The play. It stared back at its rightful owner. Alex blinked several times, surprised to find tears threatening her eye makeup. It had been six months since she had held a copy. Six months! The fluorescent lights above her buzzed like hyperactive wasps in her ears.
The first fifteen minutes of the workshop consisted of Isabella commenting on why the suffragette play caught her interest.
“Stories of female equality and teamwork are needed more than ever. Women supporting each other, their drive to succeed and obtain what’s fair and just—we can all relate to those struggles. Right, ladies?” Isabella glanced at Alex and Olivia. “That’s why this play is so poignant. I wish this battle was ancient history, but it continues today. It’s a war we’re still waging.”
Alex rifled through the pages, taking deep breaths. Word by word, the story was identical to her long-lost hard copy. Didn’t Olivia tweak any of it? Even her character notes at the back looked the same. The only differences were that the font was Helvetica and the unblemished cover page had Olivia’s by-line in bold type.
“Okay, then. Let’s discuss the protagonist of this true story. Emmeline Pankhurst, the woman who lead the suffragette movement. Olivia, some background, please…”
“Absolutely.” Olivia’s eyes darted towards Alex. “While our flat was being painted last year, I spent a week at Mummy’s on Clarendon Road. I was walking down the street and discovered a round blue plaque at number fifty. It marked the address where Emmeline and her daughter Christabel lived.”
Isabella jumped in. “Is that in Kensington? Must be beautiful.”
Olivia grinned. “It’s quite lovely, yes. The plaque piqued my curiosity. Who were these women? How did the suffrage movement change British society? I took the idea and ran with it that same day…”
A vein on Alex’s temple twitched. She crossed her legs and tapped her foot against the table leg. Letting go was proving to be more difficult than she originally thought.
“The more I read, the more my admiration grew for these exceptional women. Since I’m all about ‘girl power’, I decided to make the idea my own and create a work that would spark conversations, educate, and entertain. As a Kensington girl myself, I wondered how Emmeline went from being a well-to-do socialite to a revolutionary figure that inspired—”
Alex slowly raised her hand.
Olivia pouted, and stopped mid-sentence.
“Is it okay to jump in?” asked Alex.
Isabella nodded. “Absolutely. We’re not precious about decorum here.”
Olivia clenched her jaw.
“Wasn’t Pankhurst born in Manchester? Moss Side or somewhere like that?” Alex looked at Isabella. “She’s a northerner like you, right?”
“A proud northerner. Something I can relate to,” said Isabella. “Go on.”
“Her northern roots are important because it was in Manchester that she met her husband Richard who was a key figure in the creation of Manchester’s Women’s Suffrage movement,” said Alex. “His beliefs matched hers, and unlike most men of his day, he supported her attempts to improve society and get the vote for women.”
Alex sat back in her chair, her nerves slipping away with each word spoken. “In fact, if she had been born in London, she wouldn’t have met Richard, and her mark on history may have been quite different.”
The hair on Alex’s forearm spiked at the tense electricity vibrating from the seat to her left.
“Olivia…continue.” Isabella waved her on.
Olivia resumed her presentation, but occasionally tripped over her words, mixing up Emmeline’s associates and the dates of their most epic confrontations. Her wobbles hinted at forgetfulness, or worse, a shocking lack of knowledge. Alex’s adrenaline was pumping, and she couldn’t resist jumping in several times.
“…No, actually, Emmeline never did champion hunger strikes…”
“…I read that Emily Davison never intended to commit suicide…”
Alex politely corrected Olivia’s errors, one after another.
Olivia glanced around the room, taking stock of her audience. She adjusted her notes and answered calmly. “Quite right. Thank you, Alex.”
A smile crept up on Isabella’s face. “You’re well-versed on the British suffrage movement. Coming from an American, that’s doubly impressive.”
“I was born in Manchester. My dad’s from Moss Side, so the subject’s close to home, I guess.” Alex returned her smile.
The five workshop participants did a read through of the first act, making suggestions for staging and discussing the various character arcs. After an hour, Isabella paused the session for a fifteen-minute break. The room cleared leaving Alex alone with Olivia.
She scraped her chair towards Alex and snarled in her ear. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Alex continued to type. “I could ask the same of you. Shouldn’t you be locked away in your coffin? Next session I’m wearing a garlic necklace.” She chuckled. “Unlike you, Olivia, I have every right to be here. Not only did Isabella like my suffragette idea that you’re passing off as your own, but she’s also keen on another play I’ve written. I’m here because I’m a good writer. Period. I didn’t have to steal someone else’s work to get a spot.”
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you—correcting my mistakes?” Olivia’s eyes checked the doorway and flew back at Alex. “You’re going to tell Isabella the play’s yours, aren’t you?”
Alex shook her head. “You can have the suffragettes. I’d never hurt Harry. He means a lot to me, and he’s been a good friend. It would hurt him, telling Isabella that you’re a thieving, lying cow.”
She patted the side of her laptop screen. “I’ll just keep my suffragette play locked up in here as a reminder of how far I’ve come. Besides, I’ve got plenty of other ideas where that one came from. I’ve been writing like a whirlwind since moving away from you.”
“Your devotion to Harry is cute.” Olivia waved her sparkly rock; the diamond’s size would make the Crown Jewels blush. “See this? He proposed. I’m now wearing your entire family’s net worth—and then some—on my left hand. I’ve won. I’ve got the play and the guy.”
Alex halted her typing, making eye contact with Olivia for the first time. “Look, for some reason he’s besotted with you. I still don’t get it, but whatever. Let’s just move on, okay?”
The whites of Olivia’s eyes shone. “I don’t trust you, Sinclair. In fact, I can’t bloody stand you. I’ve never wanted you as a friend—and I certainly don’t want you as a colleague, either. I just want you gone. Out of both our lives for good…so, how much?”
Alex scrunched up her face. “How much what?”
Olivia tossed her hair, reached into her Mulberry bag and pulled out a chequebook. “How much to send your Yankee arse back to Florida? Or New York…I don’t care where, as long as Harry and I don’t have to see you again. Name your price. Fifty thousand pounds? A hundred thousand?”
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Paying me off?” She laughed. “Oh, Olivia. Your money doesn’t interest me. I’m probably the only person in London you can’t buy. Nice try. This Yankee’s staying put.”
Olivia’s hands shook. She shoved the chequebook into her handbag, her pretty face now contorted with barely contained rage.
Alex stood up calmly and headed to the water cooler. The other writers would be back any minute.
The brunette bolted to her feet, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring like a cornered mare. She snatched up her coffee, raising it to her lips, then hesitated. A wicked smile spread across her cheeks. She popped the lid and poured every ounce of the hot, milky liquid into the keyboard of Alex’s laptop.
Alex heard the splash and turned sharply away from the water cooler. A torrent of excess coffee dripped along the edge of the table, pooling on her chair, the floor, and staining her laptop bag.
“Shit! What have you done?”
Olivia cocked her head and sneered. “Whoopsie.” She tossed the empty red
cup down to the floor.
Alex leapt towards her computer, elbowing Olivia out of the way. She jabbed at the keys, summoning documents, but the screen turned a sickly grey hue.
“You did this on purpose!” She grabbed the soaked device and shook it upside down, but the liquid had already done Olivia’s dirty work.
Two of the three playwrights ran back into the room, followed by Isabella. “What’s going on? I could hear you in the ladies’ toilets.”
Alex’s voice croaked. “She dumped her coffee all over my laptop. It’s ruined!”
Olivia covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh God, it was an accident. I’m so sorry. My heels are slippy. I lost my balance.” She peered over Alex’s shoulder. “Is it working? Is it? Oh God, how did this happen?”
Isabella swept over. “Try a restart. Maybe the shock of the liquid put it to sleep temporarily? Don’t panic yet.”
Tears streamed down Alex’s cheeks and quivering chin. She couldn’t pull up any documents on her screen. No email. No Internet. Nothing. It wouldn’t reboot, either. Her shoulders sagged. “It’s destroyed. Everything’s…gone.”
“Oh, no…” Olivia turned away from the panic and slyly smirked behind her hair.
The ginger-haired writer scrolled through his phone. “There’s a computer shop two minutes down the road, beside Waterloo Station that’s open until half nine. If you rush, they might help you before closing.”
“Thanks.” Alex grabbed her belongings and dashed out of the room, praying her laptop could be saved.
Alex stood watery-eyed in front of the computer genius hoping for a Christmas miracle.
“I’m sorry, love. This thing was dead on arrival.” The expert shook his head. “There’s nothing to salvage from this dinosaur.” He handed back the sticky laptop. “Bring us your back-ups, and we’ll get you a new laptop up and running.”
Alex rubbed her bloodshot eyes, her hand flecked in smudged mascara. “Thanks for trying.” She bowed her head, exiting into the rain. A new laptop? Not on her wage. And worse, she stupidly hadn’t backed up her files for at least…what, three weeks now? The entire second act of the bridge play was gone. The hard copy Lucy returned of her time travel play was the first draft from early December; weeks’ worth of writing, wiped out.
She needed someone to lean on. She called Lucy. No answer. The Pret Christmas party was this evening, and Freddie was her date. She tried her dad—a busy signal. She tried again…still busy. With Mark gone astray and Harry off-limits, she felt more alone than she had in months.
Thirty-Two
Alex turned up her collar against the bitter wind gusting between the National and the BFI building. She wasn’t scheduled to work this Saturday morning, but after last night’s run-in with Olivia, she needed a peaceful place to think about her future. Lucy snored loudly in a post-party coma at the flat, and Freddie’s phone skipped straight to voicemail, so she still hadn’t shared last night’s disaster. Even her dad, Helen, and Joan were out of reach this morning with either busy signals or voicemail on each attempt. She longed to speak to someone, anyone.
She passed strangers in groups of two or more, sharing laughs along the South Bank’s riverside terrace. How could they carry on without a care in the world when her life was in tatters? They appeared buoyant. Happy. How dare they.
She grabbed a hot chocolate from Kitchen and a copy of Time Out magazine, and trudged up the stairs inside the National, seeking solace in the familiar. Her second floor spot with its striped cushions and soaring windows, welcomed her into its bosom. Without her beloved laptop for company, she draped her coat over her black jeans, and sighed. Her hands flipped through the magazine, her eyes barely absorbing the text and colourful photos on its pages. She gulped her drink and stared straight ahead.
In the shadows, a figure passed by on the far side of the floor near the stalls entrance to the Olivier Theatre.
“Mark?” Alex hollered and caught her breath.
He stopped and peered her way, like a deer trapped in car headlights.
Her heart did a somersault. She waved him over, desperate for a friendly face, or even a not-so-friendly face. She regretted how they’d parted a few weeks ago. She slapped on a smile and adopted a breezy tone.
“Hello, stranger. I heard you were filming in Scotland. The TV role?”
A tight-lipped nod greeted her as he stashed his hands in his front pockets. “Yeah.”
“Mark, congratulations. That’s massive.”
He shrugged, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Not really. It’s just a small part.”
“It’s still a huge deal.”
“Thanks.” He pivoted his body towards the stairwell. “I should get back. I was looking for tumblers at the Olivier’s bar, but they’re not there, so…”
Alex knew that the tiny bar on this level was closed for refurbishment.
“I’ve missed you.” Alex blurted out. “I mean our chats… I’ve missed our chats.”
“Me too.” Mark nodded towards the floor, his hands still in his pockets. “But I thought you wanted space, so…”
Panic rose in Alex’s throat. She couldn’t let him slip away. “I’ve been a totally selfish brat. Blaming everyone but myself for letting my writing fall by the wayside…”
She yanked the cuffs of her black cardigan over her palms.
“…not listening, thinking only about myself and what I want…”
“We’re all guilty of that sometimes,” said Mark.
“But I heard only what I wanted to hear. I didn’t let you explain—and that’s not fair. Friends don’t do that to one another.”
He looked up and pulled on the edge of his grey v-neck sweater. “So…we’re friends again…are we?”
“Yeah, I’d like to be, if you’ll have me.”
Friends…friends would have to do. A few weeks ago, they were on the cusp of so much more. The knot in her stomach loosened just enough to allow a deep breath to escape from her chest. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Mark.”
His shoulders relaxed, and he sat down beside her. “I’m sorry, too.” He smiled softly. “I hated how things were left. You were so upset…I’ve thought about it a lot. I should’ve handled things differently…told you about Naomi coming back to London, working here…”
He stuck a finger into a small rip in the knee of his jeans. “That night on the stairs, it took every ounce of my self-control not to run after you. But the last thing you needed was pressure from another bloke. I’m sorry I hurt you, Alex. It was never my intention.”
Mark opened his arms, and Alex welcomed his hug. She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly. He smelt heavenly, reminding her of when she first saw him. How stupid to risk losing…this. Her eyes grew misty.
“One piece of advice, though—please don’t assume that you have to tackle problems on your own. Life can be a bastard. Don’t push people away, especially when you need them the most…” Mark showed no signs of letting go. “It’s like you’re afraid of being left. I think maybe you pull the plug before it happens to you.”
“I know. I’ve been an idiot.” Alex blinked, trying to rein in the tears while he couldn’t see her face. “I never ask for help. Be gentle with me, okay? It’s a new thing, relying on other people.”
“Not other people—your friends, okay?” said Mark. “And you can count on me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He squeezed her and pulled away with that cheeky grin.
Alex took a deep breath. Time to test Mark on his word. “Even if you know my secret—that I have panic attacks?”
Mark held her hand. “Even if you have panic attacks—at least you keep things interesting!” He smiled. “I mean it. I won’t disappear on you.”
Alex sighed. That was easier than she had expected. Mark wasn’t put off, at all. Could he be any more perfect? A heavy tear escaped down her face, a reminder of her current reality. No wonder they were back in the Friend Zone—why would he want to kiss her when she was such a mess? She probably lo
oked like a doll left out in the pouring rain—a mess of melted mascara, puffy eyes, and splotchy skin. She dropped her gaze to the floor, and in the absence of a tissue, hid her nose behind her free hand.
“Hey, now what’s the matter? You couldn’t have missed me that much.”
Alex wanted to laugh because she had missed him terribly, but his kind words unleashed a procession of silent tears. “I’ve been trying to hold it in…”
“Is it your dad? Your gran?”
She shook her head. “No, thank God. It’s Olivia—again. She dumped a massive coffee all over my laptop last night. Fried the hard drive. The computer guys couldn’t save it. What good is a writer without a laptop? I’m basically screwed.”
“Shit! They couldn’t save anything?”
“Nothing. My current projects, all gone. And before you ask about back-ups, I always do back-ups. I just haven’t for a few weeks…”
“Oh, Lex!”
“I know, I know. Losing my computer’s bad enough. I’ve had it forever, and I can’t afford a new one, but it’s my plays that…” The tears streamed fast and furious down her cheeks. She raised her hands to hide her ugly crying face; Mark didn’t need to see that.
“C’mere.” He gathered her back into his arms. “We’ll fix this.” He held her close in silence, thinking. Alex sank in and held on.
“I’d spot you a few quid, but I’m totally skint right now. My flight home for Christmas cleaned me out. You can borrow my laptop, though. It’s not fancy, but it’ll do the job.”
Alex tilted back, wiping her nose. “I can’t take your laptop.”
“Yes. You can and you will…and what are you doing this afternoon?”
“Feeling sorry for myself. Why?”
“There’s a private function in The Deck restaurant. The one on the roof? They want to pinch some of us, but we’re already short-staffed. You could go in my place. All you have to do is carry a tray of appetizers. Easy money, right? The quick cash can go towards your laptop fund. And if you’re free in the evenings this week, you could work their other private parties as well. Christmas is crazy busy around here.”
London Belongs to Me Page 27