London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  She re-read his last sentence— ‘London is definitely better with you in it!’ She blushed and relaxed into a smile that was more genuine than all the other grins circulating around her, but Harry stepped away, tapping his foot, his eyes scanning the garden. Now wasn’t the time to share her snapshots. She dashed off a brief reply:

  ‘Mark, love the photos! Thank you for being so kind and making a lost American feel at home. Strawberry Tears Forever! Alex’

  She slid the phone into her clutch and retrieved her glass from Harry.

  A waitress paraded past, handing out pamphlets listing the items up for auction. Alex accepted one, and began fanning herself with it. The late day sun sizzled and showed no signs of leaving the party.

  “Ah, there she is.”

  Harry rushed to the far end of the patio where Olivia, perfectly presented in a Christopher Kane lilac lace dress, held court surrounded by a gaggle of women. Alex followed a few steps behind, keeping his blue elbow within reach. He greeted his girlfriend with a discreet kiss on each cheek, conscious of her current company. In turn, she inserted herself under his right arm, claiming ownership. The ladies swooned over the glamorous pairing.

  Noticing Alex, Olivia stiffened, throwing her an incredulous stare. Her mauve lips pinched briefly, before releasing into a plastic smile worthy of a beauty pageant contestant.

  Alex blinked several times, confused by Ms. Chadwick-Smythe’s disdainful welcome.

  Olivia tilted her flushed cheeks back towards her boyfriend, fluttering her false eyelashes and stroking his face. “I’m so glad you made it, darling. It means a lot, taking the night off from Bespoke to be here for me.”

  Harry pressed his lips tenderly against his girlfriend’s forehead. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  Olivia beamed at her faithful female audience and absorbed their rapt appreciation. Her confidence seemed effortless, like she was born with it, another win in the genetics lottery along with long legs and blemish-free skin.

  Alex broke her stare. She’d been gawking at their public display of affection for too long. Nausea toyed with her stomach. That’s what you get for guzzling champagne under the influence of the sweltering sun. She surrendered her empty glass to a passing waiter.

  She glanced in the opposite direction. Geez, was that Kevin Spacey? He used to have something to do with the Old Vic Theatre, so maybe?

  Several feet away from Maybe-Spacey, she spied Tom, tie askew in a summery white suit, leaning against a large cement plant container. Glass in hand, he whispered in the ear of a pretty Asian girl. She was wearing an expensive silk mini dress that floated around her hips like a cloud. Great. Another person that made Alex feel under dressed. The silk cloud didn’t care for what Tom was proposing because she shot him a disdainful look and glommed onto the first person passing by. Poor Tom. Such a trier. If he put as much energy into his acting career as he did shagging around, he might be winning BAFTAs by now.

  Since Harry found Olivia, Alex hadn’t spoken a word. The clique surrounding the brunette felt incestuous like they all knew each other and weren’t open to outsiders. To be fair, Alex knew she wasn’t the best at initiating conversation with strangers. The thought of it made her even more feverish and dizzy. She pondered an escape. A bench beckoned under a shady tree, but Harry stepped in to the rescue.

  “Ladies, before we get too carried away discussing the pros and cons of ten quid theatre tickets, let me introduce you to a new voice on London’s theatre scene. Meet my good friend Alexandra Sinclair. She’s a recent playwriting graduate from the States.”

  “Welcome to London, Alexandra,” said one theatre supporter, extending her hand. “How long will you be staying?”

  Alex grinned, shaking her hand. “Forever, I hope.”

  “Such a pleasure to meet you, Alexandra,” said another.

  Alex didn’t dare glance up at Olivia. She didn’t have to—her silent contempt pricked Alex’s skin like a pesky heat rash.

  “Yes, Alex is here to test the waters, and we’re doing everything we can to help,” said Olivia. “It’s hard coming from so far away with no contacts or support. An artist can’t flourish in isolation.”

  The group agreed with a chorus of approval, and continued to ask Alex about Florida. One of them enquired whether she had attended the polo season there. Oh, how her mom would’ve loved this. She stifled a giggle. “No, I haven’t, but—”

  Olivia jumped in before she could finish. “The auction will begin in an hour’s time, so be sure to look over the list and see what grabs your fancy. There’s an afternoon tea at The Ritz with Sir Ian McKellen that’s certain to be hugely popular.”

  Her words worked their magic, sending her affluent associates scurrying off to the Great Saloon to take a gander. While one group of arts patrons departed, another arrived, doling out handshakes to both Harry and Olivia. One member of this three-person team Alex recognized instantly.

  Isabella Archer.

  Alex gawked. Isabella was only in her mid-thirties but in the flesh could’ve easily passed for mid-twenties. In a venue populated by designer dresses and trendy fashion statements, her quirky style made her all the more charismatic. She defied tonight’s fashion rules in black jeans, a white t-shirt, and beat-up cherry red Doc Martins. A glittery black and silver scarf snaked through her belt loops. Alex had read that Isabella never wore dresses or skirts. A haphazard bun spilled curly dark blonde tendrils down her long neck. She stood out like an Oreo cookie amidst a jarful of Jammie Dodgers. Isabella didn’t follow the crowd and didn’t care. Alex adored her for it.

  Isabella had created a buzz on the UK theatre landscape as a twenty-three-year-old wunderkind from the small town of South Elmsall, up north in Yorkshire. Her edgy debut play was picked up unsolicited by the Soho Theatre and went on to earn her an Olivier Award. The Royal Court snapped up her second work a few months later, and in the ten years that followed, Isabella’s plays captured awards and entertained packed theatres across the country. Alex couldn’t have chosen a worthier idol; a young woman forging her way in a tough business, ripe with rejection and shattered dreams. Her hard work, talent, and drive were legendary, plus she had a reputation for mentoring young writers.

  “Olivia, it’s nice to see you again; thanks for inviting me. Congratulations on tonight’s festivities. Impressive. You should be proud. Nights like this one can really make a difference for young playwrights…such as yourself.”

  Isabella introduced Olivia and Harry to the two people by her side. Their names flew over Alex’s head. Only Isabella remained in focus. Her role model stood just a handshake away. She dried her clammy palms on her dress in case salutations extended in her direction.

  The celebrated playwright shifted her attention towards the short blonde. “Hello. I’m Isabella.”

  Alex met her hand halfway. “Hi. Alex Sinclair. It’s a thrill to meet you, Ms. Archer.”

  “Lovely! You’re American. Call me Isabella, please.”

  Alex dissolved into a tongue-tied stupor. She had so many things she’d love to ask, but her mind collapsed into her bubbling stomach.

  Harry smirked and sipped his glass. He’d known Alex long enough to recognize an internal freak out. She needed a parachute. “Isabella, Alex graduated top of her playwriting class at Emory University this spring. She’s really talented. I think she’d make a great candidate for your upcoming writing workshop.”

  Olivia looked away, rolling her eyes. Her sour reaction flew under everyone’s radar.

  Alex’s cheeks grew warm.

  “It’s wonderful to meet a new face.” Isabella’s smile didn’t hold back. “The London theatre world can be quite cliquey and insular. New ideas, new voices are always welcome. It’s the only way our community will thrive.”

  The Floridian nodded, fazed to be in the presence of her idol.

  “Funny that you mention my workshop, Harry.” Isabella turned to Olivia. “Are you submitting a play again this year? Rejection is never f
un, but I’m sure you learned from some of the constructive criticism last year.” She handed her empty glass to a passing waiter. “And will our new American friend be submitting as well? The final deadline is only two weeks away, though. Think you’ll be ready?”

  Olivia pushed her shoulders back. “I will.” Her words stepped all over Isabella’s. “I’m working on something special that celebrates British women.”

  Harry pulled her close. “Leave it to my girl to come up with something riveting and socially responsible.” He released Olivia from his clinch, letting her take centre stage.

  Alex tossed her bangs out of her eyes, looking wide-eyed at Olivia. Her idea must be impressive. She’s in such a hurry to share. Hopefully her own idea wouldn’t pale in comparison.

  Isabella folded her arms in expectation. “Okay, Olivia. Elevator pitch—go.”

  The brunette ran her hand through her sleek blowout, her amethyst rock glinting in the sunny haze. “It’s a British story of strong, courageous women and their devotion to a cause that was viewed as illegal and threatening by their men and society at large—the suffragette movement…”

  What? Did she hear that right? Alex’s jaw dropped. A rush of adrenaline pulsated through her body, jolting the peach fuzz on her arms to attention. Her hand clamoured for the charm on her necklace.

  “…Today we take our equality for granted, but back in the early 1900s, the idea of women voting, of having a say in governmental affairs was verboten. My play, featuring an all-female cast, even the male roles will be portrayed by women—”

  Isabella interrupted. “I love it! A twist on gender and traditional acting roles. Go on.”

  Alex glared at Harry’s girlfriend, but her stare wasn’t met. Olivia’s eyes stayed glued to Isabella the entire time. Nothing could come between Olivia and her pitch.

  “It will expose the trials, tribulations, and violence that brought radical change to British society and show people whom to thank for the advancements women enjoy today.” She held her chin high and swung her arms loosely behind her back. Job done.

  Harry couldn’t praise his girlfriend enough. “Babe, that’s incredible. I thought you were set on that Hackney hipster idea, but this one’s even better.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, emanoured. “Love the feminist angle. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  Harry couldn’t be more proud.

  Alex couldn’t be more horrified.

  Beads of perspiration formed on the back of her neck, threatening to soak through the fine weave of her jersey dress. She needed to simmer down—stat. Her furious waving of the auction pamphlet, in time with her rapid-fire heart, flapped an unreliable breeze that did little to curb her sweating. She shivered while her face grew hotter and hotter.

  Olivia continued to elaborate on the amount of research she had apparently completed and why this story had to be told now. Isabella ate it up. The two older arts patrons, planted like bookends on either side of the award-winning playwright, nodded their approval as well. Harry beamed so hard, Alex worried his face might crack.

  Short, shallow breaths slipped from Alex’s mouth. She pieced together a few scattered thoughts. Olivia had stolen not just the idea; she had stolen her entire play. Why? Why would she do such a thing? And right in front of her…and Harry.

  Her stomach lurched as if she had just missed a step walking down a flight of stairs; funny how you can plummet into the dark pit of anxiety when your feet are still planted on solid ground. The looming circle of Olivia, Isabella, the two theatre bigwigs, and Harry began to stretch and twist over her head, the sky’s flossy pinky clouds stuck in their hair like cotton candy.

  A jubilant Isabella turned to Alex. The American’s pounding heart filled her ears, leaving all sounds muffled, as if underwater.

  “What will you be submitting, Alex?”

  It felt like all eyes in the garden were locked on her. She struggled to focus, to find the words. Her Waterloo Bridge idea…way too early to share.

  “Go on, Alex. You must have some great ideas brewing…” Harry’s voice and raised eyebrows urged her to announce a passion project.

  With her body acting out, losing control, her frayed mind couldn’t process what to say. The creased pamphlet slipped from her hand.

  A half-smile raised the corners of Olivia’s lips, its silent threat forcing Alex’s stomach into a sickening death spiral.

  She swallowed but couldn’t wash away the excess saliva flooding her tongue. Choking back tears, she dug her fingernails into her palm. The desire to simply melt like butter through the patio stones, overpowering.

  “I was working on something, but…” Her sideways look at Olivia captured the brunette’s smile reaching further across her rosy cheeks with each passing second. Alex’s breathing disintegrated into jerky, garden-swaying bursts, this rollercoaster ride showing no signs of stopping. “But I…I’m sorry…please excuse me…”

  A surge of nausea stung her throat. She scurried away towards the washroom without uttering another word.

  Alex’s whole body shuddered with each violent spell of vomiting, her throat raw, her face slick with sweat and unrelenting tears. Her left foot lay bare, its corresponding shoe missing in action. Dizzy and scared that she’d pass out on the cold floor, she gripped the toilet bowl to retain some control.

  If her career suicide on the patio didn’t rank high enough in the humiliation stakes, a jagged shred of light blue and purple material dangled from the metal toilet paper dispenser above her head. She patted a hand over her chest and along her waist. The tear sliced near the hip. Her dress must have snagged during her desperate plunge to the cubicle floor. Forget escaping from this nightmare with her dignity intact. How could she cover up? The warm weather had dictated no need for a coat.

  The restroom’s wooden door swung open, and a sole female entered. Alex braced herself in the hopes that she wouldn’t vomit while she had company.

  Harry was right. These people would remember her, but for all the wrong reasons. Her body lurched forward once more, but her stomach had nothing left to expel.

  A sterile click of stilettos on the tile bathroom floor halted outside of Alex’s stall. She didn’t think anything of it until one of the heels kicked her missing shoe underneath the opening of her cubicle’s door.

  A familiar voice echoed against the walls of the vacant loo. “It must be you. You’re the only person who would wear cheap ballet pumps to a society event. Don’t bother getting up.”

  The heels turned towards the wall of mirrors facing the row of stalls. Alex heard a clutch snap open and assumed Olivia was reapplying her lipstick. “Well, that didn’t go to script. You weren’t meant to be here tonight, but what’s a theatrical presentation without a little improv, eh?” Another snap stabbed the quiet.

  Alex shook intermittently, waiting for Olivia to speak again, but no further words floated over the stall door.

  Olivia strode purposely towards the exit. The washroom’s air filled with loud music and enthusiastic voices. A slight breeze wafted in from the open doorway.

  The door slammed shut, leaving Alex alone once again.

  Fourteen

  “All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”

  – Havelock Ellis

  Alex climbed into the black cab and fell into the warm embrace from Lucy and Freddie. Her fingers clung desperately to the rip in her dress, maintaining what little modesty she had left. Lucy unfurled a cardigan across the jagged tear, prompting Alex to release her iron grip. The sickly white hue occupying her blood-deprived knuckles began its slow retreat. A blush of sunburn brightened her nose, in contrast with the tear-soaked smudges of mascara and eyeliner that gave her pale skin a spooky Goth-like aura.

  “Thanks for rescuing me, guys. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m glad you called me. We’re here for you no matter what.” Lucy held onto Alex’s clutch. “I cannot believe the nerve of that poisonous bitch. God help her if we’re eve
r face-to-face.”

  “Actually, you did us a favour,” said Freddie, attempting to make Alex smile. “Lucy’s co-workers are tragic. If I had to hear one more word about the ‘optimum crunch of a baguette’, I was going to throw myself from the bloody Shard.”

  “Freds, shush.” Lucy turned back to her distressed friend. “What do you want to do? You don’t want to sleep there tonight, do you? Should we swing by yours, grab some clothes, then head to mine?”

  She shook her head. “No, can we go straight to yours?”

  “Sure. I’ll loan you some comfies to put on.” Lucy leaned towards the cab’s plastic partition. “Excuse me, mate. We’re headed to Henshaw Street in Southwark. Cheers.”

  She rubbed Alex’s back. “Once we’re settled, do you want to go out? It’s only eight o’clock. We could go to the pub, whatever you want…”

  “No, but I could murder something to eat.” Alex wiped her red nose with a shaky hand. “God, I haven’t been that sick for ages. I only drank a little champagne.”

  “I blame that snobby bitch,” said Freddie. “Betrayal will turn your stomach every time.”

  Alex stepped out of the teeny upstairs bathroom clad in a pair of Lucy’s tracksuit bottoms, an oversized blue Ravenclaw t-shirt, and a dark grey hoodie. She looked like any other recent college grad, except for her puffy eyes, swollen nose, and hunched shoulders.

  She wandered downstairs to the living room and flopped on the flowery love seat, tucking her legs underneath her and laying her head on the overstuffed cushions. Freddie claimed the spot to her left, wrapping her in a sympathetic squeeze. Alex sighed, thankful for his gesture.

  Lucy’s rental was a typical London terrace house. Two rooms on the ground floor, a small bedroom upstairs along with the bathroom and some storage, and Lucy’s bedroom on the third floor—cramped but cozy. The front room of the main floor was the place to hang out, with a small TV and a hodgepodge of DVDs. Lucy’s tastes fought for space with her flatmates’ favourites. Thankfully, Lucy’s were winning. There were far more DVDs dedicated to superheroes, antisocial detectives, and aliens than there were earnest folk rock documentaries. The bongos, spiky plants, and Jethro Tull vinyl clearly didn’t belong to Lucy.