Twelve

Manchester, four weeks later

Squeezing through the crush of Albert Square, a passing rain shower did little to dampen Alex’s Yuletide cheer. Three days before December 25, the heart of the annual Manchester Christmas Markets was aflutter, its wooden chalet-lined streets playing host to perusing crowds and a rainbow of bobbing umbrellas. The sweet smell of roasted chestnuts competed on the dank breeze with smoky grilled bratwurst, tickling Alex’s nose as she searched for her last gift—something special for her grandmother, Joan.

Alex checked her phone: only twenty minutes! Soon Mark would be in her arms again, fresh from four weeks of rehearsals and principle photography on his Irish movie. Her National tote bulged with chocolate truffles and wine—sweet treats to share later.

Stopping at a chalet specializing in handcrafted glass jewellery, she closed her umbrella, shaking away any raindrops hitching a ride. There had to be something there Joan would adore. Bangles, nope. Earrings, no—she had said, “they fly around too much while riding my motorbike.”

The Sherlock theme erupted from the pocket of her parka, battling the stall’s holiday music.

“Hey, Lucy. What’s up?”

“Fucking Simon, that’s what. Next time I offer to help cook Christmas lunch, give me a smack to the head.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “What’s he done now?”

“He just texted a recipe and a shopping list. Bloody vegans.”

“Don’t tell me…you’re making a nut roast. How Gavin & Stacey.”

“I wish. No. Curried lentil, parsnip, and apple soup.”

“Ew, puke.”

“Yup, that’s what it looks like in the photo.”

Alex shifted backwards, allowing the stall owner to parlez with a frantic Parisian tourist. “Try not to think of us on Christmas morning, lounging by the fire enjoying Helen’s bacon baps.”

“Yeah, rub it in. I’d kill for bacon Christmas morning. So, where are you, anyway? Sounds like the UN.”

“The markets.” Alex smiled at the charm bracelets tinkling in the breeze.

“Still shopping? Did you rob a bank?”

“Very funny. I’m using panto money, and I pawned a few things; I wasn’t wearing the diamond earrings Mom gave me for grad, so—”

“You what? That’s it, I’m returning the gift you gave me and giving you the money.”

“You will not—”

“Fuck. My boss is back…chat later?”

“Sure, but don’t panic if it goes to voicemail.”

“I hope it goes to voicemail if you and Mark are shagging.”

“I would never answer mid-shag. I’m not Freddie!”

Lucy squealed.

“Love ya, babe.” Alex disconnected the call and bounced in her ankle boots.

The Sherlock theme rang out again: Mark’s mum.

“Niamh, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, love. We’re all checked in, ready for Malta. I tried Mark but got his voicemail—again.”

“Want him to call you?”

“No, love, it’s fine. Just let him know we’re all set.”

“Will do.”

“And remind him that he has my present for you. He tossed it into that black hole he calls a backpack, God knows if he’ll ever find it again.”

“Yeah, what goes inside doesn’t always come out. Did my gift arrive in time?”

“I have it in my carry-on. I wish you didn’t, Alex. Writers don’t make a lot of money.”

“That’s why I only spoil the people I love.”

“Ah, bless you, darling.” A smile tinged Niamh’s voice. “Mark’s really looking forward to Christmas.”

Alex’s fingers trailed along a velvet box of sparkly rings. “Yeah, me too.”

“Oh, they’re saying we can pre-board now. I’ll call when we land.”

“Please. Safe flight, Niamh.”

“Lots of love, dear.”

Alex stuffed her phone in a pocket. Oh…wait! A necklace with miniature comedy and tragedy masks…perfect. Once an actress, always an actress—Joan would love it.

She handed over twenty pounds and rocked back on her heels, watching a baby stroller break through the thick fence of legs like a battering ram.

“Thanks! Happy Christmas, love.” The Santa hat-wearing vendor stretched over the table with Joan’s necklace tucked inside a paper bag.

“Happy Christmas!” Alex glanced up at the glittery Manchester Santa, the size of six elephants, perched above the entrance of the town hall. He was kinda freaky, his boggly peepers staring blankly over the Square, his gaze all-knowing, never blinking. Alex felt dizzy for a moment and stood still, waiting for it to pass.

Right. Time to get a move on—if only the crowds would budge. These shoppers, hypnotized by the staggering array of goodies and snacks for sale, crept along like ants stuck in treacle. Alex didn’t know Manchester that well, but she knew the general direction she needed to go. She pulled her National tote into her waist, dodging exuberant office workers let loose at noon, sporting snowman head-boppers and garlands of gaudy-coloured tinsel. Every hand rushing past seemed to be brandishing an arsenal of overstuffed shopping bags.

As Alex headed left onto Mosley Street, the grey clouds overhead burst into an urgent encore, causing umbrellas to bloom from the hands of hurried pedestrians. She pressed the button of her umbrella and ran across the street, clogged with trams approaching in both directions. Their Thomas the Tank Engine toots whistled in the damp air as she swung around the corner and splashed through the swollen puddles on the Piccadilly Gardens pavement. Not far now…

To any one else, Mark would have been difficult to recognize, hidden underneath a flapping umbrella, a peacoat, and a black Manchester United cap pulled down over his eyes, but Alex could pick out that slightly crooked stance in skinny jeans anywhere. Nodding his head to some unknown track streaming into his ears from his headphones, he stood outside Pret a Manger with his backpack and suitcase. Alex’s lips parted into a smile and her heart turned up its pace another notch, giddy for what was to come.

“There’s my girl.” Mark yanked off his headphones and surged forward, his hand reaching for her face. He tilted his head and kissed her tenderly as she melted into his hug, her free arm squeezing him like a vice grip while their umbrellas collided into an awkward battle of nylon and metal. “I guess I’m forgiven for missing the earlier flight, then?”

“I’m so happy to see you.”

Mark clamoured for her hand. “C’mon, Elsa. Inside.”

“Who?”

“Your fingers are Frozen.” Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes as he kissed her hand. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

Sandwiches purchased, they claimed a table for two tucked into the back corner of Pret, Mark choosing the seat facing away from the entrance. The welcoming scent of ground coffee beans and freshly brewed java infused the room, while round metal trays clanked on the silver countertop overlooking the glass case housing sugar-dusted crumble bars and mini Christmas mince pies. A barista who recognized Mark brought over two gooey chocolate chunk cookies on the house. She praised Mark’s TV role, gushed over Alex’s handbag, and then politely left them to it.

Alex blew on the steaming froth of her hot chocolate. “How did the chemistry reads go?” She took a tentative first sip and grimaced—so bitter.

“Good, yeah.”

Mark cracked the plastic cap on a bottled water and handed it to her. She gladly took a gulp and then ripped open her bag of cheese and onion crisps.

He peeled away the seal from his Christmas Lunch sandwich, his finger scooping out a taste of its minced pork, herb, and apricot stuffing. “Some of the chemistry reads have been so awkward, you know, like really bad blind dates.” He sucked on his finger. “But this morning, it clicked. Luckily, everyone agreed, so now we have our female lead and my male sidekick.”

“Just in time, too.”

“Yup. Their first scenes are next Thursday.” He leaned over and brushed her bangs from her eyes. “Any word from the National about Upton Park?”

“They passed this morning, but I’ve made a list of other theatres to pitch.”

“Someone will snatch it up. Be sure to mention the Donmar project when you do pitch. It shows you’re in demand.”

“Yeah…” Alex leaned back and swallowed hard. She couldn’t tell him about the lost commission, not yet…not with his first lead role in a movie making him so happy. Her bad news might sour his joy. “I was thinking of taking on some corporate writing, too…”

“Do you have time? I thought you hated that.”

“I do, but it’s money. I kinda got used to the extra cash from the panto.”

Mark peered underneath the table at Alex’s National tote, straining at its seams. “I can see that! Steady on, shopaholic. Did you leave anything behind for anyone else?” He laughed. “As long as you won’t feel too stretched then, yeah, why not? And corporate work is still writing.”

Phew. She grinned and pulled the chewy ham from her cheese toastie.

Mark’s fingers curled around Alex’s. “Five days. It’s the most we’ve been together in eight months. They’re gonna have to come drag me away on the twenty-eighth.”

Alex squeezed his hand and leaned forward, craving the intimacy she so badly needed. In a few hours, her body would be trading the cosy comfort of Mark’s sweatshirt for his warm lips and gentle touch. Her nerve endings tingled at the thought. “At least we won’t have to wait weeks to be together again. New Year’s—in Dublin! Can’t wait.”

“I promise we’ll make our anniversary memorable.” Mark smiled at his girlfriend.

They were just an ordinary couple, stealing kisses over their sandwiches, sharing knowing glances. No one else existed; the customers choosing baguettes and soup from the nearby shelves dissolved in an unimportant blur.

Alex reluctantly released his hand and nibbled her toastie without peeling her eyes from him. “I’m so proud of you. Your first leading role, working in Dublin…it’s a dream come true.”

“Yeah, it’s another life-changer, that’s for sure.” He pulled a piece of turkey from his sandwich and popped it in his mouth. “Mouse…” He chewed slowly, buying time. “I’m sorry about New York. If things were different—”

“It’s okay.” Alex cut him off, not keen on getting into it again. She looked at her sandwich and tore off the crust. “You’re here. We’re together. That’s all that matters.” A soft smile parted her lips. “A few weeks ago, I didn’t think we would be.”

Mark shook his head. “But I screwed up, and it’s been bothering me ever since.” He reached inside the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of his chair and pulled out a white legal-size envelope. The front was blank—no name, no address, nothing. “I was planning on giving it to you Christmas Eve, but…open it.”

Alex slid her finger underneath the back flap, tearing the envelope open. Eyebrows furrowed, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

Mark leaned closer, desperate for a reaction.

She opened the document cautiously.

Flight confirmations…complete with assigned seating—first class, both ways. “New York? A year from now?”

“This isn’t your main present.” Mark smiled. “That’s still coming. Remember in April, I promised we would spend Christmas in New York City? I meant it, but you’ll just have to wait a little bit longer.” He pointed at the small print. “See? Non-refundable. We are going!”

“But a lot can happen between now and then…”

“That’s why I’ve warned Wink. I’m learning, yeah?” He gave Alex the cheeky smile that always made her melt. “I don’t care what jobs are offered for next December. That time is blocked off for us. You can be my New York tour guide, keep me from getting lost.”

“Great.” Alex leaned back in her seat. A year seemed so distant, a mirage she couldn’t quite decipher. Mark, by comparison, couldn’t contain his glee. His fast-paced banter and ants-in-his-pants demeanour suggested they would be lacing up skates and exchanging kisses on the Rockefeller Center ice rink tonight, not twelve months from now. She wanted to share his enthusiasm, but the trip didn’t seem real. It was too far away. But, Mark was pleased with himself, so she faked it. “I can almost taste Serendipity’s frozen hot chocolate,” she said with a tight grin. She looked at the confirmation again. “I’ve never flown first class before. I’ll feel like Taylor Swift.”

Mark chuckled. “Oh, crap. You’re not gonna go all Swifty on me, are you?”

Alex folded the confirmation. “She only writes about exes, silly.”

He leaned farther over the table, his face bright. “I’ve booked us a gorgeous hotel, too…”

Sure, but isn’t all this just an apology? For tearing up our holiday, not once, but twice this year? It was a far-away consolation prize, and like so many things with Mark, it involved an anxiety-filled wait to see if it would materialize.

We can see the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall, check out Macy’s holiday windows…” He sounded like a tourism website advertising NYC. “Happy, babe?”

Alex nodded.

“Me too. It’s you and me, Mouse, always.”

“Mark?!”

Alex’s eyes jagged upwards as Mark turned to his right, a familiar voice in his ears. A tall hulk of a girl around Alex’s age hung over Mark’s shoulder. Her hands juggled a phone, a deck of promotional Lairds and Liars cards, and a Sharpie held aloft in expectation.

“Daisy…hi,” Mark mumbled.

“Oh, my God! What a coincidence, bumping into you here.” Daisy smiled.

To Alex, this fangirl’s almost complete lack of self-awareness was annoying and rude and certainly not new. Daisy seemed to operate without a filter, overstepping the line between fan and stalker. Too many times, this self-declared ‘#1 fan from Belgium’ showed up in the right place at the right time…

Fuck! My tweet two days ago, about visiting the markets, the huge Santa—and my boyfriend. FUCK! I left Daisy breadcrumbs, and she must have followed me here.

Alex eyed the plastic bag swinging from Daisy’s elbow. “Find what you were looking for?”

“I did, thanks.” The fan lurched closer, bumping the table with her thigh.

Mark shifted the gingerbread snowman Alex had bought him away from the edge of the table.

Daisy’s nosey glance poured over the flight confirmation, the sandwiches, as well as the wallpaper on Mark’s phone—a photo with Alex at Thirteen’s press night. She waved her cards. “Can I have an autograph?” Her tone was more assuming than asking, assuming Mark would have no problem pulling out of his private conversation to shower her with attention. In a way, she wasn’t wrong: Mark never seemed able to say no to fan requests.

This girl had taken up so much of their time over the past eighteen months, hogging the stage door, camping out for TV interviews, showing up on the street, and asking for autographs…every…single…time. How many autographs did one fan need? Daisy always wanted something, even if Mark was tired, in a rush, or having a private moment—like right now—and her long-winded letters were creepy. Mark had shown Alex a few where Daisy had rambled on obsessively about their ‘friendship’, and yet in person, Daisy barely spoke. She only asked for signatures or photos, never asking questions about Mark’s work or making small talk. Alex almost felt a little sorry for her. Perhaps, she had nothing else in her life…

But today was one demand too many. Alex raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of lunch…”

Daisy turned her back to Alex and pouted. “Please, Mark?”

Alex didn’t have to see Daisy’s face to know she was staring at him all big-eyed pleading like Puss in Boots from Shrek.

Mark surveyed the room, pushing his cap down over his eyes. He nodded at Alex with a look that said, Sorry Mouse, and stood up. “Sure, but be fast, Daze. Can’t annoy the other customers.”

The fan dwarfed Mark by six inches, half of that hair. Five cards were stuffed into his hand, each one with a different publicity image. Just like that, Daisy’s request for ‘an autograph’ multiplied to five. When he handed the cards back, all personalized and signed, Daisy stretched out her arm, phone in hand, and squished her uninvited greasy face against Mark’s cheek for a selfie. She snapped a photo burst, then another.

Alex rolled her eyes underneath her bangs and chomped her sandwich, the best way to silence her tongue.

“You good?” Mark offered a slash of a smile, not wishing to encourage Daisy any further.

“Oops, I blinked.”

Alex chugged Mark’s water. Yeah, right.

Daisy clicked another burst as five more teens with phones at the ready flew out of nowhere like pesky wasps at a picnic.

Alex leaned back in her chair. More?

“Mark! Oh, God.” Mancunian accents flew fast and furious. “Pose with me?”

The shortest girl in the pack shoved forward. “I love Lairds. Your accent rocks.”

Alex blew out her cheeks. “Sorry, but could we finish eating first?”

The girl launched a death stare at Alex. Face to face with her crush’s significant other, her manners melted quicker than a 99 Flake ice cream on a sunny Brighton beach. “Mark doesn’t mind.” She started to video record Mark with her phone. “He loves spending time with us.”

Mark ran a hand over his chin and met Alex’s eyes. “Sorry,” he mouthed.

Another girl nudged his elbow. “Mark, say hi to my friend Ronnie in Leeds.” She held out her phone, the dial tone bleating from its screen. Alex’s jaw dropped. This girl was dialing Ronnie in Leeds, fully expecting Mark to FaceTime right now.

Daisy hovered with her five autographs and countless selfies, clueless that her moment in Mark’s spotlight was over. She scrolled through Instagram but kept squinty side-eye on the girls flirting with her ‘friend’. Alex noticed Daisy stopped the Voice Memo app on her phone—she had recorded their conversation!

Alex shoved her toastie against her empty crisp bag. Where did all the polite fans go? Were Lucy, Freddie, and her the last of a dying breed, valuing respect, empathy, and self-awareness? Mark didn’t owe these fans anything apart from common courtesy and a polite hello, but they all seemed to think being interrupted, prodded, and grabbed was part of his obligation as an actor on their TV screens. How could he not love it? And who the hell was she for standing in their way?

After several minutes of high-pitched squeals, additional autographs for friends of friends, and snarky glances at Alex, the pack slunk away. Following Daisy’s lead, they bought cola and sweet ‘n’ salty popcorn then sat a few tables over, riveted in their seats, watching Alex and Mark as if their lunch date was the latest Netflix smash hit. These girls had no shame.

“Fangirls, eh?” Mark winked.

“I’ve got another name for them…” Alex swallowed hard.

She bowed her head. Mark picked at his sandwich. No further conversation passed their lips.