London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  A tightness squeezed Alex’s throat. “What did you do?” Her vision blurred.

  “Duuurgh! Do keep up, Alex!” She glanced at her glittery watch. “He’s probably cleaned out his locker by now…”

  Alex shoved past Olivia and through the thick throng of partygoers. At the coat check counter, the numbered silver button slipped from her shaking hand, clinking and rolling amidst the Jimmy Choos and Louboutins. She knelt down, her palms padding the floor under the disdainful stares and unpredictable feet of arriving guests.

  “Looking for this?” A male voice floated over her shoulder.

  She swiveled to her right. Ohmagod! She blinked several times. Rupert Grint. Crouching down beside her, holding her coat check button. First Emma Watson and now…this…a verifiable Harry Potter-palooza.

  “Yes, thank you.” Alex accepted the silver disc from Rupert’s hand. She stared at the ginger-haired actor as he lifted her up.

  “Happy to help.” He smiled and rejoined his friends, who were discarding their jackets.

  She caught her breath and slid the button towards the woman behind the counter. At any other time, she’d be buzzing like a fangirl over Rupert, but Mark mattered more.

  Coat in hand, she hobbled through the scrum at the front door, desperate to get back to Winston’s to catch Mark.

  “No, no, no. Please be there.”

  In her haste, several fleshy blisters pinched their dissatisfaction, each step like a sharp pencil piercing her toes and heels. She took a peek. Great. Splotches of blood had soaked into the lining. Screw elegance. She ripped off her heels and ran barefoot along the damp sidewalk, juggling both shoes and her clutch. The doorman at Winston’s glowered at her dirty bare feet. He made no attempt to open the door for her.

  “H-h-hello. I was part of the Manville private party earlier. I forgot something inside. Could I please see the hostess?”

  He pursed his lips and yanked open the heavy door just as raindrops began to speckle her coat. Alex stumbled towards the hostess desk and a blonde woman wearing a striking form-fitting grey dress.

  “Good evening. I was here with Harry Manville’s party an hour ago. I need to speak to one of the servers who waited on our group, Mark Keegan. Is he here?” She held her breath, her heart pounding. One of her heels slipped from her hands and bounced on the floor.

  The hostess blinked her smoky eyes a few times and shot a look over her shoulder. “Mark? He’s…left for the evening. I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

  Alex exhaled and tapped her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Shoot, okay…okay…right. Is he working tomorrow?”

  The employee swallowed and fussed with papers on the desk. “Actually…as of tonight he’s no longer employed by Winston’s.”

  The pinball machine in Alex’s stomach crashed into a game-changing tilt.

  Alex’s other shoe dropped, landing on her blistered bare toes. The sharp pain in her feet tingled, dissolving into a creeping numbness that swallowed her quivering legs like quicksand. “What?! Shit, Olivi—”

  She caught herself. “Sorry…okay, thanks for letting me know.”

  Stepping carefully into her shoes, she pulled her coat closed. Out in the street, the doorman held a large golf umbrella over her head. “Taxi, miss?”

  She shook her head, ducking away from its refuge. Rain beat down without mercy, her trench coat unable to keep up with the wet onslaught. Alex didn’t feel a drop as she limped into the road.

  He’d been fired. It was all her fault.

  A honking taxi burst her foggy bubble. She staggered back onto the curb towards an antiques store, its wide green awning offering a dry sanctuary to text. Her shaky fingers fought with the autocorrect:

  ‘Mark, are you okay?’

  She shivered in the chilly rain, waiting for an answer.

  Five minutes passed…nothing. Time for another text:

  ‘Freddie, have you heard from Mark? x’

  Several cars splashed by, fogged up with Saturday night pleasure seekers. Drunken patrons from a nearby bar staggered past. Alex opened Facebook on her phone, and with a few swipes and taps, unfriended Olivia. She blocked her from both Twitter and Instagram, too. The rain eased into a sporadic trickle, so she slouched off towards the nearest Tube station. Her phone finally pinged.

  ‘Mark’s here. Meet us at The Cut, the bar in the Young Vic Theatre. Southwark Tube. F xo’

  Alex pulled open the door to The Cut, unleashing a lively roar that spilled onto the wet South Bank street. She ignored the busy stairway leading to the upper level and scanned the packed ground floor. Thirsty patrons three deep jostled by the bar. The rest of the space boasted scattered tables and chairs—every seat taken.

  Lucy spotted her from a table tucked beside the window in the far left corner. She waved her hand, catching Alex’s attention.

  “Party over already?” Freddie smirked as he stood up to squeeze Alex. “What are you drinking?”

  “Jack Daniels and Coke, please.”

  “Since when?” said Lucy.

  “Since now. Shit night deserves a hard drink.”

  “On it.” Freddie deked to the side so Alex could slip through to the vacant chair across from Mark and against the window. “Another round?” Mark and Lucy nodded, and he disappeared towards the bar.

  Lucy reached diagonally across the table to hug her friend, just clearing the crowd of beer cans.

  Mark waited for them to finish and stood up to hug Alex, too. His stubble tickled her cheek. Alex pressed in even closer, a dream come true. She had fantasized about his face against hers, breathing in his sexy, clean scent. But his arms held her only fleetingly like an embrace from a stranger. She stepped back with a quivery smile, her heart sinking along with her hopes for a warm reunion.

  “I didn’t think we’d see you so soon,” said Lucy. “Then again, I didn’t think we’d see Mark at all this evening.”

  He ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned back in his chair, angled away from Alex. “Who says there’s no drama in waiting tables, eh?”

  Alex sat down, hugging her clutch, her rain dappled coat still buttoned up to the neck. “Are you okay, Mark?” She swallowed, trying to soothe her dry mouth. “I know what Olivia did. She couldn’t wait to tell me at Bespoke.”

  “Yeah, she had it in for me. Plain and simple.” He tugged at the shoulder of his white shirt, popping a button open below his collarbone. A flash of his chest teased her from across the table. “She complained through the entire meal, but I sucked it up, polite as you please. I’ve seen her kind before, but then she pulled a bloody kamikaze move on her own wine glass.”

  Alex blinked down at the table and bit her lip. “I think it’s my fault. Those friends of hers at dinner…I told Olivia’s flying monkeys that I knew you.” Her voice cracked. “I think Olivia got you fired…just to prove her power to me.”

  Mark shrugged and crossed his arms, his lean biceps bulging under the pressure. He seemed…standoffish.

  “Don’t worry about it. You might want to consider finding new friends, though.”

  Alex jumped in, shaking her head. “Oh God, no. Olivia’s not my friend. Her boyfriend Harry’s my friend, although I’m starting to re-think that after tonight.”

  “Really?” said Lucy. “He went along with her bullshit, then?”

  “All of it.” Alex kicked off her heels. “He said some disappointing things, too.”

  “That guy seems like an arse—plus he’s got shite taste in women,” said Mark.

  “Maybe I could say something to Harry. Get your job back? If he would just listen, I’m sure I could convince him that—”

  Mark shook his head. “Alex, leave it. Seriously. Don’t waste your breath.”

  Lucy nodded. “Didn’t I tell you? Harry and Olivia are one and the same, cut from the same cloth.”

  “Lucy, you don’t know him like I do—”

  “But do you really know him?”

  Alex sank back into her chair.

&nb
sp; Freddie parked a round tray of drinks and crisp bags on the table. He placed a Jack and Coke in front of Alex, gave Mark and Lucy each a can of Amber Ale, and kept an Aspalls cider for himself. “What did I miss?”

  “They’re powerful, rich, concerned only with themselves.” Mark sipped his beer, his eyes narrow. “God knows what else they’re capable of. I’d drop it if I were you.”

  “But you lost your job…”

  He let out a half laugh. “I appreciate your concern, Alex, really I do, but I’m not half as upset as you are. I hated wearing a tie for work. Glad to be rid.”

  “Silver lining,” said Lucy, ripping open a crisp packet.

  “Waiter and bartending jobs…they’re easy enough to land here. I’ll get another. Actually, a friend mentioned that the National Theatre was hiring bar staff. I’ll head over there Monday morning and apply.”

  Freddie fist pumped the air. “Yes. Free booze when we go to the theatre!”

  Mark smiled and cocked his right eyebrow. “I’ve just lost one waiting job, Freds. I don’t plan on losing another.”

  Alex rested her clutch on the table and slowly unbuttoned her damp trench, leaving it to pool on the chair behind her.

  “Pretty dress, Lex,” said Lucy. “Shame it was wasted on them.”

  Mark nodded, his expression softening. “Before you walked in, Lucy had started to tell me about last night. Something about Olivia and a fundraiser?”

  Alex frowned. “Yeah, she stole my play idea. Pitched it to Isabella Archer, right in front of me. This morning when I confronted her, she said she didn’t steal anything—’you can’t copyright an idea, Alex’. And to keep me in my place, she threatened my friendship with Harry and said she’d ruin me in the theatre community if I blabbed to anyone.”

  “Told you so!” said Freddie.

  Mark shook his head. “Jesus, what a bitch.” He leaned in. “Why are you hanging around with these people?”

  Alex rubbed her furrowed brow. “They’re the first people I met here. I didn’t know anyone else until I ran into Lucy.” A small sip of JD and Coke passed her lips.

  “I’ve seen them before at Winston’s. They’re a rich bunch—fair dues, I have no problem with that—but they’re elitist and full of themselves. Always looking down their noses, you know? To be honest, it really threw me seeing you there. It made me second guess what I knew about you.”

  His comment stung. Alex’s eyes widened. “I’m hardly rich. Definitely not elitist. I work in a greasy spoon, I shop at H&M… hell, give me a few more weeks, I’ll probably be addicted to that Primark chain, too.”

  Lucy rested her head on Mark’s left shoulder. “Bet you wondered where we picked up this wealthy snob, eh, Keegs?”

  He stole a few of Lucy’s crisps and unleashed his devastating smile. “I did wonder…”

  His grin melted away any lingering iciness. Alex caught his eye and held her breath, waiting for what he’d say next.

  “But in all seriousness, Alex—be careful. I don’t think you can’t trust any of them, even Harry.”

  She swallowed a gulp of her drink, sending a burning torrent down her throat, but once the warmth dissipated, the heaviness in her heart hijacked her attention. Everything that Lucy had warned her about had come to pass. She’d seen how spiteful Olivia could be and how blind Harry was to his girlfriend’s faults. Had she been wrong about Harry all along?

  Eighteen

  June evaporated into July—a blur of café shifts and marathon writing sessions at various coffee shops. Evenings and weekends, Alex reserved for Lucy and Freddie. The more time spent away from her flatmates, the better, but it didn’t calm the rootless feeling that bore into Alex’s restless heart. If anything, all this shuffling about made her turbulence worse.

  At some point, Olivia must have submitted the stolen suffragette play to Isabella’s mentorship program. Alex didn’t know for sure. Only a few terse words had been exchanged between the two since the night Olivia had Mark fired. Bespoke owned Harry, so Alex never saw him. Occasionally her ears were tormented by Tom’s hook-ups or she’d catch his conquests tiptoeing from his room, but apart from that, she felt like a ghost rattling around the Martello Street flat on her own.

  The theft of her play and the toxic flat environment extinguished her spark. London hadn’t been kind so far.

  It didn’t help that homesickness soured her stomach. She didn’t pine for her mom or Tallahassee, but she longed for familiar comforts: her spacious room, her go-to diner with its mouthwatering hush puppy recipe, and cheesy American daytime TV. She missed the family cat. She missed constant sunshine. She missed Twizzlers.

  Adrift between her old life and her new one.

  Freddie and Lucy tried to distract Alex by showing off her new hometown on the cheap. City-wide rides atop double-decker buses, strolls along the Thames, and excursions to Tower Bridge, the Changing of the Guard, and Camden Market put a slight dent in her wallowing, but nostalgia still threatened to yank her backwards. Despite protestations to the contrary, Alex was crap at letting go. Detaching from her old life was proving more difficult than she ever expected.

  The arrival of July 6—her birthday—required extra care. Lucy and Freddie chose the Pizza Express across from the Royal Festival Hall for dinner celebrations. Thank goodness Alex wore a floaty blue and white striped slip dress. A waistband would have meant bellyache central. Garlic butter-drenched dough balls, thin pizzas, and gooey chocolate cake slices left all three diners begging for gastronomical mercy.

  The birthday girl beamed. “You’re too good to me. It’s been a great twenty-second birthday. Thank you.” They stepped outside, embraced immediately by the unseasonably humid July air.

  “I’ve missed that smiley face,” said Freddie. “Keep those cheeks warmed up; the surprises aren’t over yet.”

  “I hate surprises,” said Alex.

  “Ah, shut up. C’mon!” Freddie motioned for her and Lucy to cross Belvedere Road.

  Lucy hopped over each crack in the pavement, her canary yellow shirtdress billowing with each leap. Alex smiled at her friend’s quirkiness, but pulled her attention away to check out the bridge stretching over their heads. Waterloo Bridge—the very bridge in her new play.

  If this overpass was Waterloo Bridge, then right next door stood…

  She halted in her tracks, her eyes wild in the dwindling light. “It’s not?!” Her voice echoed against its cement arch. She sprinted past the rack of ‘Boris bikes’ lining the bridge’s underbelly.

  …The National Theatre.

  “We know you’re a walking Wikipedia page about this place, and you’ve been dying to visit, so we figured, why wait until we score tickets?” said Lucy, increasing her speed to match Alex’s sprint along Theatre Avenue.

  Alex gazed at the massive concrete building on her right, biting down on her smile. “Someone pinch me.” Her eyes lit up when the statue of Sir Laurence Olivier popped into view near the front entrance. “All the acting legends that have tread the boards here.”

  “The building’s a bit…ugly though, isn’t it?” said Freddie.

  “I think she’s beautiful,” said Alex.

  The early evening breeze from the Thames whispered across the forecourt, tickling the leaves in the trees and propelling soapy bubbles from a street performer high into the pink and orange sky. Blissful pedestrians strolled in bunches, their laughter lending a sweet, magical soundtrack to this birthday surprise.

  Alex bounced on her tiptoes, toying with the strap of her bag. “Can we go in?”

  Freddie waved her forward. “Of course.”

  The sliding glass doors whisked open, welcoming them into the stark yet expansive lobby of monolithic cement pillars, and soft circular benches. They passed the busy box office counter on the right and stopped just short of the bookshop, its shelves happily offering play texts and souvenirs to the bustling pre-theatre crowd.

  “We wanted to give you a taste of the place,” said Lucy. “We’ll definitely come ba
ck and see a play here. Fancy a drink on the balcony overlooking the Thames?”

  Alex laughed. “What kind of a question is that?”

  They rushed up the stairs, dodging theatregoers up one level, then another. Lucy queued at the bar while Freddie and Alex went outside onto a wide cement balcony, its railing ill-equipped to contain the birthday girl’s overflowing enthusiasm.

  She leaned forward, her eyes spoilt for choice. The sleepy sun glinted on the dome of St. Paul’s, creating a hazy fireball across the river. On the ground below, a guitar-toting duo rocked a makeshift stage surrounded by red National Theatre deck chairs, a scattering of round tables, and red, yellow, and blue throw cushions. Revellers gleefully sipped wine or nibbled on appetizers from the National’s Understudy pub in between bursts of applause and animated conversation.

  Alex turned to smile at Freddie, but caught a glimpse of a double-decker bus zooming across Waterloo Bridge under the watchful gaze of the London Eye.

  “Thanks for bringing me here. I so needed this.”

  Freddie hugged her as Lucy reappeared, a tray aloft with three glasses of white wine. A wooden bench provided the perfect platform for a birthday toast.

  “Me first.” Lucy raised her glass.

  “Lex, running into you was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I know I may snap at you sometimes when your perfectionist tendencies go off the charts, and I’ll never understand how you can pack away so much sugar without bursting out of your jeans. But your friendship means everything—and I love you. And now that I’ve found you again, well—I’m never letting you go, and that’s all there is to it! Happy Birthday, babe.”

  A burning tickle teased Alex’s nose. She set her wine down on the bench and fanned at her eyes, fluttering her eyelashes. Do not blub on your birthday…

  Freddie raised his glass. “Happy Birthday, sweetie. You’re brave, kind hearted, and despite your affection for Lady Gaga, a top friend. Oh—and don’t forget—when you turn our story into a glittering West End production, I insist that you have gorgeous Eddie Redmayne play me.”