Page 88
“It’s not a sign of weakness to accept or ask for help, you know?” Lucy pulled her into a side hug. “Silly Lex.”
A rush of wind pushed them towards the road. Alex pulled both Freddie and Lucy closer. “Oh my God, you guys! Can you believe it? Me, Alex Sinclair…has Isabella’s email address. How will I sleep tonight? I’m sending her an excerpt as soon as I can. There’s no time to make it perfect, but it’ll have to do. I can’t mess up this chance.”
“Aren’t you the girl who said a few months ago that ‘everything sucked’?” Lucy tussled with her bag, her fingers digging deep inside for her Oyster card. She yanked at something stuck in its way, and a colourful postcard escaped skyward into the wind. It danced and taunted the trio above their heads for half a block.
Freddie jumped into the air, legs akimbo and arms stretching towards the stars. “Bugger. Almost had it.”
Alex joined in, running down Upper Street, snatching at it with the hand that wasn’t clutching her signed program.
“Just leave it! It’s not important,” yelled Lucy.
The wind took a breather, dropping the tattered postcard in an abandoned shop doorway clogged with curled brown leaves and discarded red Starbucks cups.
“Got it.” Freddie wiped off the card, giving the photo a once over. “Ooh, someone’s having a grand time on the French Riviera.”
He flipped it over. His smile caved in.
“Alex. It’s yours?”
Lucy bit her lip and sank into her wool scarf.
Alex peered at the image. Yep, the photo on the front was all sandy beaches and sturdy palm trees. Strange. Her forehead crinkled as she turned it over.
‘Lexy. I’m taking a page out of your book (or should I say, play) and fearlessly travelling solo beyond my comfort zone. Keep showing us how it’s done. I’ll be leading the standing ovation. Much Love, Devin x’
Alex glared at Lucy. “Why didn’t you want me to see this?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Hello! Lexy? He’s just one bloody pen stroke away from adding Sexy.”
“But it’s my mail. You have no right hiding it.”
Freddie stood silent with his arms folded, his eyes volleying back and forth between his two friends.
The wind began to whistle again. “I’m baffled why would you even want it!” said Lucy.
Alex closed her eyes. “Not all of us move on as quickly as you do.”
“And what good has it done, eh? Getting all sentimental? Reliving old heartbreak. Wounds never heal if you keep picking at them.”
“I’m not lingering over old feelings. I’m finally making sense of them. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to move on. I’ve realized that what I’m missing is the idea of him, how things used to be before everything blew up,” said Alex. “I know that person—that time—doesn’t exist anymore. I need to let go. Devin asking for my forgiveness is a step in that direction, but I’m not there yet.”
“Forgive? You’re thinking of forgiving him? Why don’t you forgive Olivia, too, while you’re at it? Fuck, forgive everyone who ever stomped on you.”
Freddie stepped closer. “Actually, forgiving’s a good idea. Not only forgiving Devin, but also forgiving yourself, Alex. Give yourself a break. You’ve been blaming yourself for too long.”
Both women ignored him.
“I thought I could run away from Devin and my problems…but it’s not that simple. They end up following you, no matter how far you run. I can’t change what’s happened, I know that…I just hope I’ll learn from it.”
“I hope you do, too.” Lucy backed down slightly. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hidden the postcard. You know I only did it to protect you, right?”
“Yeah, I know, Mother Hen.” Alex looped her arm through Lucy’s and looked up at the red and white burger sign behind them. “C’mon, chips are on you.”
Thirty
Alex’s eyes flew to the Long Bar as if on autopilot. Mark hadn’t been at work for a week and a half. Even Freddie didn’t know his whereabouts. His absence meant no more hiding behind tour participants or awkward sprints through the lobby. Life at work in early December clicked along at an easier, less emotional pace, but it was also dull and lonely. Alex hadn’t spoken to him since that cringeworthy chat on the National stairs on November 23…seventeen days ago. Not that she kept track.
Weaving past arriving theatergoers, Alex ducked out of the National and inhaled the frosty evening air, the strings of lights stretching between tree branches along the South Bank, twinkling like strands of precious jewels. She patted her laptop bag, now her constant companion, writing before and after her shifts and through much of the night. Her obsession paid off. In the frantic week since chatting with Isabella at the Almeida, she had completed the first drafts for both her Waterloo Bridge and time travel plays.
