Thirty-Four

One month later

Rihanna meant business and so did Alex. The booming chorus of “Only Girl in the World”, in sync with her pumping arms and determined feet, surged her forward along the narrow Regent’s Canal towpath, past rows of moored canal boats. She weaved around cyclists, Saturday morning walkers, and fellow joggers, seeking a big finish to her run—just what she needed after receiving that email earlier in the morning.

Pushing herself, her breathing upped its pace to match her full-on sprint. She squinted into late May’s overdue sunshine, across the canal at two steel gasholders towering into the blue sky. Their presence and the railway and street bridges looming ahead signaled that the first half of her daily run was almost over, and the steps leading to Mare Street were, thankfully, around the corner.

Third chorus in, RiRi gave way to the Sherlock theme. Alex’s phone, strapped to her upper arm, kept the caller’s identity out of sight. “Hello?”

“Sincy, it’s Tarq!”

“And good-bye.” Alex pushed her earbud cord’s disconnect button as her eyes scanned the puzzling ‘break a leg’ graffiti spray-painted underneath the railway bridge.

Ten seconds later, the theme played again. Ugh. She stumbled to a stop just beyond the second bridge overpass, her chest rising and falling with breathless abandon. “What?”

“Sorry about Sincy. It has now been deleted from my vocab. You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your breathing is heavy…”

“Not for the reason you think.”

“Shame, that.”

“Tarquin, what do you want? You’ve ruined my jog.”

“A fellow jogger? Blimey, a girl after my own heart.”

“I’m not after anything, Tarquin. What do you want?”

“Someone to hang with this afternoon. Harry said you were back.”

Alex winced and slowly climbed the steps leading to Mare Street.

“Meet me on the South Bank.”

“I can’t. I’m in Hackney.”

“After your jog. After your shower.”

“I have writing to do.”

“On Saturday? Look up. The sky’s glorious. Shame to waste it. I’ll buy you ice cream outside the National Theatre. Go on, Sunshine, say yes—you know you want to!”

He had a point: this May day was a stunner. And…if they did sit outside the National, maybe she would see the literary manager, or someone from the New Work department…remind them she still existed…but she couldn’t stay out all afternoon.

“I’m meeting Lucy later.”

“I’ll have you back before she shows. Harry says she’s always late, anyway. Come on! A wander and a chat, that’s all I’m after.”

“Okay.”

“Brilliant. Meet me at the foot of the Golden Jubilee Bridge—you know, in front of the Royal Festival Hall? Half past twelve?”

• • •

Waiting on a concrete bench, Alex ignored the Thames view and flicked through a cheap magazine she had found discarded on the Tube. Just a few pages in and…surprise! Yet another slap to the face—photos of Mark and Fallon leaving Soho House. Fallon was all over him, like he was her personal jungle gym. A twinge of jealousy pinched her heart. Mark was laughing, moving on…

“Junk food for the brain.” Tarquin’s hand reached over her shoulder, snatching the magazine from her grasp. He joined her on the bench. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

“I guess you’d know.”

He dismissively glanced at the page Alex had open and slapped it down beside him. “I came early to shop.” He opened a red plastic Foyles bag. “See, I read more than Dr. Seuss.”

Alex checked out his stash—a memoir about the guy behind PayPal, a Steve Jobs biography. “You surprise me—no football bios, no trashy thrillers, and…the updated Star Wars encyclopedia? Really?”

“I’m a massive Star Wars geek. My dad hired actors to play Han Solo and a Wookie for my tenth birthday party. Tread carefully, I’m skilled at Jedi mind tricks.”

Alex snorted and stood up. Following her cue, Tarquin rose to his feet, too.

“I know who was in that magazine. Breakups are hard enough, but spotting your famous ex everywhere? Jeez.” Tarquin steered her back with his free hand. “No magazines on my watch.”

“And Jedi mind tricks will make that happen, Geek Boy?” Her glaring eyes, shooting over her shoulder, told him to remove his hand from her back—immediately. “Obi-Wan would be horrified. You should put those skills to better use.”

“Oh, I am. You’ll see.” He swung his bag of books and smiled into the sun and gentle breeze. “There’s no better place than London on a day like today.”

“Is that why you moved back? Missed it too much?”

“No. Things in New York ran their course. I took advantage of everything it had to offer, but after almost three years, it was time to come home. It’s funny—I felt most like a Londoner when I was there. All the differences, like their lack of salt-and-vinegar crisps? It’s the only flavour I like. Couldn’t find them anywhere.”

Alex’s eyes followed a tour boat down the Thames. “I could say the same about Twizzlers here.”

“Those awful sweets? The red chewy ropey things?”

“They’re delish, candy snob.”

“Have you tasted the chocolate ones? A shop in Times Square sells them.”

“That’s just wrong.” Alex shook her head. “It’s strawberry or nothing.”

“Who’s the candy snob now?”

“I like what I like.”

“You’re too picky.”

“Says the dude who only eats one flavour of crisps.”

“Touché.” He laughed. “You figure out what’s important when you’re away, don’t you think?”

Alex shrugged. “I guess.”

“My dad took us travelling during most school breaks. I’ve skied all over Europe, surfed the Australian coast. I’ve had a lot of opportunity to visit other cultures and learn from them, but no place compares to London.” He glanced across the river at the Shell Mex House’s large clock and back to Alex. “Have you travelled much?”

“Nowhere exotic or beachy—I hated sunbathing, growing up in Florida. I lived in Atlanta during college, and I’ve visited New York, Chicago, New Orleans, Dublin, Venice, and a few places around England—”

The slamming of polyurethane on cement drew Alex’s attention away from Tarquin. A crew of skateboarders were showing off their noseslides and grinds in the graffiti-covered undercroft of the Southbank Centre.

Tarquin’s grin grew twice its normal size. “My people!”

Alex scoffed.

“What?” His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

“Everything about you screams polo, rowing for Cambridge, and reading poetry to swooning debs. Skateboarding? Yeah, right.”

“Sorry to burst your bourgeois bubble, but I hate polo, and I can’t row for toffee. Poetry? Not if I can help it. I did go to Cambridge, but I ran cross-country, played footy, lived at the skatepark, and DJ’d, but I never got my kicks riding a polo pony. I’m more a coasteering, bouldering, snowkiting guy…”

Alex laughed. “Did you just make those up?”

“No! They’re extreme sports.”

“I thought you said you had a fear of heights?”

“Actually, it’s a fear of falling, but extreme sports have made that almost disappear. You have to be so in the moment, there’s no room to be scared. I felt amazing after my first rock climb. I felt like I could do anything.”

“Ah, so you’re scared of nothing and cocky about everything.”

“Yes and…yes.” He laughed and started walking again. “But my free time isn’t all fun and games. I’ve done my share of honest grafting, too.”

Alex rolled her eyes.

“I have! Volunteering…building hospitals in Nepal and schools in Senegal. I may come from old money and privilege, but that doesn’t define me—just like being blonde, blue-eyed, and from Florida doesn’t define you, Sunshine.”

“Touché.” Alex nodded as they approached a cluster of tables selling secondhand books underneath Waterloo Bridge.

“We’re not that different, you and me…”

“You barely know me.” Alex stopped at a table filled with hardcover books. A busker, strumming a guitar nearby, sang a tune that sounded familiar. She prided herself on recognizing old songs, but this one…

“You use words to build worlds. I use my hands…although nowadays I’m more hands off than on.” Tarquin slipped a finger along a row of book spines. “See anything you like?”

Tarquin’s question hung in the air, unanswered; Alex’s mind was elsewhere. I hate it when I can’t ID an earworm! I know this…what IS it?

Tarquin touched her arm. “Alex? Anything you want?”

“Oh!” She jolted to attention, scanning the tables. Her eyes stalled on a book with giant green letters on its spine—MARK.

She caught her breath as his name unlocked the mystery tune: “Here, There and Everywhere” by the Beatles. Mark used to play his dad’s old Beatles records all the time, and we’d dance and sing around the flat…

“Hey, Earth to Alex…”

She looked at Tarquin. “No…thanks.”

He held up a copy of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. “Day made! Love this book.” He broke into a wide grin.

Damn. Never mind Jedi mind tricks…those dimples—hypnotizing. His smile was self-assured, used to getting its own way—sexy, but in a completely different way than Mark’s. She pulled her eyes away while simultaneously grabbing the nearest book: The Kama Sutra. A blush warmed her cheeks.

“Blimey. Steady on, girl!” He laughed and walked to the vendor, leaving Alex in a sweaty haze of embarrassment.

What am I doing? Comparing a guy I barely know to Mark? And that sex book? Nice one, Lex.

When Tarquin returned, he pointed to the Sir Laurence Olivier statue outside the National. “He named one of his sons Tarquin. Larry had good taste.”

“So, you are a theatre fan?”

“Uh, no. I’m just a keeper of banal facts about my name.”

“But you took me to that play?”

“Yeah, because Harry said it would cheer you up.” He nodded towards Kitchen, the National’s café. “Feeling peckish?”

Alex’s heart dipped. The National was her place—and Mark’s. She didn’t want to share it with someone who didn’t appreciate it. “No. Let’s keep going…”

“As you wish.”

They stopped in nearby Gabriel’s Wharf, an open-air shopping enclave, for fries and ice cream, passed by the Tate Modern, Shakespeare’s Globe, and Southwark Cathedral. With each step, Alex felt a little more at ease, a little less judgmental of Harry’s best friend. He was funny and sharp, definitely less braggy. He asked questions—and listened to Alex’s answers—about her writing hopes.

“It will be my first piece performed in a theatre since Thirteen, so I’m pretty excited about it.”

“When did you write it?”

“Eleven months ago. It’s just a scene. I wrote it at the Court during an invite-only group session. I forgot all about it until they called three weeks ago. They’re performing ten different scenes next month, all from emerging playwrights.”

“Can I come?”

“I’ll be lucky if I can grab a seat. It’s a fundraising gala, so every penny goes towards new works and writers’ schemes. Anyway, you’re not a theatre fan!”

“But I’d like to see your work. I bet the after-party will be epic.”

Alex shook her head as they walked under London Bridge. “I won’t stick around. I got an email this morning listing all the actors participating…”

Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “Mark?”

“His girlfriend. At least she’s not in my scene.”

“She should be so lucky.” He smiled. “Speaking of lucky…Thirteen sounds incredible. You should send it to Broadway.”

“Maybe.”

“I know a woman. Want her details?”

“Do all your hookups owe you favours? Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Alex! She’s a lesbian in her late fifties. I helped her get an apartment, not an orgasm. Our interaction was professional, like my dealings with the producer of Sir Ian’s play.” He threw his arm in the air. “Look, despite the over-sexualized banter you witnessed at Bespoke, I’m really not a douche. I didn’t spend the last three years in the Big Apple keeping Durex in business. I was there to work. Budgie’s always been more of a dad to me than my own father, and there was no way I was going to blow it.

“And for the record, I dated three women—three—the entire time I was in New York. One was my flatmate. The other two were model/actresses who did my head in. Actually, they reminded me of my mother.”

“Eww.”

“Not in that way. My mum was a model, an actress.”

“Wait a minute…” Alex’s eyes climbed up the Shard, looming behind London Bridge Station. “Balfour…Balfour…Kiki Balfour? Kiki Balfour is your mum? Wasn’t she in a sci-fi series, mid-nineties?”

“Yep. Equinox Ten. Not exactly Doctor Who level, but yeah…how do you know that? You’re too young—and American.”

“Dad’s a sci-fi freak. We used to binge-watch British shows on PBS when I was a kid. Your mum’s name stuck in my head because Joan’s—my grandmother’s—cat was called Kiki, after KiKi Dee, the singer?”

“God. Don’t go breaking my heart…”

She laughed. Musical cheese! Tarquin knows KiKi Dee!

“My mother didn’t take that song to heart. Her first love was acting, and Dad was way down the list. My brothers and I didn’t fare much better.”

“How many brothers?” asked Alex.

“Just two. You?”

“Sister and brother. Both older.”

“I’m youngest, too. Before I was born, Dad and my uncle sold their share of the family’s oil company. They split over eighty million quid. He used his portion to start Sports Now, the bargain sports apparel chain?”

“I bought my running shoes there.”

“Well, thanks for supporting my cold, dysfunctional family.” He grinned and guided Alex to the entrance of Hay’s Galleria, a converted riverside wharf that boasted shops and restaurants.

“My mother was pissed Dad didn’t pour that money into a TV production company she wanted to bankroll. They fought a lot. She took off several times, shacking up with various male co-stars. Her leaving, her ego…the constant phoniness of her profession—it left me with a perpetual showbiz hate-on. Mum always chose her job over us. I did everything I could to grab her attention: I excelled at sports, deliberately crashed my skateboard a few times.” He glanced at Alex. “I remember being seven, maybe eight, and thinking: if I hurt myself badly enough, Mum will have to love me. Stupid, eh?”

Alex’s gaze travelled along the Galleria’s vaulted glass and steel ceiling. “It’s not stupid. I know exactly how that feels.”

“Do you? Did your mother ever change?”

“She showed a shred of interest when Thirteen got picked up, but she never flew over to see me. We haven’t been face to face since I left Florida three years ago, which is fine by me. Mark always wanted us to get along. We argued about it. He’s close to his mum and never understood why I stopped trying with mine. I think there’s only so much rejection you can take.”

“Exactly. Einstein’s definition of insanity sums it up nicely, don’t you think?”

“Totally.”

“I think my mum loved her TV kids more than she ever loved us. I hated them, precocious stage-school shits.”

Spotting Tower Bridge, Alex pulled out her phone for a photo. “Crap, it’s almost three. I need to get back for Lucy.”

Tarquin smiled. “My Millennium Falcon awaits!”