Seven

By two A.M., Alex was feeling no pain. Chattering non-stop and sliding around the back seat of the Uber SUV, her spaghetti arms kept slipping off Mark’s shoulders, his pleas for her to hang on lost in another fit of uncontrollable giggles. She clutched a cookie wedding favour in one hand while unsuccessfully fumbling with Mark’s belt buckle with the other.

Five minutes later, he delicately carried his tired girlfriend up the three flights of stairs to their flat in London Fields and closed the door on the night’s excitement. Setting her down atop wobbly legs, he tossed his keychain on the black chair by the door, dropped his backpack on the floor, and removed her coat and his suit jacket, laying both over the nearby armrest of the sofa. He pulled Alex in and held her there, murmuring in her ear. “Sorry, Mouse, but your floppy bunny routine is cancelling any action tonight. I’m willing and able, but you’re—”

“Gagging for it!” She dropped the cookie and lunged, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Mark laughed and shook his head. “It’s not gonna happen.”

Alex loved a challenge. She perked up as if she had been magically infused with three large cups of black coffee. “OH, YES IT IS.”

Her eager hands woke up along with the rest of her body, her fingers sliding down his chest and stomach. She clicked open his belt buckle, popped the button on his trousers, and forcefully shoved them towards the floor as her lips hungrily reached for his mouth. She slipped a hand under his shirt, following the dark hair trailing downwards from his belly button and underneath the band of his boxer briefs, her fingers exploring, teasing.

Mark left Alex’s lips ever so briefly, gasping, his body responding to her touch. “Lex…it’s so good to be home.”

Alex didn’t waste any time, reclaiming his mouth while unbuttoning his shirt with her free hand. If Mark was only there for ten more hours, she had to make the most of it.

He abandoned his trousers in the living room and grabbed her by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder for the few steps to the bedroom. Within seconds, Mark’s tie, shirt, underwear, and socks mingled on the blond hardwood with Alex’s dress and panties. Entangled between the sheets, Mark traced his fingers over Alex’s warm skin, relearning all her curves, all her secrets, the distance between them vanishing with each deep kiss and breathless moan.

• • •

A sliver of golden sunlight snuck through a small gap in the bedroom curtains and crept across the clothes-strewn floor. Alex and Mark snoozed soundly, oblivious to the earnest chorus of robins chirping outside the window. The wall-mounted radiator hummed in unison, its seasonal tune overtaken by the sharp buzz of a smartphone. Alex jolted awake, her mind too cloudy to recall if it was Friday, Sunday…Monday?

A clumsy hand landed on the bedside table, just missing Mark’s surprise gift of fresh snapdragons—his preemptive apology two days earlier in case work kept him from the wedding—and her alarm clock. The long plastic arms of Benedict Cumberbatch clicked through each passing second, his knowing smirk taunting Alex with a dose of attitude. Back in July, Freddie’s birthday gift of a homemade Sherlock alarm clock seemed hilarious, but right now, waking up to a judgmental ‘Batch so early in the morning didn’t tickle her funny bone one bit. Shoot, it’s already twenty past eleven? Only one hour and forty minutes left…

She jerked up onto an elbow, snatching her phone from the table, only to catch a text from Lucy—something about the National Mail—fading from the screen. The room spun like an overwound top. Ergh. She fell back into the comfy nest of pillows, her stomach off kilter and her temples throbbing from—so—much—exertion. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; no toothbrush or paste had passed her lips before she fell asleep. She swallowed twice, but the stale taste of champagne wouldn’t fade, punishing her for the excesses of the night before.

Text unread, she abandoned her phone in the sheets and shifted her head cautiously. Damn. Smudges of last night’s mascara and eyeshadow decorated the edge of the top sheet, and a torn condom wrapper surfed the comforter. Across the pillows, Mark dozed deeply, his long, dark eyelashes flickering every few seconds, keeping him locked into whatever adventure he was running through in his sleep. Alex smiled and cuddled into him, her bare breasts riding the rise and fall of his chest. She inhaled. Mmmm. A faint trace of his cologne remained, mixed with his natural scent. If only she could bottle the heavenly smell. It was the first thing she had noticed about him when they locked eyes on one another that fateful May afternoon in the Royal Court’s lobby almost two and a half years ago.

Looking back now, that serendipitous meeting felt like a fairy tale, and in just eight weeks’ time, their two-year anniversary would arrive along with a New Year’s Eve countdown, popping champagne corks, and “Auld Lang Syne”. Two years. Alex smiled at Mark, lost in memories that still made her swoon. When they’d first gotten together, the fledging playwright and not-yet-famous Irish actor had always been attached at either the hip or the lips. Countless hours were spent sharing their dreams, working under the same roof at the National Theatre, and exploring London, their loved-up dates taking them to plays, music festivals, karaoke in Chinatown, and so much more. Alex’s hobbies began to blur into Mark’s pastimes and vice versa, causing Freddie and Lucy to refer to their smitten friends as Marlex.

“Are Marlex dragging us to Ultimate Frisbee tomorrow?”

“Fucking ace, Marlex got us tickets to watch The Lost Boys in Regent’s Park!”

Five months into their relationship, Mark’s television debut in Lairds and Liars arrived. Once the first episode of the six-part drama series aired, Alex and Mark’s quiet, under-the-radar life evaporated. Mark’s raw portrayal of Callum McKenna, a twenty-two-year-old former soldier striving to avenge his young wife’s death in 18^th-century Scotland, stole the nation’s hearts. Forget Ross Poldark; so long, Jon Snow; bye-bye, Jamie Fraser—dashing Callum relegated all such competitors for fangirl affection to the back of the line.

Mark quickly left his National bartending job to dive into acting full-time. Gone were Alex and Mark’s shared breaks, late-night cinema dates, and lazy weekends intertwined in bed. Without warning, it seemed like Mark no longer belonged to just Alex. Everyone wanted a piece of the show’s breakout star—casting agents, directors, fans—and the job offers flew into his agent’s inbox faster than they could be considered.

For the next seventeen months, his skyrocketing popularity meant stints back in bonnie Scotland, slaying enemies on muddy fields and kissing dairymaids, as well as trading punches with tough guys on film in far-flung locations such as South Africa and California. Sharing her boyfriend had become the new normal, like it or not.

Alex softly kissed Mark’s neck, his heart beating strongly beneath her chest. She snuggled deeper into him, wishing she could pin him down, stop the clock, and make him stay. Their reunions were becoming shorter and less frequent. Although they talked most days, they were lucky if they shared a meal or bed once every four weeks. Alex had adopted, with a touch of irony, Amy Pond’s nickname from Doctor Who, The Girl Who Waited. Alex’s deep-seated fears of abandonment, nudged to the dark corners of her mind since they had started dating, were tapping her on the shoulder once again.

She took a deep breath, her glance flitting around their bedroom. Had they really been living together for seven months now? Well, seven months on paper. The reality was actually thirty-nine days out of two hundred and eighteen—she had counted.

Their one-bedroom open-plan flat on Martello Street in London Fields, just down the road from Harry’s old place, still needed a paint job. The bedroom was home to a bed, two hastily built IKEA nightstands and a dresser (the construction of which had almost killed their relationship), and a shared closet so overstuffed it needed an enter at risk of death sign. Stacks of books sprouted towards the ceiling, and a vintage bar cart held Mark’s turntable and the vinyl collection that used to belong to his dad. Maybe in the new year they could both put work aside for a week or two and decorate properly, not just adding a candle here or a throw there. Yeah, right. When Mark returned home, the last thing they wanted to do was traipse around John Lewis or Debenhams.

Alex loved their London Fields neighbourhood and longed for Mark to grow fond of it, too. He lived out of a suitcase most of the year, so Alex wanted him to feel settled and truly at home in their little love nest overlooking the park. If only he didn’t have to rush away in an hour’s time, she would take him for a relaxing swim in the heated London Fields lido, and then for a delicious Sunday roast at the Cat and Mutton pub down the road. If his free time stretched into Monday, she could picture him now—playing footy in the park with the local kids after school, showing off his goal-scoring prowess before heading to the pub’s weekly quiz night with their friends. She snickered. Freddie’s quiz meltdowns were legendary. He would always dispute wrong answers and descend into a prickly mood if their team didn’t win, and—much to Simon’s annoyance—only Mark could coax him out of it.

Alex exhaled quietly, her smile wavering. In less than two years, their lives had shifted so dramatically. She was writing but spinning her wheels, having had no luck getting a second play produced after Thirteen, while the bartending, jobbing actor she’d fallen in love with was now appearing on TV weekly. She couldn’t walk along the street without spotting her boyfriend’s face, his eyebrows furrowed with determination, staring down from a Lairds ad on a double-decker bus. Her heart threatened to burst with pride, but a growing hollowness in her stomach hinted that their time was running out.

Mark stirred. His eyelashes fluttered several times before his eyes focused, first on the comedy and tragedy masks tattoo on Alex’s shoulder and then on the tumbleweed of blonde hair nestled below his chin. His left arm lay trapped underneath her body.

“Ah, Mouse…”

His raspy salutation lifted the corners of her mouth. He wriggled his arm, only freeing it when Alex shifted her shoulder.

Licking his lips, he broke into a wide smile. “It is a good morning, pinned to the bed by my girl.” He extended his half-asleep arm and claimed her once again, enveloping her naked body and pulling her on top of him. His hand stroked the soft curve of her waist.

“Mmm, morning stranger.” Alex raised her head, kissing him. The bedroom shifted, thanks to her hangover, and she cuddled into the nook of his neck. “Babe, just lie here. Don’t move.” Her hand crept across his smooth chest, desperate to pull him closer, desperate to feel the comfort of his beating heart again. “I need gentle this morning.”

Mark smirked. “Hmmm, that’s not what you growled in my ear a few hours ago, tiger!”

“You’re kidding, right?” Alex whispered into his neck.

“Nope. You ambushed me. I feared for my safety.”

“It’s all so fuzzy…” She glanced up at him, careful not to move too quickly.

“It was…” Mark playfully rolled his eyes back into his head. “…ravenous, but the second time…” He bit his bottom lip, his finger skimming her hip. “I couldn’t string together a coherent sentence afterwards, it was so off-the-charts ah-may-zing—it’s almost like you were trying to convince me to miss my flight.”

Spinning room be damned. She lifted her head, a beaming smile rising. “Did I? Convince you, I mean?”

“Almost.” Mark frowned. “You know I would if I could.”

Alex’s heart sank along with her cheeks. Tears stung her eyes, so she hid her face in his chest. Mark was leaving again, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it, but she could avoid saying good-bye. Good-bye always reminded her of their first fight, before they were lovers, on the stairs of the National. It was the first and last time she had said good-bye and walked away from him. She had made a promise to herself that she would never say it to him again, and she had noticed that Mark never said it to her, either. He parted with ‘see ya soon’, but never ‘good-bye.’ She hated the foreverness of it, and maybe Mark did, too.

“I wish you could come with me, see Lake Altaussee. The mountains are bloody breathtaking.” A loud yawn escaped his mouth. “And you could watch me doing my thing, hanging upside down from a horse.”

“Like that makes me feel better,” she mumbled into his chest. “I wish you would go back to doing theatre. Movie stunts terrify me.”

“They only let me do the easy ones, the bastards. My stunt double earns his wage, believe me, but never mind that. Tell me more about your attachment. How do you feel about it coming to an end?”

“I’d kill for a few more weeks. I love being back at the National. It still feels like our place.” She pressed her lips to his neck. “It’s been hard work, but worth it. I’ve cried and pulled my hair out over Upton Park, but it’s definitely better for it. They’ve really pushed me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard they’re tough. I’m proud of you, Mouse. A hundred quid says they’ll add your script to their development roster.”

“Even if they don’t, I should be able to shape it into something another theatre might want.”

“Exactly. This experience will lead to other attachments, meetings, creative relationships…”

“And I have that meeting next week at the Garrick about developing something, too. I would love to work with them.”

“It’s all happening!” Mark smiled. “Next thing you know, Whishy will be performing your words. I can see it now…”

Alex grinned. Always her biggest cheerleader, Mark really did think Ben Whishaw would star in one of her plays one day.

“Well, if that’s not inspiration to keep writing, I don’t know what is.” Her finger traced heart shapes on his chest. “I need to keep busy so I won’t miss your pale Irish ass so much.”

“I’ll be back in three weeks.” He hugged her tightly, burying his nose in her messy hair. “And we’ll have time together before I leave for Newfoundland.”

“Yeah, two days.” Alex sniffed beneath her bangs.

“We’ll make the most of them.” Mark glanced over at Sherlock chipping away the seconds, the minutes, like the hands on a doomsday clock. Each click of his arms ticked closer to their own personal midnight when they would be ripped from each other yet again.

Mark’s fingers tenderly moved the hair from her face. “I’ve got an hour before I head to Gatwick.” His eyes bore into hers. “How about a repeat performance?”

“I wish. There’s a jackhammer in my head. I don’t think I can sit up, let alone…”

“I know what might help.” Mark rolled Alex onto her back and lowered himself on top, carefully holding up his weight with his left hand while his right hand stroked her cheek.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled, forcing Mark’s arm to give way and his full weight to drop on top of her. They both groaned and laughed breathlessly, their smiles mirroring each other.

Mark brushed his lips against her mouth. “And here I thought you needed gentle.”

She inhaled his breath and held it, feeling every inch of his body pressed against her skin. “I love you, Mark, always.”

He tilted his head, kissing her softly until Alex let him in, opening her lips and showing him how much he would be missed. She drew him closer, each deepening kiss masking the ache in her heart. He was still there and yet the dread and loneliness of living day-to-day without him was there, too, back again, tarnishing their final hour together. She spread her legs and kissed him faster, harder, desperate to feel the moment and nothing else, but a breathless sob broke through her lips.

“Lex?” Mark panted, his lips soft against hers. His right hand left her ass and trailed over her hip, across her thigh and between her legs, his fingers caressing, circling. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Alex trembled and kissed him, her damp eyes afraid to blink, afraid to lose him—every minute, every second had to count.

“I love you, Lex, always.”

He kissed her ear, neck, and breasts, sending shivers along her spine. Each press of his lips on her skin, each flick of his tongue…Alex hoped it helped him memorize every freckle, every hollow. Her nails dug into his back as his hand continued to tease.

He looked up and smiled, hovering over her mouth again. “Didn’t I say this would help?” He lowered himself to her lips, parting them quickly with his tongue. The kiss was urgent but caring, needy yet gentle, expressing how he felt when words wouldn’t do. He pulled away and shrugged off the bed covers.

Patient kisses down her stomach gave way to his warm tongue flirting lower and lower, continuing what his fingers had started. Alex shuddered, her breath catching in her throat. She bit her lip, lost in dizziness.

“Mark—oh, God…”

She gasped and arched her back, pressing her head into the pillows. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as she moaned and clutched fistfuls of Mark’s mussed-up hair like she was holding on for dear life.