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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.