Page 155 of London, Can You Wait?

Fifty-Two

Three weeks later

Alex stuffed the latest draft of Thirteen into her laptop bag and grabbed her sunglasses and phone from the table. “Okay guys, see you Monday. Enjoy the weekend.” She waved to Laurel and the set designer.

Her second-last weekend in New York City beckoned, and she couldn’t wait for it to start. Late nights spent reviewing Thirteen meeting notes and early mornings plotting out the Gran-Joan graphic novel over FaceTime with Lucy had left her exhausted and desperate for some me time.

Rushing down the hall, she checked her texts one last time. Steve, an editor at a New York men’s magazine, had been pursuing her via texts since they met at a 59E59 press night two weeks earlier. He was cute and fun, but Alex wasn’t keen, politely declining his offers for coffee or drinks. Unfortunately, his latest text proved he had yet to take the hint: Alex, I’ll be in your ’hood this afternoon. Let’s get that drink!

She perched her sunglasses on her nose and rushed through the door, hoping for a quick, anonymous getaway…

Ugh.Midtown’s August humidity had other ideas, smothering her like a heavy wet blanket. She could get used to the honking taxis and clogged sidewalks, but New York’s suffocating summer heat always made her wilt. Turning right on East 59th, she slogged west into the sun, towards Central Park. The subway would be hot and crowded, so an hour or two spent reading under a shady tree was the perfect way to let rush hour simmer down before her underground descent into Columbus Circle Station.

“Alex!”

A male voice fought with the traffic and a helicopter hovering somewhere overhead. She squinted over her shoulder but didn’t see Steve in the parade of hurried New Yorkers. Thank God! Alex was a common name. She kept going, her phone buzzing in her hand.

“ALEX!”

She ignored the text and turned around, her sudden stop drawing dirty looks from the sidewalk brigade fighting to get past. Rising to his feet, a guy with a scruffy moustache and beard, wearing sunglasses and a ball cap, was brushing the sidewalk off the butt of his jeans. His ratty white t-shirt was weighed down by a backpack. He looked homeless.

She impatiently turned away and glanced at her phone: Marmalade.

…What? The blaring taxi horns, rumbling car engines, and raised voices pushing past vanished. Alex swung around, her jaw dropping along with her stomach.

“Hello stranger.” Mark squeezed the strap of his backpack, a quick smile raising the corners of his mouth. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and moved closer, his body swaying to the left and back again. Nerves? Or was the pavement too hot for his feet? He removed his sunglasses and hung them from his t-shirt’s collar. His normally bright eyes were dull and weary, like life had taken a cruel toll since she had last seen him.

Alex laid a shaky hand on her pounding chest, barely able to speak. “Hi…?”

Mark tugged at his beard. “You look well, Lex.”

Jesus—you don’t, Mark!“What are you doing here?”

“Simon told me where to find you.”

“Simon?” Alex backed up towards the building, out of the flow of foot traffic. Mark followed and leaned against the wall. He smelled of sweat, like he had just come from a muscle-blasting boot camp workout. He flew up from Mexico to see me?

“I know, right? I couldn’t reach Freddie, so Si helped me out, surprisingly.” He looked over his shoulder at the people rushing past.

With Mark’s attention elsewhere, Alex’s gaze fell to his feet and flew upwards: Converse, tear in the knee of his faded jeans, sweat stains on his t-shirt, hair peeking out over his ears…

He turned back, tilting in. “Look, can we go somewhere quiet to talk?”

Alex’s eyes got lost in his beard. Mark with a beard! What?! Her sunglasses saved the day—Mark couldn’t see her wide-eyed stare. His whiskers were dense and in desperate need of a pair of scissors. “I was headed to Central Park.”

“Great.” He nodded. “That will be great.”

They walked along East 59th Street to the park’s entrance just off Fifth Avenue, but their conversation didn’t progress as far as they did: they talked about the steamy weather and nothing else. Alex took a sharp right, passing a cart selling hot dogs, pretzels, and soft drinks.

Mark fanned his face. “Can I get you water or an ice cream? It’s so hot…”

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” she said with a pinched smile. “But don’t let me stop you.”

He fished out several American dollars from his jeans pocket and joined the small line looping around the cart. Alex stepped back, her eyes studying every inch of her ex-boyfriend while he busied himself reading the cart’s menu. His jeans hugged his ass and his t-shirt, discoloured with perspiration, stuck to shoulder and back muscles Alex hadn’t seen before—souvenirs of his ‘Rock’-worthy Full Throttle 3 workout regime, no doubt. His hair crept past the back of his collar, most likely grown for his movie role. It was so odd. He looked so different, and yet…the same. She had intentionally stayed away from Throttle’s online press, but all clues today pointed to the fact that Mark’s character was rough around the edges and frankly, a bit of a mess.

Water purchased, he turned back to Alex. “Christ, I could never live here.” He cracked open the bottle and took a large satisfying swig. “It’s too much. I always thought London was busy, but this is another level of insanity.”

“How long have you been here?”