Forty

Two weeks later

The private-hire SUV lurched ahead in the drop-off queue outside the Royal Albert Hall. Alex finished emailing Lucy a revised section of graphic novel copy and grinned at Tarquin, sat beside her on the middle seat.

She clasped his hand, her eyes squinting in the late June sunlight as they skimmed down his tailored dark grey suit. “You look extra handsome tonight.”

He kissed her temple and pulled back, admiring her slim, long white dress. “Just trying to make a good impression.”

“You and me both.” Alex exhaled heavily.

“Sunshine, you already have! You’ve sealed the deal.” Tarquin’s smile squinted his eyes. “Channel Four is in the bag.”

“I hope so. Their TV development scheme is an in, but that’s all it is.” Alex picked at the beading on her new clutch. “There’s no guarantee they’ll take what I write, and as their guest, I need to make sure they see me as a good fit tonight—”

“You’re a great fit: smart, talented…gorgeous.” He nuzzled into her waves, inhaling the beachy scent of jasmine and amber left behind by her shampoo. “Only a showbiz idiot would think otherwise. Honestly, these people…” He huffed and leaned back, his eyes shifting to the window. His dimples slowly evaporated into a pout.

Alex tightened her grip of his hand. “Tarq, I meant it. We’ll stay two hours, tops, okay? Then, I’m all yours until my flight tomorrow morning.”

A sharp exhale left his lips. “What’s this bloody thing called again?” He pulled a ticket from his jacket’s inside pocket. “A Celebration of British Television. God, if that title is any reflection of how boring it’s g—”

“We won’t stay long.” She let go of his hand. “You might surprise yourself—you might have fun.”

“Hanging with self-absorbed C-list celebs?” He stuffed the ticket back in his pocket. “I knew I should’ve packed a flask—”

“I told you…you didn’t have to come—”

“I want to support you, Lex…”

Whining? Some support… She rolled her eyes. “Well, why are you so pissy, then? Is it your mum? Was she invited tonight?”

“Now, there’s a boner killer.” He flung his head backwards on the seat, staring at the SUV’s ceiling. “No, she wasn’t.”

Alex shook her head and looked away. The SUV slowed to a stop.

“Hey…” Tarquin pulled her in, kissing her cheek. “What am I like? I’m being a dick. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She half-smiled. “I know you hate these things, but sometimes they’re part of my job…sometimes I have to socialize with these people…”

“I know, it’s just…I didn’t want to share you tonight. Two weeks apart, Lex…? I’m going to miss you.”

“I know. I’m going to miss you, too.”

He left a kiss on her shoulder and glanced out the window. “Uh, why aren’t we moving?” He leaned towards the driver. “Excuse me, mate, is there a problem?”

“Paparazzi at the backstage entrance,” the driver replied, looking in his rearview mirror at Tarquin. “Someone up ahead just got ambushed from the looks of it.”

Tarquin lowered his window and leaned outside. “Blimey.” He blinked several times. “They’re surrounding an accessible van. That’s not cool.”

Alex climbed across his lap and stuck her head out the window. Her stomach flip-flopped. “It’s Niamh!”

“Who?”

“Mark’s mum.” She frowned.

The photographers, at least twenty or more, baited Mark and crowded closer.

“Mark, mate! Pose with our old mum!”

“Mrs. Keegan, you must be proud of your son? Give us a smile, eh?”

“Mark! Just need the one shot—hug your mum and girlfriend. Happy families, yeah?”

Face like thunder, Mark tried to shield Niamh’s wheelchair from the swarm, but he was outnumbered. “Guys, come on, would ya back up! She can’t move. Give her space. Please!”

Fallon appeared through the scrum, waving the pushy paps away. A few fans stormed the crush, including the notorious Daisy—no surprise there.

“Niamh must be here for Mark…for Lairds. He’s introducing the salute to Scottish TV.” Alex swallowed. “She’s a sweetheart. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Tabloid wankers…she looks frightened,” said Tarquin. “Should…I help?”

Alex’s mouth opened and closed, unable to find the words as her past tugged at her heart.

Mark posed briefly with his mum and Fallon, giving the paparazzi what they demanded. Amidst a storm of flashes, Fallon beamed warmly as Niamh attempted a nervous grin. Not a hint of a smile graced Mark’s face. Satisfied, the photographers cleared a path, allowing Mark to steer his mum into the hall’s entrance.

“Lex, you okay?”

Alex retreated from the window and Tarquin’s lap. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Tarquin smiled, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair, and closed the window.

• • •

“Tarq…” Alex leaned onto her date’s chair and squeezed his arm, jolting him awake. “I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get to the restroom.”

The event’s host bleated on and on about tax credits for TV productions.

“Make a run for it. Save yourself.” Tarquin mimicked shooting himself in the head.

She chuckled quietly and snuck past, joining a wave of women with the same idea. Unfortunately, the restrooms at the Royal Albert Hall weren’t large, and the famous Loggia boxes where Alex was seated shared toilet facilities with the extensive stalls section. The line snaking into the women’s restroom was long and barely moving.

Alex popped open her clutch, took out her phone, and got lost in Freddie’s non-stop backstage texts. He was there tonight with Simon volunteering as talent wranglers.

Fuck me sideways. I’m wrangling bat-shit crazy, you know, that red-nosed car show host? He’s drunk already!

Simon got the diva from Dance-Off. Hopefully she’ll teach him some moves. Don’t tell him I said that!

Freddie and Simon, along with several of Freddie’s BBC co-workers, were each assigned a TV star, and their task for the night was making sure that their ‘talent’ got from point A to point B during the program—“celebrity babysitting” was how Freddie described it. From his texts, he was the worst talent wrangler ever.

Shit! I can’t find him!

Idiot stole some bloke’s disability scooter, found him doing doughnuts backstage!

They’re trying to get it off him now. He wants to drive it away. Train wreck!

Alex typed a response:

You get all the excitement! I’m in the loo queue behind a barmaid from Eastenders.

Three minutes passed. Alex didn’t get a response or hear if the boozy presenter with the stolen scooter made a clean getaway. She hoped he did.

Dumping her phone in her clutch, she spied a small packet of chocolate Buttons: her emergency reserve. She tore it open and munched, oblivious to the mascara-coated glances coveting her rapidly disappearing chocolate stash.

Inching closer, the line dancing was non-stop: a step to the left and a slip to the right, allowing access to the sinks and mirrors. The loud roar of the hand dryers to Alex’s immediate right overpowered polite conversations and a burst of dirty laughter. She stuffed the chocolate wrapper in her clutch and smiled, turning towards the hilarity.

Shit! Fallon?! She was with two friends, talking excitedly in her sing-songy Irish accent. With the drone of the dryers and background noise, Alex couldn’t catch a word. At least they hadn’t seen her.

A glint drew Alex’s eye. That’s not…is it?

The petite diamond ring from Mark’s backpack—Niamh’s ring was there…on Fallon’s hand, sparkling under the pot lights as she waved it back and forth underneath a hand dryer. Alex’s heart threatened to thrash through her ribs. She inhaled, but the sudden tightness of her chest didn’t allow further breaths to depart her lips.

Wait… The ring was on Fallon’s right hand.

Alex gasped for air and clarity as the dryers continued their thundering drone. What are they saying? Damn! I can’t hear anything! Only three women stood between Alex and an empty stall. Figures, the line would speed up now.

The dryers’ howling abruptly ceased.

“—story behind the ring.” Fallon’s friend placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, my God, Fal. It makes me want to cry.”

You want to cry?

“I know, right?” Fallon stared at her hand. “I can’t believe it’s mine now.”

The woman behind Alex nudged closer—so close her breath tickled Alex’s neck. Shit. Alex stepped ahead, next in line for a free stall. Her eyes darted back over her shoulder.

Fallon beamed at her friends, unaware of Alex a few feet away. “Of course, I have to wear it on this hand, otherwi—”

“Uh, excuse me?” An elderly woman’s voice invaded Alex’s ears.

Alex squinted. Otherwise? Go on!

“Hello? Excuse me…if you’re not going to use that stall, would you mind letting me go ahead of you? I have a urinary tract infection, and my doctor says that…”

Fuck fuck fuck! Alex’s eyes widened at the close-talker complaining all over Fallon’s story. She slipped sideways, waving UTI lady ahead, Alex’s need to pee overtaken by the need to hear Fallon. What came after ‘otherwise’?

Fallon tossed her hair over her shoulder and for the first time, clocked Alex. She dimmed her wide smile and nodded awkwardly, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.

Shit! Spotted! Each second felt like an eternity. Alex froze on the spot, her legs heavy and uncooperative, like they were made of lead. She couldn’t escape anyway; all the stalls were occupied.

Hiding the surprise guest star on her finger, Fallon turned away and followed her friends out the door.

• • •

Walking away from the restroom, Alex loitered outside the entrance to the Loggia boxes, hastily typing ‘Mark Keegan engaged’ into her phone’s browser. A story date-stamped that evening popped up: A Promise Spoken: Irish Star and First Love Set to Wed.

No! Her knees started to buckle.

Fresh from the set of A Promise Unspoken, the Dublin movie that rekindled their teenage romance, Mark Keegan and Fallon Delaney, both 26, are set to become co-stars in a real-life love story. Friends say the Irish lovebirds are secretly engaged. “Fallon and Mark are thrilled to be back together and aren’t wasting any time,” said a source close to the couple. “Expect an engagement to be announced before Mark leaves for Mexico in August to begin Full Throttle 3.”

“He proposed,” Alex gasped quietly into her hand, tears welling up beneath her eyelashes as she took in new photos snapped at the hall’s backstage entrance.

“Excuse us.” Two couples squeezed past, making their way back into the hall.

Alex blinked repeatedly, swallowing her sadness. Now was not the time, nor the place. She couldn’t let the Channel Four people see her like this—or Tarquin.

Mark’s no longer your concern. He isn’t yours, Lex. YOU broke up with him.

Alex drew a deep breath to calm herself; she felt more numb than angry. She walked through the doorway to the boxes and paused, her eyes locking on the stage. Mark was strolling up to the microphone and she stared, unable to look away. He began to introduce the Scottish TV segment, but Alex didn’t hear a word he said.

Mark’s getting married. Mark’s happy…without me.