London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  Alex spit back. “And most people don’t see through you like I do. You may have fooled everyone else with your perfectly manicured life, but I know what you’re really like.”

  Olivia smiled, ignoring Alex’s interruption. “Just watch. I’ll make that idea sing, better than you ever could. You didn’t deserve to have it in the first place. You’ll be on the outside looking in, the Girl Who Melted when it mattered most. Face it. You don’t belong here. You’re an embarrassment, a mistake—you said it yourself, you’re an accident.”

  Alex couldn’t catch her breath; Olivia’s hateful remark felt like a sucker punch to her gut, the words cutting deeper than any knife. “…Are you finished?”

  “Actually, no—there’s one more thing. Why on Earth are you still here?” said Olivia. “A deal’s a deal. You agreed to move out within a week or two, and here we are…weeks later and your child-like food choices are still in my kitchen, and your ratty hair is clogging the tub’s drain. You’ve more than overstayed your welcome.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t want to live here, either.”

  Olivia laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried. In fact, I’ve taken matters into my own hands. I texted Harry tonight and told him how you gave me your two weeks’ notice. So, I guess you’re homeless in…” She checked her watch. “…T minus fourteen days…”

  “You can’t do that.” Alex’s hands tightened into fists. “This isn’t your flat.”

  “Harry’s heads down with business meetings in Ireland for the next few days, so I’m taking care of everything. Time’s up, Alex. Time to crawl back to America and become a has-been. Oh…wait. You have to be something first before you can be a has-been.”

  Alex leaned against the wall, her balance unhinged.

  “You were finished before you even began.” Olivia smirked and brushed past towards the lounge.

  Alex stomped into her room, grabbing her breath and her phone. She punched a saved number.

  “Freddie? Fancy that trip to Manchester? How soon can we go?”

  Twenty

  Alex fussed with her overstuffed backpack and stared at the departure board at Victoria coach station—National Express London to Manchester, Friday, August 21 at 17:30 p.m.

  “C’mon, Lucy. Hurry up.” Alex muttered under her breath, fanning her face. A dull headache squeezed her temples, the stuffy coach station air not helping. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and trickled down the back of her black tank top towards the bum of her jeans. She dumped her backpack on the floor and nudged it against her waiting laptop bag. Fingers crossed, the coach had air conditioning, but this being Britain? Probably not.

  Her friends had scampered off to buy snacks for the four hour and forty-five-minute trip, and boarding had already begun. A train would’ve arrived in half the time but its fare exceeded their budgets. Even at seventy-two pounds return, these bus tickets were steep. Alex couldn’t scrape together enough funds with her café hours, so she supplemented her earnings with a temporary evening job the past three weeks, answering focus study questions for various marketing research companies. She had roped in Lucy for comic relief. Both women hated the questions ranging from their opinions on alcohol brands to what kinds of feminine hygiene products they used. Now all those hours stuck in a small stale room felt worth it.

  She stood guard over Lucy’s green duffle bag with the broken strap and Freddie’s shiny silver carry-on case with wheels. It didn’t take a travel expert to figure out who would arrive crease-free.

  “Alex!”

  She jerked her head back, catching Mark sprinting towards her with his Vespa helmet under his arm. Her eyebrows lifted, releasing her first smile of the day. It had been two months since she’d last seen him.

  “Good! You haven’t left yet. Bloody traffic.” He swooped in with a hug. “Where’s the gang?”

  Alex lingered against his white t-shirt, the fabric warm and glued to his chest. The rapid beat of his heart filled her ear. “Getting magazines and snacks.”

  Mark’s hand swept along her dewy back. If she knew an embrace from him was on the cards, she would’ve worn a bra.

  “At least I hope they are.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Maybe they’ve changed their minds and done a runner.”

  His eyes floated around the concourse for their friends. “I’d gladly take their place. Manchester’s a cool city. I did a play there last year.”

  “You sure get around.”

  Mark laughed. “Damn. Another one of my secrets, exposed.”

  A troop of head-bobbing pigeons noisily scattered, stealing Alex’s attention away from Mark. Their dusty wings flapped into a perilous lift off, clearing a path for Lucy’s galloping sandals. She ran ahead of Freddie, her dark curls bouncing above the shoulders of her sleeveless blue blouse.

  “Hiya, Mark!” Panting for breath, she pulled at the waist of her denim miniskirt. “Got ‘em. Pies and pasties for everyone. Got chocolate, crisps, water.” She handed Alex a paper bag containing a cheese and onion pasty. It promptly got shoved into her computer bag.

  “Shame you can’t come, Keegs.” Freddie hugged his magazine against his black 221B t-shirt. “We could’ve relived that epic pub crawl. Remember when I fell into the canal, and you lost your trousers…”

  Alex’s eyes grew twice their size. Lost his trousers…?

  Mark’s impish gaze darted from Freddie to Alex and back. “Yeah, yeah…well, two other staff are on hols right now, so I’m working most of their shifts. Not complaining, mind.”

  “They’re boarding now.” Lucy fumbled with the broken strap of her duffle. “We should get a move on.”

  “Have fun.” Mark helped Lucy reign in her bag. He nudged his hair off his forehead and looked at Alex, a slow smile inching through his stubble. “Don’t miss your ride.”

  Alex blushed. She knew what ride meant in Irish slang—God, her mind was in the gutter.

  Why did every encounter with Mark feel so fleeting? She loved nothing more than sharing these stolen moments with him, but they never lasted long enough. Not long enough to figure out if she meant as much to him as he did to her. He could flirt for Ireland, but did it mean anything? If it did, surely he would’ve made a move by now…

  “Text ya later, Keegs.” Freddie waved, chasing after Lucy.

  Mark lifted Alex’s backpack off the floor, his eyes spotting the small tattoo beside her tank’s strap. “Comedy and tragedy masks? Glad to see I’m not the only one who’s passionate…about theatre, I mean.” He raised an eyebrow and tossed the heavy load over his shoulder, walking her to the gate. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately…”

  Lucy jumped out of the way of Freddie’s wheelie case and looked back. “Lex! What are you like? Come on!”

  Alex flung the strap of her laptop bag across her body. She dragged her feet and briefly closed her eyes, torn between staying and leaving. “I should go…”

  “Enjoy the time with your family. I’m envious.” Mark’s eyes swept downwards, settling on her lips. “Give the Mancs a smooch from me.”

  The other side of the double bed lay rumpled but empty.

  Where’s Lucy? Alex kicked off the duvet, threw on her white bathrobe, and padded down the plush carpeted stairs to the main floor of her dad’s semi-detached house just outside of Manchester. Muffled voices and the smell of fresh coffee signaled she was the last one up.

  An assembly line of white bread, butter, and uncooked bacon crossed the kitchen counter. The kettle jittered and whistled on top of the stove.

  “Morning, love.”

  Michael set his coffee down, ready for a hug. He was dressed in jeans and his red Manchester United shirt, which stretched uncomfortably over his slight potbelly. A few threads of silver weaved through the dark hair at his temples, defying his fifty-six years.

  “I’ve waited months to hug you.” His tight embrace was warm and loving.

  “Me too.” Alex held on for dear life.

  “You lot were knackered last night. I
didn’t know if I was picking up my daughter and her friends, or the cast of The Walking Dead.”

  Alex scratched her head as she pulled away. “What was it? Gone midnight or something? We couldn’t get here any earlier. Blame work.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining.” He nudged his wire-rimmed glasses back up his long nose. “I’m just happy you’re here. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t see you until Christmas. You kids are so busy.”

  He grabbed several mugs from the cupboard. “Helen popped down to the shop to get more milk. She’ll be back any minute.”

  “Dad, after breakfast, can I speak to you about something privately…just you and me?” Alex squeezed her robe’s belt.

  “Yeah, of course, love. Let’s catch up before United’s match comes on. If you’re still thinking of going into town, Helen could drive your friends to the station, and you can meet up with them after.” He placed a final mug on the counter and then counted out tea bags for each one.

  “That works. Thanks. Are Lucy and Freddie watching TV?”

  “They’re chatting with Joan…”

  “Oh no…” God knows what embarrassing tales Joan had shared with her two friends. Alex rushed through the doorway into the lounge. Joan sat wedged between Freddie and Lucy on the overstuffed blue couch, wearing jeans and her poppy red 1998 Manchester United shirt with Beckham and seven on the back. Photo albums and boxes of loose pictures covered the coffee table and their laps.

  “Morning, Lex,” said Lucy, clad in her fleecy Hogwarts pajamas. “Why didn’t you tell us your grandmother —oh, I’m sorry—Joan…was so cool? I just followed her on Instagram.”

  “Joan, you still ride a motorbike?” Freddie peered at the picture in his hand. “Alex, you’ve gotta see these old photos. They’re fabulous.” He sipped his orange juice.

  Despite being seventy-six, Joan had more crazy hobbies and pursuits than the rest of her family combined. Perhaps speaking her mind and stepping outside her comfort zone kept her young and feeling more fifty-six than seventy-six—that and not allowing anyone to call her Granny. Her tiny frame, fair hair, and pale skin hinted as to where Alex’s looks came from.

  “You have an Instagram account?” Alex raised her eyebrows.

  “There she is.” Joan shifted the heaviest photo album off her lap and into Freddie’s waiting grasp. “Alex, come here and give Joan some love.” She stood up with arms out, willing a hug to happen.

  Alex pressed her lips together and crept forward. Joan was having none of it. She tugged her granddaughter close, kissed her on the mouth, and hugged her into submission. Her slight build and advanced age belied the fact that her suffocating squeeze would make a boa constrictor envious. Squinting over Joan’s shoulder, Alex’s eyes pleaded forgiveness from her friends seated below.

  “FaceTime has a lot to answer for. You’re taller in person. Have you grown since our last video chat on your birthday?” Joan planted a hand on each of Alex’s shoulders and stepped backwards, her eyes spanning from her granddaughter’s toes to her chest. “Ah, look at ya—you’re a woman now.”

  Heat rose in Alex’s cheeks. Lucy smirked and bit her lip. Freddie looked down, hiding a giggle against his hand while toying with the buttons on his Henley tee. Why had she thought it was a good idea to bring her friends along? At least Mark wouldn’t witness this embarrassment.

  “Um, thanks?” Alex didn’t know how to respond. The conversation couldn’t move on fast enough. “What are you guys doing? I’ve never seen these photos before.”

  Joan kept hold of Alex’s right hand, pulling her onto the couch. Lucy scooted over to the left, making space for her friend to sit down beside her gran. The ocean of soft blue cushions swallowed Alex, her bare feet dangled above the floor.

  “Photos of me when I was your age. You were so wee the last time you were here. What seven-year-old sits still to flip through black and white photographs? You were more interested in playing with our old tabby cat. Him and that Furbie your dad bought you, remember? Oh, and you used to love watching Tinky-Winky—we’ve still got that Teletubbies DVD somewhere.”

  Freddie snorted, shooting orange juice out his nose.

  “Argh. Sorry!” he laughed.

  Alex scrunched up her eyebrows. Great. More ammunition for her friends to tease her with later. Joan plunked another large dusty album onto her lap; its cover pressed forcefully onto Alex’s thighs.

  “No wonder you love the theatre so much, Lex,” said Lucy.

  She tilted her head. “Why?”

  “Joan’s chorus girl past. She had a mean dance kick.” Lucy held a loose photo from a box of old pictures and keepsakes, and read a faint note written on the back. “Palace Theatre, 1955.” She stretched over Joan, handing it to Alex.

  She stared at the grainy black and white photo of a young blonde dancing on stage in a sparkly dress. “You performed on stage?” She turned back to Joan. “I never knew that. You never told me.”

  “It was a lifetime ago, love. It didn’t help that I only spoke to you here and there by phone when you were little. And only when your mum allowed it. Thank God, we’ve had Skype and FaceTime to stay in touch the last couple of years, eh? Your mother thought I was a bad influence. She never liked me. Granted, that feeling was mutual.”

  “That I did know.”

  “Michael told me about how you were doing in school though—what theatre courses you were taking in university. I read all your old essays and plays.”

  Alex turned another page of the album. Several of the photos stuck together. She ran her fingers over the yellowing images, separating them.

  “I was going to post you some photos a few years back, but your dad asked me to send nowt,” said Joan. “He worried if I told you about my years treading the boards, your mum would’ve had a right old strop, especially with your love of theatre. I didn’t care about upsetting her ladyship, but the last thing I wanted was to make things harder for you, so I kept my trap shut.”

  “It couldn’t have gotten much worse. She practically disowned me when I accepted the spot at Emory. Refused to help with tuition, constantly belittled my choice.”

  Joan rubbed Alex’s back.

  “This one is from another production at the Palace.” Joan pointed at an image where she stood in the middle of a long line of chorus girls. “The director wanted to pay us a quarter of what the men were earning. We didn’t have a contract, so five of us girls threatened to walk out an hour before opening night unless he gave us a third. He caved, of course. We didn’t take any guff.”

  “Why did you stop performing?” asked Freddie.

  “I married Alex’s granddad before my nineteenth birthday. Had Michael nine months after. It’s what all of us did in those days, Freddie.”

  Alex slipped a photo from the album sat on her lap. “Oldham Repertory Theatre, 1957” was handwritten in faded pencil on the back.

  “Oh, that was Noel Coward, Design for Living. I had a dozen lines or so, but I made the most of them,” said Joan.

  She continued to answer Freddie. “But you see, love…with a baby, it just wasn’t possible to carry on. You were done. The day after I found out I was pregnant, I was offered a lead role—it would’ve been my thirteenth play. It broke my heart to turn it down. I often wonder where it might have led if I’d stuck with it. I had some grand old times on stage.”

  “I had no idea.” Alex’s eyes widened.

  “Thirteen? So unlucky,” said Lucy.

  The kitchen rattled with clinking mugs and the metal-on-metal clatter of cutlery. The smoky, salty call of bacon wafted around the corner.

  Michael stepped into the lounge, holding a knife smothered with butter. “Helen’s back, and breakfast’s almost ready. Let’s get you all fed and watered so you can head into town. Who fancies a brew?”

  “I do,” said Freddie. He set his glass on the coffee table and bounded into the kitchen with Lucy in hot pursuit, snatching the back pocket of his jeans.

  Joan squeezed her grandd
aughter’s arm. “It’s so good to have you here. It means the world to us.”

  “Me too,” said Alex with a smile as they walked into the lively kitchen. Lucy and Freddie were laughing at Michael. Helen had just told him off for pinching a slice of bacon.

  “Alex, gimme a kiss, love.” Helen set a greasy pair of tongs on the counter, wiped her hands on a flowery Cath Kidston apron and wrapped her chubby arms around her stepdaughter. “I tried to stay up last night for your arrival, but fell asleep.”

  Alex closed her eyes, resting her chin on Helen’s shoulder, the squishy hug both welcoming and overdue. Helen never had kids of her own, but when she married Michael in 2005, she treated all three of his children like they were hers—albeit from an ocean away. Helen had been her dad’s first love as a teen, and she boasted many qualities that Alex knew her mother lacked: she was utterly selfless, always put her family first, and appreciated each of the kids in their own right. With only a few years left until retirement, Helen had recently marked thirty-five years working as a critical care nurse. Alex adored her.

  Helen eased her clinch, her round brown eyes aglow. She placed her hands on Alex’s waist. “So skinny! Have they been starving you down there? You need some good northern cooking to put some meat on those bones. Bacon barms coming up, my sweet.” She lifted several thick rashers of sizzling bacon onto a large plate.

  “Usually it’s me making breakfast for people. Can I help?” Alex leaned in between Helen and her dad who buttered several pieces of toast. She plucked a fresh cup of tea from the counter and handed it to Joan.

  “Nope. Grab a mug for yourself and head to the table. I’ll bring the barms as soon as your dad’s finished with the toast,” said Helen. “I’m making two for all three of you. These London kids, so skinny.”

  Lucy pulled Alex aside and whispered. “All systems go for talking to your dad about a hand with rent money?”