Twenty-Six

Alex’s leg shimmied under the table, making their plates shake. The Cat and Mutton’s upstairs space was packed with loud groups of friends, young families, and wide-eyed tourists devouring the 300-year-old pub’s Sunday lunchtime specialty: heaping plates of roast sirloin, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, and a medley of honeyed carrots and parsnips.

“It’s too soon.”

“No, it’s time. You’ve been glued to that sofa for two bloody weeks.” Lucy dunked a piece of beef into the thick gravy. “Your wheelie bin goes out more than you do.”

“No. I mean—I didn’t expect Mark to move out today. Everything’s real, now it’s happening…”

“The faster he moves out, the sooner you can move on, do your Manchester thing, and come back to London…and can you please stop shaking the table?”

“He looked awful…”

Lucy impaled a potato with her fork. “Karma’s a bitch.”

“I look awful.” Alex glanced down at her sweatshirt and jeans which hung from her curves. “Splotchy, pale—I’m such a catch.” She rubbed her eye without fear. Her mascara and eyeliner hadn’t left her makeup bag since the afternoon she called time on their relationship.

“What the hell are you doing in his sweatshirt?” Lucy’s glare dropped to her plate as she sliced her Yorkshire pudding into pieces. “You’ve been sleeping in it, haven’t you?”

Alex slid her Vespa necklace underneath the shirt’s collar while Lucy wasn’t looking. “It’s comforting.”

“Yeah—for all the wrong reasons. Besides, it smells and it’s got a huge hole in it.” Lucy stabbed a baby carrot. “I could kill Freddie. Why couldn’t he just fucking LISTEN for once and follow simple instructions?”

Her loudness attracted furrowed brows from the next table.

“I told him to wait until we’d left but ohh, no! He had to bring Mark over an hour early. He did it on fucking purpose. You weren’t supposed to see him, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to see you, especially in that sweatshirt.”

“Mark looked green. Do you think he’s sick?”

Lucy exhaled with a huff.

“I could ask Freddie…”

“You could, but you shouldn’t. He’s not your concern anymore.”

“I can’t flip a switch and stop caring. It’s only been two weeks—”

“Fine,” Lucy interrupted. “Yes, he’s been out getting wrecked again in Dublin. Happy now?”

“Was Fallon—”

“No, according to Tom. Does it make a difference? It shouldn’t.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Liar.” Lucy shoved aside her parsnips with her knife. “You are pining big time. You’re binge-watching Friends, haven’t started packing. There’s unopened mail, dust bunnies, unwashed clothes.”

Alex half-heartedly took a bite of her Yorkshire pudding. “I ran out of underwear. I’m wearing my bikini bottoms—”

“See? Neat Freak Lex would be horrified. And I love junk food, but your eating habits—”

“What?” Alex scooted untouched carrots around her plate. “Naomi brought casseroles—”

“That you don’t eat. She finds them morphing into science experiments in your fridge. And I know you read this morning’s Mail story. I saw it on your laptop.”

“Naomi said Tom was in some of the photos. I just wanted to see—”

“Don’t use Tom as your latest excuse. You’re the one who broke it off, not the other way ’round. It’s over. There’s no going back. Just stop, okay? Stop! Eat your lunch and quit shaking the table.”

Alex’s leg picked up speed. “Come on, Lucy, give me a break. All you’ve done lately is harp at me for being sad. I may have ended it, but it still hurts.” She avoided eye contact. “At least Freddie’s been understanding.”

“Yeah, ’cause Freds wants you two back together.”

“Maybe Freddie’s right. I keep having doubts…” Alex lowered her voice. “…asking myself, Did I do the right thing? Living with Mark’s clothes, his bathroom stuff, the Vespa…it’s a daily reminder of what I’ve lost.”

“Well, then you won’t mind when I chuck that United shirt in the bin when we get back.”

“You might as well toss me in with it.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Lucy gestured with her fork as she talked. “In an hour or so, all those reminders will be out of your flat for good, and I’m changing my Netflix password, so you’ll stop with the Friends marathon. It’s not helping.”

Alex poked at a small roast potato. “But the absence of his stuff is a reminder, too.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lex, you’re doing my head in. The cheater had to move today, okay? Once the film finishes mid-Feb, Freddie said he’s straight into rehearsals for some play.”

“What play? Where’s he doing it?”

“I don’t care. You shouldn’t either. You were doing so well two weeks ago. Now you’re…regressing, yeah, that’s the word.” Lucy picked up the menu, giving the desserts a once-over. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—I called to cancel your Spring Break Florida trip, but Mark had already done it. At least he’s taken responsibility for something.”

“Fuck, I miss him.”

Lucy’s phone buzzed on the table. “It’s Freds. If he’s telling the truth, they’ve just left the flat.”

Alex jolted to her feet sending her chair squealing across the floor. “I’m going back. Now.”

• • •

Tearing off her coat, Alex’s eyes landed on the black chair inside the flat. “His keys…”

Lucy closed the door. “What about them?”

“They’re not here. He always leaves them right here. Maybe he’s not done—maybe he’s coming back.” Without stopping for breath, she raced into the bedroom, her keychain—the one that matched Mark’s—clasped within her grip.

“Lex…” Lucy called out even though Alex was around the corner, out of sight. “Don’t. His Vespa’s gone…”

Heart pounding, Alex whipped open the closet at breakneck speed. Half of it—Mark’s half—was bare. She ran to his drawers, heaving them open two at a time, their hollow clunk a punch to Alex’s stomach. She spun around, eyes wild and roving, the room dissolving into a streaky blur. His record collection, his signed football, his dog-eared novels—all gone, off to live someplace else…someplace without her.

“Babe, don’t do this.”

Chucks thumping across the hardwood, Alex ignored Lucy and strode through the living room to the bathroom, her eyes scrambling over the vanity, through the medicine cabinet, over the edge of the tub: Mark’s hair products, razor, and toothbrush that had lived alongside her lotions, potions, and bottles…all taken. With a shaky hand, she shoved her bangs off her forehead, creased in despair.

The fridge…the fridge would tell her. Smothered with photos and loving Post-Its—that’s where she needed to look. She careened from the bathroom, all hope pinned to that under-the-counter appliance.

The surface of the fridge was like a baseball bat to the knees. Alex reached for the kitchen counter, steading herself. Mark hadn’t taken anything. She stared at the memories left behind, deemed dispensable by the man she had hoped to spend the rest of her life with.

He hadn’t left anything, either. “No note, no…nothing? Doesn’t two years mean anything to him?” Alex squeezed the keychain in her hand, the engraving on the silver rectangle branding its significance into her palm and scarring her heart.

Lucy placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Actors are like nomads, moving from job to job, Lex. He’s used to leaving people behind.”

Tears slipped down Alex’s cheeks and landed on her sweatshirt—Mark’s sweatshirt—her new reality seeping into her heart as quickly as the tears soaked into the cotton top. Not only had Mark taken all his belongings, he had also snatched away her hope, her breath, her heart.

Looking across the counter, Lucy spied a propped-up bubble envelope with ‘Alex’ scrawled across it.

“Lex, what’s that?” She grabbed the medium-sized package for her friend.

The handwriting with its looping A and sweeping X was as familiar as Alex’s own. She fought back tears, taking a hopeful breath.

Ripping open the parcel, her shaky hand met the waxy dust jacket of a hardcover book. The ache in her chest squeezed tighter. It was the signed autobiography of Manchester United’s most celebrated manager, Sir Alex Ferguson…her birthday gift to Mark—the one she had hurled at his head in Dublin. A page fell open, revealing a piece of hotel notepaper.

Alex, you’ve always known what to get me, but this left me speechless. It’s Michael’s copy, isn’t it? I spent so many hours with my nose stuck in its pages, your dad always joked that I should have it. He gave it to you, to give to me, but I can’t keep it, not now. Please make sure Michael gets it back and tell him I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused your family.

You must wish we never met. I deserve your disappointment, your disgust in me. It mirrors mine. Love always, Mark x

She stared at the paper, hovering over the last line: no good-bye. Mark knew. He knew how much they both hated saying that word.

She looked back inside the envelope and gasped what felt like her last breath. Her hand slipped inside the bubble wrap sleeve, her fingers meeting cold, jagged metal—surrendered, never to be held in Mark’s hand again.

A sob let go in her throat, releasing wave after wave of tears.

The final thread connecting her to Mark had been severed. Mark Keegan, loving boyfriend, was now Mark Keegan, the next big thing. All news of him would be gleaned from Google or maybe a slip of Freddie’s lips. No more kisses. No more rapturous reunions or easy smiles. The next time she’d see his face would probably be through a TV or cinema screen—you can look, but you can never touch. He would land bigger roles, collect even more enthusiastic fans—and probably have a new A-list girlfriend. He was no longer hers.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. It wasn’t supposed to end at all.

She swallowed, digging out Mark’s keys. The landlord would be happy…at least someone would.

One key. Two keys. They were Mark’s unspoken, unwritten good-bye. Her whole body ached.

She reached in again, but her hand came back empty.

Mark was always careless, losing things; his silver keychain that matched the one in her hand wasn’t there.

“I guess it’s official then…” Alex gulped for air, sinking into Lucy. She released her grip on the beloved object. “I’m one of those people, left behind, forgotten.”

Through a veil of tears, her eyes settled on her palm: the June 5, 2015 indentation from the keychain was fading fast from her skin.