Thirty-Seven

Nine days later

Mid-June was colder than usual, but Alex didn’t have time to ponder the weather. In between Upton Park edits, rehearsals for her scene in the fundraising gala, and Tarquin’s social calendar, she barely had time to sleep, or think about Mark—much.

Smoothing the skirt of her favourite plum dress for the eleventh time, she jittered on Tom’s sofa, her toes tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood floor. Their frenetic dance matched the conga line traipsing through her stomach. Tonight, her words would be performed on the Royal Court’s stage. Her piece would be over within fifteen minutes, but that didn’t matter: two years after Thirteen’s surprise triumph, she was back.

And so far, so good. Rehearsals had gone without a hitch, and she hadn’t bumped into Fallon once. The last run-through had been that morning, and by the time Alex arrived to watch her scene—the second-to-last piece being performed—most of the actors had already left. Tonight, Fallon would be too busy preparing her scene, so the preshow dinner would be guaranteed Delaney-free. Mark, though, was another concern altogether.

A text from Tarquin lit up her phone: Hey, Sunshine. ‘Will you succeed? Yes, you will indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)’ Dr. Seuss believes in you—so do I. Go smash it. x

Bless. Tarquin had offered to come…several times. Over the past weeks, he had earned her trust with his thoughtfulness and dependability. Like clockwork at one P.M. on Tuesdays and Thursdays, he would check in, calling to discuss that evening’s adventure. Unlike Mark, he didn’t spring surprises on her; he always consulted with her first—a trait that soothed her inner control freak. Sometimes nights out were his choice: exercising his expensive tastes with dinner in the clouds at the Sky Garden, or tickets to the hottest plays. Sometimes Alex called the shots, choosing cheap fry-ups at Pimlico’s Regency Café, edgy theatre performances in found spaces, or lazy window-shopping strolls through Seven Dials. She even took him to his first comic con, a small Saturday-only Star Wars celebration in Brighton.

With each excursion, Alex realized Harry was right. Getting out and about was exactly what the doctor ordered—for Tarq and for her. He was forging new business contacts amid cocktails and theatre outings, and Alex’s writing muse was back with a vengeance. These dates between friends were a permanent fixture in her bullet journal, unlike her panic attacks, which, thanks to her continued diligence, had taken a back seat for almost three months.

But through it all, Alex couldn’t ignore the fresh lilies or packets of M&Ms Tarquin left for her in his flat, or the new novels she wanted to read, bookmarked with handwritten Dr. Seuss quotes on his personalized stationary. His laddish persona? Gone. He was actually funnier without the pervy innuendos. Alex laughed a lot with Tarquin, and yet, she still wasn’t sure she could make that leap.

She typed and hit send: Thanks, Geek Boy. Will let you know.

Phew. Five minutes, then she’d head out. The house was quiet. Naomi had a Mamma Mia! performance, and Tom was visiting Rex. She checked her makeup again, vetted the contents of her clutch again, and texted Lucy…again.

Leaving soon. Wish you guys could come, but the Court doesn’t have rubber walls! xoxo

Lucy replied within seconds.

Thought you should know about THIS. I don’t want you walking in there blind…keep me posted. x

Lucy’s text included a link. Blind…to what? She tapped it, and Fallon’s—Sinéad’s—Facebook page appeared. Oh, Lucy. Alex had resisted for months; why look now? But…Lucy wouldn’t have raised the alarm for nothing.

The page was locked down, but it displayed five public pictures in addition to her profile and cover photos. All featured Mark. Of course. Two pictures were lovely dovey Fallon and Mark circa 2008 and 2009. Alex couldn’t deny it—they had been a cute teenage couple once upon a time. The other images were recent: downing shots in a Manchester bar, on set in Ireland, and frolicking on a sun-kissed beach. …wait, a beach? Two weeks ago…in Florida. Her home turf. Alex curled her lip but couldn’t look away.

Mark, clad in soaked swim trunks that left little to the imagination, was clutching Fallon and her drenched bikini as waves crashed around them. Four months of dating and already, Mark had taken Fallon on holiday. That was fast. Mark had taken Alex to Venice when they hit twelve months—for their first anniversary. Three times Mark had cancelled their U.S. trip—his first trip—to her home state. But here he was, his first time in Florida, romping in the surf with Fallon and her see-through bikini. Fucking bastard.

Her cheeks burned. What else is out there?

Fuck it! She downloaded Instagram on her phone, punched in #MarkKeegan, and…an official blue-ticked account popped up. You’re kidding me? Thirty-seven photos scrolled under her finger: promotional shots from Lairds, Constellations images, beach photos. When did this happen? She read his profile. It included a link to an official website. With one click, a moody black and white site filled her screen. Mark was doing studly things: straddling a Harley (not his cute Vespa) and squinting into the sun wearing jeans and a wife beater—a wife beater?!—with his burgeoning biceps bulging to attention. Tacky! There were links to official Twitter and Snapchat accounts, too. Mark…on Snapchat? Mission accomplished, Wink! Mark’s action-hero makeover was obviously speeding ahead, full throttle.

She took a deep breath. Calmly, she placed her phone in her clutch. Time to go. Time to show Mark, Fallon, and everyone else that the last six months hadn’t broken her. Alex painted on a smile, shoved her bangs from her eyes, and grew three inches in her heels. The show must go on.

• • •

The evening’s actors bowed for a third time, eating up the rapturous standing ovation of the Royal Court faithful. Alex beamed from mid-stalls at her own actors, Pete and Sara, but her eyes had a mind of their own, drifting to centre stage where Fallon smiled like a newly-crowned Oscar winner. Alex followed the actress’s gaze but couldn’t spot Mark in the audience. Strange.

The house lights brightened to full strength, the actors exited the stage, and patrons lumbered down the aisles, anticipating the free bar and live music at the post-show party.

Alex hung back, lost in her phone. The screen was clogged with texts.

Lucy: What’s happening? I’m dying here.

Harry: Drinks are waiting. Come celebrate.

Tarquin: I’m on stand-by. I can pick you up.

Alex answered Lucy. It went really well.

See Mark?

Not a whisker.

Workaholic. For once, that’s a good thing. U coming?

Yes. Saying good-bye to my actors first.

K. x

Alex slipped down the aisle and out the exit, walking past the red wall overlooking the bar. She stopped at the top of the stairs, surveying the lively party below. Finding Pete and Sara in this crowd would be a struggle. She followed the flow of people down the steps and the familiar wall of heat and noise waiting at the bottom unleashed happy memories of Thirteen’s press night party, of Mark beaming at her across the bar…of his promise that he would never lose her again…Vespa rules…

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pulling herself back to this moment—here, now. Her so-called ‘friend’—nostalgia—could piss off. She was here to create new memories, and nothing—and no one—would stop her.

Inching farther into the fray and passing an overstuffed photo booth spilling random legs and arms, she bumped into the stage manager. “Hey! We did it!”

“You did it, Alex. You must be chuffed. Want a drink?”

“No, I’m good, thanks. I had two glasses of champagne during dinner.” She squinted into the crush. “Have you seen Pete and Sara?”

“Not yet.” The pretty brunette shook her head. “Maybe they’re upstairs? The DJ’s up there.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Alex smiled and craned her neck, scarcely looking over the people around her; even aloft in heels, she was still a short ass amongst this crowd. She huffed and turned around, squeezing her way back towards the front of the room.

“Hey, Alex, all right?”

“Welcome back, girl.”

“Congratulations, wonderful scene!”

She shook hands, hugged, and laughed through the crush. It felt amazing to be back, to reunite with familiar faces she hadn’t seen in two years, people who remembered—who loved—her work. She made lunch plans and exchanged phone numbers. Their vote of confidence left her with perma-grin, sore cheeks, and a revised action plan for the coming weeks. Who knew that a ten-page script could make such a splash? She was back on Theatreland’s radar and fit to burst.

Nodding her head along to the DJ’s beat, she wriggled through swaying bodies and shouty conversations and got stuck behind a raucous pack of actors toting handlebar moustaches and oversized sunglasses outside another photo booth. Her phone vibrated in her hand: a call from an unknown number, stealing her attention as she hightailed around the scrum—

She slammed chin-first into a woman’s back, draped in silky straight hair. “Ooof!” The playwright stumbled backwards, juggling her ringing phone.

“Ow! What the—” The long dark hair took flight, fanning out as the woman spun around, away from her well-dressed clique. Alex’s victim stared, her delicate features disdainful.

I’m such a klutz! Alex wished she could hide behind a pair of those giant photo booth sunglasses and blame this hit-and-run on someone else. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” the woman snapped, rubbing her shoulder blade as she turned back to her loud cluster of friends.

Brown eyes, soft and wide, peered around the woman. “Christ! Alex?” His lips quivered, not sure whether to smile, laugh, or curse again.

That voice… Alex’s heart dropped to the floor, taking with it the false sense of security that had protected her until six seconds ago. She had come so close to getting through the night without seeing…him.

“Are you okay?” Mark stepped forward, ignoring the suspicious looks and headshakes of his associates. His left hand reached towards Alex’s arm but hesitated and withdrew before making contact. His other hand strangled the neck of his beer bottle.

She half-smiled, preventing an honest answer from leaving her lips. “I’m okay…sorry for crashing into your friend.”

Mark looked tanned. His hair was longer, like he hadn’t cut it since she last saw him in Constellations three months earlier. His voice sounded incredible, his unmistakable scent teasing her closer. The urge to touch him vibrated all the way down to her fingertips.

His chest rose and fell in time with some nervous nodding. “Um, Alex Sinclair, meet Chelsey Wu. Chelsey’s my personal assistant.”

Mark didn’t have to explain Alex’s relevance to Chelsey. The mere mention of her full name unleashed a head tilt of recognition.

“Chels, can you—”

“Absolutely.” She gave Alex a knowing smile and wrangled their gang of six. “Come, meet Mark’s American PR. She’s setting up an interview with Graydon Carter’s people…”

Mark paused as they moved on, his eyes briefly swept down Alex’s body and back up again. He hovered over her lips before reuniting with her eyes. Chills raced along Alex’s arms and neck, every second of his gaze, torture.

“Lex, you look…great.” His eyes did that crinkly thing at the corners that Alex loved. “Your dress, it’s from the wedding, right?”

The wedding…their awkward marriage convo…their sensuous morning after…like dominos, the memories toppled, one after another. She nodded, lost in his voice and their past, unable to function.

“How are you?” A surge of longing lifted his voice. “How’s Michael…Joan…?”

“Good. Thanks. You? Your…mum?”

“Good, yeah…” He stepped closer.

He smelled so good.

“Mum’s well. She misses y—” He cut himself off, his eyes darting through the swarm of bodies an elbow away.

Alex held her breath, fearful that exhaling would release the wave of loss and sadness that was threatening to flood her heart all over again.

“So…big night, eh?” Mark smiled again. “So much talent on show.”

“Yeah. I was flattered to be included.”

“You deserved to be included. Your scene blew the others off the stage.”

She let her breath go. “You saw it?”

“Yeah! From side stage. Wink and I got here just before Fal’s…” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Wink looks after both of us now.”

“Right.” Reality slapped Alex out of her nostalgic stupor. How cosy. Mark and “Fal” shared an agent. They shared holidays. They shared a past…and the present. Alex’s face began to flush. First loves. Like Helen and her dad. Despite the teenage angst, years spent apart, and relationships with other people, they would always find their way back into each other’s arms. Mark’s future had never been hers—it was Fallon’s.

Tonight’s Facebook discovery, his total 180 on social media, his stupid makeover…this awkward conversation reminded her once again that this guy was not the unspoiled Irish actor she had met in the lobby of this theatre three years ago. This rising star was not the Mark she had fallen in love with. Things were different now. Her world hadn’t just slipped off its axis; it had been flung from it.

What am I doing? Feeling sentimental? Missing him? No.

No sadness, no yearning, no regrets would seep into this conversation. She clenched her jaw, a renewed sense of cool, detached anger—of purpose—rising from her chest.

“Congratulations on Full Throttle 3.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s exciting…” Mark smiled.

“How’s the script?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen it. Soon though. I signed on because, well, it’s a massive…”

His eyes searched hers; for what, Alex had no clue. If it was words he needed to finish that sentence, she could offer a few: ‘piece of shit’ immediately came to mind, as did ‘sell-out’, but she remained silent. This new Mark was just doing what he did best—following Wink’s advice, even if Full Throttle 3 was sure to be void of creativity, heart, truthfulness, or any of the qualities he used to hope for in a script. The urge to shout, You’ve become the celebrity we used to LAUGH about! while smacking some sense into him was overpowering.

“…opportunity.” His grin stretched farther. “The movie of next summer, they’re saying.”

“Well, if they’re saying it, it must be true…”

Mark dragged his hand through his hair, his smile softening. He leaned close to her ear. “Lex, there’s something you should know—”

“There you are!” An arm snaked around her waist from behind.

Alex flinched. Her eyes dropped, catching a flash of silver—a ring—on a determined thumb, stroking her side.

Tarquin.

The smile glued to Mark’s face dissolved.

A strange mix of relief and unease quivered in Alex’s chest. She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again, she would find herself anywhere but there. The Court wasn’t the place for a scene.

“Car’s waiting, Sunshine…” Tarquin’s eyes took in Mark like an afterthought. “Oh, hello. I’m Tarquin.” He extended his hand. “You’re Mark, right?”

Mark stood up straight and met Tarquin’s handshake. “Hi.”

He dropped Tarquin’s hand quickly, his eyes narrowing as they flew to Alex’s waist. They flitted back to her face, questioning. A sharp swoop of his hand swept his hair from his forehead.

A blonde in an ankle-length silver dress slipped around the corner of the photo booth and pounced on him. “Babe, did you see who I was talking—”

Fallon’s hand halted its journey along Mark’s chest, her attention leaping towards the subject of his stare. “Alex…hi. Congrats on your scene.” Her eyes jumped to Tarquin.

“Thanks, Fallon. You…were terrific.” A rehearsed fake smile trespassed across Alex’s cheeks. If it stretched any farther, she worried her foundation might crack. She looked up at Tarquin and squeezed his hand where it held her waist. “I’m ready.”

He nodded.

Her eyes bolted to her ex. “Take care, Mark…Fallon.”

Alex guided Tarquin away from the couple, weaving her way through the crowd to the stairs.

Once in the lobby, out of Mark’s sight, Tarquin stopped, forcing Alex to hit the brakes. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I can’t talk here.”

“Okay, so, Bespoke? Or…home?”

“Not mine. Yours.”