Page 21 of London, Can You Wait?

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 18th-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.