Page 65 of London, Can You Wait?

Nineteen

Alex tugged a scratchy afghan—Lucy’s first and last attempt at knitting—up to her chin. Riddled with dropped stitches, it looked like Joseph’s Technicolour Nightmare. The weathered cotton of her plaid pajamas, paired with Mark’s sweatshirt, offered warmth, and yet the combo left her unsettled, reminding her of what she was at risk of losing—her boyfriend, their cosy home, his loving family. She stared at the TV but saw nothing, the events of the previous twenty-four hours playing on a loop in her head.

“Let her ’ave it, judges!” Lucy howled, watching the precarious layers of dark chocolate goo and spongy gateaux fall to the floor. “That cow is finally going to get hers.”

Her laugher shook the loveseat as her hand dove into a banged-up box of Cadbury Heroes, chocolates left over from Christmas. Discarded Dairy Milk and Twirl wrappers flew out of the cardboard and settled on her bathrobe-covered boobs. “Lex.” Lucy nudged her friend’s knee with a sock-covered foot. “Want a baby Wispa?”

Alex swallowed, but the acid taste in her mouth lingered. “I feel like I could be sick again.”

“I’ll get you a bin bag in case you can’t make it upstairs.” Lucy dumped the chocolate box on the loveseat and padded into the kitchenette.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

Alex jumped.

“What the fuck?” Lucy shouted from the kitchenette.

“LUCY?! IT‘S MARK.” His voice, hoarse and urgent, emanated from the front door.

Alex’s breath stalled as her heart took flight, its escalating beats filling her ears.

Lucy ran into the room, foisting a hastily snatched plastic bowl in Alex’s face. “Stay there.”

Alex gripped the bowl, lowering it to her lap. Holes? Her puffy eyes focused on the object in her hands. “A strainer?”

Lucy peered through the sheer curtains. Henshaw Street, dimly lit by the streetlights across the road, seemed darker than usual thanks to a bone-chilling downpour. Freddie was to Lucy’s right, his usually out of control bangs hidden under a woolly hat, his shoulders hunched in his black wool coat. He planted his hands in its pockets and swayed from foot to foot like a fidgety penguin. Mark wasn’t visible, but from his loud announcement, it was obvious that he stood in front of Freddie in the small alcove by the door.

Freddie’s head turned, his water-splotched eyeglasses catching the light streaming from Lucy’s lounge. “I see you, Hardy. C’mon, open up. It’s bucketing down.”

Lucy leapt backwards, her curls flying over her shoulders. “Lex, hide in the kitchen. I’ll get rid.” She tightened her robe and strode through the doorway that separated the lounge from the small landing at the bottom of the stairs. She flicked a switch, the outside light illuminating the front window. Staring at the door, Lucy’s chest rose and fell as if she was running an uphill marathon.

Alex left the strainer on the loveseat and grabbed the DVR remote, hitting pause on all the sweet talk of cakes and fondant icing. The constant tip-tapping of icy rain on the window filled the silence.

BANG BANG BANG!

“Lucy, open the door, please?” The tone of Mark’s voice hinted that he wasn’t really asking a question.

Lucy squinted through the door’s peephole. Mark’s tense brows and dark eyes stared back underneath the brim of his United cap. “Jeez, Mark! Are you trying to wake up all of Southwark?”

She pried the door open a few inches, just a sliver of her face revealed. A blast of frigid air brushed past her into the lounge. Alex hugged herself, willing the sweatshirt and pajamas to fight off the chill, but goosebumps riddled her skin.

“Lucy, thanks.” Mark’s shoulders relaxed with a sigh.

“Thanks? Are you kidding me? I’m this close”—she held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“to having your balls on a plate. You’ve got a nerve showing up here.” She clasped her robe tightly at the neck. “Besides, you’re wasting your time. I don’t know where she is, and I’m hungover, so if you don’t mind—”

“Nice try.” Mark blew on his cupped hands as he weaved back and forth. “I can tell when you’re lying. Your voice gets all high and you forget to swear.”

Lucy scrunched up her face. “You want swearing? I’ll give you swearing: she’s not fucking here!”

Alex left the loveseat and followed Mark’s voice, staying out of Lucy’s sight behind the wall. Despite her heavy heart and the chill creeping around the corner, part of Alex yearned to move closer to hear his comforting Irish lilt again. Her present, her future—everything—depended on his words and whether she chose to believe them.

Mark pulled out his phone and hit redial. The Sherlock theme burst from Lucy’s loveseat. Alex’s eyes flew to her phone.

“Please…” Mark’s lips trembled. “Let me speak to her.”

“Piss off, Mark—”

“Christ, you can’t keep me from seeing her. Let Lex decide, eh?” Mark dropped his phone into a pocket, wrapped his arms around his waist, and craned his neck, trying to see past Lucy. “Mouse, I know you’re upset, but please, babe…come to the door.” His voice faltered. “I need to see that you’re all right…please.”