Page 57

Seventeen

London, four hours later

The chugging taxi exited Henshaw Street, leaving Alex hunched protectively over her laptop bag, quivering in the whipping rain. She retreated into her parka’s hood and banged on the red-painted door of the south London terraced house, regretting it immediately. Maybe going there had been a mistake…what if Lucy was still in bed—or worse, her flatmate Charlie answered? Footsteps stomped down the stairs behind the door. Shoot. Too late to make a run for it now.

The lock clicked. The door opened three inches.

Two sleepy brown eyes squinted through the crack. “Lex?” Lucy croaked, her voice raspy and exhausted.

For the past few hours, Alex had held it together—barely, but with a single word from Lucy, her trembling chin gave way. The dam burst, hot tears pouring down her face, mixing with the icy January sleet. Her best friend became a watery, welcome blur.

“Honey!” Lucy flung open the door, her oversized Hufflepuff sweatshirt not quite long enough to cover her lacey knickers. “It’s pissing down. Get in here.” She tugged her friend into the dark flat.

Alex wiped her streaming nose with the edge of her hand. Her rain-splattered carry-on dragged along behind her, its squeaky wheels clogged with mushy leaves. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your lie-in—”

“What are you doing here?” Lucy peered behind Alex into the road and nudged the door closed. Her hands flew to her hair. No amount of flattening worked: her rebellious dark curls bounced back into bedhead mode, refusing to play nice. She gave up. “Where’s Mark?”

Alex gulped for air and shook, her body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. Tears slid down her splotchy cheeks, muting her usually vibrant freckles, and her eyes itched. Was it from the constant crying or the dusty flat? Lucy wasn’t fussy about vacuuming every week like Alex had been when she lived there.

“Lucy?” A tired male voice whispered in the darkness atop the narrow stairwell.

“Oh, God.” Charlie. Alex’s swollen eyelids blinked at the shadowy figure upstairs. “I should go—”

“No, don’t be daft.” Lucy’s gaze flitted up the stairs as her hand stretched the hem of her sweatshirt.

Pale feet jogged down the stairs, revealing equally pasty white legs, a flapping dark blue bathrobe, and—was that pubic hair? No underwear alert! Alex blushed, her watery eyes flying to the grey carpet. In her peripheral vision, she caught the guy’s hands fumbling with the belt of Lucy’s plush TARDIS robe. He reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Wait…what…?” Alex hiccupped through her tears. “What are you doing here?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh, jeez, Lex. You’re trembling. What’s happened?”

“Holy crap!” Alex straightened up. “Harry’s your hot water bottle?”

With a wry smile, Lucy bit her lip. “Busted.”

“But…you? Charlie?”

Harry gave Alex a double take. “What’s going on?”

“I bet Charlie’s asking the same thing.” Alex blinked her puffy lids.

“Stop dodging our questions.” Lucy pulled her bestie into the lounge and flicked the light switch.

Alex flinched under the bright light. “Our questions?” She looked back at Harry.

“Where the hell is Mark?” Lucy tugged the hem of her sweatshirt again. It sprung back up, her undies playing peek-a-boo.

Alex drooped, her shoulders rising to meet her ears. Fresh tears raced down her face to her chin. Drop by drop, they leapt from her jaw onto her rain-splattered laptop bag. She dug in her pocket for tissues, but her hands resurfaced with her phone.

Harry glanced at Alex and then Lucy. “Want me to leave, yeah…?”

Lucy nodded.

“I’ll go put the kettle on.” He tightened the robe and disappeared behind the wall separating the pokey lounge from the kitchenette.

“Let me take that.” Lucy winced as she helped Alex remove her laptop bag and her dripping coat, the fake fur trim on its hood all matted and stuck to her friend’s messy hair. She stuffed the parka on top of the room’s old radiator and leaned the bag against the TV table. “Aw, babe. What’s happened?” Returning to Alex, she hugged her tightly and pulled her down beside her on the loveseat.

The faucet ran hard and stopped abruptly. Mugs and spoons clinked on the kitchenette’s counter. Harry was making just enough noise so he couldn’t be accused of listening in.