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Alex tossed her bangs out of her eyes, looking wide-eyed at Olivia. Her idea must be impressive. She’s in such a hurry to share. Hopefully her own idea wouldn’t pale in comparison.

Isabella folded her arms in expectation. “Okay, Olivia. Elevator pitch—go.”

The brunette ran her hand through her sleek blowout, her amethyst rock glinting in the sunny haze. “It’s a British story of strong, courageous women and their devotion to a cause that was viewed as illegal and threatening by their men and society at large—the suffragette movement…”

What? Did she hear that right? Alex’s jaw dropped. A rush of adrenaline pulsated through her body, jolting the peach fuzz on her arms to attention. Her hand clamoured for the charm on her necklace.

“…Today we take our equality for granted, but back in the early 1900s, the idea of women voting, of having a say in governmental affairs was verboten. My play, featuring an all-female cast, even the male roles will be portrayed by women—”

Isabella interrupted. “I love it! A twist on gender and traditional acting roles. Go on.”

Alex glared at Harry’s girlfriend, but her stare wasn’t met. Olivia’s eyes stayed glued to Isabella the entire time. Nothing could come between Olivia and her pitch.

“It will expose the trials, tribulations, and violence that brought radical change to British society and show people whom to thank for the advancements women enjoy today.” She held her chin high and swung her arms loosely behind her back. Job done.

Harry couldn’t praise his girlfriend enough. “Babe, that’s incredible. I thought you were set on that Hackney hipster idea, but this one’s even better.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, emanoured. “Love the feminist angle. I couldn’t be more proud.”

Harry couldn’t be more proud.

Alex couldn’t be more horrified.

Beads of perspiration formed on the back of her neck, threatening to soak through the fine weave of her jersey dress. She needed to simmer down—stat. Her furious waving of the auction pamphlet, in time with her rapid-fire heart, flapped an unreliable breeze that did little to curb her sweating. She shivered while her face grew hotter and hotter.

Olivia continued to elaborate on the amount of research she had apparently completed and why this story had to be told now. Isabella ate it up. The two older arts patrons, planted like bookends on either side of the award-winning playwright, nodded their approval as well. Harry beamed so hard, Alex worried his face might crack.

Short, shallow breaths slipped from Alex’s mouth. She pieced together a few scattered thoughts. Olivia had stolen not just the idea; she had stolen her entire play. Why? Why would she do such a thing? And right in front of her…and Harry.

Her stomach lurched as if she had just missed a step walking down a flight of stairs; funny how you can plummet into the dark pit of anxiety when your feet are still planted on solid ground. The looming circle of Olivia, Isabella, the two theatre bigwigs, and Harry began to stretch and twist over her head, the sky’s flossy pinky clouds stuck in their hair like cotton candy.

A jubilant Isabella turned to Alex. The American’s pounding heart filled her ears, leaving all sounds muffled, as if underwater.

“What will you be submitting, Alex?”

It felt like all eyes in the garden were locked on her. She struggled to focus, to find the words. Her Waterloo Bridge idea…way too early to share.

“Go on, Alex. You must have some great ideas brewing…” Harry’s voice and raised eyebrows urged her to announce a passion project.

With her body acting out, losing control, her frayed mind couldn’t process what to say. The creased pamphlet slipped from her hand.

A half-smile raised the corners of Olivia’s lips, its silent threat forcing Alex’s stomach into a sickening death spiral.

She swallowed but couldn’t wash away the excess saliva flooding her tongue. Choking back tears, she dug her fingernails into her palm. The desire to simply melt like butter through the patio stones, overpowering.

“I was working on something, but…” Her sideways look at Olivia captured the brunette’s smile reaching further across her rosy cheeks with each passing second. Alex’s breathing disintegrated into jerky, garden-swaying bursts, this rollercoaster ride showing no signs of stopping. “But I…I’m sorry…please excuse me…”

A surge of nausea stung her throat. She scurried away towards the washroom without uttering another word.

• • •

Alex’s whole body shuddered with each violent spell of vomiting, her throat raw, her face slick with sweat and unrelenting tears. Her left foot lay bare, its corresponding shoe missing in action. Dizzy and scared that she’d pass out on the cold floor, she gripped the toilet bowl to retain some control.

If her career suicide on the patio didn’t rank high enough in the humiliation stakes, a jagged shred of light blue and purple material dangled from the metal toilet paper dispenser above her head. She patted a hand over her chest and along her waist. The tear sliced near the hip. Her dress must have snagged during her desperate plunge to the cubicle floor. Forget escaping from this nightmare with her dignity intact. How could she cover up? The warm weather had dictated no need for a coat.

The restroom’s wooden door swung open, and a sole female entered. Alex braced herself in the hopes that she wouldn’t vomit while she had company.

Harry was right. These people would remember her, but for all the wrong reasons. Her body lurched forward once more, but her stomach had nothing left to expel.

A sterile click of stilettos on the tile bathroom floor halted outside of Alex’s stall. She didn’t think anything of it until one of the heels kicked her missing shoe underneath the opening of her cubicle’s door.