiss on the temple. Her long dark hair tumbled onto his shoulder as she nuzzled his neck. “Morning, darling. We missed you last
night. You owe me.”
Harry turned to face Olivia and kissed her lips. “I do, do I? Well, before my princess calls in her debts, I have a favour to ask you.”
He fetched a third mug from the cupboard and elbowed several prosecco bottles to make space on the counter. “Alex is still waiting for her suitcases to arrive, so why don’t you take her shopping for clothes this afternoon, get a few essentials to tide her over? Shopping is your cardio. Go on, you know you want to.”
Alex’s eyes shifted from Harry to Olivia.
Olivia jerked her head back, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “I was planning on revising the seating plan for the young playwrights fundraiser, but…I suppose it can wait.” She tightened the belt of her pink silk robe with a sharp tug.
Harry beamed. “Of course it can wait. It doesn’t happen for another two weeks.”
He poured hot water into two of the three mugs and chuckled at Alex’s plate of chocolate drenched muffins. “Alex, sweetheart, I see fruit’s still banned from your breakfasts. Is it safe to assume you still like three spoonfuls of sugar in your tea, too?”
Olivia crossed her arms and squinted, first at Alex, then at Harry. Her mouth fell open, but no words came out.
Alex shifted in her chair, one foot jittering underneath the table. “Yep, guilty as charged. My dentist was in tears when I left Florida.”
She smiled at Harry, and chewed a mouthful of English muffin, but the butterflies whirling in her stomach and the chill creeping up her spine hinted that Olivia’s eyes remained locked on her.
Harry handed Alex her steaming mug, then turned to his girlfriend. “I’ve switched on the coffee maker so it should be ready shortly, babe. Right, I’m jumping in the shower. Must get back to Bespoke. I’ll see my two favourite girls later.”
He kissed Olivia on the lips and squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “Olivia will show you the ropes. Have fun today.”
Mug in hand, he headed off to the bathroom leaving the two women submerged in a suffocating silence. Only the ticking carriage clock and the hissing shower head pierced the quiet. Olivia kept her head down, leaning against the counter, scrolling manically through Twitter on her Swarovski-jewelled iPhone. Alex counted the seconds it took for the Nutella and melting butter to drown the nooks and crannies of her muffin.
Several minutes later, Tom’s shuffled into sight, naked except for a pair of low-slung baggy shorts that matched the Chelsea top Alex wore. He scratched at a sparse patch of dark hair on his chest.
“Morning, ladies. Ooh, that was a heavy night.”
He spotted Alex’s half-eaten breakfast and rubbed his temples. “I don’t think I can tolerate brekkie. When did your friends become so boring, Olivia? I had to get totally polluted to have any semblance of a good time.”
Olivia rolled her eyes and shoved Alex’s unopened Frosties out of her way, plucking a box of fair trade muesli from the top of the microwave. She poured a stingy amount into a bowl.
“You seemed to have no complaints last I saw you. Who was that awful girl you were snogging? You barely came up for air.” A splash of soy milk topped her breakfast.
Tom ignored his sister and flopped down onto the chair beside Alex, picking up the ATM receipt. His bleary eyes focused on the handwritten phone number. He pulled a cigarette from a packet on the table.
Olivia shot him a withering dose of side-eye. “Obviously you liked what you sampled, if the moans coming from your bedroom at 4 a.m. were anything to go by.”
Ick. Alex’s room shared a wall with Tom’s. Thank goodness for her comatose slumber. A play-by-play of Tom bumping uglies?
She also didn’t want to be caught in the middle of another sister-brother squabble. She silently gathered her dishes and bundled them into the dishwasher. The siblings continued bickering, so she left them to it. She ran into a squeaky clean Harry wrapped in white towels on the way to his bedroom.
“Are they kicking off again? Take no notice. They do love each other, but you wouldn’t know it.”
“They’re pretty hardcore,” said Alex.
“Look, I feel awful about your room. You were supposed to have Tom’s. I warned Livvy it was a bad idea, having him move in. He’s a good laugh and means well, but once here, he’ll never budge. He’s not exactly a self-starter.”
Alex giggled. “Yeah, he gave me that impression. He’s an actor? When was his last audition?”
“A few months ago. And at this rate, he’ll never be treading the boards at the National or guest starring on EastEnders. He got kicked out of RADA, and since then he’s been faffing about. Their parents got fed up with his mooching and cut off his cash, hoping it would push him into action. No such luck.”
“I wish I had a trust fund,” Alex fluttered her eyelashes at Harry. “What’s that like?”
Harry laughed. “Cheeky monkey.” He playfully shoved her and slipped into his room.
Tom and Olivia’s conversation grew louder in the kitchen, so Alex claimed the elusive bathroom. It had been thirty-six hours since her last shower back in Florida. She gathered towels, her toiletries, and clothes, and shut the bathroom door on the warring siblings.
She twisted the shower’s handle and waited for a steamy surge of water. A lukewarm, half-hearted sprinkle dripped onto her head. It barely saturated her hair. Is that IT?! Haven’t the Brits discovered water pressure yet? She shivered and lathered up quickly.
By one o’clock that afternoon, the two women were on their way. Alex couldn’t wait to kiss goodbye to her day-old flight attire, but she dreaded having Olivia as a shopping companion. Her tepid welcome was unsettling and standing next to the statuesque brunette in her fashionable red, black, and orange DVF shirtdress, and espadrille wedges, Alex—back in her baggy Captain America tee and yoga pants—resembled a shrimpy teenager on take-your-kids-to-work day. The pimple definitely didn’t help her look older or sophisticated, either.
Alex never chased the latest trends or drained her savings on designer labels. Her go-to outfits consisted of dark jeans, t-shirts, and Converse All-Stars. When she was feeling particularly girly, she’d channel Jess Day, Zooey Deschanel’s character on the TV show New Girl, in cute retro-influenced skirts or dresses with a cardigan and flats—comfy but presentable.
The women popped into an independent coffee shop tucked underneath the arches of London Fields Overground station. Olivia desperately craved a cappuccino to fuel the afternoon shopping excursion.
Harry had warned Alex that their Hackney ‘hood was hipster central, and he wasn’t kidding. Guys with big beards, skinny jeans, and hats left their bicycles outdoors and queued for coffee with women dressed in crop tops and high-waisted jeans. Alex tugged at her creased outfit. Their trendy vibe made her feel even more out of sorts. She stepped outdoors to pet two bulldogs that were whining, missing their owners. “On the outside looking in, guys. I know how you feel,” whispered Alex, scratching their chubby shoulder rolls.
Drink in hand, striding through the door, Olivia took charge, proclaiming her distaste for London’s most popular shopping destination. “Forget Oxford Street. I despise it.” She adjusted her Dior Sauvage sunglasses while balancing her white leather Burberry hobo bag on the crook of her arm. “One day you’ll see what I mean. It’s overflowing with slow walking tourists and bratty teenagers. I’m taking you to my favourite shopping area in Chelsea. It has designer shops, plus the more popular chains, something for both our tastes.”
She carefully sipped her steaming cup. “And let’s skip the Tube. It’ll be hot and sweaty, and there are too many changes between here and Sloane Square. The drive will take about thirty-five minutes, so we’ll have plenty of time to chat.” She waved at a taxi. The first one in sight swerved to her command.
Alex sat down in awe, taking in her first ride in an authentic London black cab. Clean, tons of legroom—so different from the rank, dirty crampfests back home in the States. She buckled the seatbelt with no fear of finding a questionable sticky substance lurking on its strap. Her legs happily s
tretched out as far as they could reach; her Converse still couldn’t touch the other side of the seating compartment. She felt like the Queen.
Olivia seemed softer, chattier. Maybe Tom was right and her dark moods were his fault? The questions began to flow.
“How did you move over here? I thought it was impossible for Americans to live here unless they had a firm job offer.”
Alex pushed a random button, sliding the window open. A welcoming cool breeze soothed her clammy skin. “I was born here—well, not here, but in Manchester. I have dual citizenship.”
“Really?”
“My family flew over from Florida in July ’93 for my grandfather’s funeral, my dad’s dad…” Alex trailed off, distracted by the old pubs and quirky Bethnal Green shops whizzing past.
“Mom was seven months pregnant and went into labour the day after the funeral. I was born two months premature. Dad says Mom was furious we couldn’t go straight home afterwards. She doesn’t like England at all—hates the weather, hates the food, and hates my dad’s relatives. I was in the hospital for just shy of two months. We went back to Florida in early September, so Kathryn and Robbie—that’s my older sister and brother—didn’t miss much of the new school year.”
Olivia pulled out her phone to check for messages. “I had no idea you were half English.”
“Yeah, I guess that explains why I adore all things British. It’s in my blood. My dad was born in Manchester but moved to Florida in the late seventies. That’s when he met Mom. He got hired by Walmart and worked his way up into management. When Walmart bought Asda supermarkets here in ’99, he was asked to manage the transition in Manchester, but he never came home.”
“That must have been tough.”
“I cried myself to sleep every night for a year. I was only six. I felt completely abandoned and didn’t understand why he didn’t take me with him. Before he left, we were inseparable. We used to watch old Doctor Who episodes on VHS for hours on end; it drove my mother bonkers.”
London Belongs to Me Page 4